First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Balgangadhar was well educated but his views, on some subjects, were astonishingly traditional—even retrogressive. He advocated Western education but was against widow remarriage. He favoured the caste system and was against a law being passed denying conjugal rights to a husband till such time as his bride reached the age of puberty. Reports were constantly coming in of girls as young as five or six being raped by husbands in their prime and of being badly injured; of even dying from pain and shock. All enlightened, forward-thinking men of the country had welcomed this move of their rulers. But not this lion of Maharashtra. He had protested against the bill with a passion bordering on frenzy.

  Balgangadhar took off his shoes on entering the room and expressed a desire to wash his feet. Sarala led him to the courtyard and poured water on them with her own hands. He allowed her to do so but did not condescend to address her with a word. The other guests arrived. Swarnakumari made her appearance and, after exchanging the preliminary courtesies, commenced arranging the refreshments on plates and handing them out one by one. Out of deference to Mr Tilak all the food served was vegetarian. Rosogollas had been ordered specially from Nabin Moira’s shop. The Brahmin cooks had prepared luchi, mohanbhog, nimki and sandesh. Motilal Ghosh, in whose house Mr Tilak was staying, whispered in his hostess’ ear, ‘Don’t serve him anything.’

  ‘Why not?’ Swarnakumari asked, astonished, ‘Everything has been prepared at home by Brahmin cooks.’ But Motilal shook his head. ‘Mr Tilak has no faith in Bengali Brahmins,’ he said. ‘I, too, had engaged a Brahmin to prepare his meals but he has brought his own cook from Bombay.’ Swarnakumari felt deeply offended. Tilak noticed her expression and said, ‘I’ll have some tea. But please tell your servants to bring the liquor, sugar and milk in separate vessels. I’ll mix them myself.’ Motilal stared at him in surprise. ‘I’m amazed that you’ve consented to drink tea here,’ he said. Then, taking his guest’s permission, proceeded to tell the gathering of an incident that had taken place some years ago in Poona. A Christian missionary and his sister had invited Tilak, Ranade and Gokhale to address a meeting. After the speeches were over he had taken them home and served them tea and biscuits. Next day their host had leaked the story to the press and it had appeared in the local newspaper. The Shankaracharya, incensed by the fact that these distinguished Brahmins had not only drunk the alien concoction but that too in the house of a mlechha foreigner, had delivered an edict ostracizing them from the Hindu community. Tilak had appealed to him to withdraw his edict promising to pay a fine and to perform whatever penitential rites were asked of him. He had kept his word and been forgiven. At this point in the story the barrister Ashutosh Chowdhury fixed his eyes on the Maratha’s face and asked gravely, ‘Why did you agree to pay the fine Mr Tilak? Do you really believe that drinking tea in an Englishman’s house is a sinful act?’ Tilak wagged his head from side to side. ‘No,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Then why—?’

  ‘You won’t understand. You, in Bengal, have changed many of your social laws. That’s because your social discipline is not very tight. You have no moral leader of the stature of Shankaracharya. It’s different in Maharashtra. Besides, the common folk believe that one loses caste by eating in a foreign household. Had I not performed penance they would have rejected me. I couldn’t risk that. You believe in social reform first and political change afterwards. I believe in working in the opposite order.’

  ‘I’ve heard you’re against widow remarriage,’ Sarala said somewhat edgily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Widows in this country suffer such pain and deprivation. Are you not aware of it?’

  ‘I am. But I believe they should continue to do so. They should give up all the pleasures of the world and spend their lives in selfless service to the members of the family in which they live. By doing so they’ll be setting a great example. If they stray, rot and decay will set in—not only in their families but in our entire society.’

  ‘Wonderful Mr Tilak!’ Sarala laughed. ‘Women must suffer and set examples. But a man may marry one woman after another and—’

  ‘You seem to have only a partial knowledge of my views daughter,’ Tilak interrupted. ‘I oppose the remarriage of widowers just as I do that of widows.’

  At this the whole gathering started twittering with suppressed laughter. Janakinath felt uncomfortable. The man was a guest in his house. It was in bad taste to needle him or laugh at him. He thanked his stars he hadn’t invited Dr Mahendralal Sarkar.

  ‘Mr Tilak,’ Anandamohan Basu took him up next. ‘I’ve heard you’re against the Conjugal Rights Bill but I don’t understand why. Do you really condone the cruelty that goes on in the name of conjugal rights?’ At this Sarala rose and left the room. It wasn’t proper for a young unmarried girl to hear such talk. ‘If I catch one such beast of a husband,’ Tilak muttered between clenched teeth, ‘I’ll give him such a shoe beating that he’ll remember it all his life.’ Anandamohan was surprised. ‘But I’ve heard just the opposite!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m told that you’ve written burning articles against the bill. You’ve collected signatures. I’ve even heard that you and your supporters disrupted a public meeting in Poona called in favour of the bill.’ But Tilak was unfazed. ‘All this is true,’ he announced calmly. ‘I am opposed to the bill. It should never have been passed.’ Then, looking straight into Anandamohan’s eyes, he said tersely, ‘I wish to make my views clear before you gentlemen this evening. I am totally opposed to child marriage. I believe that girls should reach the age of sixteen and boys the age of twenty before they are wed. I also believe that there is a good deal wrong with our society and many of our laws need to be changed. But why should we allow the British government to interfere? It is our problem and we will solve it whenever we can. You Bengalis are incapable of doing anything yourselves. All you do is draw the attention of your foreign rulers to your weaknesses. They mock and revile us and pass laws. We in Maharashtra are trying to take-away their powers while you are putting more and more power in their hands.’

  ‘There are several Bengalis who share your views,’ Anandamohan replied. ‘But have you considered the fact that social evils are perpetuated unless a law is passed against them? Could we have prevented the burning of widows without a law? Or the selling and buying of human beings as slaves? We are a dependent nation. What power do we have to bring reform from within? Going by what you said just now you would have preferred to wait till these heinous customs changed by themselves. In the meantime thousands of women would be burned alive and thousands of men, women and children would be bought and sold like sheep and goats in the marketplace.’

  Janakinath rose from his seat. ‘Some more tea?’ he asked in an effort to steer the conversation away to a more neutral area. Motilal Ghosh came to his aid. ‘Let’s have some music,’ he said, ‘Call Sarala Ma.’

  Sarala came into the room and, taking her place at the piano, sang the three songs she had prepared. The guests expressed their admiration of her singing in glowing terms. All except Mr Tilak who looked totally unimpressed. He had the same expression on his face when Swarnakumari presented him with two of her books. It was an honour she bestowed on very few. But her special guest just turned them over in his hands briefly before putting them away. Then he rose to his feet. ‘Friends of Bengal,’ he began in the voice and manner he used when addressing a public meeting. ‘I wish to place a certain proposal before you this evening. That is why I am here in Calcutta.’ Then, taking a deep breath, he continued, ‘We, the members of the Congress, meet once a year and mouth fiery speeches, needless to say, in English. Do these speeches or meetings have any impact on the masses? Do they even know what we are trying to do? Our trouble is that we are hopelessly divided, hopelessly rooted in our own provinces and in our own small cultures. We need to come together; to bring the common folk together. But how? Not through meetings and speeches. And we don’t have a national festival. The need of the hour is to organize a festival in which everyone will join. We
have started celebrating Ganesh Chaturthi in Maharashtra and received excellent response. Why don’t you introduce it in the Bengal Presidency? The idea is to get the common man in the streets on any pretext.’ Mr Tilak’s co-guests looked at one another. Sarala’s mouth twitched with amusement. She found the Hindu god Ganesh with his protruding stomach and elephant head very funny. ‘Mr Tilak,’ one of the guests pointed out. ‘You said Indians don’t have a national festival. What about Muharrum? There are crowds in the streets throughout the length and breadth of India.’

  ‘Is that an Indian festival?’ Tilak asked testily. ‘Or Arabian? I agree that the Muslims are united. But what about the Hindus? Are they not Indians? Why do they dwell in groups like frogs in their separate wells? If all Muslims can join in a Muharram procession why can’t all Hindus do the same for Ganesh—the granter of boons?’ Now Motilal Ghosh said with a little smile, ‘You’re talking to the wrong people. This is a group of Brahmos who have rejected idol worship. They duck their heads and hasten away when passing a temple. And you’re asking them to celebrate Ganesh Chaturthi!’ Tilak was silent for a few moments. When he spoke there was a slight sneer in his voice. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You Bengalis are very superior beings and don’t have religious festivals. So be it. Let’s think of something else. Can we not organize a festival around the birth of a great warrior? A national hero? The British think we are a weak and cowardly race. Let’s show them that brave men have been born in this land. The only way we can fight our rulers is by organizing ourselves into a strong race of warriors and patriots.’

  The others looked at one another in dismay. Bengal barely had a history leave alone a great king. Then one of them spoke. ‘He needn’t be a Bengali. Why don’t we take Emperor Akbar?’ ‘Yes! Yes!’ the others echoed. ‘Akbar would be acceptable to everyone.’ Tilak looked steadily into the face of the man who had spoken first. A queer light flickered in the slate-coloured pupils of his eyes as he said, ‘Was Akbar a great warrior? All he did was subdue a few native rajas and chieftans. Besides, can Akbar be called an Indian? Did he not have the blood of Timur and Chengiz running in his veins? I know my history. Akbar’s grandfather Babar wrested the throne of Delhi from Ibrahim Lodi in the year 1526. And Akbar mounted it in 1556. Are you suggesting that it took only thirty years for an alien dynasty to turn native? If we consider the Mughals to be Indian what’s wrong with the British?’

  ‘The Mughals made this country their own,’ someone murmured. ‘They married Indian women and became Indian.’

  ‘By that logic we should wait another two or three centuries. By the end of that time, doubtless, the British would have married Indian women and become Indian.’

  Following this an argument ensued in which everyone took part. Some maintained that the Mughals could not be compared with the British—Akbar in particular. He was secular at heart. He had even advocated a coming together of the two religions—Hinduism and Islam. Other names were also suggested. What about Porus? But he was a Greek. Sangram Singha? No one had heard of him. Nana Saheb? Guru Gobind Singh? Tilak rose to his feet and, in a voice that quelled the clamour, announced a name. ‘Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.’

  Chapter III

  Sarala was bored. Her magnificient home, filled with beautiful objects, had hardly any human beings in it. Her brother was in England; her father in the mofussils. Her sister, her closest friend and confidante, had recently left for Rajshahi with her husband. Her mother was at home, of course, but she had never been very communicative with her children. Besides, she spent most of her time writing and disliked being disturbed. The mornings and evenings were bad enough, but the afternoons were the worst. The hours crawled by, maddeningly slow. How much could one study? One could sleep, but Sarala hated sleeping during the day. Sitting on a mat spread out on the floor she pored over her lessons. When she got tired of Sanskrit she would take up a volume of Bengali poetry and read it aloud. Sometimes she even composed verses of her own. Every now and then she walked into the adjoining room. This room had been her sister’s. Hironmoyee was very fond of mirrors and she had had a huge one put up on her wall. Sarala often stood before it examining herself. She saw a young woman, wrapped carelessly in a cotton sari with a face in which the eyes were the most prominent. They were large and bright and heavily outlined with kajal. Sarala dispensed with chemise and jacket during the hot afternoons but took care to adorn her eyes with kajal or surma. Standing, thus, before the mirror she asked herself, ‘What do I look like, really and truly? Am I beautiful?’ The young men who visited her in the evenings, the ones her father called her ‘suitors,’ never tired of telling her how beautiful she was. One said she looked like a princess; another like the Goddess Saraswati. But she shrugged off their compliments with a laugh. She knew that they said the same things to all the girls they met. If they were to see Bibi they would compose paeans in paise of her loveliness. Bibi was far more beautiful than she was.

  Sarala was incapable of taking any of her suitors seriously. Without exception they all made her laugh, particularly when they tried to become intimate with her. One afternoon a young man called Jogini Chatterjee came bursting into her room. It was a highly improper thing to do but he didn’t seem to be aware of it. This Jogini was the brother of Mohini Chatterjee who had married Saroja the eldest daughter of her uncle Dwijendranath. On the strength of this relationship Mohini’s four brothers had easy access into the houses of Dwijendranath’s siblings. Jogini and his brother Sajani were head over heels in love with Sarala. But Sarala couldn’t return the compliment and had evolved a method of dealing with them. The moment one of them tried to get too familiar she would say, ‘Let’s play cards.’ Then, shuffling the pack with deft fingers, she would deal and start the game. She was very good at it and invariably won.

  That afternoon, however, she was so taken aback that she didn’t know how to react. She was lying on the bedstead in Hironmoyee’s room her eyes on the other Sarala who looked at her out of the sheet of Belgian glass on the wall. She started up at Jogini’s entry. He hesitated at the door for a moment, then rushed up to her and thrust a blue velvet case in her hands. ‘Sarala! Sarala!’ he cried theatrically, ‘I’ve been wanting to give you this for months. But I couldn’t muster up the courage. There’s a phial in it filled with attar of roses. And mixed with it is the essence of my heart. I beg you to anoint your limbs with it.’ Jogini was young and handsome and Sarala was just blossoming into womanhood. But, far from being moved by this romantic declaration, Sarala burst out laughing. ‘Oki! Oki!’ she exclaimed, ‘Why are you using such fancy language?’ Jogini’s ardour collapsed like a deflated balloon. He moved back, step by step, till he reached the door. There he stood for a while watching her as she rolled on the bed in helpless mirth.

  Jogini didn’t come near her for the next ten days. Sarala realized that he was hurt but she couldn’t help it. Declarations of love made her laugh. She found them silly and theatrical.

  Jogini’s closest rival for Sarala’s attention was Abinash Chakravarty, son of the famous poet Biharilal Chakravarty. When the two were visiting together each wanted the other to leave first and consequently both stayed on and on. Sarala yawned and looked bored but they paid no attention. Instead they measured each other up with wary eyes and urged one another to go home. Jogini might say to Abinash, ‘It’s getting late. Sarala looks tired.’

  ‘You’re right,’ pat would come the reply, ‘You start off. I’ll follow you in a minute.’ Or, if Abinash muttered meaningfully, ‘It’s going to rain’, Jogini was quick with the suggestion, ‘You’d better hurry home. My carriage is coming for me.’ Though not a poet himself Abinash looked like one with his long hair, soft dreamy eyes and a silk uduni on his shoulders. He even spoke like one. One evening, hearing Sarala play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the piano, he rushed up to her and caught her hand. ‘Ah me!’ he exclaimed. ‘What ethereal strains! What stream of nectar gushes forth from heaven! What waves of sound pass through groves and gardens; over flowers and
leaves! Don’t stop Sarala! For God’s sake don’t stop. Play more … more!’

  ‘Yes I will,’ Sarala said solemnly, ‘But how can I if you keep holding my hand?’

  Abinash released her hand with a jerk. Sarala resumed her music her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter as Abinash went on murmuring extravagant compliments in her ears, ‘Sarala! Sarala! Your fingers are the colour and shape of champak buds. Your teeth are as lustrous as pearls. Your cheeks have the delicate flush of the pomegranate seed. You’re no ordinary mortal. You’re an apsara Sarala! A goddess!’

  At this point Jogini’s brother Sajani walked in. He couldn’t stand Abinash and tried to frustrate his attempts at coming closer to Sarala in every way he could. Now he made a dash for the piano and exclaimed, ‘Let’s have a duet Sarala! I’ll sing and you play.’ Abinash and Sarala were both alarmed at the prospect of hearing Sajani sing. ‘Brother Sajani,’ Abinash said quickly in the voice mothers use with troublesome children, ‘Why don’t you go out into the garden and sing? Sarala was playing an exquisite piece of music for me and—’

  ‘Look here Abinash,’ Sajani turned angry, red eyes on his rival. ‘I’m not your brother—in the first place. In the second—why should I go out into the garden? I shall sing right here.’

  ‘You can if you so wish. No one can stop you. But Sarala was playing classical music. That won’t blend with your brand of music, will it brother?’

  ‘Why not? Classical means ustadi music—does it not? I can sing ragas.’

  ‘The two classicals are not the same. East is East and West is West. And ne’er the twain shall meet. They won’t blend. They can’t.’