First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘They can and they will,’ Sajani declared stubbornly. Abinash pursed his lips and whistled a bar from the work of some European composer. And all the while he eyed Sajani as if egging him on to battle. Sajani stood with his mouth open glaring at his opponent. Sarala found the scene so comic she had to clamp a hand on her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Then, controlling herself with an effort, she said. ‘I have a suggestion. Why don’t you two gentlemen go out into the garden and get your blending done? Then we can take up the duet here and—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Sarala’s two suitors agreed instantly and marched out of the room arm in arm. Sarala looked after them, a quizzical gleam in her eyes. They were nice young men; well born, well educated and good looking. Why did they not put their assets to better use? Did they really imagine that playing this silly game of love was the way to win a girl’s heart? Women liked men of character and purpose. All the young men who came to her house were so petty; so wishy washy; so caught up in their own rivalries and jealousies. They never gave a thought and, consequently, had no opinion on real problems like the state of the country, the presence of the foreign rulers and the need for social reform. There was only one of her acquaintance who fitted her mental picture of a real man. He was Loken Palit—son of the barrister Taraknath Palit.

  Sarala had met Loken in Rajshahi when she and her mother had gone on a visit to her sister. He had just returned from England after passing his ICS examination and was posted in Rajshahi as Deputy Magistrate. He had plenty of time on his hands and spent several hours each day in the company of the two sisters. Sarala had liked him very much. He was not only smart and handsome, he had a keen, alert mind and was wonderfully articulate. Extremely well travelled and well exposed to other countries and cultures, he could engage Sarala in conversation for hours on end. He was also very well read and had a vast knowledge of literature both Indian and Western. He was Robi Mama’s friend, as she knew, and that fact endeared him even more to her.

  ‘Loken Babu,’ she had said to him one day. ‘Being a deputy magistrate you are surely expected to socialize with the British; to attend their parties and to drink and dance. But I never see you go. Haven’t you made any English friends?’

  ‘How can Indians be friends with the British? It’s not that I never go to parties. I do, sometimes. But I don’t enjoy them. I feel I don’t belong. As a student in England I had several English friends. We studied together, chatted for hours on end and really enjoyed each other’s company. One day we were in a singing mood so one of the boys, a Scotsman, began singing and the others took up the chorus, “Rule Brittania, Brittania rules the waves, Britons never, never never shall be slaves”. That day I got a jolt. I realized that they belonged to a race of rulers and I to a race of slaves. After that I have never been very comfortable with the English.’

  One day Loken asked the two sisters to define the difference between love and friendship. Hironmoyee blushed to the roots of her hair at the question and nudged her sister. But Sarala looked Loken straight in the eye and said, ‘Love and friendship are closely related emotions. But love has wings. Friendship doesn’t. Friendship is love without its wings.’ Loken was suitably impressed by her definition and told her so. Then he made a suggestion. ‘Hironmoyee has an opinion, too, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘Only she’s too shy to speak out. Why don’t you two sisters write a few lines on the subject. I’ll mark the exercises and the winner will get this.’ He drew a spectroscope out of his pocket, as he spoke, and showed it to the girls.

  Sarala and Hironmoyee wrote their pieces and handed them over. Loken read them through and announced in a mock ponderous tone, ‘In my capacity as Deputy Magistrate of this district I declare Sarala to be the winner.’ Sarala took the spectroscope he put in her hands and opened it. There was an inscription inside. To Sarala, it ran, From a dear friend. Hironmoyee bent over it eagerly then, raising an indignant face, she cried out. ‘This is very unfair. You had made up your mind to give it to her.’

  ‘I knew hers would be best.’

  ‘It is unfair,’ Sarala said quietly. ‘You should give the prize to Didi.’

  But Hironmoyee, though annoyed at being tricked, had no grudge against her sister whom she loved dearly. Needless to say the matter was resolved in a few minutes in Sarala’s favour.

  The three loved going for long walks. Sometimes they left the town and walked over fields and meadows or by the thick jungles that skirted them. Sarala and Loken were so wrapped up in one another that they often forgot Hironmoyee who was left lagging behind. ‘You two walk on,’ Hironmoyee said one day. ‘I’m going back home.’

  ‘Why?’ Loken asked, ‘Are you tired already?’

  ‘I’m not tired in the least. But I realize that three is a crowd. You don’t need me here.’

  ‘But we do. Three is a safe number. It spells friendship. Two might signify love.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? I’m sure both you and Solli are ready to put out your wings.’

  Hironmoyee had barely finished her sentence when a shout came from behind them. Looking around they saw Jogini puffing and panting towards them. ‘Sarala!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thank God I’ve found you. I was so bored in Calcutta without you—I had to come. I’ve just arrived. Phanidada said you were out walking. How are you Sarala?’

  With Jogini’s arrival the equations changed. Loken reduced his visits to Hironmoyee’s house. His withdrawal from Sarala was subtle, almost imperceptible. In consequence their friendship remained where it was and could not blossom into love.

  During the long lonely afternoons at home in Calcutta, Sarala often recollected the days she had spent in Rajshahi. And, sometimes, her thoughts were so unbearable that she felt like running out of the house into the hot empty streets and go wherever her feet took her. That, of course, was not possible. The next best method of escape was to visit one of her relatives. But she had to take her mother’s permission first. One afternoon Sarala walked timidly into her mother’s room and called softly, ‘Ma’. Swarnakumari was sitting at her desk with some papers spread out before her. She couldn’t have heard Sarala for she did not look up.

  ‘Ma,’ Sarala called a little louder. ‘I would like to go to Jorasanko. May I take one of the carriages?’ Now Swarnakumari raised her face and looked coldly at her daughter. ‘You saw I was at work Sarala,’ she said, ‘Did you really need to ask me such a trivial question just now? Couldn’t you have waited till the evening?’

  ‘I’m bored and lonely. I want to go now.’

  ‘Go if you wish. But you shouldn’t have disturbed me while I was writing. You’ve spoilt the flow.’

  Sarala put on her chemise and jacket her breast swelling with indignation and self pity. Her mother had no time for her. All she thought about was her writing. She had often seen Bibi go up to her Robi Mama when he was writing and ruffle his hair or snatch his manuscript away. But he never reprimanded her. He was ever ready to put away his work and have a chat. Was her mother’s work superior to Robi Mama’s? Sarala took a decision. She would leave home and go away somewhere; anywhere. She might even go to England, like her brother. But she was a woman. Would her parents agree to send her? She would work on them and make them change their attitude. But, before she did so, she would have to go to her grandfather, the head of the vast clan of Thakurs, and take his permission.

  Sarala was lucky. On reaching Jorasanko she found that Debendranath had arrived that very morning from Chinsura. She went straight to him and, after touching his feet in the customary greeting, told him what she had decided. Debendranath was surprised but not angry. ‘Times are changing,’ he said solemnly, ‘And there’s little sense in holding on to ancient traditions. Whatever you do; wherever you go—my blessings will be with you. Have you decided on a place?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let me know when you do.’ Then, smiling a little, he added, ‘I hear you are resisting marriage. Why is that? You have attained marriageable age for quite some years now. Soon you’ll
have crossed it.’

  ‘Everyone tells me that. Bibi isn’t married yet and she’s the same age. But no one—’

  ‘Bibi is a memsaheb. They marry when they please. Besides Bibi doesn’t come to see me anymore. Listen to me Sarala. It’s not right for a girl to remain unwed all her life. If you don’t wish to marry a man I shall marry you to a sword.’

  Sarala came home her heart dancing with joy. Her grandfather had been so kind and understanding. And he had actually joked with her. Marrying a sword! What a romantic, exciting idea! The sword would lie beside her all night and no man would dare come near her. She lay sleepless that night for hours fantasizing about her future. She would go away to a far country. She would work hard, like a man, and return home at the end of the day tired and spent. She would spend her evenings alone, quite alone, singing and playing the piano. She wouldn’t have to endure the company of silly, foppish young men who hadn’t a single, sensible thing to say. She would be free of them forever.

  But in a couple of days Sarala had changed her mind. She couldn’t; she wouldn’t live alone all her life. She wanted a companion—someone brave and strong and sensible. Someone she could love and respect. If some such person came into her life she would not turn her back on him. If she never knew love she would never know anything. Poetry, art, music would turn to dust within her. Love was the fount of all inspiration; of all creativity. She would seek love and find it—no matter how long, how arduous the search.

  Chapter IV

  Ghosh tiptoed out of the green room and came to the yellow wall that separated it from the stage. On it hung a portrait of Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb. Girish Ghosh stood before it, eyes closed and hands folded in reverence. His attitude of humble submission was at variance with his appearance which was that of a dashing Englishman of several centuries ago. He wore velvet trousers with a sword at the waist, a ruched silk shirt and high-laced boots. His face was painted a bright pink and his salt-and-pepper whiskers were dyed a jet black hue. A curled wig covered his bald pate. He was making a comeback to the stage at the age of fifty and he needed the blessings of his guru.

  Tonight was the opening night of an adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Girish, who had written the play and was playing the title role, had serious apprehensions. He had been out of the theatre circuit for years. How would the audience receive him? There were many among them who hadn’t even heard of him. He was also worried by the fact that a raw, untrained, bit actress was to perform the female lead. Teenkari Dasi, the girl he had trained for months to play Lady Macbeth was suffering from an attack of vomiting and purging and hadn’t yet recovered. A strong, young, healthy woman like Teenkari! Who had ever dreamed that she would be so ill that she couldn’t raise her head from the pillow for days together? Consequently no one had been trained to replace her in an emergency.

  The crisis upon them, some members of the cast suggested that he send for Binodini. There was only one actress in Bengal, they pointed out, who could learn a part in a couple of days and play it to perfection—and that was Binodini. But Girish Ghosh shook his head. Seven years ago, at a rehearsal of Roop Sanatan, Binodini had quarrelled bitterly with some of her colleagues and swept out of the Star theatre never to enter it again. Girish Ghosh had been shocked. He couldn’t believe that an actress of her standing and reputation could put her personal emotions above her commitment to the theatre in such a blatant, shameless way! He had been so hurt and offended that he had resolved never to see her face again and had severed all connection with her. But much water had flown under the bridge in those seven years. At a time when the fame of the Star was at its height with play after play emerging from Girish Ghosh’s powerful pen; when the competition with Star was so tough that other companies were hard put to scrape their production costs together, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a lawyer walked into the theatre and addressed Girish Ghosh thus: ‘Ohe Ghosh ja! Start packing and get ready to quit. My client is buying up your land.’

  Girish Ghosh and his friends thought it a joke and burst out laughing. But within a few days truth dawned. Though the theatre was their own, the land on which it stood was not. The land, taken on a lease, had been bought by Gopal Lal Sheel, grandson of the immensely wealthy Motilal Sheel, in a secret deal. The latter’s toadies had been urging him to open a theatre pointing out that it was not only sound business but would provide a lot of entertainment as well. Gopal Lal was tempted but he was astute enough to realize that if he wanted to run a theatre successfully he would have to mow down the Star first.

  Girish and Amritalal were completely flummoxed by the situation in which they found themselves. What would happen now? Would they be forced to abandon their theatre? Moving the courts was possible but they dared not take on an opponent as rich and powerful as Gopal Lal Sheel. They decided to settle the matter out of court. After a great deal of bargaining an agreement was reached. Gopal Lal would buy the auditorium for a sum of thirty thousand rupees but the name Star would remain the property of Girish Ghosh and Company. With the money received the latter bought land in Hathibagan following which they got busy raising funds with which to build a new Star theatre. The old theatre, renamed Emerald, underwent extensive renovations before Gopal Lal’s’ first play Pandav Nirvasan was launched. But it fell flat. Despite the bright lights, the expensive decor, the brilliant actors and actresses—Mahendralal Basu, Ardhendushekhar, Bonobiharini, Kusum Kumari—the audience found it disappointing. The play lacked life and verve. It was like a sky without a moon; a yagna without a presiding deity.

  Now the toadies started pressing Gopal Lal to rope in Girish Ghosh. He was the one, they said, who held the strings of the theatre in his hands and could make a play come to life. The players were puppets who responded only to his pull. Moved by these arguments Gopal Lal sent a messenger to Girish Ghosh with an offer. He would make the latter manager of Emerald at a monthly salary of two hundred and fifty rupees and a ten thousand rupee bonus. But it didn’t take Girish even a second to reject the offer. He wouldn’t; he couldn’t leave Star. He had created it. From the biggest star in the cast to the humblest dresser and promoter—he had trained them all. The messenger came back the next day. This time Gopal Lal was offering three hundred rupees a month and a bonus of fifteen thousand. Girish folded his hands and said humbly, ‘Give Sheel Moshai my thanks and tell him that I’m unable to accept his most generous offer. I cannot leave Star.’ But the following day the man returned. This time he had a lawyer with him and a couple of guards with guns. ‘Ghosh Moshai,’ the lawyer said weightily while the guards stroked their whiskers and looked fiercely at Girish. ‘My client has sent me with a final offer. Three hundred and fifty rupees a month and a bonus of twenty thousand. I urge you to accept it. Who, barring the Laat Saheb, earns this much? Besides, if you live in the river you cannot afford to quarrel with the crocodile. You know how powerful Gopal Lal Sheel is. He can buy up your entire cast if he so wishes. What will you do then? Can you build your precious Star and run it all by yourself? He has made up his mind to employ you as his servant and he will. You cannot escape him.’

  Girish Ghosh was trapped. Not so long ago Binodini had sold her body to build Star. Now Girish had to sell his soul. Calling his colleagues together he explained the situation to them. Then, handing over sixteen thousand rupees out of the twenty he had received, he gripped Amritalal’s hands and said, ‘Build the theatre and get it going as soon as you can. But see that everyone associated with it, from the highest to the lowest, gets fair and equal treatment.’

  And so Girish Ghosh became the manager of Emerald. His first play Purna Chandra was staged with a lot of fanfare and was very successful. But, though Girish did everything that was expected of him, his heart was not in his work. The new Star theatre in Hathibagan had been completed and his old colleagues were visiting him in secret. They needed a play. Who would write for them? Girish Ghosh shook his head. As per the terms of his contract with Gopal Lal Sheel he could not write for any company other than Emer
ald. Besides, Gopal Lal’s spies kept a strict watch on his movements.

  One day, Girish draped a sari and went out of the house. He was a great actor and walking like a woman was not difficult for him. He had to hide his whiskers, though, and to that purpose he pulled the veil on his head down to his breast. Watching him walk away no one could dream that he was a man. He went to the house of a friend and dictated the play Nasiram. It was performed at the Star but no one knew who the playwright was. The name appearing in the titles was a pseudonym—Sevak.

  The two plays were performed night after night at their respective theatres. Both were doing well but Girish Ghosh was happiest when the sales at Star outstripped those of Emerald Already people were saying to one another. ‘Oré bhai! Have you seen the new play at Star? There’s a new playwright called Sevak whose work puts Girish Ghosh’s to shame.’

  A year or so went by in this manner. Then, one afternoon, Gopal Lal Sheel stormed into his manager’s office and said, ‘I’ve had enough of this theatre nonsense Ghosh Moshai. It’s a low business—not worthy of a man with a lineage like mine. I want you to shut up shop. Right from tomorrow.’ Gopal Lal was a rich man. He had launched the project upon a whim. Now he was abandoning it upon another.

  The theatre was sold, in due course, and the new owner proceeded to run it. But Girish Ghosh had no contract with him. He was free. Bursting with joy he returned to the Star to be installed as manager in place of Amritalal. He felt like one, exiled for many years, returning to his motherland.

  But Amritalal, though he had conceded his post to his erstwhile mentor, was far from happy at his return. He didn’t see why he should spend his whole life in his guru’s shadow. Had he not proved his worth as manager of Star when Girish Ghosh was away? And now, even after his return, was it not he, Amritalal, who was bearing the heaviest load? Girish Ghosh wrote play after play—Prafulla, Haranidhi, Chanda—but did not attend the rehearsals barring one or two right at the beginning.