First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘From the ash heap you might say. She has many other talents. She can sing and dance. She hasn’t had a proper break so far. She’s done bit roles—mostly of little boys.”

  ‘Do you have a regular Babu?’ Girish asked the girl. ‘What?’ The girl didn’t seem to understand the question.

  ‘I mean, are you free to spend the night with me?’

  A deep flush rose in Nayanmoni’s cheeks. Her eyelids quivered a little as she stood silent, eyes downcast. Girish, who was in a fever of anxiety, couldn’t brook her silence.

  ‘Do you imagine?’ he shouted rudely at her, ‘that I’m asking you to spend the night cavorting in my bed? We’ll have to rehearse the part of Lady Macbeth every minute of the time left to us. Can you do it?’

  ‘I can.’

  Over the next three days Nayanmoni worked on her role with a dedication and perseverance that surprised Girish. Under his expert hands she blossomed into a wonderful actress. Girish was overjoyed. Her acting was excellent—far beyond his expectations. But he felt a faint stab of worry from time to time. Performing well during rehearsals was one thing. Facing an audience was another.

  Just before the first bell, on the opening night of Nayanmoni’s performance as Lady Macbeth, Girish Ghosh sent for her. When she walked in, he stared in amazement. He hardly recognized her. He hadn’t realized that the girl was so beautiful. Her arched neck rose like a marble column above the collar of her black velvet dress whose voluminous skirt and elaborate sleeves hid the thinness of her legs and arms. Her lustrous eyes with their fringe of deep lashes had a faraway look in them—as though they beheld another world. Her lips were painted a pomegranate pink and her cheeks were the colour of cream tinged with vermilion. Rich, black hair knotted at the nape hung to her waist. ‘Come Nayan,’ he said, ‘Seek the blessings of my guru.’ Nayanmoni knelt before the portrait of Ramkrishna and touched her forehead to the ground. She stayed like that for quite a while, then lifting her head, brought her palms together. Her lips moved a little as though she was muttering something below her breath. Then she rose and took the dust of her own guru’s feet. ‘Nayan,’ Girish’s voice trembled as he placed a hand on her head in blessing, ‘You won’t let me down, will you?’

  Girish was totally unprepared for the extent of the evening’s success. He had heard that the editor of Englishman had remarked to a colleague before the event: ‘A Bengali Thane of Cawdor! What can be more amusing? Let’s all go and see the natives perform Macbeth and have a good laugh.’ But that same gentleman was sitting in. the audience with several other Englishmen. And no one was laughing. In fact they were clapping with a frenzy that was a rarity even at their own plays. Girish noticed that most of the applause was for Nayanmoni. He was amazed to find that she was performing even better than during rehearsals. The girl seemed to be a born actress.

  A number of Girish’s erstwhile colleagues from Star and the other theatres had bought tickets in secret and come to see Girish Ghosh make a fool of himself. They were in for a shock. Never had they seen such brilliant costumes, such wonderful lighting and authentic sets. As for Girish himself—who could ever guess, from the vigour and vitality of his speech and movements, that he was so old and had so many ailments?

  After curtain call all the players received a standing ovation. Girish introduced the members of the cast one by one. When Nayanmoni’s turn came a member of the audience, a wealthy zamindar, announced that he would present her with a gold medal.

  Next morning, all the newspapers carried favourable reports of the play. The players were mentioned by name—all except Nayanmoni for Girish had forgotten to change the name in the handbills. Teenkari Dasi’s performance as Lady Macbeth received a great deal of praise. As if that was not disappointing enough for Nayanmoni, Teenkari returned to the theatre after three or four days. She had recovered and wanted her role back. Girish and Nagendrabhushan exchanged glances. As per the conventions of the theatre she had every right to make such a demand. But Nayanmoni’s performance had been so much better! Nagendrabhushan and Ardhendushekhar were of the opinion that Nayanmoni should be allowed to continue. But Girish shook his head. It would create bad blood between them and the cast would be divided. ‘Explain the situation to Nayanmoni,’ he told Ardhendushekhar, ‘and tell her not to mind. We’ll give her the lead role in the next play.’

  ‘Mind! The girl is mad. She wants nothing for herself. She’ll do whatever you tell her.’

  Still Girish sent for Nayanmoni and said, ‘You came to my rescue when I was in trouble, Nayan, and I won’t forget it. You not only saved my reputation—you glorified it. The Englishman carried two paragraphs on your acting though the credit went to Teenkari. But these things happen in our profession. You mustn’t take them to heart. I promise to give you better roles in future. I’ve a mind to take up Hamlet next. You’ll be Ophelia.’

  ‘I don’t mind doing small roles. I’m quite happy as Macduff’s son.’

  ‘You’ll do better than that. We’ll split up the shows between the two of you. Teenkari can be Lady Macbeth some nights and you—’

  ‘Let Teenkari Didi have the role. She’s very good. I love watching her. What a beautiful voice she has!’

  Girish laughed. ‘I’ve never heard anything like this before,’ he said. ‘Tell me truly. Who are you and where do you come from? I hear you can sing and dance as well as act. Will you sing a few lines for me?’

  Nayanmoni sang a verse from Geet Govind. Girish stared at her in amazement ‘Where have you been hiding all these years, Nayan?’ he asked softly. Nayanmoni did not answer. She stood silent, looking down at her feet. A tear trickled down her cheek and fell to the floor.

  Chapter V

  Gangamoni had her own three-storeyed house in Rambagan. Having retired from the theatre she was constrained, now, to live on her savings and the rents collected from the tenants she had installed on the ground floor. These were mainly women from her own profession. Kusum Kumari (Khonra), Harimoti (Dekchi), Tunnamoni and Kiran Shashi didn’t have regular Babus and earned too little from the theatre to be able to afford houses of their own. Gangamoni had divided up the rooms downstairs among them and charged a nominal rent. She was a soft-hearted woman and, being familiar with the line, knew how hard it was to make a living from it. The rest of the house she kept for her own use barring a tiny room on top. A young actress called Nayanmoni had recently taken possession of it for a monthly rent of twenty rupees.

  Gangamoni hadn’t let go of the theatre without a struggle. After all, she wasn’t that old. The trouble was that she had started bloating and that too at an alarming pace. She had been quite sought after even till lately and could pick and choose her roles and change her loyalties from Star to Emerald and back again as often as she pleased. But now her waist was like a cow’s, wider in circumference than her back and breasts put together, and her stomach protruded from it like a drum. How could she expect to play heroine with a figure like that? She had tried hard to fight the obesity that seemed to have overtaken her like a disease. She hadn’t touched a drop of liquor for months and had practically. given up eating. She bathed in the Ganga every morning and prostrated herself afterwards before the image of Ma Kali in the temple of Ahiritola begging her to restore her lost looks. But nothing happened. She swelled steadily like a summer fruit, till, her patience exhausted, she surrendered to the inevitable. She gave up the theatre for good and settled down to a life of ease and enjoyment. Now she ate and drank as much as she pleased and whiled the hours away fondling and playing with her seven cats.

  Of all her tenants she liked Nayanmoni best. The girl was strange—quite unlike others of her profession. She was beautiful and she seemed well educated. She read the newspaper, every morning, with a fluency that surprised Ganga. And she could sing and dance. But she made no effort to push herself forward and make a mark in her profession. Only the other day she refused an invitation from Mahendralal Bosu to sing at a mehfil in his pleasure house in Barahnagar. A renowned actor like Mahendra
Babu! He had so much clout and could have helped her in so many ways! Ganga tried to teach her the tricks of the trade. It wasn’t enough to be beautiful and talented. To succeed one had to have the top actors and managers on one’s side. And it could only be done by making oneself available. A bit of coquetry and flirting together with discreet promises of other, better things would do the trick. Hadn’t Gangamoni gone through it all? She had sidled up to the chief whenever she could, flattered him coyly, prepared his hookah, pressed his legs and even let him have his fill of her. And look at the heights she had reached! But Nayanmoni laughed her counsel away. She was quite happy, she said, doing bit roles. And the money she earned was enough for her. She didn’t need more.

  Though in the same profession there was a world of difference between Nayanmoni and the residents of the ground floor. Nayanmoni lived very simply. Her room was tiny and she had neither a kitchen nor a water tap. She carried up water in pails from the tap downstairs and cooked a simple meal, once a day, on a bucket oven in a corner of the terrace. Unlike the other rooms-of the house, which were overflowing with furniture, pictures, birds in cages and gold fish in bowls, her’s was stark, almost bare. A neatly made up bed spread with a spotless sheet stood at one end of the room. In a corner, at the other end, was a statue of a smiling Lord Krishna playing the flute. On their free evenings, when the other girls’ rooms were ablaze with light and ringing with music and laughter, hers was dark and silent for she never had a visitor. On some such evenings Gangamoni had huffed and puffed her way to the top floor to find her sitting before her god, eyes closed in reverence, singing verses from Geet Govind. Once she had even seen her dance before him. He seemed to be the only male she knew or cared for.

  Being kindly and easygoing, Gangamoni didn’t mind the clamour downstairs even when it became loud and violent. High-pitched singing, raucous laughter and the sound of shattering glass often crashed into the silence of the night, waking her rudely out of her sleep. But she didn’t put a stop to it. The girls were young and youth was fleeting. They earned a bare pittance from the theatre. If they could make a little money on the side and have a good time as well—she wouldn’t stop them. She tried to tell Nayanmoni all this but in vain. Nayan was not only not interested in making more money—she didn’t even care to conserve what she had. She insisted on paying rent when Ganga would have been glad to let her off. She also, quite firmly though sweetly, turned down Ganga’s offer of feeding her from her own kitchen.

  Nayanmoni’s resistance to all her overtures saddened Ganga but she admired her for it. Nayan seemed to achieve, quite effortlessly, what Ganga had never even dreamed of. Ganga had spent the best years of her life flattering and wheedling men and giving in to their basest desires. She had been tossed from one hand to another, often against her will, ever since the age of ten when her mother had wanted to sell her to a wealthy businessman of Lahore. Ganga had wept and pleaded to be allowed to remain in Calcutta for the stage had already cast its spell on her. But both mother and daughter knew that the theatre, for all its glamour, wouldn’t put rice in their mouths. For that they had to look elsewhere. And so poor Ganga was forced to join the throng of women who were borne on the current like dead flowers to wherever their fate took them. She learned to fight for her rights at an early age; to coax and cajole the men at the helm; to spy on her fellow actresses; to squabble and abuse and carry tales. She never forgot an injury and waited patiently for her turn to take revenge. When Bonobiharini got rid of Binodini it was Gangamoni who had helped her.

  But Nayanmoni did none of these things. She had cheerfully given up her part to Teenkari even though she had received seven rounds of applause and Teenkari only three. And she didn’t seem to need men, either. Looking on her Ganga realized, for the first time in her life, that it was possible for a woman to survive without a man; to live by herself with pride and dignity.

  Nayanmoni said something to Ganga one day that she was to remember all her life. Coming into her room that evening Ganga found Nayanmoni dancing before the image of Lord Krishna. ‘Olo Nayan!’ Ganga cried. ‘Have you no fear of the hereafter? Do you want to go straight to hell?’

  ‘Why Didi?’ Nayan fixed her clear, limpid gaze on Gangamoni’s face. ‘Why should I go to hell for worshipping the Lord?’

  ‘You were dancing—’

  ‘Dance is my worship. What else do I have to give him? Besides, doesn’t the priest dance while performing arati? He holds a five-wick lamp in one hand and a bell in the other and dances—’

  ‘Silly girl! Comparing yourself to a priest! Are you a Brahmin?’

  ‘But God belongs to everybody. Not Brahmins alone. He was raised in the house of a cowherd, remember? Besides, he created us too, did he not?’

  ‘But you don’t know the mantras.’

  ‘I don’t need mantras. I speak to him through my songs. You sing so well yourself Didi. Why don’t you do the same?’

  ‘You’ll be the death of me some day. You shouldn’t have kept an image of the deity in your room in the first place. We sinners are debarred from doing so.’

  ‘I don’t know why you keep calling yourself a sinner. I’m no sinner—’

  ‘When anyone asks you who your parents were you tell them you fell from the sky. Now, I didn’t fall from the sky. I know who my mother was. She was an actress and a prostitute. My father didn’t marry her so I’m a sinner, doomed from birth.’

  ‘How can you be blamed for what your parents did? Did you ask to be born? Why should you carry their sin on your shoulders? Don’t call yourself a sinner ever again—’

  Hearing these words Ganga burst into tears. Embracing the younger woman tenderly, she cried, ‘Olo Nayan! If someone had told me this when I was little I would have lived a different sort of life. I would never have allowed myself to become a pawn in the hands of those bastard men. I might have starved but I would have kept my head held high. I didn’t know there was another way.’

  One evening three gentleman came to see Gangamoni. Ganga knew one of them. He was Neelmadhav Chakravarti—the one who had bribed a number of players away from Star and engaged them in his new City Theatre Company. With him was a man who wore several diamond rings on his fingers. From his looks and bearing he seemed important and wealthy. Handing her an enormous box of sandesh Neelmadhav began in a patronizing tone, ‘You’ve got yourself a nice little nest Ganga. I hear an ex-Babu of yours has sold it to you for a song.’ Then, hesitating a little, he added ‘Won’t you offer us some tea?’

  The scene was a familiar one. This was the tone theatre managers used when they wanted to lure an actress away from another company. Ganga had been in great demand particularly after Bilwamangal in which she had played the part of a madwoman. But now she was old and couldn’t sing and dance with ease. Perhaps they wanted a fat woman for a comic role. She didn’t mind doing it if it wasn’t too small or too insignificant. The men drank tea, chatted of this and that but wouldn’t come to the point. At last, unable to bear the suspense, Ganga put out a feeler. ‘Ogo!’ she addressed Neelmadhav, ‘Which board do you work on these days?’

  ‘Some of us have decided to join Emerald. We wish to breathe fresh life into it. It is the old Star after all. You worked in Star for many years. You must have a soft corner for it?

  ‘What play—?’

  ‘Robi Babu’s Raja Basanta Rai. You’ve heard of Robi Babu, haven’t you?’ Gangamoni shook her head. She hadn’t heard of Robi Babu. Someone called Atul Krishna Mitra, she had been told, was writing for Emerald. ‘Robi Babu is Jyoti Babu’s brother,’ Neelmadhav continued. ‘Don’t you remember Jyoti Babu Moshai? Author of Sarojini?’ Now Ganga brought her palms together and touched them to her forehead. ‘Who can forget him?’ she said. ‘He carried himself like a prince. I’ve never seen a more handsome man.’

  ‘Robi Babu is the youngest scion of the Thakur family of Jorasanko and a great playwright. His Raja Rani had a good run. Raja Basanta Rai will fare even better I’m sure. There are many songs and—’
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  ‘How many scenes do I get?’

  The gentlemen exchanged glances. There was a minute’s silence, then Neelmadhav cleared his throat embarrassedly and said, ‘The problem is—there’s no suitable part in it for you. After all,’ he hastened to add, ‘We can’t give you just any role, can we? The audience loves your singing. In our next play we’ll give you one with plenty of songs.’

  ‘But you said this play has many songs!’ Gangamoni sounded truly bewildered. ‘They’re to be sung by the hero,’ Neelmadhav said hastily. Then, with the desperation one feels just before swallowing a bitter draught, he added, ‘And by a young woman. We came to you in the hope … in the hope that the girl who lodges with you … you know the one who works for Minerva. This Nayanbala or whatever her name is, is doing quite well I hear. The fact is that I saw her one night in the role of Lady Macbeth. She was superb. I watched her entranced. Performing against Girish Ghosh is no joke! There’s a fire in her that is seen only once in a while —’

  ‘O Hari!’ Gangamoni thought. ‘They don’t want me. They want Nayanmoni. Why couldn’t Neelmadhav Babu have said so right in the beginning instead of hemming and hawing and spinning a foolish web of lies and contradictions?’ Had such a thing happened a year ago she would have been wild with fury. She would have chased the whole party out of her house at the end of her broomstick. But now she smiled at her own foolishness. She had been lured, momentarily, by the glamour of the stage. She had thought that her youth had returned. But that was not to be. Never again would she stand in the wings, just before a scene, her heart beating with trepidation. Never again would she know the heady excitement of frenzied applause.

  ‘The girl is whimsical,’ she began tentatively, ‘not like the others.’