First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘Call her in.’ His worst fear over Neelmadhav’s voice rang out loud and strong. ‘Let us talk to her. How much does she get in Minerva? Twenty-five or thirty rupees at the most? Rajen Babu here is prepared to pay her one hundred rupees a month. He’s our new financier. Apart from that she’ll get an annual bonus of five hundred rupees. She’ll have a carriage of her own.’

  Gangamoni was so happy for Nayan that she ran all the way up to her room and cried, ‘Come quickly Nayan. Some gentlemen have come with an offer for you.’ Then, seeing her stand motionless, she added. ‘Don’t you hear me? Change your sari and come down at once. They want to make you the heroine. They’re offering lots of money.’

  ‘How can I join another company Didi?’ Nayanmoni’s eyes looked stricken like a frightened doe’s. ‘Girish Babu will scold me.’

  ‘Death be on you, you foolish girl! Why should Girish Babu scold you? You haven’t signed a bond with him, have you? You’re free to go to whichever board offers you a bigger part. And you should go. The bigger the part the better known you’ll be. How long can you remain content with playing boys’ roles in Minerva? As for your precious Girish Babu—hasn’t he changed companies? I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve seen all there was to see. Come, wash your face and run a comb through your hair.’

  Holding her by the hand Gangamoni dragged the reluctant girl into the gentlemen’s presence. Neelmadhav whispered to his companion, ‘Do you see how she walks. I can swear she knows how to dance.’ Then, scrutinizing the girl carefully from head to foot, he asked, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Her name is Nayanmoni,’ Ganga answered for her much as though Nayanmoni was a would-be bride on display and she the bride’s mother.

  ‘We’ll have to change the name. It’s too old fashioned. We’ll call you Panna Rani.’

  Ganga gave a shriek of laughter. ‘The Monis are out, are they Chakravarty Moshai? The Ranis are in. Well, call her whatever you like. Only —’

  ‘Ahh! Ganga. Can’t you let the girl speak for herself? Listen child. We’ve come to you with a proposal. We’ve made a script out of Robi Babu’s historical novel Bou Thakuranir Haat. It has two female roles of which we are offering you one. It’s practically the heroine’s role.’ He paused, waiting for some response. But Nayanmoni turned her face away. Bou Thakuranir Haat! She had read the book in her other, previous life. She pushed the thought away. It brought back too many memories. ‘Ganga must have told you how much we are offering,’ Neelmadhav continued, ignoring her silence. ‘I’m sure it satisfies you. Friday is a good day according to the almanac. We’ll start the rehearsals from that day. By the way, you don’t have to stay here any longer. Rajen Babu has a house on the river where you can live like a queen. He’s a very generous man and will think nothing of covering you with jewels from head to foot.’

  As she heard these words scenes from Ganga’s own past swam before her eyes. She had been in the first flush of her youth when men had come to her mother with similar proposals. She could still see the greed and triumph which had leaped into the ageing eyes. But, however generous the offer, her mother would haggle over the terms and try to better them. And then, she would hand her over … Ganga sighed. She was playing her mother’s role tonight.

  ‘A house by the river,’ she muttered. ‘Is she to live in italone?’ ‘Quite alone. It is to be hers exclusively. It is fully staffed and there’s a watchman at the gate. She’ll be well protected. Why don’t you say something Rajen Babu?’

  But Rajendra Babu only grinned self consciously and looked down at his feet. ‘It’s settled then,’ Neelmadhav rose to his feet. Now Rajen Babu drew a velvet purse from his pocket and thrust it into Nayanmoni’s hands. ‘I’ve brought two hundred rupees as advance,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about money,’ Neelmadhav purred like a cat. ‘Or jewels. Please Rajen Babu and he’ll give you everything you could possibly want.’

  Nayanmoni dropped the purse on the chowki on which she was sitting, Then, with her hand, she pushed it away, till it hit the wall. ‘I don’t wear jewels. They prick me,’ she announced, rising to her feet. ‘I’m not leaving Minerva.’ The other four persons in the room froze in their places. There was a stunned silence. Then Neelmadhav burst out. ‘Not leaving Minerva! Why? What are they paying you that —’

  ‘I don’t care about money,’ Nayanmoni replied. ‘I’m happy with what I’m getting. I wish to sit at Girish Babu’s feet and learn acting from him.’

  The men coaxed and cajoled, even scolded and threatened her but to no purpose. At last, admitting defeat, they walked away in a huff. Gangamoni stood with her arms akimbo and rolled her eyes at her. ‘You’re the stupidest, stubbornest girl I’ve seen.

  You’re being your own worst enemy. And for what? For Girish Babu! What will Girish Ghosh do for you pray? You don’t know him. He’s the most selfish, the most callous man on earth. He’s making much of you now. But he won’t think twice before flinging you off like a dirty rag the moment he has no use for you. Youth and beauty don’t last forever. Make money now while the going’s good and stock up for the future.’ But Nayan didn’t seem to be listening to a word. The moment Gangamoni paused for breath she giggled and cried, ‘O Didi! That Rajen Babu or Fajen Babu whoever he was, was scared to death. Did you see how he was sweating? I can bet he has a harridan of a wife at home. As for that Neelmadhav—he looks like a wild cat. His whiskers —’ She could hold herself in no longer and rolled all over the chowki laughing.

  Gangamoni forgot to scold. She gazed at her in amazement. Tears shone in her eyes as, springing forward, she clasped the girl to her breast. ‘How do you do it Nayan?’ she cried over and over again, ‘From where do you get the strength?’

  Chapter VI

  It was exactly four hundred years ago that Columbus had discovered America. To mark that epoch-making event a mammoth festival was being organized in the city of Chicago of which an important feature was the congregation of religious leaders from all parts of the world. Such a coming together was unheard of. For centuries the word religion had been synonymous with intolerance, hatred and distrust. The European Church, dismissing the claims of all other religions, had sent and were still sending their members to the ends of the earth on a mission to convert the heathen. It was no wonder that the Archbishop of Canterbury was horrified by the idea. Particularly incensed by the news that spiritual leaders had been invited even from India he had declared his intention of not attending the conference. ‘Natives,’ he had exclaimed angrily, ‘are like our slaves. To share a platform with them would be as good as admitting that they are our equals.’

  But America was not Europe. Americans were less conservative, broader in outlook and more open to other cultures. Being the richest nation in the world they were consumer oriented and materialistic. Darwin’s theory of Evolution had struck at the roots of Christianity. He had proved, conclusively, that the Bible was a myth. Being, scientifically, the most advanced among nations and nurturing a spirit of enquiry Americans, by and large, accepted Darwin’s theory. And doing so, they saw no harm in exploring other religions. Who knew but they might have something to offer?

  Invitations to speak at the Congress had been sent to spiritual leaders from all parts of the world. Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Confucians, Taos, Shintos and the fire worshipping Zoroastrians of Persia were to give discourses on their respective faiths side by side with representatives of the Catholic, the Greek and the Protestant Church. Even Brahmos and Theosophists had been invited. The only religion left out was Hinduism. And that was because Americans knew nothing about it. From what they had heard it could hardly be called a religion. It was a savage, primitive cult in which women were burned alive on the funeral pyres of their husbands; which encouraged mothers to throw their suckling infants into a so called holy river to be devoured by crocodiles. It contained a strange sect called Brahmin, the members of which considered themselves polluted by a non-Brahmin’s touch. These Brahmins, it was said, were revered like gods and were so powerful that the
y could burn down the houses of anyone who incurred their wrath with impunity. And, once a year, the rolling chariot of a monstrous god named Juggernaut mowed down hundreds of people in its triumphal progress.

  The day set for the inauguration of this Parliament of Religions was Monday, the eleventh of September and the venue Chicago’s Hall of Columbus. On a vast iron throne, in the centre of a hundred-foot long dais, Cardinal Gibbons—the Head of the Catholic Church of America—sat in state. On both sides of him, in rows of chairs, the other speakers sat awaiting their turn to speak. There were quite a few Indians among them—the Buddhist leader Dharampal, Veerchand Gandhi of the Jain community, the Theosophists Jnanendra Chakravarty and Annie Besant and the Brahmos BB Nagarkar and Pratapchandra Majumdar.

  On first entering the hall, Pratapchandra’s eyes had fallen on a young man in a strange costume who, from his features and complexion, seemed to be an Indian. Pratapchandra noticed that several other Indians were also staring at him. ‘Hindu! Hindu!’ Dharampal whispered in his ear as he took his seat. ‘He wasn’t invited. He came on a recommendation.’ Pratapchandra stole another glance at the stranger. He was quite young, in his twenties perhaps, with fair, handsome features and bright flashing eyes. He wore a long, loose robe of bright orange silk and a tall orange turban that looked as though it had been pulled off the head of a native raja’s dewan. ‘What kind of Hindu?’ he whispered back. ‘Is he from Nepal?’

  ‘No. No. I’ve heard he’s from Madras. Or Calcutta.’

  At this moment the young man caught Pratapchandra’s eye and smiled at him in recognition. There was something vaguely familiar about him now. Pratapchandra knew he had seen him somewhere but where or on what occasion he couldn’t remember.

  After a couple of hours Dr Barrows, one of the organizers and a friend of Pratapchandra’s, came up to him and whispered.

  ‘It’s your turn next Majumdar. Start getting ready.’ Gathering his papers together Pratapchandra asked, ‘Who is the man in the turban, Barrows?’

  ‘He’s from India. Don’t you know him?’

  ‘I don’t seem to remember. What’s his name?’

  ‘His name … his name … It’s quite a tongue twister. Let me see. It’s Soami Viv Ka Nand.’

  Pratapchandra’s brows came together. He had never heard such a name in his life. Soami was obviously Swami but what was Viv Ka Nand? The man was not a Bengali. That much was certain.

  Pratapchandra’s lecture drew a lot of applause. His English was excellent and the parallels he drew between the Bible and the Upanishads demonstrated the extent of his learning. In between reading from a prepared text he spoke fluently, explaining the Sanskrit verses and quoting large portions from the Bible. Applause, of course, was a form of politeness in the West and all the speakers got it—even the Chinaman whose discourse was totally incomprehensible owing to his odd accent. The morning passed. Pratapchandra noticed that the young man in the turban was being approached by Dr Barrows several times. But he declined each time, shaking his head with a smile. He was not yet ready, it seemed, to speak.

  During the lunch interval, when Pratapchandra was scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Jnanendranath Chakravarty a voice called out in Bengali, ‘Ki go Pratapda! How are you?’ Pratapchandra turned around to see the young man in orange smiling warmly at him. He was a Bengali then! A Bengali sanyasi in a turban.

  ‘Who are you?’ Pratapchandra began tentatively. ‘I don’t quite —’

  ‘You’ve seen me before. You don’t recognize me because of my costume.’

  ‘I’ve seen you before? Let me see. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m a sanyasi now. I can’t pronounce the name I went by in my life as householder. I am Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb’s disciple. I was a regular visitor at the meetings of your Nababidhan.’

  ‘Ramkrishna! I knew Ramkrishna. Our Keshab Babu thought very highly of him. It was he who introduced Ramkrishna to the elite society of Calcutta. I didn’t know he had disciples. I heard of his illness, of course, and subsequent death. But —’

  ‘He did not initiate anyone formally. Some of us are trying to cling to his memory and live the way he would want us to.’

  ‘What sect are you representing? Who has sent you here?’ ‘No one has sent me. In fact I wasn’t even invited. Yet, I’m here. How—it’s difficult to say.’

  ‘Wait a minute. I remember you now. You used to sing at the Brahmo prayer meetings. Your name was … your name was Naren. You’re from the Datta family of Shimle. You were a graduate—were you not?

  ‘You remember me then.’

  Pratapchandra’s attitude underwent a sea-change from that moment onwards. The boy was not only a Bengali—he was one of their own boys. They had hoped that he would, in time, become a pillar of the Brahmo Samaj. But that hadn’t happened. He had gone over to Ramkrishna. But that didn’t matter. The Brahmos had nothing against Ramkrishna. The two were Bengalis, together, in a foreign land and that forged a bond between them.

  ‘I’d heard about the financial troubles you had to face on your father’s death,’ he said, ‘but I had no idea you had become a sanyasi. Now tell me. Why are you here?’

  ‘I wished to speak a few words in support of Hinduism. But now I’m not so sure. After hearing your discourse and that of some of the other speakers I’m afraid to open my mouth from fear of being booed out. I doubt if anyone will care to listen to me.’

  ‘Everyone will listen to you.’ Pratapchandra patted Naren kindly on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ll do very well. Think of your guru and speak from the heart.’ Then, turning to Jnanendranath Chakravarty, who had materialized among them, he asked, ‘Do you know this boy Jnan Babu? He’s from Calcutta.’

  ‘Ah! Yes,’ Jnanendranath replied. ‘I’ve been hearing about him for the last three or four days. He’s Vivekananda—is he not?’

  ‘So that’s the name!’ Pratapchandra exclaimed. ‘Vivekananda! The swamis of Bankim Babu’s Anandamath are, each of them, some kind of Ananda—Satyananda, Jeebananda, Dheerananda … You too are an Ananda. Good! Good! Now tell me how you came to America—’

  ‘It’s a long story and will take some time in the telling. The second session is about to begin. You’ll have to wait for another day Pratapda,’

  Naren’s metamorphosis from a whimsical lad to a spiritual leader was owing not to his own efforts but to a sequence of events that had carried him on their wings. One of the ten or twelve boys who had stayed on in the house in Barahnagar after Ramkrishna’s death, he had spent his time reading Sanskrit texts, singing kirtans and reminiscing about the old days with the others. Since they had no source of income the richer among Ramkrishna’s disciples sent them money from time to time. When they forgot and there was no rice in the pot the boys went begging from door to door. There were days when Naren and his friends had one meal a day and that too only boiled rice mixed with a soup made of chillies that grew wild in the garden. Their parents couldn’t understand what their sons were gaining from this self-inflicted torture and insisted on their returning home. The boys held out for as long as they could but, gradually, the group started disintegrating. This happened not because of the hardness of the life or of the pressure parents and guardians were putting. The truth was that they were getting bored. There was nothing to do; nothing to look forward to. One by one, they started leaving. Some returned to their families and others took off on pilgrimages. Naren tried to keep the flock together for as long as he could, agonizing over each departure, till one day, after the youngest of them all, a boy called Sarada, had left, he wondered why he was doing so. ‘Who am I and what am I doing with my life?’ he asked himself. And, in a moment of clarity, he got the answer. He was not for this world. That much was clear to him. He had left his home, his mother and younger siblings. Why, then, was he clinging to this house? Why was he worrying about Sarada’s youth and ignorance of the ways of the world and fearing the possibility of his getting hurt? Had he exchanged one family, one set of responsibilities, for anot
her? The ascetic was like a river which had to flow to keep its waters pure and clear. That day he took a decision. He would leave too. He would explore this country, inch by inch, and see what it was like.

  Having acknowledged to himself that he was a sanyasi who should keep himself rootless and free, Naren left the house quietly one night without announcing his intention to anyone. In appearance he was a traditional ascetic. He wore a saffron loin cloth and carried a lathi and brass pot. The only jarring note was the bundle of books he carried on his back. Reading was a habit Naren could not and would not give up. He read whatever he could lay his hands on—from the Vedantas to the adventure novels of Jules Verne.

  And thus Naren’s travels began. He went from place to place without aim or direction, equally eager and excited about the prospect of seeing the Taj Mahal as Lord Vishwanath’s temple in Kashi. If someone gave him food he stuffed himself greedily. If he didn’t get any he went hungry equally cheerfully. Sometimes, someone was kind enough to buy him a ticket which enabled him to sit in a train. But, oftener than not, he had only his legs and lathi to take him forward. And, just as he hadn’t surrendered his aesthetic instincts, he had no intention of giving up his thirst for knowledge. He visited Paohari Baba’s ashram in Gazipur but spent an even longer time with Pandit Bhudev Mukherjee in Varanasi arguing about some ancient texts.

  He found Bengalis everywhere he went. They had been the first to learn English and were, in consequence, India’s first lawyers, doctors, journalists, schoolteachers and railway officials. In many of the places he visited Naren found his fellow students from Presidency College. They were in high positions and were appalled, at first, by the sight of him in his filthy loin cloth, his hair long and tangled and his eyes sunk in their sockets. But they took him in, kept him in their houses for as long as he cared to stay, then gave him addresses and letters of introduction. Wherever he went Naren made a mark. From the meanest cobbler in the street to the highest official in the Town Hall he impressed everyone he met with his dignified bearing, fluent English and knowledge of innumerable subjects. Gradually his fame spread. More and more people were talking of the scholarly, handsome young sadhu who was steeped in the ancient wisdom of the country yet as enlightened and liberated in thought and spirit as any European.