First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Chapter VII

  A little distance away from Bharat’s lodgings in the town of Cuttack was the residence of the district judge Biharilal Gupta. Biharilal and his wife Soudamini were warm and sociable in temperament and very hospitable. Consequently their house was packed with guests at all hours of the day and the air redolent with the aroma of delicious food. The evenings, in particular, rang with music and laughter for Biharilal liked to relax in the company of his friends after a gruelling day in court. Soudamini was a motherly sort of woman who loved feeding her guests. Though she had many servants she insisted on cooking some of the dishes herself and serving them with her own hands. She was small and slight in build and ate very little herself. But she loved the sight of others enjoying a meal and that included birds and beasts. Her heart sang with joy, each morning, as she threw handfuls of grain to her pigeons and pushed the tenderest of leaves into the mouth of the doe in her garden. She even looked on with pleasure at the sight of the syce giving the horses their gram.

  Biharilal and Soudamini were Brahmos and intimate friends of the Thakurs of Jorasanko. Soudamini had once been a member of Swarnakumari Devi’s Sakhi Samiti. Now, having moved to Cuttack, she had opened a branch for the women of the town. Classes in music, painting, dancing and needlework were held in her house and she encouraged all the young girls she knew to come and join them. She was dead against the notion of purdah and could be sharp in her criticism. ‘Are you a doll?’ she would scold if she found a girl sitting timidly, her eyes on the ground, ‘Haven’t you learned to talk?’ And if anyone covered her face before a man she would rail at her, ‘Why has god given you a pretty face if you don’t show it?’

  Bharat, though only a bank clerk, had managed to find a place in these gatherings. Biharilal and Soudamini made no distinction between people. They kept open house and made everyone welcome—Bengali or Oriya, rich or poor. Bharat liked Orissa and felt a strange bonding with her country and people. They were Bhumisuta’s and since Bhumisuta was his he felt they were his too. After scouring the streets of Calcutta for months, trying to find her, he had decided to come to Orissa. She might have, in her disgust and disappointment with Bengal, gone back to her roots. He had roamed from place to place—Puri, Baleswar, Cuttack—his eyes strained for a glimpse of her. Finally, worn out with physical and mental exhaustion, exposure and starvation, he had fallen in a dead faint outside the temple of Jagannath in Puri. No one had picked him up. No one had extended a helping hand. Puri was full of lepers, beggars and lunatics. Who had the time to glance at them? Pilgrims crowding into the temple had thrown a brief glance at the fair youth lying on the ground and, thinking it to be a novel way of begging, had flung a few paisas in his direction before walking on. How Bharat had come out of that faint he did not remember. But he had not only survived—he had managed to make a living in Puri. Sitting under a tree outside the Post Office, he had filled out money order forms, at the rate of one paisa per form, for those who could not read or write. With the ten or twelve paisas he made each day he could buy himself two coarse but nourishing meals, for Orissa was a cheap place. And at night, he slept under the stars on the vast chatal of the temple.

  He lived like this for a year clinging to the hope that he would find Bhumisuta. All Oriyas visited the temple of Jagannath some time or the other. She might be married, by now, of course. He didn’t mind that. All he wanted was to meet her and beg for her forgiveness. But Bhumisuta eluded him and the hope died slowly in his breast.

  Then, one day, a gentleman offered him a job. He had seen Bharat several times sitting outside the Post Office filling forms and been surprised by the neatness and elegance of his hand. Lloyd’s Bank, he told Bharat, had recently opened a branch in Cuttack and was looking for young men who knew English. Bharat was obviously well educated. Why didn’t he send an application? Bharat took the man’s advice and got the job. That was six years ago. Now he had risen to the post of Chief Accountant and was a regular visitor at the house of Biharilal Gupta.

  One day Soudamini said to him, ‘Do you know how to sing Bharat? We are putting up Robi Babu’s Balmiki Pratibha this Maghotsav and are short of a male voice.’ Bharat blushed and protested. He had never sung in his life, he said, and didn’t know one note from another. But Soudamini wouldn’t let him off. Thrusting the role of the first dacoit on him she started training him for the part. Within a few minutes she realized that he hadn’t exaggerated. But there was no one to replace him so, comforting herself with the thought that a dacoit’s voice needn’t be very sweet or tuneful, she started working on him harder than ever. As for Bharat, his original reluctance wore off in a few days and he started enjoying the rehearsals.

  Doing the female lead was a girl called Mohilamoni. She was a child widow, beautiful and intelligent. Having received some education she was a great help to Soudamini in running the Samiti and spent most of her day in Biharilal’s house. Bharat had been struck with her beauty and charm the first day he had seen her which was over a year ago. Now he marvelled at her singing voice. She sang the songs of the ‘little maid’ with so much feeling! And her enunciation was perfect!

  ‘I saw Balmiki Pratibha for the first time in Jorasanko,’ Biharilal said during one of the rehearsals. ‘Robi Babu played the male lead and a niece of his, a girl called Pratibha, played the heroine. In fact the opera was named after her. She was a beautiful girl and had the sweetest voice I had ever heard. But, to tell you the truth, our Mohilamoni is doing even better than Pratibha.’

  ‘Mama Babu!’ Mohilamoni laughed and shook her head with mock severity at Biharilal. ‘You mustn’t flatter me with all these lies. I’ll stop acting and go home if you do.’

  ‘I’m not flattering you child. It’s nothing but the plain truth I’m telling you.’

  A few days later news reached the players that Robi Babu was coming to inspect the family estates in Balia and would not only be visiting Cuttack but would actually be staying in the house. It was instantly decided that a performance would be put up expressly for him and his opinion on its quality sought. It was a rare opportunity and should not be missed on any account. This decision threw everyone in a flurry of preparation. Rehearsals began an hour earlier and went on till late into the night. Bharat could come only after the bank was closed for the day but he stayed on right till the end.

  It was during one of these rehearsals that Bharat had a strange experience. His role over for the time being, he was sitting with the others looking at Mohilamoni as she sang her lines. Suddenly she turned her face away from him and he saw it in profile for the first time. His heart gave a tremendous leap. It was Bhumisuta’s face. He almost stood up in his excitement but, before he could do so, Mohilamoni was facing him once more and the resemblance was gone. Now Bharat started watching her covertly and, after a while he realized that though their figures, colouring and facial expressions were dissimilar their right profiles were uncannily alike. That and a trick both women had of lowering their lashes and fixing their eyes on the ground. Whenever Mohilamoni turned her face to the left and lowered her glance she looked exactly like Bhumisuta. Was there some relationship between the two, Bharat asked himself feverishly. Were they sisters? No. That was not possible. Bhumisuta’s parents had died long ago. Were they cousins then? If that were so Mohilamoni would have news of Bhumisuta. Should he talk to her and try to find out?

  Next evening Bharat was even later than usual for the rehearsal. An angry Soudamini railed at him for not taking the show seriously. But her complaints and criticisms made not a dent on his consciousness. His eyes, his mind and spirit were fixed on Mohilamoni as she sat, her face turned to one side, her eyes on the carpet. He had seen that expression so many times before that it seemed as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart. He felt Bhumisuta’s presence, in this room, as he hadn’t felt it in these seven years since he had lost her. Bhumisuta was here and she was trying to reach out to him …

  Chapter VIII

  The two friends bumped into one another
outside Bankimchandra’s, house in Pratap Chatterjee Street. They had been students in college together. Now Dwarika was a wealthy landowner, stout and handsome in his tussar kurta stretched tight across a great expanse of chest. An expensive Kashmiri shawl sat carelessly on one shoulder and a pair of magnificent whiskers waved luxuriously above his upper lip. Dwarika visited his estates in Khulna once a year. The rest of his time was spent in Calcutta running a journal called Nabajyoti for Dwarika had retained his love of literature. Jadugopal had fulfilled his life’s ambition of going to England and returning a barrister. And having married a daughter of the illustrious house of Jorasanko was, now, numbered among the elite. He wore a faultless three-piece English suit and shining boots.

  ‘Why Dwarika!’ he greeted his old friend facetiously, ‘Can’t you let the poor man alone? Must you wrest a story for your infernal magazine even from his sick bed?’

  ‘No brother,’ Dwarika’s face looked pale and worried. ‘Bankim Babu is in no condition to write—for me or for anyone else. The doctors say he’s critical. Besides, he left off writing years ago.’

  ‘Why? He’s not that old. Fifty-five or fifty-six—at the most. That’s no age to retire. He’s the king of Bengali literature. He should go on and on.’

  ‘His spirit is broken. After his daughter’s death he—’

  ‘Ah yes! I remember. His youngest daughter Utpalkumari committed suicide, didn’t she?’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide. I’m close to the family so I know the truth. Utpala’s husband Matindra is a beast in human form. Wine, women, gambling, ganja—he indulges in every vice you can find on this earth. He has a gang of toadies who feed on him constantly and egg him on. Naturally, it didn’t take him much time to run through his own money. Then he started pestering Utpala to give him her jewels. But Utpala was a strong woman and denied him resolutely. They were her own Stridhan, given to her by her father. Why should she let her husband squander them away? He harrassed her in every way he could but didn’t succeed in getting them out of her. Then, with the help of a doctor friend of his, he got hold of a drug and poured it into her bottle of medicine. He had no idea of the potency of the drug. So he may have put in more than he was supposed to. He said he hadn’t meant to kill her, only to make her unconscious. Anyhow, Utpala died and Matindra, in a panic, hung her body from a beam and made it look like suicide. It was later, during the post mortem, that the poison was discovered in her system.’

  ‘But the court gave a verdict of suicide.’

  ‘Bankim Babu didn’t contest the case. After all, his family honour was at stake. To prevent the ugly story from coming out into the open he supported his son-in-law.’

  ‘Kundanandini!’ Jadugopal breathed.

  ‘Exactly. He was haunted by that thought himself. “I poisoned Kundanandini,” he said over and over again. “I killed her. And now my own daughter—” Is it not tragic, Jadu, that such a fiery pen has been extinguished? The doctors say he has lost the will to live.’

  ‘I’ve come to him with a proposal. You must help me get his permission. Some of my friends in England wish to translate Bankim Babu’s works and publish them.’

  ‘You won’t get his permission.’

  ‘Why not? He won’t have to do anything himself. All the work will be done by others. If translations of his books are available they’ll be read by people of other countries and his fame will spread far beyond Bengal. Besides, he’ll get a lot of money.’

  ‘He’s a proud, stubborn, bitter man. He doesn’t permit translations because he’s convinced that the sahebs won’t read his work. And, even if they do, they won’t understand it. He has translated his own Debi Choudhurani but hasn’t published it. He detests the English and won’t have anything to do with them.’

  The two friends were sitting in the drawing room with the other visitors—all waiting in the hope of seeing the great man. No one was being allowed into the bedroom for Dr Mahendralal Sarkar was examining the patient. Bankimchandra had been suffering from diabetes for quite some time. He had recognized the symptoms—a raging thirst and frequent urinations—but hadn’t called in a doctor. Then, one day, he suffered a violent attack of pain in his underbelly. The pain was so agonizing that he twitched and flung his limbs about like a newly slaughtered goat. There was no question of fighting it alone. The best doctors of the city were sent for and, after careful examination, a large boil was discovered in his urethra. The doctors advocated an operation but Bankimchandra would not hear of it. ‘I know I’m doomed,’ he told Dr O’Brien. ‘What’s the use of cutting me up? Operation or no operation—I won’t survive. I feel it in my bones.’ Now the family had sent for Dr Mahendralal Sarkar.

  After a while the doctor came down the stairs his great boots clacking noisily. He stood with his arms akimbo, thumbs thrust in the pockets of his waistcoat, and looked solemnly at the waiting men. ‘You’ll have to go back—all of you,’ his big voice boomed. ‘The patient can’t see anyone. He needs his rest.’ Jadugopal and Dwarika sprang forward to help carry his bag but he waved them away imperiously. ‘I can do all my own carrying, thank you,’ he said and strode out of the room. Jadu and Dwarika ran after him crying, ‘How is he Daktar Babu? Do tell us.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Mahendralal snapped. ‘He’s a bigger doctor than I am. He knows everything. He informed me that if we cut out the abcess the pus will mingle with his blood and contaminate his whole body. As if we doctors don’t know what we’re doing.’

  ‘You mustn’t listen to him,’ Dwarika cried, ‘You must force him; threaten him. Everyone is afraid of you.’

  ‘He’s not. Besides, no doctor should use force on a patient. Particularly on one as famous as he is.’

  ‘Have you given him medicine?’

  ‘No. There’s no sense in mixing homeopathy with allopathy. His present treatment can continue for what it’s worth.’

  Leaving the two young men staring after him, Mahendralal Sarkar climbed into his carriage. Poking his head out of the window, immediately afterwards, he added, ‘I’ve learned one thing in my many years of doctoring. And that is, if a patient has lost his will to live no doctor can save him. No—not even if Dhanwantari visits him in person.’

  Mahendralal’s carriage clattered down the road. Dwarika watched it go, his eyes blank with despair. Then, suddenly, he burst into tears. ‘I can’t bear it Jadu,’ he wept, his face working like a child’s. ‘I can’t bear the thought of Bankim’s death.’

  ‘Arré! Arré! Jadugopal clasped his friend in his arms, ‘He’s still with us. Besides, doctors are not gods. They may be wrong.’ He took Dwarika’s arm as he spoke and dragged him to his carriage. ‘Go home and don’t worry,’ he said helping him in. But Dwarika clung to Jadu’s hand. ‘Come with me Jadu,’ he pleaded. Jadugopal hesitated for a moment, then climbed in after Dwarika. The coachman whipped the horses and they set off at a fine canter. Jadugopal noticed that the coachman didn’t wait for instructions. He seemed to know where to go. At the mouth of Hadh Katar Gali Jadugopal cried, ‘Stop! Stop! I must get out here.’ But Dwarika grasped Jadu’s arm and begged, ‘Come with me Jadu. I’m going to Basantamanjari. Do you remember her? She talks of you often and will be delighted to see you.’ Jadugopal had never entered a red light area before. He took a strictly moral view of such matters. But he couldn’t find it in his heart to shake off the clinging fingers. People believed Dwarika to be a man of loose morals. But Jadugopal knew that he loved Basantamanjari and had loved her from the first flush of his manhood. His love was like a pure, shining flame which had endured through the ups and downs of his life. He couldn’t make her his wife but he honoured her more than many men honoured their wedded wives.

  As Jadugopal stepped gingerly on the steps leading to Basantamanjari’s room Dwarika said, ‘Basi has a strange gift. She can look into the future. Did you know that Jadu?’

  ‘Can she see her own future?’

  ‘She never talks about herself.’

  Basantamanjari was sitting on
the floor plucking at the strings of a tanpura and singing softly to herself. Her voice was husky, sweet and deep. She didn’t hear the two men enter at first and went on singing. Then, sensing their presence, she rose to her feet with a cry, ‘Jadu Kaka! It’s been so long. So long!’ Running up to him she fell at his feet and burst into tears. Jadu let her cry. He knew how she felt. He had brought her childhood, long lost and forgotten, back to her and the experience was painful.

  In a little while she collected herself and started plying him with questions about everybody and everything she had known in the village. The only names she didn’t bring to her lips were those of her father and mother.

  Dwarika poured himself some brandy and muttered, almost to himself, ‘We lost Vidyasagar three years ago. And now Bankim—’ It seemed he could think of nothing else. Even Basantamanjari’s storm of weeping had gone unnoticed. ‘Vidyasagar suffered agonies before he died,’ Dwarika continued. ‘He had lost his speech near the end and kept looking blankly from one face to another while the tears streamed out of his eyes. He was trying to say something —’