First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Everything moved swiftly after that. Two girls were sent to Mohilamoni to find out how she felt. Biharilal met the distinguished Oriyas of the city and sought their help in persuading Sudamchandra to agree. They had all heard of Vidyasagar and his lifelong struggle for bettering the lot of widows. They were educated and enlightened people and did not see why something good could not be introduced into their own society and culture. Bharat was not even given time to consider the proposal. Like a strict yet benevolent mother Soudamini took him in hand and virtually forced him to give his consent. Perhaps the idea had occurred to him already. It certainly didn’t come as a terrible shock. Bhumisuta was lost to him forever. That much was clear. Why not the next best then? Mohilamoni, with her lissome figure and charming profile, reminded him of Bhumisuta and aroused within him the same feelings. Marrying her was almost as good as marrying Bhumisuta. Mohilamoni, when she heard it was Rabindranath’s idea, assented shyly. Two days later Bharat and Mohilamoni were converted to the Brahmo faith and married according to Brahmo rites in Biharilal’s house. And the following evening Balmiki Pratibha was staged—the first play with a mixed cast to be seen in Cuttack.

  Chapter XI

  Maharaja Birchandra Manikya arrived at Sealdah station by special train with his retinue of courtiers and bodyguards. His health was declining fast and he had to come to Calcutta several times a year to consult his physicians. Rani Monomohini was not accompanying him this time. She was, now, the mother of two small princes and couldn’t leave Tripura.

  Birchandra stepped off the train leaning heavily on the shoulder of his chief bodyguard Mahim Thakur. Mahim was a fine young man of twenty-eight with a strong athletic body and a keen, alert mind. Over the last two years Birchandra had come to rely on him a great deal.

  ‘No land is dearer to me than Tripura, Mahim,’ he said as he walked towards his carriage. ‘I revel in her clear sunlight and soft breezes. They soothe my very being. But there is something about this city that draws me like a magnet. The air here is far from pure. There is too much sound and too many people. Smoke pours out of factory chimneys and fouls the atmosphere. Yet, I feel a lifting of the heart the moment I arrive. So many great men have lived in Calcutta! So many are still living here—poets, scholars, composers! Their breath is mingled in the air, however polluted. Where in the whole of India will you find such a city?’

  ‘Why are your palms sweating Your Majesty?’

  ‘That’s one of my symptoms. The nuts and bolts of my body must be rusting and falling off. Yet I’m only fifty-nine. Mahim! Send for that doctor, will you? That famous homeopath Mahinlal or Mahenlal—whatever his name is.’

  ‘You mean Dr Mahendralal Sarkar?’

  ‘That’s the one. I don’t know if it’s his medicine or his manner that does me good. But I do feel much better after he’s had a go at me. He’s the only man in the world who dares to insult me.’

  The carriage clattered into the driveway of the Maharaja’s house in Circular Road. Birchandra looked out eagerly, remembering his first visit. Shashibhushan, who had been in his service then, had organized a royal welcome. Shashibhushan had left him several years ago. He and the servant maid who sang padavalis had disappeared together one night. He wondered why they had thought it necessary to elope. He would have arranged their marriage and given them his blessings if they had only asked him. He thought of Shashibhushan with fondness and nostalgia. He was a fine, intelligent young man, devoted to his master’s service. And he had an excellent hand with a camera.

  Dr Mahendralal Sarkar came to see Birchandra the next day. He stood at the door for a while, thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, frowning and looking around the room. Then, striding forward, he announced rudely, ‘You look terrible! Much worse than last time. Your complexion is sallow and there are dark rings around your eyes. What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ the king’s lips twitched with amusement. ‘I do what my ancestors did.’

  ‘Your ancestors!’ Mahendralal snorted in contempt. ‘Royals have the most atrocious habits. You must have some too. What are they?’

  ‘I write poetry.’

  ‘What!’ Mahendralal nearly jumped out of his skin, ‘Why?’ ‘Because … because I like to, I suppose.’

  ‘A king has no business to addle his brains with poetry,’ Mahendralal told him severely. ‘He should concentrate on governing his state. Whenever kings have written poetry it’s been the end of them. Look what happened to Bahadur Shah of Delhi and Wajed Ali of Oudh. They lost their kingdoms and died in exile.’

  ‘I’m not a great poet so I don’t run that risk. I only scribble a few verses for my own pleasure. The British don’t know about it and never will.’

  ‘Well! You know best about that. However, if you must indulge yourself with that nonsense it must be during the day. No burning the midnight oil.’

  ‘I don’t write at night. But I listen to music—till the dawn breaks, sometimes.’

  ‘What sort of a king are you? You write poetry all day and hear music all night. When do you work for the welfare of your subjects? They should hound you out of the kingdom.’

  ‘They seem quite satisfied with me. I have another bad habit. I do photography. I’m planning to do a series on the Ganga while I’m here.’

  ‘Ah! You’re a modern maharaja! Good, good. These interests, worthless though they are, are better than oppressing the subjects. How much do you drink each day?’

  ‘Not a drop. I don’t touch alcohol.’

  ‘Aah!’ Mahendralal exclaimed, startled ‘This is the first time I’ve met a maharaja who doesn’t drink.’

  ‘I smoke a lot, though. I have to have a pipe at my lips all the time. My hookah baradar follows me about even when I’m walking or riding.’

  ‘How many queens do you have?’

  Birchandra frowned. ‘I can’t tell you the exact number. I’ll have to do some calculations. I can answer your question in a day or two.’

  ‘What do you eat? And how much?’

  ‘I used to eat a lot. I loved khichuri and could polish off a whole basin at one sitting. But I’ve lost my appetite over the last few years. I eat twenty to twenty-five luchis for my mid-day meal. Dinner is even lighter. Some rice, a bowl of mutton curry, a fish head and half a dozen pieces of sandesh. That’s all. While in Calcutta I eat a pot of rosogollas. The rosogollas here are excellent.’

  ‘Hmph!’ Mahendralal grunted. ‘I get the picture. Now sir, you’ll have to change some of your habits if you want me to treat you. You may carry on writing poetry and taking photographs if your subjects have no objection. But you’ll have to reduce your diet. I forbid you to eat more than four luchis a day. As for the fish head, it would be better for you to pass it on to one of your sons. You’ll have to reduce your tobacco intake and your passion for listening to music through the night. I’m fond of music too but I draw the line at midnight. We are getting on in years, king and commoner alike. We need our sleep.’ The doctor rose to his feet and, picking up his bag, delivered his parting advice. ‘A spell in the mountains will do you good. High mountains with snow on them. Why don’t you go to Darjeeling? Or Kurseong?’ He walked to the door, then turned back and said, ‘Oh! By the way, my friend Anandamohan Bosu was telling me that satidaha is still practised in Tripura. Is that true?’

  ‘No it isn’t. I banned it a couple of years ago.’

  ‘But you’ve been on the throne for several decades now. Why did you allow it to continue all these years?’

  ‘It is an ancient custom with its roots in the religion of our land. My subjects believe in it. How could I tamper with their faith? My secretary Radharaman Ghosh has been after me to put an end to the practice for some years now. But I hesitated …’

  ‘What happened a couple of years ago? Why did you change your mind?’

  ‘My Senapati, Charan, died of a sudden illness and his wife Nichhandavati, a woman of surpassing beauty, declared her intention of becoming a sati. I had no knowledge
of it. And even if I had, it would have made no difference. Women burn with their husbands everyday in Tripura. I was out in the forest taking photographs when I came upon the scene by accident. What I saw gave me such a shock that I banned satidaha, there and then.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Mahendralal came closer to his patient. His eyes glittered with an unholy light.

  ‘I saw a crowd of men beating drums and clashing cymbals and calling out Jai Sati Ma at the top of their voices. Nichhandavati stood in the centre. She looked like a goddess of beaten gold. She wore a red-bordered white sari and garlands of hibiscus hung from her neck. Her hair rippled like a dark river over her back and hips. Her large doe eyes were glazed with bhang. I shut my eyes. I imagined the greedy red flames licking that exquisite body, charring it, changing the hue from gold to ash. I couldn’t bear the thought. “Stop!” I cried out like a madman. “Stop it at once.” From that day onwards no woman has been allowed to burn on her husband’s pyre. Not even voluntarily.’

  ‘And after that?’ Mahendralal prompted with a mocking smile. ‘You married the beautiful Nichhandavati and added her to your harem?’

  ‘Arré! no, no,’ the Maharaja smiled coyly.

  ‘It was because she was beautiful that you were moved was it not? Would you have had the same feelings if you saw an ugly old woman being pushed into a flaming pyre? You would have walked away from the scene without a moment’s regret wouldn’t you?’ Leaning over, he grasped the king’s arm pinching the skin viciously between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Imagine Maharaj,’ he said in a harsh whisper, ‘that one of your wives is dead. Your relatives drag you to her funeral pyre and push you in with her. People call out encouragement. I don’t know if there is a term for male sati. But, whatever it is, you’re one now. Your hair disappears in a cloud of flames. Smoke, thick and acrid, rises from it. Your skin pops and crackles and bits of it dance about in the leaping flames. Your eyes melt in their sockets. There’s a hissing sound as the fat pours from your pampered body, and feeds the fire. The stench is overpowering …’ Mahendralal gave a final twist to the soft flesh between his fingers and flung the arm away. ‘Sati!’ he spat out the word as if it tasted foul in his mouth. ‘A lot of vicious, evil, dung-eating bastards of priests started this practice. And you encouraged it. You and your dung-eating ancestors!’ Mahendralal’s face was twisted with hate. His hands trembled and his eyes burned like live coals. Birchandra stared at him in shock and horror. No one had ever had the audacity to touch his royal limbs in that rough manner. No one had ever talked to him in that voice. This was British territory. If he had stood on the soil of Tripura he would have fed this man to the dogs.

  Mahendralal controlled himself in a few seconds. Straightening up he said coolly, ‘If you wish to receive my treatment you must practice the austerities I have mentioned. If you can’t, there’s no need to send for me again.’ He walked out of the room with his heavy tread leaving the king sitting on his bed motionless as though turned to stone.

  Birchandra rose after a while and walked about the room, up and down, up and down, like a caged lion. He felt as though tongues of fire were running through his veins and threatening to engulf his head and heart. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen and heard. Had it really happened or had he imagined it? ‘Mahim! Mahim!’ he called out in a high, cracked voice. Mahim hastened to his side and stood with his hands folded. ‘You heard what that bastard of a doctor said to me? He had the audacity to … to.’ Mahim nodded, his face pale and eyes staring in horror. ‘You had a pistol!’ the voice shouted. ‘You should have shot him like a dog.’ Mahim scratched his head in silence and lowered his eyes. ‘Who does the son of a bitch think he is? A doctor! Hmph! There are scores of doctors in Calcutta who’ll come crawling on their knees at my command. Don’t dare call him again. I’ll kill you if you do.’ The king strode up and down the room, faster than before, fuming with indignation. Suddenly he stopped short and his lips curved in a smile. Mahim turned cold with fear. Was the king contemplating a terrible revenge? But this was not Tripura. This was … His fears were belied by the kings words. ‘Do you see what I see, Mahim?’

  ‘What is it Your Majesty?’

  ‘Don’t you have eyes? I was unable to walk without support for the last two months. I couldn’t put a foot on the ground without getting the most terrible palpitations. My legs felt like water. But now, I’m not only walking—I’m striding about.’ He threw back his head and gave a roar of laughter. ‘That doctor is really something. I have to admit it. He has cured me without a drop of medicine. Simply by annoying me! It’s amazing. I haven’t even had a puff of tobacco smoke since he came.’ He thought, frowning, for a few moments, then added, ‘Forget my previous command and send for him again. Use force if necessary. But take care that no one is lurking about when he’s talking to me. They’ll lose respect for their king. As for you, if you so much as breathe a word of what happened today, I’ll have your tongue pulled out.’

  Birchandra improved steadily after that first visit and soon he felt well enough to pursue his other interests. Sending for Rabindranath, one morning, he ran his fingers through the poet’s latest volume of verse, Chitra, and said, ‘These poems are excellent Robi Babu. The best you’ve written yet. They deserve to be printed in gold lettering and bound in morocco leather.’ Rabindra smiled ruefully. The Brahmo Mission Press had very little money. In consequence, their paper and binding were cheap and coarse. But he was lucky to get even that. So many poets couldn’t find publishers. ‘I’d like to sponsor a publication of your complete works,’ Birchandra continued. ‘Everything you’ve written till today—in one elegant volume. What do you say?’ Rabindra nodded shyly. ‘Thank you Maharaj,’ he said ‘But I have a request to make to you. Thousands of verses have been written by padakartas in this country. Many are lost and the rest are scattered about in obscure manuscripts. If you were to use your patronage to bring out a volume of Vaishnav padavalis—’ He looked up eagerly into the king’s face.

  ‘A wonderful idea!’ Birchandra cried out enthusiastically. ‘Start the work of compilation without delay. I’ll meet the expense—even if it runs to a lakh of rupees.’

  Birchandra Manikya met Rabindranath several times after that, discussing their new project and exchanging ideas. The king had read some poetry but he had little knowledge of what was going on in literary circles. He had a lot of questions to ask his young friend and Rabindra was ever ready to enlighten him. Radharaman Ghosh joined them frequently. He, too, had a passion for Vaishnav literature and could give them a lot of practical advice.

  ‘Robi Babu,’ Radharaman said to him one day. ‘I’ve heard that a young man from Krishnanagar is writing good poetry these days. I come from those parts myself. His name, I believe, is Dwiju Babu and—’

  ‘Yes! Yes,’ Rabindra recognized the name instantly. ‘Dwijendralal Roy is my friend and an excellent poet. He sings very well too.’

  ‘Why don’t we send for him one day?’

  ‘You send for him if you like,’ Birchandra snapped. ‘I’m a one-poet man. For me there’s only Robi Babu.’

  ‘No Maharaj,’ Rabindra admonished him gently. ‘You must keep an open mind. Dwijendralal’s compositions are of a very high order. You will like them.’

  Birchandra was soon well enough to indulge his third passion—the theatre. The city was humming with dramatic activity. Girish Ghosh and Amritalal were churning out play after play in their respective theatres. Ardhendushekhar Mustafi had lost all his money, and the business as well. Emerald had passed into the hands of a wealthy Marwari named Benarasi Das. The latter had retained the old cast, however, and Ardhendushekhar as director. He who had owned the company was now a paid employee.

  Birchandra sat in his box watching the play being currently performed in Emerald. It was called Banga Bijeta—a historical drama written by Ramesh Datta. He looked up startled the moment the leading lady began to sing. He was sure he had heard the song before. But where? He racked his brains but couldn’
t come up with an answer. He searched her face with a scrutinizing glance. But it told him nothing. He didn’t have a good memory for faces but once he heard a song he never forgot it. The heroine was quite popular, it seemed. The audience applauded enthusiastically every time she came on stage and at the end of each song. Suddenly he got it. It was not the song that was familiar. It was the voice. He had heard it before.

  During the interval he asked Radharaman. ‘Do you recognize the leading lady Ghosh ja?’

  ‘No. I’m seeing her for the first time.’

  ‘She was a maid in our house in Circular Road. Can you recall her name?’

  Radharaman shook his head. He had never interested himself in the maids and servants of the royal household. Looking down at the handbill on his lap he said, ‘Her name is Nayanmoni.’

  ‘Un hunh!’ the king frowned and shook his head. ‘That’s not the name. It’s something else. Aa ha ha! Don’t you remember the girl Shashi master brought to the house? He ran off with her too.’

  ‘Do you mean Bhumisuta?’ Radharaman remembered the name at last. ‘Shashi didn’t run off with her. He’s married to someone else and has two children. I went to see him once, not so long ago. He has bought a nice little property overlooking the river in Chandannagar. He has no news of Bhumisuta—so he told me.’

  ‘Shashi married someone else!’ Birchandra looked at Radharaman, his eyes wide with pain and surprise. ‘Why didn’t he give her to me then? I wanted her.’ He spoke in the bewildered voice of a child who had begged for a toy and been denied it by an adult he loved.

  After the play was over Birchandra expressed a desire to meet the actors and actresses and reward them for the pleasure they had given him. The entire cast lined up to receive the honour in a room at the back of the stage. Birchandra greeted Ardhendushekhar first. Putting a diamond ring on his finger he handed him a velvet purse with one thousand silver rupees in it. Then he walked down the line nodding and smiling and murmuring compliments as each member of the cast stooped to touch his feet. When Nayanmoni’s turn came he turned to Radharaman.