First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘Ghosh ja!’ he said pleasantly. ‘Ask this girl if she was once a maid in my household.’ Nayanmoni’s face turned pale and her heart beat fast with fear. She had recognized the king of Tripura but hadn’t dreamed that he would recognize her in her ornate costume and painted face. Before Radharaman could react to the first command Birchandra made another. ‘Ask her why she left without informing me.’ Nayanmoni turned and ran out of the room. Birchandra stood looking after her, an enigmatic smile on his lips. Then, addressing Ardhendushekhar, he said carelessly. ‘Do me a favour Mustafi Moshai. Send the girl to my house tomorrow evening. I wish to hear her sing.’ He moved towards the door then turned back and added, ‘In the privacy of my apartment.’

  After an hour or so Ardhendushekhar sent for Nayanmoni. She entered the office room to see him lounging on an armchair his legs propped up on a small table in front of him. In one hand he held the stem of his albola. The other was raised in the air. Nayanmoni saw that his gaze was riveted on the diamond ring that sat on his finger. The velvet purse the king had given him lay on the table. It was nearly empty.

  ‘Come Nayan,’ he invited. Nayanmoni had changed her gorgeous costume for a simple cotton sari and had washed away the paint along with the tears that had poured down her cheeks ever since her encounter with the king. Ardhendushekhar threw a brief glance at her pale face and reddened eyes and murmured, ‘I’ve given away most of the money. There’s hardly anything left for you.’

  ‘I don’t need money. If there’s some left over give it to Uddhab. His wife isn’t well and—’

  ‘She’s had another child!’ Ardhendushekhar exclaimed angrily. ‘This is her seventeenth isn’t it? That rascal Uddhab ought to be whipped till the blood runs down his back. Does he want to kill the poor woman? Whatever you may say, Nayan, that bugger won’t get another pie out of me. I’ve already given him five rupees.’

  ‘It isn’t for him. The infant needs to be fed. The mother can’t suckle him. She has no milk.’

  ‘Naturally not. Does he give her enough to eat? He squanders all his money away on ganja. Don’t I know it? Why do you always plead for others Nayan and never for yourself?’

  ‘My needs are few and my salary generous. I can manage quite well.’

  ‘I want to give you something Nayan. The success of the play is almost entirely owing to you. Here, take this ring.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Nayanmoni recoiled from it as if from a snake. ‘The Maharaja gave that to you. It’s yours.’

  ‘Hmph!’ Ardhendushekhar grunted. ‘Do I belong to the class that wears diamonds? That’s Bel Babu for you. You’ve seen Amritalal Mukherjee, haven’t you? He’s a great kaptan of Calcutta and wears diamonds on all his fingers.’ He turned his hand this way and that as he spoke. The stone caught the light of the many lamps in the room and flashed and sparkled wickedly. ‘This is a fine gem Nayan,’ he looked down, squinting, at it. ‘A truly flawless diamond. Take it. I want you to have it.’

  ‘I’ve said I don’t want it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I hate jewels. They poke and prick me.’ Ardhendushekhar stared at her in total bewilderment. Then he tapped his forehead and sighed. ‘You’re the strangest girl I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘A woman who hates jewels! Where in the world will you find another? Who are you? Tell me the truth Nayan. Were you an apsara dancing in heaven before you came to us?’

  ‘I was a maid. A lowly servant maid in a rich household.’

  ‘A maid! Hmm. That’s what the king said. But hardly lowly—I should have thought. He wants to hear you sing. You know what that means.’

  ‘May I sit down for a while?’

  ‘Yes of course. Make yourself quite comfortable. We haven’t had a chat in months. And you’ve forgotten your promise to invite me to a meal. Can you cook vindaloo? No? It’s a sort of mutton curry spiced with mustard.’

  ‘You just said that I always pleaded for others—never for myself. Well, I’m doing so now. I’m not going to the king’s house tomorrow. Or ever. Don’t make me.’

  ‘You won’t go!’ Ardhendushekhar took his feet off the table and sat up in astonishment. ‘Why not? He’s a very big man. Monarch of an independent kingdom. It’s an honour he’s bestowing on you.’

  ‘I’m an actress, an artiste—not a singing girl. I don’t perform mujras. Nor do I sing for the entertainment of a single man.’

  ‘But he’s no ordinary man. He’s a king. Don’t behave like a child Nayan. You’ll go tomorrow. I’ll take you myself.’

  ‘I’ll kill myself first.’

  Ardhendushekhar narrowed his eyes and searched Nayanmoni’s face for any tell-tale marks. ‘You’re from Tripura,’ he said severely. ‘You made us believe—’

  ‘I’m not from Tripura. I’ve never been there in my life. I was born in Orissa.’

  ‘How did you come to be in the king’s service?’

  ‘I wasn’t in his service. I served one of his officials.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  ‘It isn’t. I’ve never received a pie from the king as wages. And I wasn’t his slave either. He didn’t buy me.’

  ‘He has declared before everyone in the cast that you were his maid. Who will believe your story? If he is frustrated in his desire he might take a terrible revenge. He can accuse you of stealing from the royal household. What will you do then?’

  ‘I’ll go to jail. But I won’t go to him.’

  ‘You’re overwrought. Go home now. Think it over and come back to me tomorrow.’

  But Nayanmoni didn’t go back to Ardhendushekhar. She rose very early the next morning and, hiring a cab, drove to Jadugopal Roy’s house. She was met at the gate by a servant who informed her that the barrister was out riding in the maidan but would come in presently. She could wait for him if she so wished. Nayanmoni entered the house and, seating herself on a chair in the veranda, pulled the end of her sari over her head and face down to her breast. Coming in, a few minutes later, Jadugopal looked curiously at the blue-clad figure sitting alone on the veranda. He had many women clients but they always came with male escorts.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘I’m a poor woman in dire need of your help.’

  Jadugopal nodded. Instructing his servant to open up his chamber and take the lady there, he went into the house. Flinging off his steaming wet riding clothes he took a shower, changed, and went to meet his client.

  ‘Have you come alone?’ he asked. ‘Who is with you?’

  ‘No one.’ Nayanmoni lifted her veil and looked into his face for the first time. ‘I’m in grave trouble and need your help. I’ll pay whatever fee you ask.’

  ‘Bhumisuta!’ Jadugopal exclaimed. ‘You’re as pale as a ghost! What is it? Some trouble at the theatre?’

  Nayanmoni shook her head, then told him what had happened. She kept back nothing—not even the fact that she had been a maid in the king’s household. Jadugopal gave her a patient hearing. Then, when she had finished, he commented wryly, ‘One thing is not clear. Actors and actresses vie with one another for royal patronage. Why are you resisting it?’

  ‘I don’t need that kind of patronage. And I have no wish to oblige him. He may be a king and I a pauper, but if he insists on gratifying his wish I can do the same.’

  ‘So it’s a battle of egos!’ Jadugopal laughed. ‘Rex versus singing girl. Sounds like a fairy tale to me. Is it only that or something else? Is your husband against it?’

  ‘I don’t have a husband.’

  ‘Your protector, then?’

  ‘There is no such person.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I cannot sell myself for money.’ Her voice trailed away. She murmured almost to herself. ‘If I found someone I could love …’ Stopping short she pulled herself together, then looked full into his face and demanded, ‘Can you help me?’ Jadugopal frowned. While in England he had come in close contact with an organization whose members were followers of a German economist and philosopher call
ed Karl Marx. Marx expounded the doctrine of equality and dreamed of a classless society. Workers of the world unite was his slogan. Looking on the wan, troubled face before him Jadugopal felt the full force of those arguments for the first time.

  ‘Of course I can help you,’ he said firmly. ‘A king of Tripura! What right has he to throw his weight about here? This is British territory—governed by a rule of law. If he tries to use force on you he’ll have to go to jail.’

  ‘Suppose he abducts me and packs me off to Tripura? Can the law reach him from so far?’

  ‘Is there such a possibility?’ Jadugopal looked startled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nayanmoni shuddered at the thought. ‘He has dealt much worse with others.’

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Jadugopal rose to his feet. ‘I’ll deal with him. But you must take some precautions. Don’t go back either to the theatre or to your house. Stay here with us for the next few days. My wife will look after you.’

  ‘Stay with you?’ Nayanmoni stared at him scarcely believing her ears. ‘I’m an actress; a low woman on whom everyone looks down. Yet you … you.’ She couldn’t complete her sentence. Dropping her face into her hands, she burst into tears.

  ‘I’ve just returned from the West where singers and dancers are respected for their art. They occupy the highest rungs of society. Don’t worry Bhumisuta. Stay here and forget all the unpleasantness.’

  ‘Bhumisuta’s dead. Call me Nayanmoni.’

  That evening the king sat in state over a small durbar consisting of a few distinguished men of the city. He wanted to show off his new acquisition; to apprise the world of the fact that the famous actress Nayanmoni Dasi had been a maid in his house and still enjoyed his patronage. He had, by constant self deluding, managed to persuade himself that he had done it all. That Nayanmoni was his discovery; his creation. He felt a surge of triumph at the thought.

  But the hours passed and there was no sign of Nayanmoni. Birchandra sat sweating in his royal robes, his head weighted down by the crown of his ancestors. He kept glancing at his watch. At about seven o’clock a messenger arrived from the theatre with the news that Nayanmoni had disappeared. She was not to be found anywhere—not at home, not at the theatre, not even at the house of the few friends she had. Birchandra’s face went white—not with anger but with disappointment and sorrow. He rose to his feet and paced about the room. ‘I only wanted to hear her sing,’ he kept saying over and over again. ‘What was wrong with that? She sings for everybody. Why not for me? I would have treated her like a queen. I would have covered her with jewels.’ Turning to Mahim, he asked in a forlorn voice, ‘Was she afraid I would hurt her Mahim? Punish her for running away? But everyone knows my kindness and generosity with erring subjects.’

  ‘Everyone does Your Majesty. She’s a foolish girl and doesn’t deserve your patronage. Shall I send for someone else?’

  ‘No. My mood is spoiled. Why do Calcutta people have such twisted minds? There’s no warmth in them; no trust, no spontaneity. I’m sick to death of this artificial city. Let’s get out of here. The doctor advised me to go to Darjeeling or Kurseong. I’ll do that. I’ll spend a whole month among the trees and mountains.’ Then, his voice faltering like a pampered child’s, he added, ‘But who will sing to me there Mahim?’

  ‘There’s no dearth of singing girls in Calcutta Maharaj. We’ll take one with us.’

  ‘No’, the king waved the proposal away with an imperious hand. ‘No more women. Go to Jorasanko to Robi Babu and tell him that I would be delighted if he agreed to accompany us to Darjeeling. To hell with the girl! I’m glad she disappeared. Now I can hear Robi Babu’s singing to my heart’s content.’

  Chapter XII

  Swami Vivekananda was in a fix. Fame and popularity have their side effects and he found himself hopelessly embroiled in the latter. When it became evident that the young ascetic had the power to draw crowds, the go-getting Americans lost no time in making a few dollars out of it. A Chicago firm named Sleighton Lysium Bureau approached him with an offer. They would organize tours to various towns and cities of the United States where he could address the gatherings and make known his message. All the arrangements would be made by the company and all the expenses paid. The money garnered through sales of tickets and donations would be shared equally by the speaker and the organizing firm. The contract would be for three years. Vivekananda thought it an excellent proposal. After all he had come to America with the objective of disseminating Hindu philosophy. There was no sense in going back with his mission unaccomplished. And if a third party took on all the organizational responsibility, what could be better? Vivekananda signed the agreement with alacrity. But soon second thoughts came creeping in.

  Was it morally correct for a sanyasi to receive money for spreading the word of God? He had had no time to consult with anyone before signing the agreement. He knew no one in America. And he had lost contact with his fellow disciples in India many of whom had heard of Swami Vivekananda but did not know that the conquering hero of America was their own Naren. The question tortured him till he eased his conscience by telling himself that America was not India. If had been perfectly possible for him to beg for a meal and spend the night under a tree in India. If he tried it here he would be taken for a vagrant and clamped in jail. He needed money to keep himself in this cold and hostile country. He had to book himself into a hotel wherever he went and it had to be a big hotel. The managers of smaller, cheaper places were racist in their attitudes and wouldn’t take in coloured people. Apart from that he needed money to fulfil his dream of opening charitable institutions in his own country. He had come to America not to enjoy her splendours or win fame for himself. He had come to earn money, a lot of it, and take it back to India.

  But, within a couple of months, Vivekananda realized that he had made a mistake. What began as a joyous interaction gradually became a painful drudgery. His managers drove him relentlessly from city to city; from forum to forum, making him speak for hours on end till he was ready to drop down with fatigue. From Chicago to Madison, Minneapolis, Iowa City and Memphis and back again to Chicago. Then to Detroit, Ohio Ada and Bay City of Michigan and from there to several cities of the South—it went on and on. Vivekananda went spinning like a top till he thought he would die of cold and weariness. He had tremendous life force but his constitution was weak and he fell ill from time to time. But there was no respite for him. Sick or well he had to honour his commitments. He was given money, of course. He received as much as nine hundred dollars from one day’s work in Detroit. But soon he became aware that he wasn’t getting his full share. He was becoming a controversial figure and supporters and detractors were flocking to his meetings. At one place tickets worth two thousand five hundred dollars were sold but he was given only two hundred. He realized that the company was lining its pockets at his expense but he didn’t know what to do about it. He had signed a contract for three years. If he broke it he would have to return every cent he had received and that was not possible. So the grind went on, getting more and more excruciating day by day.

  Vivekananda also found himself out of tune with the American mind set. They attended his meetings in thousands but, barring a few, most of them came out of curiosity; in the same spirit as they would come to see a rare, exotic animal in a zoo. He found it impossible to relate to them or tell them anything worthwhile. ‘Hey Mr Kanand!’ they would call out to him. ‘Don’t bore us with all that philosophy stuff. Tell us about the strange customs practised in your country. We’ve heard that mothers throw their babies to the crocodiles. Is that true?’

  ‘Well!’ Vivekananda answered on one occasion, mustering up a smile with difficulty, if my mother had done so I wouldn’t be standing here before you.’

  ‘Boys are not thrown,’ another voice was heard, ‘Only girls—’ Vivekananda’s lips twitched. ‘That may be because crocodiles love female flesh. It’s softer and sweeter.’ Then, as if worrying over a fine point, he added, ‘If all girl children are thro
wn to the crocodiles I wonder how males take birth. Perhaps one of you can enlighten me.’

  ‘You’re evading the question,’ an angry voice came from the audience. ‘But even if you deny female infanticide you cannot deny the custom of Suttee. Widows are burned with their husbands in your country. We know that for a fact.’

  ‘I admit it—up to a point,’ Vivekananda conceded. ‘The burning of widows is punishable by law now, but at one time it was widely prevalent. But let me tell you that in most cases it was voluntary. Force was used but only occasionally. Now I have a question for you. You must have heard of Joan of Arc who was accused of being a witch? She was burned at the stake not so long ago. In France.’ He looked enquiringly but no one had heard of Joan of Arc. ‘In Christian Europe during the Middle Ages,’ Vivekananda continued, ‘thousands of women were branded as witches and burned to death. You haven’t heard of them either?’ A ripple passed over the assembly as people whispered to one another. ‘Blind faith and superstition have been the bane of all religions at some time or the other,’ Vivekananda’s voice grew louder and more sonorous. ‘The people of the West have, very conveniently, forgotten their own past. An Englishman will never ask a Frenchman about Joan of Arc. But the moment he sees an Indian he’ll make it a point to remind him of the custom of Suttee. Why is that?’

  What Vivekananda felt worst about was the fact that such questions came not only from crude, uneducated miners and factory workers. Wherever he went, be it to an elite club, a church meeting or an university seminar, someone or the other was bound to fling these accusations at him. These pin pricks notwithstanding, Vivekananda’s following was rapidly growing in number. Of all the Indians who had come to speak at the Parliament of Religions, he had become the most famous. He was speaking everywhere and being quoted every day in newspapers and journals. The extent of his success gradually became a thorn in the side of his fellow Indians. Pratapchandra Majumdar, who had been so kind to him, turned into his bitterest enemy. Launching a slander campaign against the young ascetic he spread the word that Vivekananda was a fake and a fraud; that he had neither been invited by the organizers of the Conference nor been sent out as a representative of the Hindus. He was a trumped up charlatan who was hogging the limelight by unfair means. Back home in India, he gave statements to all the newspapers that, cloaked in the garb of an ascetic, Vivekananda was living a life of sin and perversion. He was not only smoking and drinking—he was eating beef and pork and cohabiting with American women. Some of this news trickled into Vivekananda’s ears from time to time but he shrugged it off. Only when he thought of his mother and how these reports would affect her, his heart was saddened and despair, at the state of the world, filled his soul.