First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I really don’t see how. Why were they willing to listen to you? They are rich and prosperous and believe in enjoying themselves.’

  ‘That’s just it. The more the physical enrichment the greater the poverty of the spirit. Most Americans sense a vacuum in their lives and hanker for some spiritual solace. I went to them with a bargain. “You give us technical and scientific knowledge,” I said, “and we’ll give you a philosophy that will pour the balm of peace on your tortured souls.” He stopped short for a moment as if contemplating what to say next. ‘You may have heard that I plan to open a mission in Thakur’s name—’

  ‘A mission!’ Girish exclaimed. ‘Like the Christians? I’ve heard that missionaries travel to the most inaccessible parts of the world and distribute bread and biscuits among the naked aborigines. Is that what you’re going to do next?’

  ‘I’m not joking GC,’ Vivekananda said solemnly. ‘I intend to get together a band of brahmacharis and brahmacharinis who will dedicate themselves to self service. They’ll go from village to village educating the masses. And by education I don’t mean literacy. That too, but more important even than teaching people to read and write is to inculcate in them a sense of self respect and self worth. The country must awake from her deathlike stupour and—’

  ‘Bhai ré!’ Girish cried out in a tormented voice. ‘You’ve been away from the country for so long—you know nothing about the condition it is in. Men are not men anymore. Sickness and starvation have dehumanized them so greatly that husbands are pushing their wives into the river and grabbing their share of food. Sons are murdering their fathers. Mothers are selling their children. The list is endless. Reports come in, every day, of corpses rotting in their beds. Their near and dear ones, on the verge of death themselves, have neither the means nor the strength to burn or bury them. Jackals slink into the huts of peasants in broad daylight and feed on human flesh—both living and dead. It’s a dark tunnel we’re passing through; an endless one with not the faintest sign of light.’ Vivekananda tried to speak but no words came. His lips trembled and tears ran down his cheeks. He rose and left the room.

  After the meeting with Girish, Vivekananda turned all his energies into establishing the mission of his dreams. The first area that needed tackling, he decided, was that of women’s education. Ignorant mothers bred ignorant children. He needed teachers for the work and funds—of course. The latter was being arranged through the efforts of Olé Bull, Joe Macleod and Mr Sturdy. But what about teachers? Women, in this conservative society, would refuse to be taught by males. But only ten to twelve per cent of Indian women were literate out of which only one per cent had the ability to teach others. He considered sending for Margaret Noble. Margaret had expressed a desire to come to India and work for his mission. But would she be able to adjust to the alien environment and culture? She didn’t know the language and had no idea of the heat and humidity; the filth and pollution of India. What was more important—would his countrywomen accept a foreigner as their teacher?

  Famous and busy though he was, Vivekananda thought of his days in America with nostalgia. Of Joe and Margaret and Mrs Hale. Sometimes, in his dreams, he saw himself addressing a large gathering in Detroit, of striding down the streets of Chicago, of strolling gently up and down the beach of Thousand Islands. Then, when he awoke, he wondered if the reality had been a dream after all. Had he really travelled to the other side of the world, to a continent discovered just a few centuries ago, thousands and thousand of miles away?

  One day Vivekananda was invited to a midday meal at Priyanath Mukherjee’s house in Bagbazar along with several other eminent men of Calcutta. As they sat chatting of this and that a servant stepped into the room with the news that a man stood outside waiting to see Swamiji. He had been told that a meeting was impossible, at this hour, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Vivekananda came out and was surprised to see that the man was an ascetic. He wore a soiled saffron robe and turban and carried a bundle slung across one shoulder. As soon as he saw Vivekananda the man put his hand in his bundle and, taking out a picture, handed it over. Vivekananda looked down to find that it was the picture of a plump, well-fed cow. He looked up enquiringly. The sanyasi explained that he was a member of a sabha that worked for the protection of the cow and that he had come to Swamiji for assistance.

  ‘What exactly do you do?’ Vivekananda asked.

  ‘We’re against cow slaughter. We’re trying to save our Cow Mother from the hands of the butchers.’

  ‘But when a cow grows old and her master has no use for her—what happens then?’

  ‘We are planning to build asylums, all over the country, where aged and sick cows will be looked after.’

  ‘Very good,’ Vivekananda said. ‘But I’m sure you’ve heard that there’s a famine raging in the country. The newspapers report that nine lakhs of men, women and children have died of starvation. And these are figures released by the Government. The reality is far grimmer. More are dying everyday. What is your sabha doing for the famine stricken?’

  ‘That’s not our concern. Our work is to save the Cow Mother. It she is allowed to suffer our great Hindu religion will fall into a decline and—’

  ‘I understand that. But human beings are important too, aren’t they? Don’t you think you should put aside the interests of the Cow Mother for the present and work to save the people of your country?’

  ‘Put aside the interests of the Cow Mother!’ The man echoed, staring at Vivekananda as if at a madman. ‘Moshai! The famine is God’s curse on men and women. They have sinned and are paying the penalty. As you sow, so shall you reap. It’s their Karma. Who are we to interfere?’

  At this Vivekananda lost his temper completely. ‘I have no sympathy with your cause,’ he shouted. ‘You direct all your energies towards the welfare of beasts and are totally impervious to the sufferings of your fellow men. Karma indeed!’

  ‘Don’t you believe in Karma?’

  ‘If the sufferings of a man is attributed to his Karma why not that of a cow? Perhaps it’s the cow’s Karma that led her to the abattoir.’

  ‘The Shastras say the cow is our Mother.’ The man looked at Vivekananda in bewilderment.

  ‘I’ve no doubt she is. From which other womb could worthy sons like you emerge to see the light of the world?’

  Vivekananda’s irony was lost on the man. ‘I came to you with a lot of hope,’ he said sadly. ‘We’re badly in need of funds.’

  Vivekananda burst out laughing. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. I’m a sanyasi. A fakir. I’m begging from door to door trying. to find money for my own work. I have nothing to give you, friend.’ Then, sobering down, he added, ‘I believe in the cause of humans before animals. I believe in feeding the hungry first, then educating the illiterate. Religion is last on my list.’

  Chapter XX

  Amarendranath Datta’s passion for the theatre went as far back as he could remember. He had spent the long summer afternoons of his boyhood banding his siblings and cousins into a drama troupe and putting up plays on a makeshift stage set up in the drawing room of his father’s house. In his teens he had haunted the playhouses of Calcutta seeing every play that was being performed including the English ones. He had roamed the streets of Sahebpara collecting magazines and books on the subject. He had no interest in his father’s business. From the age of seventeen he had decided that he was an artist and would express himself on the public stage—not only as an actor but as manager and director. Now, in his early manhood, he was able to realize his dream. His father was dead and the property divided. He was rich and independent. After Ardhendushekhar’s exit from Emerald it had changed hands a couple of times and now lay idle and ownerless. Amarendra’s first step was to lease Emerald and renovate it thoroughly. Side by side he launched on the process of theatre making. Everyone thought it to be an idle whim and predicted that he would go the way of all the other pampered darlings of wealthy houses who had preceded him in the theatre business. But Ama
rendra was made of different mettle. ‘I was born on the first of April,’ he told those who thought fit to express their concern. ‘I intend to make April fools of everyone of you.’

  Amarendra knew everything there was to know about the theatre companies of Calcutta. Slowly but ruthlessly and systematically he started drawing out the best actors and actresses, dance and music masters, set and costume designers, technicians and general workers from the other companies and making them his own with the offer of better salaries and perquisites. They were all, without exception, young, energetic and talented. He avoided the elderly. They were set in their ways and wouldn’t obey him.

  Taking their places in the hall, for the first time, the playgoers were astonished at the transformation. The old Emerald, with its bug-lined wooden seats and mice scampering down the aisle, was metamorphosed into an enchanted palace. The audience gazed awe-struck at the crystal lamps blazing with light, the pile carpet so deep and soft that the feet sank into it, the rich velvet of the chairs and the magnificient brocade curtain. And when it went up for the first scene a gasp of wonder rose from the hall at the beauty of the set. It was a lavishly appointed drawing room with real sofas and elaborately carved chairs, carpets on the floor and paintings and mirrors on the walls. There were flowers in vases and a cockatoo in a dangling cage. And for the next scene the entire set was wheeled away and another took its place in the twinkling of an eye. This was a trick Amarendra had picked up from the English theatre magazines he had read. Backdrops and wings, even furniture would have wheels fixed under them to make movement swift and silent. Everyone watching the play was forced to admit that the young man had ushered in a new age in the history of the theatre.

  Amarendra had started rehearsing several plays at the same time. But being a perfectionist he was not ready to perform till they met his exacting standards. His plan was to stage a Bengali adaptation of Hamlet as his debut. Girish Ghosh had tried his hand at Shakespeare before him but he had merely translated the play retaining the time and place in all its authenticity. The backdrop had shown the hills of Scotland and the cast had been dressed like Englishmen and women. Amarendra laughed snidely remembering Girish Ghosh as Macbeth. The man was old and fat and looked ridiculous in his soldier’s garb. And, despite the fact that he had played the lead role, his play had been a flop. The public hadn’t taken to it. The treatment of Hamlet was quite different. Amarendra had lifted the narrative and transported it to another time and place. Hariraj, for that was the name of the hero and the play, was set in an ancient kingdom of east India. The characters wore Indian costume and spoke Bengali with the hint of a dialect.

  Two or three months went by, but though Amarendra had a full cast, he felt restless and dissatisfied. The actresses, particularly the heroine, were not up to the mark. Women from the upper classes had a certain innocence about them. Their eyes shone out upon the world with confidence and trust. The women he was working with were prostitutes whose lives had recorded a painful, sordid struggle. This struggle was reflected in the sly, scheming hardness of their eyes. Yet they were being made to play queens and princesses! Amarendra shook his head sadly. There was one, only one, who had the look he sought. Long, liquid eyes fringed with dewy lashes, had held the audience in thrall play after play. They had the innocence of a stricken doe. He could never forget those eyes. He wanted her. He had to have her. He had been rejected once but he would try again. He sighed at the thought that there were so many would-be actresses crowding at the door that the darwan was having a hard time fending them off. Yet the one he sought had no use for him.

  Two days later, the man deputed to keep track of Nayanmoni came bursting into the room. ‘It’s done sir,’ he exclaimed. ‘The girl has been released. I don’t know how much she paid Saheb Mustafi but he’s let her off. She’s free to join any board she pleases. I got the news from Gangamoni herself.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she come to me then?’

  ‘There’s a snag,’ the man pulled a face.

  ‘Another snag? What is it now? More money?’

  ‘No, no. She doesn’t care about money. She wants you to request her personally.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Amarendranath rose to his feet instantly. ‘I’m running a theatre. I cannot afford the luxury of playing tit for tat. I’ll convince myself that Irving is on his way to meet Ellen Terry.’

  As the carriage rolled up to the gate of Gangamoni’s house, curious passersby stopped in their tracks to catch a glimpse of the man who had revolutionized the world of the theatre. ‘Amar Datta! Amar Datta!’ they whispered excitedly to one another, ‘Ah! What a handsome man. Just like a prince!’ Amarendra brushed past the crowd milling around his carriage and walked into the house. Word had already reached Gangamoni and she came puffing and panting down the stairs to receive her illustrious visitor. So did Nayanmoni—not in haste but with slow, measured steps. Gangamoni stooped low and touched his feet. He was the master of the company and deserved all the respect he could get particularly after the way Nayanmoni had treated him. But Nayanmoni herself only brought her palms together in a namaskar. He was younger than her. She wouldn’t touch his feet.

  Amarendra gazed in wonder at the vision of loveliness that stood before him. She wore a simple cotton sari of a deep orange hue. Her hair was open and her neck and ams were bare. Yet she looked as regal as a princess. Amarendra turned to his secretary Ashutosh Babu with a meaningful glance whereupon he cleared his throat and began: ‘We have heard that you’ve been released from your bond. Is that true?’

  ‘Quite true.’

  ‘That means you’re free to join Classic?’

  ‘I am—if you want me to.’

  ‘Have the papers been destroyed? We don’t want any legal tangles.’

  ‘There were no papers. The bond was made purely on trust.’ ‘Very good. We are prepared to pay you one hundred and fifty rupees a month. A carriage will pick you up and bring you back. You’ll have to obey Amarendra Babu’s orders to the letter. Rehearsals will go on for as long as he thinks fit—the whole night if necessary. Do you accept these conditions?’

  ‘I do.’

  Now Amarendra Datta addressed her directly. ‘Why did you force me to come here?’ he asked sternly. ‘You should have come to me yourself. Don’t you think my time is more valuable than yours?’ Nayanmoni blushed. ‘I was ashamed,’ she said softly, ‘I sent you away once. I didn’t know how to face you again.’

  ‘Hmph! How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘No, no,’ Gangamoni hastened to correct her. ‘She’s twenty-three. She doesn’t know her right age.’ Nayanmoni bit her lip trying not to smile. ‘You’re twenty-one,’ Amarendra said firmly. ‘My heroine cannot be older than me. I’ll raise my age to twenty-four and you must lower yours to at least three years less than mine. The handbills will describe you as a sixteen-year-old beauty. Is that clear?’ Nayanmoni burst out laughing. ‘How can a woman of twenty-seven pass for sixteen? I’m afraid I’m not the heroine for you.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Gangamoni cried excitedly. ‘You can easily pass for sixteen with proper make-up on. Leave that to me.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Amarendra now turned to Gangamoni. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me some refreshment?’ he asked her smiling. ‘I’ve come to your house for the second time. A guest is never sent hungry away from a Hindu household.’ Gangamoni touched her ears and bit her tongue. ‘You’re such a great man Babu!’ she said humbly. ‘Your family is one of the noblest and most illustrious in the land. If I even dreamed that you would touch a drop of water in my house I would have—’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with your water?’

  ‘High-caste Hindus like you spurn us as the lowest of worms. They consider our touch polluting.’ Amarendra took her hand in his and said gently, ‘I’ve touched you. Am I changed in any way? Will the sandesh and rosogolla you serve me taste different because you handled them? We’re all members of the same profession. We share a common cast
e.’ Then, laughing at her bewilderment, he added, ‘However, you needn’t trouble yourself sending out for sweets this very instant. I detest sweets. I’ll come another day and eat a meal you’ve cooked.’

  ‘I’m not such a good cook Babu. That’s our Nayanmoni. She’s excellent. She prepares a special dish of koi fish with one side of the fish curried hot with chillies and mustard and the other tart and sweet.’

  Amarendra Datta rose from his chair without comment. Walking over to a portrait on the wall he scrutinized it carefully. Two young women stood holding hands.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked Gangamoni.

  ‘This one is me,’ Gangamoni answered with a wry smile. ‘I was young and slim then.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Binodini.’

  ‘Ah! I’ve heard of Binodini but I’ve never seen her. She left the stage quite suddenly I hear. Why was that?’

  ‘She had a skin disease that disfigured her face. It might have been leucoderma. Or even leprosy. She’s become a recluse.’

  ‘What sort of an actress was she?’

  ‘Well Babu, I have to admit that she was a born actress. Very forceful. She could rain fire from her eyes one moment and tears the next.’

  One morning as Amarendra sat in his private office sipping tea he heard the carriage that conveyed the four main actresses to and from the theatre roll in through the gate. Glancing idly out of the window he was shocked to see the shutters wide open and the girls spilling out with great clamour and laughter. Amarendra’s brows came together in annoyance. He had made it quite clear to his female cast that he expected them to conduct themselves with due decorum; to keep the shutters of the carriage closed and to step in and out of it in dignified silence. He didn’t want the public to recognize them or call out to them. Sending for the coachman Rahmat Ali he said sternly, ‘You’ll have to pay a heavy penalty for disobeying my orders. Half your monthly wages.’ Rahmat burst into tears. ‘It wasn’t my fault huzoor!’ he cried. ‘I kept telling them to keep the shutters closed but they wouldn’t listen. One Didi insisted on getting off at a bangle shop in Kolutola. The others followed.’