First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Chapter XXXIII

  On the concluding day of the conference the camp, set up in Ripon College, was dismantled and the delegates were left to their own devices. Some went back to their home states. Others, desirous of staying on in the capital city for a longer stretch, had to find alternative accomodation. Shiupujan and Bharat belonged to the latter group. Shiupujan had some business to conduct in the Bara Bazar area of Calcutta and Bharat was in no hurry to go back to Patna. In fact he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back at all.

  Booking themselves into Ajanta Hotel, situated at the crossing just off Hadh Katar Gali, the two settled down for the time being. Apart from his business interests Shiupujan was also eager to enjoy the night life of Calcutta of which he had heard a good deal. ‘There’s a saying in our part of the world,’ he told Bharat one day, after hemming and hawing self consciously for a while, ‘To see the morning—go to Munger. Come to Patna to enjoy the afternoon. The twilight of Benares will evoke your admiration. But if you wish to dazzle your eyes with the bright lights of night—there’s no place like Calcutta. I’ve been in this city for so many days, now, but I haven’t seen the lights. I’ve been slogging all day and going to bed at sunset. You’ve been here before. You know the places. Please take me around and—’

  ‘Shiupujan ji,’ Bharat mumbled, his ears red with embarrassment. ‘It’s true that I know Calcutta. I can take you to see the Victoria Memorial, the Botanical Gardens, the Museum and the river. But I have no experience of the night life of the city.’

  ‘We’ll get the experience—together. Do you hear the tinkling of anklets? And snatches of song? I’m sure there’s a baiji singing and dancing somewhere in the neighbourhood. Can’t we go there? I have plenty of money.’

  ‘You can. Many people do. But I can’t accompany you.’ ‘Why not? Is there anything wrong with listening to music?’ ‘There’s nothing wrong. But I don’t feel drawn to that kind of music and dance.’ Then, seeing Shiupujan’s face crumple with disappointment, Bharat added, ‘I have an idea. Calcutta is famed for its theatre. You mustn’t go back to Patna without seeing it. I’ll get tickets for tomorrow night and we’ll go together.’

  Arriving at Bengal Theatre, renamed Aurora, the next evening, Shiupujan and Bharat found a bonus awaiting them. It being Shivratri, three plays Nal Damayanti, Abu Hosain and Zenana War were being performed for the price of one. The show would go on all night. Glancing at the handbill Bharat saw Ardhendushekhar Mustafi’s name among the cast. He felt his blood leap with excitement at the prospect of seeing Ardhendushekhar again. But, when the latter made his entry, in a serio-comic role in Abu Hosain, a wave of depression fell on Bharat’s soul. Saheb Babu looked so old! So haggard! Although he did his role with his accustomed flair and finesse, the depression persisted.

  There were other changes in the theatre since Bharat had seen it last. Electrical lighting had taken the place of gas jets. The decor was better and the seats more comfortable. Another thing that Bharat observed was the increase in the number of dance sequences. In every play, be it historical, social, or religious, there were at least five to six numbers in which women swayed their buttocks and wiggled their breasts to music that became faster and more frenzied as the night wore on. Bharat got an uncomfortable feeling that these dances had been devised for the titillation of that section of the audience which couldn’t afford to visit brothels. For the price of a ticket they could see a play and enjoy the sense of being in the company of low women at the same time. It was such numbers that attracted crowds to the theatre and lined the pockets of the proprietor.

  After that first evening Bharat and Shiupujan saw a play every evening. One night, on returning from the theatre, the two got caught in a shower of rain and were drenched to the skin. Bharat caught a violent cold, followed by a high temperature and aching limbs, and was confined to bed. Shiupujan who had, quite miraculously, escaped any ill effects, sent for the kaviraj and proceeded to nurse his young friend back to health with regular administration of the pills and powders the kaviraj had left behind strengthened with doses of ginger, honey, pepper and betel juice. After a couple of days the fever subsided and Bharat felt well enough to be left alone. Telling Shiupujan that there was no need to confine himself to the sick room any longer, he insisted that he go back to his own work. Shiupujan demurred a little, then agreed to leave. He, too, was weary of hanging about the house all day and longed for a change. He had made a few friends in Calcutta and was having a good time in their company. He didn’t need Bharat anymore.

  Bharat’s fever had come down but the remission was not total. His head still ached a bit and he was very weak. His mouth felt bitter and he had lost all taste for food. After Shiupujan had left he lay in bed, thinking, for hours. The meeting of the Congress was over. Shiupujan had seen whatever he wanted to see of Calcutta. Soon he would be ready to move back to Patna. What would Bharat do then? Would he accompany Shiupujan or would he stay on in Calcutta?

  The worst phase in a bout of illness is the period of convalescence. One is not ill enough to sleep day and night and one is not well enough to be up and about. Bharat tossed and turned in bed and chased his thoughts. His head felt hot—not from fever but the tension of wondering what he would do next. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed in disgust. His head spun a little as he slipped on his shirt and prepared to leave the house. But where would he go? To the Ganga of course! He could cool his fevered head in the soft breeze that blew up from the river and watch the ships coming in. So many people came to this city. So many people of different races and colours—white, brown, black and yellow! He walked out of the hotel and stood on the street. The day was drawing to a close and dusk was settling over the city. Stepping into the carriage that stood waiting at the gate, he suddenly changed his mind. He would go to see a play. He had heard a lot, lately, about a theatre called Classic and its proprietor Amar Datta. The young man, it seemed, was a marvel. As brilliant an artiste as he was a clever manager! He wondered who this Amar Datta was. He decided to go see for himself. It was thus that Bharat’s destiny brought him to the Classic.

  By the time Bharat reached the ticket counter the first bell had rung and there were only seven minutes left for the play to begin. All the tickets were sold out barring two priced at the fantastic sum of twelve rupees each. But once Bharat had made up his mind to do a thing he did not waver. He went ahead and bought a ticket. Then, moving to a corner of the lobby, he stood there waiting for the second bell. Suddenly a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and a voice boomed in his ear, ‘Ki ré Bharat! Don’t you recognize me?’ Bharat spun around to confront a total stranger—a big, burly maulvi in a sherwani, a sequined waistcoat and a tasseled fez. He had surma in his eyes and his beard was stained with henna. The man must have mistaken him for someone else, he thought. But he had called him by name! Suddenly he recognized the man. ‘Irfan!’ he exclaimed joyfully. ‘You’ve changed so much! I wouldn’t have dreamed that it was you.’

  ‘Why? I’ve gained some weight. But surely that’s no reason—’ ‘You’ve turned yourself into an orthodox Muslim. That’s why I didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘I haven’t turned myself into anything. I was a Muslim and have remained a Muslim.’

  ‘But you were a non-practising Muslim at the time I knew you. Non-believing too. I remember a conversation we had in which you told me that Darwin’s theory had successfully exploded the myth of creation. Neither God, Allah nor Bhagwan created Man—or anything else. Everything evolved as part of a natural process.’

  ‘I did?’ Irfan squinted down at his friend his mouth curling with amusement. ‘One reads so many books as a student and gets carried away by so many theories. Adult life is different. You have to move with the herd or you’re lost in the wilderness.’

  ‘You don’t have to become a religious bigot—’

  ‘Oré bhai! You have to be something; believe in something. If you don’t, if you’re neither Hindu nor Muslim you’ll be shunned like a lep
er by both communities. I was born of Muslim parents so I’m a Muslim. I read the namaaz five times a day now, and feel Allah’s benediction pouring down over me. But where have you been all these years? You just vanished from the city. No one had any news of you.’

  ‘I was in Cuttack. I got a job in a bank.’

  ‘Good, good! When did you get back to Calcutta? Are you here on transfer?’

  ‘I came to attend the meeting of the Congress.’

  ‘Congress! Phoh!’ Irfan spat the word out as though it tasted foul in his mouth. ‘I hate the Congress. I exhort all my Muslim brothers to shun it.’

  Fortunately, for Bharat, he was not called upon to make an answer for, at that precise moment, the second bell was heard and the two started making their way into the hall. But even as they went Irfan’s voice hissed in Bharat’s ear, ‘Come to my house one day Bharat. You remember the house in which I lived? Sayyad Amir Ali’s house? Well! He lost all his money and his assets were put up for sale. I got the house quite cheap—’

  Sitting in one of the best seats of the theatre, Bharat was conscious of the curious glances of his fellow viewers. They were all rich, important men dressed in finely puckered dhutis and kurtas with elaborately embroidered shawls thrown across their shoulders. Bharat had risen from his sick bed and walked out of the hotel, just as he was, in a soiled dhuti and crumpled pirohan. Added to this was the fact that he hadn’t bathed or shaved for three days and his eyes burned with fever.

  Looking down at the handbill Bharat was delighted to find that the play of the evening was Bhramar—a dramatic adaptation of Bankimchandra’s Krishna Kantér Will. It had Amar Datta in the male lead of Gobindalal; Teenkari Dasi in the role of Bhramar and Nayanmoni in the female lead of Rohini. The last two names were completely unfamiliar to him. He had neither heard of the two actresses nor seen them perform.

  Yet, as the play progressed, he had a strange feeling that he had seen the heroine before. Had he seen her in some other play? This was his first visit to Classic. Could she be on the panel of some other board as well? He strained his memory, trying to remember, till his temples started to throb and the pain in his head became excruciating. And mixed with that pain was another—in the region of his heart. He couldn’t understand it. Why was he experiencing these strange sensations merely trying to remember where he had seen a certain actress before? Why was he trying so hard anyway; as though his life depended on the answer?

  Suddenly he got it. The woman looked like Mohilamoni! The resemblance was not so marked when he looked straight into her face. It was when she turned her head aside and lowered her eyes to the ground … He nearly stood up in his excitement. But, swift on the heels of this discovery, he remembered that Mohilamoni was dead. He had taken her to the samsan ghat himself and watched her golden body burn to ashes. Bhumisuta! That’s who the girl was. The voice … how could he have forgotten Bhumisuta’s voice? She used to sing and dance. She had offered to sing for him in return for lessons … Nudging his neighbour with his elbow, Bharat whispered the question. ‘Who is the actress doing Rohini’s role? What is her name?’ ‘Sh!’ the man warned turning his head, ‘Keep your voice down. That’s Nayanmoni. Haven’t you heard of Nayanmoni? You must be new to the city.’ Bharat observed that the man’s eyes were bright with unshed tears and his voice was husky with emotion. ‘Sh! Sh!’ a chorus of voices buzzed. ‘Quiet Moshai! Let’s hear the song in peace.’ Bharat looked at the faces around him. Nayanmoni’s song had moved many of them to tears.

  That Nayanmoni was Bhumisuta Bharat had no doubt. His heart lifted with joy at the thought that life, with all its cruelty, hadn’t beaten her. She had found a means to live and she had chosen to follow the profession that he had wanted for her. She was rich and successful and people admired her. Bharat made up his mind to seek Bhumisuta out and make his presence known to her. As the curtain fell on the last scene Bharat rose to his feet and started moving towards the stage, his brain busy formulating what he would say to her. But, before he could reach that far, he saw Nayanmoni hurrying out from a side door, a shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. She seemed to be in a great hurry. Bharat followed her as swiftly as he could pushing his way through the press of people. But, by the time he reached the street, she was already seated in her carriage with a handsome young man beside her. Bharat ran towards her trying to call out her name but it froze on his lips and remained unuttered. For some reason, Nayanmoni turned her face towards the window. Her eyes passed over his form but Bharat wasn’t sure she had seen him. She certainly gave no sign of recognition. The coachman whipped up the horses and the splendid equipage started to roll down the street nearly knocking him down, A rough hand pushed him rudely aside. ‘Can’t you see where you are going?’ The owner of the hand barked, ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’

  Hours passed. The crowd dispersed but Bharat stood where he was gazing after the departed carriage. Then, when the lights went out and an eerie silence descended on the deserted streets, Bharat came to himself and started limping his way, painfully, in the direction of the Ajanta.

  Chapter XXXIV

  No living creature can go on working indefinitely. He needs a rest, from time to time, following which he is infused with new strength and energy. Could this be true of inanimate objects as well? Jagadishchandra Bose had thrown all his energies into establishing, as scientific truth, this fantastic, monstrously incredible theory.

  The idea had come to him while working in his laboratory one night. He had made an instrument which consisted of a receiver poised over a plate of steel, its fine needle-like point almost touching the polished metal. When electric currents were passed through it the receiver vibrated. After working with the instrument for several hours he noticed that the vibrations were losing their intensity. Leaving it alone for some time he tried again. The vibrations had regained their strength. His brow furrowed in thought. Could it be possible that the instrument had become weary and had needed a rest? Jagadish conducted the test several times and came up with the same result. That which is proven becomes an established truth. Jagadish set about proving his theory with the help of graphs and sketches.

  Jagadish Bose’s article was published in the prestigious journal The Englishman and the discovery hailed as a watershed event in the history of physics. The reactions of the scientists were mixed as was to be expected. There were some who claimed that the Bose Effect ranked next in importance to Farraday’s discovery and predicted that it would have far reaching consequences in the world of trade and industry. Others dismissed it as the pretensions of a quack and declared that it didn’t fall within the purview of physics at all.

  But the carping of the critics notwithstanding, Jagadish Bose was invited to pursue his research in the famous Davy Farraday Laboratory of the Royal Institution in London. Jagadish jumped at the offer and, taking a couple of years leave from his post in the Department of Education, boarded the ship to England spending all his savings on the ticket. He had no fears for the future for his friends had assured him that they would raise a sum of two lakhs of rupees from the rich elite of Calcutta and send it out to him. But after he had left the country their resolution melted away. No one seemed ready to take the initiative and start the collection. Jagadish was a very worried man. Where would he find funds to pursue his research? He had been carried away by false promises. Even Swami Vivekananda, one of those who had expressed their admiration and pride in his achievement, hadn’t given a thought to his practical difficulties.

  Jagadish could have found himself a job in England quite easily. He received several excellent offers. But if he joined an institution as a paid employee he would have to surrender his rights to independent research. On the other hand, how long would he be able to keep himself together in this cold, alien country? He told himself that he would have to succumb sooner or later so it might as well be sooner. But his great friend, the poet Rabindranath, urged him not to lose heart. ‘Don’t take a job,’ he begged in every letter. ‘I’m tryin
g to raise money for your research.’

  Though scion of a wealthy family Rabindra had little money of his own. He knew many rich people but the only man he could think of approaching for his friend’s support was Radhakishor Manikya of Tripura. He had taken Radhakishor to Presidency College to hear Jagadish speak about his new discovery and the former had been extremely impressed. Now, hearing about Jagadishchandra’s financial difficulties from Rabindranath, Radhakishor gave him a sum of ten thousand rupees to send to his friend. But his own financial situation was precarious. The new palace at Naya Haveli had cost so much money that his treasury was nearly empty. In addition, his eldest son was to be wed shortly and his ministers were at their wits end trying to scrape together a sum sufficient to meet the expenses. They expressed their disapproval, quite audibly, in the king’s presence. ‘Robi Babu is a rich man,’ they grumbled. ‘The Thakurs have vast estates. Why doesn’t he finance his friend’s research himself? Why should the wealth of Tripura go out of the country?’ Radhakishor smiled and told them that, if they were short of money, they should cut down on the number of ornaments that were to be given to the new princess. ‘If Jagadishchandra can achieve what he has set out to do,’ he said, ‘he will bring back a jewel for Mother India which we can all wear proudly on our bosoms.’

  The barbed remarks of the Tripura officials reached. Rabindra’s ears, as they were meant to, and saddened him. It was true that his father was a man of wealth but he, himself, was only a paid employee of the estate. He received three hundred rupees a month on which he had to support himself, his wife and five children. He had tried to improve his financial position by starting an independent business. But it had been a disastrous failure and he was, even now, repaying the loan of forty thousand rupees he had taken from a Marwari moneylender with interest. Though under severe financial stress himself, he had never asked Radhakishor for a paisa.