First Light (16 page)

That evening Robi and Kadambari sat on the roof waiting for Jyotirindranath. He had said that he would return before dusk but the hours passed and they went on waiting. And, then, before their entranced eyes, a moon huge, soft and full, rose over the horizon and turned the maidan into a sea of silver. The young pair moved closer. Their hands, hot and fevered, clasped one another's. Not a word was spoken. For the first time in their lives they had heard and spoken the language of silence.

A loud volley of shots followed by the shrill whistle of a ship leaving harbour crashed into that silence. They knew what it was. Ashley Eden, Governor of Bengal, was leaving for England. There was bound to be rejoicing in many homes tonight. Eden was hated by the natives for having foisted the infamous Vernacular Act on them. And, almost at the same time as the shots, Jyotirindra's phaeton rolled up and stopped at the door.

Robi woke before dawn the next morning. His body felt light and airy. A sweet somnolence misted his eyes and rested lightly on
his spirit. He wandered out into the balcony and looked up at the sky. There was a pale grey, glimmer in the east against which the trees of the maidan stood etched with kohl. As he stood watching, faint streaks of mauve and pink appeared, spread over the grey, changing tints till the sky became a riot of gold, rose and pearl. Then the sun came up, a great ball of flame, and first light fell on the earth and seeped into Robi's soul. Robi gazed in wonder at the scene. A mist rolled away from his eyes and he felt as though he was seeing the world for the first time. It was bathed in light. His limbs trembled with an ecstasy he had never known before. Light—pure, clear, blinding light—was entering the innermost recesses of his being, searching out dark corners, flushing out doubts and fears. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing water as great waves of light crashed over the rocks that wombed his soul, scattering them far and wide and setting it free. Free to flow like a joyous stream towards a destination unknown . . .

Robi went into his room and started writing. His pen raced over the paper as if with a life and will of its own. Words and phrases poured out of him filling sheet after sheet without effort. It seemed to him that the muse was speaking for herself and he was only the humble medium whose hand held the pen.

He wrote all morning and all afternoon without a break, even leaving the plate of food Kadambari had sent up to his room untouched. In the evening Kadambari came. ‘What is the matter?' she cried. ‘You haven't washed or bathed. And you've eaten nothing. You'll make yourself ill.' Robi muttered something absently and went on writing. ‘Stop it Robi,' Kadambari ordered imperiously, ‘or I'll snatch your papers away.' Robi neither looked up nor answered. Kadambari took up a pencil and made a little squiggle along the margin of Robi's poem. ‘What are you doing?' Robi cried out indignantly. Kadambari leaned over and ruffled his hair. Robi jerked his head away, sat up and said, ‘I have written a new poem Natun Bouthan. It is called
Nirijhar ér swapno bhanga.
Shall I read it out to you?' Then, without waiting for an answer, he started reciting the lines.

‘On this new morn the bird of dawn

Sings a wondrous song

From the distant sky it comes floating by . . .'

Looking up he asked eagerly, ‘Do you like it?' Kadambari frowned and shook her head. ‘Not much,' she said. ‘I find nothing original or striking in the lines.'

‘You don't understand,' Robi cried out, deeply wounded. ‘There was no effort on my part. The lines poured out of me as though of their own volition.' Kadambari averted her eyes as though embarrassed at what she was about to say. ‘Even if they did,' she murmured gently, ‘that alone is not enough. Poetry has to be worked at like any other art form. Of course I understand very little—' Then, seeing the hurt expression in Robi's eyes, she added quickly, ‘Read some more.' Robi read a few more lines and looked up hopefully. Kadambari shifted her feet guiltily. ‘No Robi,' she said after a moment's hesitation. ‘I think you can do better. I may be wrong of course.' At this the blood rushed to Robi's face and he glared at Kadambari in real anger. ‘The woman understands nothing of poetry,' he thought indignantly. ‘I'll never read my poems out to her again.' Turning his back on her he bent over his papers. ‘Don't be offended Robi,' Kadambari pleaded placing a gentle hand on his back. ‘Read a little more.' Robi turned over a whole page and commenced reading once again.

‘At dawn I felt the sun's hand touch my soul

Its light seeping into my very being

I heard the first bird song

Enter my cave of dark shadows

I know not how

I know not how my soul awoke

from its long, long sleep

‘Robi!' Kadambari exclaimed. ‘I like this bit. I like it very much.' Robi's voice changed. It became strong and sonorous as he went on —

‘My soul awakes.

Passions and desires

Like a growing storm in a dormant sea

Swell and foam within me

The earth shudders beneath my feet

Primeval rocks crash down mountain slopes

First light splitting their stone hearts'

‘Robi,' Kadambari grasped his arm. ‘It's wonderful! It's different. You're different—somehow!'

Robi stopped. His face was flushed and his eyes shone with a strange energy. Beads of perspiration appeared on his brow. ‘I am possessed Natun Bouthan,' he said quietly. ‘By whom or by what I cannot say. But I'm not myself anymore. And I'll never be the same again.'

Bhumisuta rued the day that she had announced she could dance. The consequence of that careless remark was that she was sent for, every afternoon, by the two mistresses of the house and made to perform for their amusement. Since it was Suhasini who had brought the girl from Puri it was generally assumed that Bhumisuta was her personal property. But, as a matter of fact, it was Krishnabhamini who had taken the girl under her wing. Bhumisuta ate and slept in Krishnabhamini's apartments and made herself useful to her. She prepared hookahs for Bimalbhushan and picked flowers for his morning puja. She washed and mended Krishnabhamini's clothes and helped her with her toilette, grinding the turmeric and sandal for her bath.

In this household the men left quite early and the women had the whole day to themselves. Her bath and noon meal over, Krishnabhamini would sit with her sister-in-law on her high bed with a box of betel between them. Then, packing a paan into her mouth, she would call ‘Bhumi! O Bhumi!' Bhumisuta knew what that call meant. As soon as she heard it she would go to her room and get ready for her part. Combing out her long hair she would twist it into a knot on the top of her head and twine garlands of flowers around it. She would darken her eyes with kohl and adorn her brow and cheeks with a design of sandal paste. Taking out an old silk sari that had belonged to her mother she would wear it in the style of Oriya dancers with the intricately woven aanchal fanning out from the waist. Bhumisuta danced well. Her movements were liquid, her feet light and her eyes effectively expressed the many moods of the dance. But the moment she started her song, her anklets jingling to the rhythm of her tapping feet, the two on the bed fell over each other laughing. The women crowding at the door—distant aunts, cousins, maids and serving women—took up the cue and rolled all over the ground in mirth. The truth was that the women of the household had never seen anyone dance before. It was something they associated with bad
women and licentious men.

‘Who taught you to dance Bhumi?' Krishnabhamini had asked on the first day and had been horrified to hear that it was her father. She knew Bhumisuta's father had been a school master and that she came from a poor but respectable family. ‘What kind of a father is this,' she had thought, ‘who could train his daughter in something so wicked?' She did not know that Orissa, having escaped the influence of the Muslims, had largely retained its ancient culture. Oriya women enjoyed far great mobility and exposure to the world than their Bengali counterparts, and music and dance was an integral part of their lives. The temples of Puri and Bhuvaneshwar and the recently discovered ruins of Konarak were covered with sculpture depicting dance as an offering to the gods. There was not one temple in Bengal that could boast of such a heritage.

One afternoon, while sitting in his office, Manibhushan felt a cramp in his shoulder. He tried to ignore it at first then, when the pain became really bad, he decided to go home and lie down. As he walked up the stairs, he heard snatches of a song, the notes floating down from above. They sounded sweet but strange to his ears being sung in an alien tongue. The song was accompanied by the smart tapping of feet on the floor and the tinkling sounds of metal beating against metal. He wondered what was going on. Taking off his shoes he tiptoed, on silent feet, down the gallery till he came to his sister-in-law's apartment where a strange sight met his eyes. Eight or ten women were sitting on the floor at one end of the room and, at the other, a girl sang and danced, her body swaying gracefully to the rhythm of the cymbals she clashed with her hands. She was a beautiful girl with long, lustrous eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. Her limbs were lithe and supple and her hands slim and delicate as champak buds. He did not recognize Bhumisuta. He didn't see her much these days and she had changed a lot from the thin, emaciated girl he had brought from Puri. She was much taller now. Her skin shone like polished bronze and from under her sari he could see the triumphant swelling of her breasts. He thought her a whore brought in from a house of ill-repute for the amusement of the women of the family, and was deeply shocked. Of course he, himself, kept a woman in a pleasure house in Shankhér Bazar. But that was different. He was
a man. These were women, custodians of household purity and tradition. How could they, his own wife and sister-in-law among them, have sunk so low? ‘
Chhi! Chhi! Chhi!
' he muttered between clenched teeth, then let out a bloodcurdling roar. ‘What is going on?' he thundered. ‘Stop it. Stop it at once.' The women stared at him in horror. ‘You've defiled the house,' he shouted at them. ‘You've desecrated its sanctity. Don't we have our Radha Madhav keeping an eye on us all? Do you think—?'

‘
O go! Na go!
' Suhasini cried. Her face was pale and her lips trembled. ‘That's our own Bhumi. She was dancing and we were watching her—just for fun.' Now Manibhushan recognized Bhumisuta and his condemnation was complete. ‘If she wanted to dance,' the inexorable voice pronounced solemnly, ‘what was wrong with her being a devdasi? Why did we bring her from Puri? Once a whore—always a whore!' Then, turning angry red eyes on Bhumisuta, he said, ‘I warn you. If I ever catch you at your tricks again I'll have you thrown out of the house.
Chhi! Chhi!
'

From that day Bhumisuta was forbidden to dance. Her anklets were thrown into the ash heap. But dance was in her blood and she could not live without it. It was the only way she knew to express herself. She continued to dance on the sly, away from peering eyes—sometimes in her own room, on the roof, even in the bathing-rooms downstairs. The roof was the best. It was huge and had a high wall around it. Besides, the inmates of the house rarely came up and she could dance at her ease. It was particularly good at night for everyone in the house retired early and she could dance with wild abandon under the moon and stars. At night the house was dark and silent except for one window where a lamp burned till the small hours. It was Bharat's room. Shashibhushan had returned to Tripura leaving Bharat behind. But he had given the boy the responsibility of looking after his share of the estate and had instructed his brothers to pay him a monthly salary of twenty rupees. He had also enjoined them to see that Bharat was treated with respect as befitted an employee of the estate. Radharaman had kept his word, too, and sent a stipend of ten rupees a month regularly in Bharat's name. In consequence, the quality of Bharat's life had changed. He had his own room now. Two tutors came every day to impart instruction in English, Sanskrit and Arithmetic. There were servants to clean
his room, wash and mend his clothes and serve him his meals. And they vied with each other to do so for, thanks to the allowance he received, he was able to tip them generously. Bharat was a tall sturdy young man now with broad shoulders and heavy wrists and a faint dark stubble covering his cheeks and chin.

From a certain corner of the roof Bhumisuta had a full view of Bharat's room. She came and stood there often. And though he was totally oblivious of her she could not take her eyes off the handsome figure bent over his books. He was not to be seen in the garden anymore. He left his bed late these days, long after Bhumisuta's flower picking was over.

One day news came for Monibhushan that a ship carrying several tons of valuable goods, ordered by him, had been wrecked at Diamond Harbour. Monibhushan spent a sleepless night and, next morning, before rushing off to see what could be retrieved, he came to the puja room to obtain the blessings of Radha Madhav—the household deities of the Singhas. The god and the goddess were carved out of black stone and had gold eyes and gold crowns. A flawless diamond winked and sparkled from the centre of Madhav's crown.

Monibhushan stepped over the threshold and stopped short in surprise at the scene before him. On the marble floor, in front of Radha Madhav, Bhumisuta was dancing in rhythm to some
padavalis
from the
Geet Govinda
which she hummed softly. A sharp reprimand rose to his lips but remained unuttered—he didn't know why. He was a man of the world, pragmatic and materialistic with no room in him for the finer feelings. Yet he stood watching Bhumisuta dance and, for the first time in his life, his soul quivered in response to a thing of beauty. ‘She's like a flower,' he thought suddenly. ‘She moves as the wind breathes over her and she opens her petals to the sun.' He forgot what he had come for; forgot the loss of his property. The frown that had appeared between his brows melted away. His mouth relaxed in a smile.

Bhumisuta became aware of him in a few seconds. Turning around she gave a little cry. Her face went white. Touching her forehead quickly to the ground at Radha Madhav's feet she tried to slip out of the door. But Monibhushan wouldn't let her. He took her trembling hand in his and his eyes burned hotly into
hers. ‘Why did you stop?' he whispered. ‘I liked it.' He pulled her closer, almost to his breast. Then, suddenly, he remembered where he was. This was the puja room and Radha Madhav were watching him. Releasing the girl abruptly he cleared his throat and muttered, ‘Where's the vessel of
gangajal?
'

A few minutes later the house was filled with the sound of loud weeping. Monibhushan walked into his bedroom to find his wife rolling on the ground, cursing and tearing her hair. ‘
Ogo!
' she cried. ‘What a cruel fate I've brought upon myself! I've been nurturing a snake on milk and honey! I took pity on the girl, rescued her from a life of shame, fed her and clothed her. And now she robs me of my own husband!' Monibhushan was aghast. He had only held Bhumisuta's hand. And that too for a few seconds. Who had seen him? A servant or a maid perhaps. Bhumisuta, herself, would not have talked about it, surely. His wife, of course, believed the worst and he would have a hard time pacifying her. ‘
Ogo
!' Suhasini sobbed louder at the sight of her husband. ‘You've kept a mistress in Shankhér Bazar. Isn't that enough? Must you keep one in my own house?' Now Monibhushan made up his mind. ‘You have only yourself to blame,' he said loudly and sternly. ‘Didn't I warn you? Once a whore, always a whore? She tried to seduce me. But I'm strong and upright. I could resist her. If I were you I would get rid of her at once.'

Bimalbhushan loved good food and spent many pleasurable hours planning his meals. He had retired from active life and whiled away much of his time dozing in an armchair and sucking at the tube of his
albola
. His brother looked after the business and the estates. His wife ran the household. He, himself, was a gentleman of leisure. On this fateful morning he sat in a corner of the courtyard stroking his stomach and trying to decide what he would have for breakfast. Was it to be
chiré
soaked in rich curd with a lavish sprinkle of brown sugar and lashings of banana and mango pulp? Or did he fancy a bowl of halwa swimming in ghee and eaten with freshly puffed up
luchis
straight from the wok? But, whatever it was, it had to be preceded by a bitter draught. Bimalbhushan suffered from constipation and the kaviraj had ordered him to drink a glassful of neem juice first thing in the morning on an empty stomach. The loathsome stuff stood on a
small table at his elbow. He looked askance at it from time to time trying to summon up the courage to put it to his lips when the sound of a woman's voice, raised in angry condemnation, reached his ears. Turning to his wife he said, ‘Something seems to be going on in Moni's apartment. What is it?'

‘Mejo Bou is sending Bhumi away.'

‘Sending who away?'

‘Bhumi, Bhumi! Don't you remember? The orphan girl she brought from Puri. Poor child! She was so useful to me. I shall miss her sorely.'

Bimalbhushan glanced at his wife's plump face sagging with disappointment and self pity, and his mouth curled with amusement. He decided to humour her. And his whim of the moment saved Bhumisusta.

‘If that's the way you feel,' he said, ‘why do you allow Mejo Bou to turn her out? Who pays the servants? You or she?'

‘Bhumi is not paid anything. Mejo Thakurpo bought her from a
panda
in Puri. He spent a lot of money on her. She's theirs—'

‘What money? His own or the estate's?'

‘That I don't know.'

‘Listen Bara Bou. I remember perfectly well that Moni charged the estate one hundred and forty rupees against her purchase. What right has he to throw her out? She's a family slave—not his personal one. Besides, you are the elder of the two mistresses. It's your word that should count.'

‘Mejo Bou does as she likes. She's so arrogant—she walks over people's heads.'

‘You're afraid of her!' Bimalbhushan laughed derisively, ‘You should learn to keep her in control.'

That mocking laugh decided Krishnabhamini. It was time, she thought angrily, that she asserted her rights as the elder mistress of the house. She had been too kind; too easy-going. But now things were going to be different. She shouted for her maid Mangala and, when the woman came scurrying in, she said in a loud commanding voice, ‘Go tell Mejo Bou that she has no right to dismiss anyone without my permission. Bhumi shall stay here as long as I choose.'

The consequence of this message was that Bhumisuta stayed on in the Singha household and the two sisters-in-law stopped
talking to one another.

Krishnabhamini had no sons. Of her three daughters two were wed already and preparations were on for the betrothal of the third. Being a kind, motherly sort of woman she was very fond of her sister's children, the twins Ajoy and Bijoy in particular. They were nice looking boys—plump and fair with round black eyes and shiny noses. Being identical twins they looked exactly like one another, had the same tastes and even said the same things—one echoing the other. Krishnabhamini invited them often, fed them lavish meals and gave them quantities of presents.

One day, quite by accident, the two boys saw Bhumisuta. Walking into their aunt's bedroom, unannounced, they saw her dancing for the amusement of Krishnabhamini and her maids. And, since that day, they were to be seen in the house in Bhabanipur at all hours of the day and night. Everyone noticed it except their adoring aunt who couldn't have too much of her darling Aju and Biju. The two boys never ceased to pester Bhumisuta to dance for them but she refused everytime, even risking Krishnabhamini's displeasure. And, whenever she saw them, she ran and hid herself—in the garden, the stables or the puja room. One night, in order to escape her persecutors, she crept up to the roof and stood crouching against the wall. It was a beautiful night. There was a full moon in the sky from which light descended like a silver mist illuminating every nook and corner. Bhumisuta stood enveloped in the bright haze, her entranced eyes gazing on the horizon which trembled like a sea of milky light. A cool breeze sprang up tossing the branches of the trees now this way, now that. Peace descended on Bhumisuta's soul. She was alone, truly alone at last; except for the moon who was smiling down at her.