First Light (19 page)

Needless to say these words, though they left Gurmukh speechless, were greeted with tremendous applause by Binodini's friends. Each one vied with the other to lavish compliments and extravagant flattery on her. The only exception was Girish Ghosh. He stood a little apart, his mouth twisted in a bitter Smile. ‘When a bridge is built over a river,' he murmured to himself, ‘a child is slaughtered and buried beneath the foundations. We've done just that tonight. We've assured the future of the theatre in Bengal. But we've sacrificed you Binod.'

The next step was the naming of the theatre. Binodini wanted it to be named after her. Her earthly form, one that had delighted so many viewers, would be burned to ashes some day and merged with the elements. But her name would live on. Binodini Natyashala. How well that sounded! Everyone agreed at first. Then the whispers started. Other theatres had such grand resounding names: Bengal, National, Great National. And theirs was to be named after Binodini! It was humiliating. Besides the public would be offended at this pampering of a common prostitute. It was tantamount to striking a blow at social norms.

Binodini ran out to meet the men when they returned from the registry office. But they had bad news for her. The theatre had been registered in the name of Star. The decision had been taken after some last minute consultations. Girish Ghosh saw her pale face and trembling lips and hastened to reassure her. ‘Silly girl,' he stroked her back lovingly, ‘Don't you know what that means?

Who is the star of this company? You, of course. Everyone knows that. Star means Binodini.'

Thus the Star theatre was born, famed to this day through the length and breadth of Bengal. Its founder Girish Ghosh had little idea of the revolution he was sparking off, not only in the theatre world but in the lives of the people. Play after play emerged from his fiery pen—
Daksha Yagna, Dhruba Charitra, Nal Damayanti
—each brighter and more beautiful than the last. The quality of the audience changed. The theatre ceased to be the haunt of the idle rich and their toadies; of drunks and drug eaters. The themes being culled mainly from Hindu epics, people streamed into the auditorium from all walks of life. Intellectuals from the highest rungs of the aristocracy rubbed shoulders with uneducated men from the lower middle class. People came from the furthest ends of the city and even beyond it, from suburbs and villages. And slowly, they started bringing their womenfolk with them.

Girish Ghosh was born in Bose Para of Bagbazar and was orphaned at the age of fourteen. With no one to guide or discipline him, he spent his early youth sowing his wild oats with the most depraved elements of Bose Para. Liquor, ganja and women—he had a taste for them all. Tall and powerful in frame with a magnetic personality, he was the leader of the band. Yet he differed from his compatriots in one thing. Though he had abandoned a formal education; he had retained a genuine passion for the written word. He read whatever he could find. He had even taught himself English, slowly and painfully, and had read the works of Shakespeare and Milton. And, as he grew older, his love of literature grew deeper and more intense.

At one time, in his wild indisciplined youth, he had organized a jatra party and staged the play
Sadhabar Ekadasi.
He had met Deenabandhu Mitra and Michael Madhusudan Datta. And under their influence, he had given himself over to the theatre. Drama became his burning passion eclipsing everything else. In time he rose to the position of the greatest hero of the Bengali theatre, earning for himself the sobriquet Garrick of Bengal. He was also a playwright of surpassing brilliance. He still drank heavily and surrounded himself with low women. But, mentally, he was miles above the company he kept. He was an intellectual
and a rationalist. Having studied the works of Western scientists and thinkers Girish dismissed the concept of a Supreme Being standing guard over his creation. He believed that the universe moved in accordance with a set of natural laws and that religion was a manmade prop. He had no use for it.

Then, one day, he met Ramkrishna of Dakshineswar quite accidentally in the house of Balaram Bosu of Bagbazar. He was not impressed. The man looked so ordinary—no one would look at him twice. And he seemed half crazed. When the room grew dark that evening and a lamp was brought in, he kept looking from one face to another and asking the same question over and over again, ‘Is this the hour of dusk?
Ogo
! Do tell me. Is this the hour of dusk?' Girish suppressed his laughter with difficulty. Was the man a lunatic? Could he not distinguish day from night? And when Ramkrishna knocked his head on Bidhu Kirtaniya's feet (Bidhumukhi had been engaged by the master of the house to sing before his guests) Girish almost cried out in disgust. They said the man was Paramhansa. Crass nonsense! He was mad; stark raving mad! Even when conversing with Keshab Sen he was giggling to himself and singing snatches of a song. Girish felt he had had enough and rose to his feet. As he reached the door he was joined by Sisir Kumar Ghosh, editor of
Amrita Bazaar Patrika.
Sisir Kumar was a Vaishnav and had no use for the Kali
sadhak
from Dakshineswar. He had come only because he did not wish to offend Balaram Bosu who had invited him. Girish saw the smile of contempt on Sisir Kumar's face and it had the strangest effect on him. He turned to go back.

‘Come, come,' Sisir Kumar said. ‘This is no place for you.'

‘I want to stay a little longer. I want to ask the man something.'

Sisir Kumar put an arm around his friend's shoulder and steered him away. ‘Are you mad?' he asked, ‘What words of wisdom do you expect from him?' Girish looked back at the little man as he sat smiling and talking in his sweet sing-song voice And, for some reason he couldn't fathom, a great wave of loneliness and despair swept over him.

Preparations were afoot for Robi's wedding. The bride, chosen by Gyanandanandini, was the only child of a wealthy landowner with an estate worth seven lakhs a year. She was beautiful too and had many accomplishments. She could converse in English, sing, and play the piano. Gyanadanandini prided herself on her find. Like the prince of a fairy tale Robi would be gaining a kingdom together with a beautiful princess. There was one snag, however, The bride's family hailed, not from Bengal but from the South of India. But Gyanandanandini swept all objections aside with her customary forcefulness. Robi deserved the best, she said, and the best was what she was giving him. The fact that the girl belonged to a different community was no consideration at all.

Although the matchmaker had described the girl in detail the women of the family wanted to see her. Gyanadanandini decided to take Robi and Jyoti along with them. As they entered the beautifully appointed salon of the house the bride's father had rented in Calcutta, they were surprised to find it full of women. The girl chosen for Robi came forward in person to greet her future in-laws. The Thakur women exchanged glances. How beautiful she was! Her complexion was like a golden champa and her eyes large and lustrous and fringed with thick dark lashes. Her hair, braided with white and orange flowers, fell to her knees. She was so vivacious and free. She laughed, talked, sang and played the piano with a gaiety and spirit that Bengali girls dared not display when being inspected by prospective in-laws. Everyone was charmed including Robi. Though he said nothing the expression on his face gave him away.

And then the bride's father walked in. Folding his hands in a namaskar he asked deferentially, ‘You have met the women of my family?' Pointing to a bundle of brocade and jewels cowering in a corner, he said ‘My daughter.' Then, placing a hand on the pretty girl's shoulder, he announced proudly, ‘My wife.'

A stunned silence descended on the group from Jorasanko.

They sat quietly in their seats not daring to look at one another from fear of bursting out in uncontrolled laughter. Gyanadanandini rose to take her leave but her host begged her to remain seated for a little while longer. At a signal from him one of the women went out of the room. Within a few seconds several servants appeared with huge thalas piled high with sweets and savouries. The guests made a pretence of eating a few morsels then bundled out of the house as hastily as they could. Once in the carriage they could hold themselves in no longer and fell over each other laughing. ‘What were you thinking of Robi?' Jyotirindranath teased, ‘Abducting your mother-in-law?' To tell the truth everyone, barring Gyanadanandini, was quite relieved. ‘I was on pins,' Dwijendranath declared on hearing the story, ‘at the thought of conversing with my own sister-in-law in English. Why do we have to run to the south to find a bride for Robi? What's wrong with our Bengali girls?'

The search for a suitable bride was taken up once again. Around this time Jyotirindranath left the house in Sadar Street and returned to Jorasanko and Kadambari threw all her energies into redecorating her wing on the second floor. She furnished the rooms with her usual elegance and good taste and filled the verandas with potted shrubs, ferns and creepers. She instructed the servants to sprinkle rose water on the
khus punkah
every evening so that the breeze from it blew cool and fragrant. As in the house in Sadar Street, Jyotirindra's friends came over every day but now it was in the evenings. Jyotirindra was busy all day with his new enterprise—shipping. Like his grandfather Prince Dwarkanath, Jyotirindra realized that the real strength of the British lay in their ships.

One afternoon, as Robi was struggling with a review of a collection of poems called
Sindhu Doot,
Kadambari walked past him and went and stood on the veranda. From where he sat, he could see her bending over her plants. Her long dark hair, falling in silky strands over her back and shoulders, was partially concealed by a sari—the colour of the sky at noon. One arm, stark and bare of ornament, rose up and down picking out the weeds that appeared at the roots of the plants. When the sun fell on it, as it was doing now, the smooth ivory skin glittered as if flecked with mica.

Robi pushed away his papers and took up a fresh sheet. He wrote:

Amaar praan ér paré cholé gelo ké,

basantér batash tukur moto?'
^*

‘What are you writing Robi?' Kadambari carne and stood at his elbow.

‘A lyric about a spring breeze.'

Kadambari did not ask to be allowed to see it. She sighed, then seating herself, she remarked gravely, ‘We don't seem to be able to find a suitable bride for you. Time is running out and—'

‘What is your hurry?'

‘Why, just think how nice it would be to have a little bride in the house! I'll braid her hair and dress her up in all my prettiest saris and jewels. And I'll have such lovely long chats with her.'

‘Which means that you want a doll to play with.'

‘Why do you say that? She'll be an outsider to begin with. I'll have to teach her the ways of the household. I'll have to make her worthy of you.'

Robi felt trapped. A few days ago his Mejo Bouthan had uttered almost the same words. She had said that she would keep Robi's bride with her. She would send her to Loretto Convent with her daughter Bibi, give her piano lessons and teach her everything she needed to know as a daughter-in-law of the illustrious Thakurs of Jorasanko. A wave of sympathy for the girl he had never seen, swept over Robi. What would her life be like with her two sisters-in-law fighting over her?

‘Why are you so anxious to fasten the noose around my neck?' he asked.

‘You've run free for many years now Moshai! It's time you were tied down. Your Natunda has brought a proposal for you. She's a princess. A real princess of Orissa.'

‘I don't want a princess,' Robi said hastily, then rising, prepared to leave the room.

‘Where are you going?' Kadambari asked.

‘To Shyambazar. I have to sing at a prayer meeting.' ‘There's plenty of time for that. Your brother is leaving for Orissa tomorrow. He wishes to take you with him. Shall I pack Robi gazed on her face for a while. ‘Natun Bouthan,' he remarked gravely. ‘There's something ethereal in your face and form when you seem lost in your own thoughts. But when you talk of mundane matters, as you're doing now, I don't seem to know you. You are different—somehow.'

‘What is the meaning of
ethereal
?'

‘Disembodied. Wrought out of some heavenly substance. It is then that you are Hecate.'

Kadambari sat in silence her eyes on the ground. Then she sighed and said, ‘How can I be ethereal? I'm a flesh and blood human being. I struggle and I suffer—'

Robi had no answer to this. He walked quickly out of the room.

Soon after this Gyanadanandini decided to visit her parents in their native village of Narendrapur in Jessore. She took with her not only her own children but her two brothers-in-law Robi and Jyoti and sister-in-law Kadambari. The trip was undertaken with a certain intention. Gyanadanandini was of the opinion that Jessore girls, being pretty and submissive, made good daughters-in-law. And, indeed, many of the brides in the Thakur family had been brought from Jessore. This was the place, Gyanadanandini was convinced, from which a suitable bride could be found for Robi. Sending for all the reputed matchmakers of the district, she ordered them to scour the villages and find a bride worthy of the Thakurs of Jorasanko. They did their best bringing proposals in dozens from Dakshindihi, Chengutia and its surrounding villages. But not one girl came, even remotely, near the expectations of the party. For one thing, they were too young—between three and five years old for the most part. One had snot running down her nose; another had bundled up her sari and tucked it under her armpit and yet another burst into tears at the sight of so many strangers. Robi hated these inspection visits and begged to be let off but Gyanadanandini insisted on taking him along everywhere they went. Robi found the exercise so distasteful that he wouldn't even look up when a girl was brought in. He had decided that he would keep himself out of the whole business. He would agree to whatever his sisters-in-law asked of him. Their will would be his will.

Though they were seeing three to four girls every day, Robi found time to take long walks across the fields in company with Suren and Bibi. The children had never seen a village before and Robi was not too familiar with the countryside either. They were a strange sight and people turned to stare at them as they stumbled over the furrows between fields of golden paddy, ambled along the river that twisted and turned on its emerald banks or stood by the innumerable streams and canals that spread over the green like glittering lace. The village boys, swimming across the turgid brown waters, catching grasshoppers or fishing for shrimps and catfish, gaped at the three fair strangers—Suren in his cap and ulster; Bibi in her frock and long stockings and Robi, very debonair in his puckered dhuti and kurta, hair parted in the middle, gold rimmed spectacles and shining pumps.

On one of these rambles Robi made friends with the young postmaster of Narendrapur—a youth of barely twenty. The boy came from one of the mofussil towns of the district and was desperately lonely in this damp, mosquito ridden village. He had no family so he had to do his own cooking and look after himself as well as he could. A little girl helped him in his household tasks. He hardly had any work because the post office served seven villages, very few letters came. He spent the long hours huddled over his table writing poetry.

One afternoon, as Jyotrindranath was strolling down the village path with his wife and sister-in-law, he came upon Beni Rai—an employee of the household in Jorasanko. ‘Jyotidada Babu!' the latter exclaimed wringing his hands in abject humility. ‘I didn't know you were here. And the Bou Thakuranis too! I live in the next village—Dakshindihi. Now that I've seen you I shan't rest till you grace my humble dwelling with the dust of your feet. My wife and family will be overwhelmed by their good fortune!'

Next day the villagers of Dakshindihi crowded around Beni Rai's door, jostling and pushing, to catch a glimpse of the handsome, regal looking personages who were visiting their commonplace neighbour. As the party from Jorasanko took their seats, a little girl of eight or nine came in and handed round thalas of sweets and snacks and glasses of water. She was squarish in build, dark, and had a plain, homely face.

‘Who is she?' Jyotirindra asked his host.

‘Hé! Hé! Hé!' Beni Rai bared his teeth in an ingratiating laugh. ‘She's my daughter Bhavatarini.
Ei
Bhabi! Touch your forehead to Jyotidada Babu's feet. And to the others.' Then, turning to his guests, he said, ‘I'm looking for a suitable husband for her. That's why I've taken a month's leave.'

‘Have you found anyone?' Gyanadanandini asked cautiously. ‘Not yet Mejo Bouthakurani. But it is time—it is time.' Gyanadanandini and Jyotirindranath exchanged glances.

As soon as they left the house, on their way back home, Gyanadanandini exclaimed, ‘We don't need to look any further. This is the girl for Robi.'

‘Do you think Baba Moshai will agree?' Jyotirindra said with some hesitation, ‘The daughter of an employee—'

‘We'll have to write to him and obtain his consent. Doesn't he know the difficulties of finding suitable matches for our boys? Besides, what's wrong with the girl? She's uneducated and not used to the ways of a great family such as ours. But that can be easily remedied. We'll send her to Loretto School and keep an English governess to teach her spoken English and table manners and—' Jyotirindra's objections, feebly expressed, were swept away, as usual, in the strong flow of Gyanadanandini's arguments. Her interest in the matter was calculated and clear. She wanted to remove Robi from Kadambari's sheltering wings as soon as she could. And that could only be done by foisting a wife on him. Kadambari, true to her nature, did not venture an opinion. Robi's heart sank. He was twenty-one and he was about to be tied to a girl of nine—plain, illiterate and painfully shy. What sort of companion would she make? How would he share his thoughts with her? What could she understand of his feelings and emotions? Bibi was equally upset at the idea. A girl younger than herself to be her Robi Ka's wife! Her aunt!

But, strangely enough, Debendranath, from whom the most serious objections had been anticipated, gave his consent readily. He shared his second daughter-in-law's opinion that Robi was frittering his time away in the company of his Natun Bouthan. It was time he grew up and applied himself to the serious business of life. He sent a message from Mussourie, where he was staying at the time, directing his sons to get the rites solemnized in
Agrahayan following which Robi should start work in the office supervising the accounts.

With the commencement of the preparations for the wedding, Gyanadanandini took Robi away, practically by force, to her house in Birji Talao. The children were very happy to have their Robi Ka with them and so was Gyanadanandini. As in earlier times, the days were filled with guests, music and laughter and Robi was blissfully happy.

Then, one day, he heard that Kadambari was ill; she had, in fact, been ill for quite some time. Several doctors had been called in but no one could diagnose her ailment. Robi felt overwhelmed with guilt. How could he have been so oblivious of her all these days? She was so delicate and sensitive. And she hadn't a friend in the world barring himself. How lonely she must be; how sick and desolate in her solitary apartment in the huge mansion of Jorasanko. He decided to go and see her.

But, once in Jorasanko, he felt acutely uncomfortable. It was strange to be paying a formal visit to one who was so close that she seemed part of him; one with whom words were redundant and silence spoke in many voices.