First Light (21 page)

One day he could fight it no longer. On hearing that Ramkrishna was in the neighbourhood he went to see him. He told himself that this would be their last meeting following which he would proceed to the next stage of his life—sanyas. But the moment he entered the room Ramkrishna jumped up from his seat and rushed to his side ‘Naren
ré
!' he cried in a voice choking with emotion. ‘It is so long since I've seen you. So long!' Taking Naren's hands in his he cried like a wilful child, ‘I won't let you go home. You must come with me to Dakshineswar. No, no. I won't listen to a word you say.'

In the carriage, on the way to Dakshineswar, Ramkrishna sat quietly by Naren's side. And, once there, he spoke briefly and fitfully to his disciples. His mind seemed elsewhere and he didn't even glance in Naren's direction. Saddened and dispirited, the boy rose to take his leave and as soon as he did so Ramkrishna went into a trance. His body stiffened in the
tribhanga
pose. One hand went up the fingers twirling in the air. It lasted only a few seconds. Then, coming out of it, Ramkrishna took Naren's hands
in his and burst into tears.

Something like a giant wave of light passed from those gripping hands and washed over Naren's soul. His body trembled with ecstasy and in an instant he sensed the truth. This little priest of a Kali temple knew everything and saw everything. He knew how Naren suffered and he suffered with him. This went beyond intuitive understanding. This was empathy; true empathy. Naren could hold himself in no longer. Loud sobs racked his starved body and tears streamed down his cheeks. He held on to the clinging fingers as if they were his only hope. The disciples looked on, amazed, as the two moved around the room, hands interlocked, weeping together like children. Ramkrishna was given to emotional outbursts and he wept often and easily. But Naren! He was a stubborn, headstrong youth—fiery and arrogant. What had happened to him?

Following this incident Naren abandoned his plan of escape. ‘I know everything,' Ramkrishna had said to him as he wept. ‘I know you're not for this mundane world and will leave it sooner or later. But don't leave
me
Naren. Stay with me till I die.'

A few days later Naren burst into Ramkrishna's room and said without preamble, ‘You tell me that the idol in that temple is a living entity. That you talk to her and she responds to everything you say. Why don't you tell her to solve my problems? To arrange things in such a way that my mother and brothers needn't starve to death.' Ramkrishna burst out laughing. Stung to the quick Naren cried out, ‘Why do you laugh? This is no laughing matter. I've heard you call out to her in one of your songs
I know thee O Goddess of Mercy / O Succour of the poor and wretched.
Are we not poor and wretched? Why does she not to cast her mercy in our direction? You
must
talk to her and tell her of my plight.'

‘It's awkward,' Ramkrishna said timidly, ‘I've never asked her for anything!' Then, his face brightening, he added, ‘Why don't you ask her yourself?'

‘How can I do that? I don't know her. No, no. I won't let you off that easily—'

‘You don't know her because you don't care to know her. That is why you're suffering so. I have an idea. Today is Tuesday. Go to her quietly when she's all alone and ask her for whatever
you wish. She'll give it to you.'

Late that night when everyone lay sleeping Ramkrishna sent Naren, practically by force, into the temple of Kali. The torch of knowledge trembled in his hands as new, enlightened India took her first, cautious, hesitant steps into the realm of Theism. Logic was about to surrender to Faith. The overwhelming need for empathy and realization of something beyond the known world was driving out Reason as Naren stepped into the womb of the temple where Ma Kali stood. An earthen lamp, flickering in a corner, cast a dim glow over the naked form, black as night and of a breathtaking beauty. One hand held a bloody falchion. A garland of human heads hung from her neck and a fearful tongue, long and fierce and greedy for prey, fell nearly to her breast. A pair of glittering gold eyes gazed intently into Naren's as he walked on unsteady feet and sank to his knees before her.

Even as he did so Naren told himself that the concept of a Destroyer Goddess had not been formulated in Vedic India. There was no mention of Kali in the
Ramayan
or
Mahabharat.
It was much later that a pandit called Agambagish, inspired by the flawless body of an Adivasi woman, had formed a goddess in her image and disseminated the cult of Kali. This naked goddess was relatively unknown and unacknowledged in the rest of India. Only the Tantra-loving Bengalis were Kali worshippers. How could he, Naren Datta, accept a doll made of straw and clay as divine and all powerful? It was impossible! Impossible!

Suddenly a tremor passed through Naren's body making his blood leap up in his veins. He had seen—yes, he was sure he had seen those exquisitely chiselled lips part in a smile. He shut his eyes and opened them again. Yes—there it was. A smile of love and pity and was it triumph? He thought he saw the image sway gently from side to side. But the room was dim and hazy with incense smoke and long shadows. Perhaps he was imagining it all. His racked body and fevered brain were weakening him—making him an easy target. He tried desperately to revive all his old arguments; to summon up the logic and reason that had sustained him all these years. But he felt them slipping away. His eyes were glazing; strange currents were running in his blood sweeping him away. In the poorly lit room, swinging between patches of light and shadow, the image of the smiling goddess was
trembling into life.

‘Ma,' Naren called in a broken whisper and then again, ‘Ma!' With that one syllable, uttered twice, the Brahmo Samaj was vanquished in its entire trinity and Ramkrishna's victory was proclaimed in triumphant cries till the whole world reverberated to the sound. ‘Ma!' Naren called again and again in a fever of impatience. But why was he calling out to her? What did he want from her? Oh yes. He wanted food and clothes for himself and his family. He opened his mouth to utter the words he had rehearsed so many times that evening. But they wouldn't come. She was the Mother of the world. And she had smiled on him! How could he ask her for mundane things like rice and lentils? When one has free access to a king's treasure does one beg for a pumpkin? Naren knocked his head on the floor and cried wildly, ‘Give me knowledge. Give me faith. Give me light. And above all these—strength. Strength to suffer and endure. Strength to renounce.' Ma Kali continued to smile on him but made no answer . . .

Ramkrishna stood in a corner of the chatal waiting for Naren. As soon as he saw him come out of the temple he asked eagerly, ‘Have you told her everything? About your troubles—I mean. What did she say?'

‘I couldn't,' Naren answered in a bewildered voice. ‘I couldn't utter a word. I—'

‘Foolish boy! ‘Ramkrishna scolded. ‘After all the training I gave you! Go back again. Be sure to tell her everything and ask for her help.'

Thrice Naren went in and thrice he came out without asking for anything other than faith, strength, knowledge and conscience. ‘You ask her for me,' he said at last hanging his head in shame. ‘She'll listen to you.'

Exhausted in mind and body, Naren went to sleep at dawn and did not wake till late in the afternoon. It was past four o' clock when Naren rose from his bed and entered Ramkrishna's room where he sat surrounded by some of his disciples. Ramkrishna ran to his side the moment he saw him enter and, putting his arms around him, cried excitedly. ‘We're one. You are me and I am you. If you throw a stick in the Ganga the waters seem to part. But that is just an illusion. The Ganga is one and
flows as one. It is thus with you and me Naren.' Passing Naren his hookah he said gently, ‘Stop worrying Naren. Your troubles are over. Ma Kali will look after you.' Naren looked up with dazed eyes. How would Ma Kali look after him? Would money fall into his lap like rain from Heaven? Even as he reasoned thus Mahendra Gupta put some money in his hand and said, ‘See how long you can manage with this.'

That evening, after many months, Naren walked into the house with a sackful of rice on his back.

Sarala and Bibi had their first real quarrel over which school the little bride was to be sent. Sarala held a strong brief for her own school Bethune while Bibi was convinced that there was no institution that could match hers. Bethune was a Bengali medium school and was situated in a predominantly Bengali locality. Yet many of its ex-students were renowned women. It was only last year that Calcutta went all agog over the case of Abala Das. Abala had passed out of Bethune and had wanted to study medicine but was refused admission by the Medical College of Calcutta which had no infrastructure for girl students. Abala had expressed her resentment so powerfully that the Bengal government had been forced to send her to the Medical College in Madras on a stipend of twenty rupees a month. The students of Bethune were taught to think for themselves particularly when it came to their own country. When the infamous Ilbert Bill was passed and the newspapers carried defaming and derogatory columns about Indians, the students of Bethune had lodged a strong protest under the dynamic leadership of a girl called Kamini Sen. They had come to school wearing black bands on their arms the day Surendranath Banerjee was arrested. The girls of Loretto House had no such awareness. The school was situated in Sahebpara and most of its students were English. There were some, of course, like Bibi who came from upper class Bengali-families. The girls learned to speak English with a flawless accent and master all the nuances of English etiquette. Girls from Loretto House made excellent wives for barristers and civil servants.

Sarala was eleven, Bibi was ten and the new bride only nine. Though they were constrained, by the rules of the family, to call her Kakima, Bibi and Sarala treated her like a friend. But Bhavatarini shrank from their friendship. She hadn't overcome her bewilderment at the turn her destiny had taken. Her situation was like that of the heroines of one of her grandmother's stories—of a woodcutter's daughter being wooed by a prince and
carried away to a palace high on a hill. This great house with its fine furniture and many servants intimidated her. And she stood in awe of her husband who seemed to her as fair and handsome as a prince. When he talked to her she hung her head and wouldn't reply—she felt so small and inadequate. She couldn't even remember that she had a new name now—Mrinalini.

Bibi's and Sarala's opinions were of little consequence. The decision rested with Gyanadanandini. And she had taken it. Mrinalini would stay with her and study in Loretto House. There was no question of wearing saris to school so coats and skirts of English material were getting stitched for her. Needless to say, this arrangement did not meet with everyone's approval. Kadambari had taken it for granted that the new bride would make her home in Jorasanko with Robi in the new wing that had been prepared for them. She had made many plans. She would look after the little girl, give her all the love and affection she had left behind and teach her the ways of the family. Mrinalini would be sent to school but surely she could go to Bethune along with the other little girls of the house. Bethune was such a fine school! It had been founded by one of the greatest humanitarians that had ever stepped on these shores. The great Vidyasagar himself had. taken an interest in it and her own father-in-law had been one of the first to send his daughters. But the family traditions were changing. Now Debendranath allowed his second daughter-in-law to take all the decisions and make all the arrangements. He never interfered. Why, oh why, was Gyanadanandini taking Robi's wife away from her? Why did she make it a point, always, to rob her of whatever she wanted? Gyanadanandini had her own children. She had no one.

The house was still full of wedding guests and there was no scope for a private conversation. So Kadambari was forced to speak to Robi in the presence of several other members of the family. ‘Why are you sending your wife to Loretto Robi?' she asked, one day, trying to make her voice as casual as she could. ‘You are one of the greatest poets of Bengal. Shouldn't your wife be educated in Bengali?'

‘But—but,' Robi was startled, ‘I thought it was all arranged. Mejo Bouthan—'

‘O Robi!' his eldest sister-in-law Neepamayi interrupted.

‘Your wife doesn't know a word of English. How will she follow the lessons? It would be best if we kept her with us for a while and gave her lessons at home. Then, later, when she has learned enough she can go to school.'

‘Why don't you speak to Mejo Bouthan?'

‘Why should we?' Neepamayi snapped at Robi. ‘She's your wife. You should take the decisions for her.'

Robi shook his head. It was evident from his face that he didn't have the courage to face his redoubtable sister-in-law. Kadambari gazed a long moment on Robi's face, then slipped away as quietly as a shadow.

Debendranath came to Jorasanko some weeks after the wedding on hearing the news of his eldest son-in-law's death. It was then that he took the opportunity of seeing his youngest daughter-in-law for the first time. Putting four gold coins into the little hand he raised his own in blessing and uttered some lines of a Sanskrit mantra. Opening his eyes he fixed them on Robi's face and asked solemnly ‘What are you doing about her education?'

‘Mejo Bouthan has made all the arrangements. She will join Loretto House after the Christmas vacation.'

Debendranath sat silent for a minute giving the matter due thought. ‘Very good,' he said at last. ‘But she may have difficulty in competing with the other girls at first. Arrange for extra tuitions in the school itself. Don't worry about the expense. I shall leave instructions at the khazanchi khana to give it to you each month.'

The wedding guests started leaving one by one. Sarala went back with her parents to their house in Kashiabagan. Gyanadanandini left for Birji Talao taking not only her own family but Robi and Mrinalini with her. Kadambari looked on with stony eyes as Robi followed his sister-in-law into the carriage like a meek little boy.

Within a few days of leaving Jorasanko Mrinalini was admitted to Loretto House. Apart from English tuitions she was given special lessons in singing and piano playing. She was constantly receiving instruction at home too. Gyanadanandini never wearied of pointing out her defects and teaching her to behave like a lady. She was to walk so and talk so. She was to sip her tea slowly without making a sound. Under the weight of so
much attention the poor girl's life became hard to bear and she shed many tears in private.

Robi, who was busy correcting the proofs of his new book
Chhabi o Gaan,
saw little of what went on. He pored over his work all day and spent the evening in the company of friends that thronged to the house. Jyotirindranath came everyday. Swarnakumari Devi and her husband were frequent visitors. Of late, however, the venue had changed. The evening assemblies were now held in Swarnakumari's house in Kashiabagan.

Swarnakumari's husband Janakinath Ghoshal was an extremely handsome man with a magnetic personality. Scion of a reputed zamindar family of Nadiya Jairampur, Janakinath had, in his youth, been a close associate of Ramtanu Lahiri and Jadunath Rai of the Young Bengal movement. Under their influence and in a reaction from traditional Hinduism he had cast away his sacred thread following which his outraged father had disinherited him. Despite this fact he had been chosen by Debendranath Thakur as a husband for his second and most beautiful daughter Swarnakumari. Janakinath had agreed to the marriage on two conditions. Unlike other sons-in-law of the Thakur family he would not move into the house in Jorasanko but keep his wife with him in a house of his own. And no pressure would be put on him. to become a Brahmo. This last resolve poured balm on his father's wounds and prompted a reconciliation. And, thus, Swarnakumari was enabled to move into an establishment with as many comforts and luxuries as the one she had left behind.

Several years after the marriage Janakinath decided to go to England to study at the Bar. He set sail leaving his wife, three daughters and a son at Jorasanko. During her stay in her father's house Swarnakumari's youngest child, a little girl of six, became very attached to Kadambari Devi and spent a lot of time with her. The childless Kadambari loved her dearly and treated her as her own. Then a terrible thing happened. One day, as the child was coming down the stairs from Kadambari's apartment, she missed her footing and rolled down the steps hitting her head on the floor beneath. She died after a few days and something in Kadambari died too. She withdrew, even further, into her own world coming to look upon herself as an accursed creature from whom
everything she loved was taken away, Janakinath returned to India, on hearing of the tragedy, and never went back. Thus, although he had passed some of the exams with distinction, his dreams of becoming a barrister remained Unfulfilled.

Swarnakumari was a strange character. A strikingly beautiful woman, she was well educated with a keen interest in science and literature. There was something majestic about her personality and she took herself very seriously as a writer and intellectual. Although she had given birth to several children she refused to let her life be cluttered by them or by the needs of her household. She believed that a writer of her stature should not demean herself by domestic preoccupations. She kept a servant for each one of her children whose duty it was to minister to their needs and keep constant vigil. Sarala and her brother and sisters had no memories of their mother hugging and kissing them or telling them stories and putting them to bed. Sometimes they didn't see her for days together. Once, when Sarala was four years old, she had a nasty fall breaking two of her front teeth. All the members of the household rushed to the scene in anxious concern. The ayah wept and protested as the other servants scolded her for her negligence. Swarnakumari, who was writing in an upstairs room, heard the uproar and realized what had happened. But she did not come down to her daughter. A child was hurt. What was new about that? There were many people in the house to wash her wounds and render first aid. And if a doctor was needed her husband would send for one. She was a writer and her first commitment was to her writing.

A few days after Robi and Mrinalini left Jorasanko, preparations commenced for another wedding in the family. Swarnakumari's eldest daughter Hiranmayee was to be married to a young man called Phanibhushan Mukhopadhyay. Unlike other mothers Swarnakumari took no interest in getting a trousseau ready for her daughter or of preparing a guest list. She turned all her energies in trying to make the occasion as unique and memorable as possible. At one of the evening gatherings in her house she suggested putting up a play on the wedding night. The suggestion met with everyone's approval but some practical difficulties were pointed out. The date set for the wedding was not too far off. There wasn't enough time for rehearsing a full
length play. Then someone suggested putting up a musical drama on the lines of
Balmiki Pratibha
—an operatic piece that had been presented by the young Thakurs in Jorasanko some years ago. Songs were easier to learn than dialogue. And they could be sung from within the wings if the need arose. The next point to be considered was the composer. Who could do it best? Several names were put forward and rejected. Then Swarnakumari had an idea. How would it be if they all did it together? Songs could be composed by all those who had a flair for it. Akshay Chowdhury was a good composer. Jyotirindranath had a fine ear and could improvize tunes on the piano to which Robi could set the words in no time at all. Swarnakumari, herself, was no mean composer. Once the songs were ready they could be linked together by a slender thread of narrative and presented as an opera.

After this decision was taken the evenings became livelier than ever and stretched till late into the night with breaks for snacks and drinks and winding up with a lavish meal. All the mundane arrangements for the wedding were left to the master of the house. The mistress concerned herself only with the cultural side and every evening saw her sitting in state in her beautifully appointed salon with her brothers, sister-in-law and friends. Some of the younger members of the Thakur family were also admitted into these gatherings because they would be the ones to come on stage in action or dance.

Till lately Robi had been a frequent visitor at Swarnakumari's house. But he was rarely there these days being totally preoccupied by his newest venture
Chhabi o Gaan.
The publication process was over. All that was left now was the dedication about which he couldn't make up his mind. Should he dedicate it to his wife? A shadow fell on his face at the thought. She wouldn't read the poems. And, even if she did, she wouldn't understand them. There was one, only one, who read his work from cover to cover and understood it; who praised and criticized with honesty and true knowledge. She was the source of all his joys. She was the source, too, of his most exquisite pains, touching the deepest chords within him with a gentle and unerring hand. She was his sole inspiration! Delving into his memories he found that each of the poems in
Chhabi o Gaan
had its genesis in some moment or other with her—sad, joyous,
thoughtful or romantic. He had dedicated many of his books to her. He would like to dedicate them all. Frowning and biting his pen for a few moments he wrote: This garland of songs is woven from the blossoms of last year's spring. I place it at the feet of her in the light of whose eyes, the flowers opened, each dawn, one by one.

Leaving the Brahmo Samaj Press Robi came straight to Jorasanko and, stepping through the open door, entered Kadambari's room. She sat at a window with her back to the door through which Robi had entered. She didn't rise at his entrance or even turn her head. She went on sitting, a listless immobile figure, her eyes fixed on the evening sky over which a stream of white cranes were gliding past. Dusk was falling outside and shadows were lengthening in the room. Just outside the window a bakul tree, dark and gnarled with age, was swaying gently in the breeze sending showers of blossoms into the room which danced about the air like tiny white stars before falling into Kadambari's lap.