First Light (25 page)

Upon this thought she ran to the adjoining room and stood before the cupboard that was set into one wall. Turning the key with a trembling hand she wrenched the lock open and drew out, from a secret recess, a sandalwood box inlaid with ivory. It was full of jewels—diamond bracelets, a heavy moon necklace of rubies and emeralds, chokers and strings of pearls hung with jewelled pendants and many other exquisite pieces. Pushing them aside with an impatient hand she pulled out a small paper packet and tipped its contents into her palm—four balls of some sticky black substance that Bishu the weaver's wife had given her. Bishu, from whom Kadambari bought her saris, was also a
deyashini
and dabbled in roots and herbs. She had given her these balls of opium to soothe her nerves and help her sleep, warning her that an overdose might bring on the sleep of death. This box also contained three letters. Kadambari had found one of them in the pocket of her husband's
jobba.
The other two she had discovered tucked away between the pages of a voluminous dictionary. They were all written in the same hand—a woman's hand. They bore no signature and no address. All three commenced with the phrase—
More precious to me than my life itself.

Kadambari read the letters, one by one, as she had done so many times in the past. Her breath came in short gasps and her eyes glittered as her lips mumbled forming the words. And as she read, the slow burning in her breast became a raging fire—the flames licking her body and engulfing her soul. She tore the letters into pieces; the pieces into fragments, and tossed them into the air till they flew about like snow flakes. She watched her handiwork, laughing for a while, then tipping the contents of her palm into
her mouth she swallowed them with great gulps of water.

Peace! Peace at last! She sighed a deep sigh of contentment. She was free. Free from doubt and torment. Free to go where she liked; to do what she liked. There were no walls before her now. Spreading her arms as though they were wings she darted this way and that round and round the room. But though she flew about as though she were, in truth, a gorgeous blue humming bird the white marble of the floor, littered with fragments of glass, told another story. It bore the imprints of her feet—etched not in vermilion but in blood. Kadambari felt nothing; saw nothing. She whirled on and on dancing her dance of death. Her sari impeding her movements, she pulled it off her body and flung it into a corner. Then she took off her jewels, one by one, and tossed them, laughing, into the air. Her diamond
kankan
hit the chandelier and fell to the floor in a shower of crystal flakes. Next she attacked her hair tugging at the comb and flower-headed gold pins till the braids, released from their confinement, fell over her back and shoulders like twisted, wounded snakes. Panting with the effort she came and sat at the table where Jyotirindranath did his writing. It was littered with his papers. She glanced at them from the corner of her eye. What was she doing here? Oh yes! She had to write a note. People always did that before they took their lives. Thank God she had remembered in time. She picked up a pen and drew a sheet of paper before her. To whom would she address her note? To Robi, of course. But, even as her pen touched the paper, two lines of poetry came to her mind. They had been written by Robi soon after the wedding. She had came across them by chance when preparing the bridal chamber.

Depart from hence—the old

For the new hath begun her game . . .

How true it was! Women grew old and were discarded. But men! Why did they never grow old and useless? Was it because they lived in a larger, more expansive world and could constantly renew themselves? She shrugged off the thought and turned to the more urgent matter at hand. She would write a note—not to Robi but to her husband. How would she address him?
More precious to me than my life itself
?
She giggled at the thought wondering what such words really meant. Her head was growing lighter and she had difficulty in keeping her eyes open. She realized that she
would have to hurry for soon darkness would engulf her.
Beloved,
she began then, hastily, she scribbled a few lines ending
From one who has yearned for you all her life.
The pen slipped from her fingers that felt, by now, as though weighted down with lead. ‘Robi! she cried aloud, frightened. ‘I'm going! Your Natun Bouthan . . .' Suddenly, without any warning, her body twisted sideways and, slipping from the chair, fell in a huddled heap on the floor.

The thirty lamps in the chandelier burned on, the candles sinking slowly in their sockets. The diligent cuckoo kept vigil breaking the silence of the night, hour after hour, with her ecstatic cry. And from the open window a wild sweet wind blew in and danced around the motionless form sprawled on the white marble . . .

Kadambari was, by habit, an early riser. She left her bed, each day, with the first glimmer of dawn and watered her plants with her sprinkler. That morning Halor Ma waited till the sun was up then knocked on the door. But it did not open. Thinking her mistress to be still asleep she went away and came back some time later. She came and went thrice and though her gentle knock changed, with the passing of the hours, into a furious rapping all Was silent within. Frightened, Halor Ma alerted the women of the house. Now everyone came crowding to Kadambari's apartment. Her sisters-in-law called out to her. The servants banged on the door rill their arms ached but there was no response.

Of the two mansions that stood side by side in Jorasanko one belonged to the Brahmo and the other to the Hindu branch of the Thakur family. From one of the wings of this Hindu house a portion of Kadambari's apartment could be seen. Now everyone came crowding here pushing and jostling. But though the window was open wide all that was visible was Kadambari's bed—the sheets and pillows smooth and unslept in. She, herself, was nowhere to be seen. Then one of the women had an idea. Pulling a high stool as close to the window as possible she propped Gunendranath's youngest daughter Sunayani on it and bade her look inside. ‘What do you see Sunayani?' the women urged. ‘Tell us—tell us quick.' But the little girl said nothing. Her face grew pale and his lips trembled. For child though she was, she knew instinctively that what she had seen was death. That
twisted unnatural form that was her Natun Kakima's lay on the floor—not in sleep but in death.

The next thing to be done was to inform the menfolk and get the door broken. But who would take the responsibility? The dead woman's husband was away. Suddenly the women remembered that their father-in-law was in the house. He had arrived suddenly last night on one of his brief unannounced visits.

Debendranath was in the middle of his morning meditation when two of his sons came into the room and broke the news. Debendranath heard their account in silence. His eyes were closed; his lips kept moving with the mantra he was repeating but his ears took in each minute detail of what was being said to him. Not a muscle twitched in the smooth white marble of his face and form.

After a while he sighed and rose to his feet. Motioning to the boys to leave the room he sent for his intrepid and trusty attendant Kishori. ‘You must have heard the news,' he said with his habitual directness, as soon as Kishori had shut the door behind him. ‘My sons tell me that Natun Badhu Mata has taken her own life. Act quickly and with discretion. Get the door broken down but let no one enter the room—not even my sons. You alone should go in. Keep a sharp look out and remove all traces of anything suspicious that may be lurking there.'

Frowning in thought for a few moments he went on, ‘It is not seemly that the remains of a daughter-in-law of this house be sent for a post mortem. Have a coroner's court set up in this house and see that a verdict of natural death is given.' He shut his eyes as if in weariness, then opening them again he went on, ‘No newspaper, Indian or English, national or international, must be allowed to carry the news. Call a meeting of all the editors and make my wishes known to them. All this will cost money but that is of no consideration. Take a thousand rupees from the khazanchi khana for the present. You may submit the accounts later. May the blessings of the All Merciful Param Brahma be with you! Go!'

It took four sturdy men servants over an hour to break open the door which was of solid mahogany. When it gave way, at last, Kishori asked everyone who stood about it to leave for such was the Maharshi's command. Then, stepping into the room, he got a shock. The floor was littered with fragments of glass, overturned
furniture and splotches of blood. Kadambari lay in the middle of the wreckage. Her body clad only in a silk chemise and jacket, lay on the floor twisted unnaturally, one arm sprawled out, the other resting on her breast. The soles of her long slim feet were coated with clotted blood. But her face was as luminous and tender as though bathed in moonlight and her lips were parted in a smile.

The first thing Kishori did was to pick up a sheet from the bed and cover the body. Then, casting his sharp eyes around the apartment, he noticed that the floor of the adjoining room was strewn with shreds of paper. He swept them up in his hands. He knew what they were instinctively, even without glancing at the writing. Stuffing them into his pocket he turned to the cupboard which stood wide open, the key still hanging from the keyhole. A sandalwood box with jewels spilling out of it and stared him in the face. But he felt not even a prick of temptation. Sweeping its contents back into the box he closed it and locked the cupboard. Then, he came back to the room in which the dead woman lay. There was a letter on the table. He picked it up and read it. Then, tearing it
across, he shoved the pieces into his pocket with the other fragments. The room was in a mess. He would have to sweep up the glass and wipe away the bloodstains.

Looking around for a broom he nearly jumped out of his skin. He had heard a sigh, clear and audible, and it seemed to come from the dead woman. The thought made his heart beat so fast that he thought it would burst. He didn't want to look in her direction but something, he didn't know what, impelled him from within. Kadambari lay in the same position but now her eyes were open. Hard and glittering like jewels they stared steadfastly into his. It was only for a few seconds, then the lids fell over her eyes once more. Sweat streamed down Kishori's face and neck. Trembling like a leaf he sank to his knees on the floor. Picking up her hand he examined her pulse. It was feeble, very feeble, but not gone. She was alive.

Now everything changed swiftly. Kadambari was lifted from the floor and laid on the bed. Her sisters-in-law washed and tended her. And the best doctors of the city were sent for—Indian as well as English. A messenger was despatched with the utmost haste to the
Sarojini
and Jyotirindranath and his entourage came rushing back to Jorasanko.

Kadambari lay in a deep coma, the doctors battling for her life. She never knew that her two dearest ones were by her side through day and night. And then, two days later, she drew her last breath.

Kishori had made all the arrangements with his habitual sagacity. A coroner's court had been set up in the house with the magistrate, a chemical examiner and a couple of clerks in attendance. They were treated to excellent food ordered from an English hotel and the finest of wines and liquors. Satisfied, they went away certifying her death as owing to natural causes.

The cremation was to be performed according to Brahmo rites by Hemchandra Vidyaratna. Vast quantities of sandalwood, incense and pure ghee were sent for in conformity with the status of the deceased. But who would light the pyre? Kadambari was childless and her husband was prostrated with shock. He hadn't been able to come for her because the tide had run out. Some of his guests had suggested that she be brought by road but it had become too late for that. Had he known that she would take his breach of promise so much to heart he would have surely come for her. Resolving to bring her the very next day he had flung himself into the celebrations. He felt overwhelmed with guilt every time he remembered that he had been singing and laughing and enjoying himself the very moment that his wife was taking her own life. He was so distraught that Gyanadanandini, fearing for his mental and physical health, took him away from Jorasanko to her own house even before the cremation.

As for Robi—he was too dazed by what had happened to feel sorrow or pain. He saw Kadambari's body being laid out on the bier. He watched his nephew Dipu light the pyre. The smoke from the leaping flames stung his eyes and the combined odours of burning wood, incense and ghee assailed his nostrils but he felt nothing. After the cremation, through the days of mandatory mourning, he sat on a reed mat, hour after hour, his back resting against a wall, his eyes hard and dry. And all the while he thought of the days he had spent with his Natun Bouthan in Moran's villa in Chandannagar. A series of images flashed before his eyes—picking flowers with Natun Bouthan on bright autumn mornings; swinging together on long shadowy afternoons under a sky dark with monsoon cloud; gazing out on the river sitting
side by side in the twilight; Natun Bouthan holding his hand and gazing deep into his eyes. There had been silence between them—a silence that spoke more than words. His new book
Prakritir Pratishodh
was coming out in a few days. Would he have time to add a new lyric?
Mori lo mori amai banshi té dékéchhé ké.
He might have to alter the text a little. But would he have the time?

Robi sat up with a jerk. His limbs quivered with shock at the realization that he had started thinking of other things. And that before Kadambari's ashes had barely cooled. He was already planning his new book. How could he have done that?

And now, the hot tears, so long unshed, coursed down Robi's cheeks.

That night Bharat brought Bhumisuta back to Bhabanipur. They had left the house at dusk and returned after midnight. Bharat had anticipated a lot of trouble. They would be denied entrance—he was sure of that. But he was determined to stand his ground. He was Shashibhushan's guest and he would leave the house only on Shashibhushan's command. If Bhumisuta was thrown out he would keep her with him in his own room. But, by a strange coincidence, his fears turned out to be without foundation. Shashibhushan had arrived suddenly that very night and all the members of the household were so busy buzzing around him that they failed to note their absence. Bhumisuta slipped quietly into her own room and so did Bharat. Without knowing it, Shashibhushan had saved Bharat once again.

It had suddenly dawned on Birchandra Manikya that many of the native rajas, Raja of Mysore, Jaipur and Patiala among them, had their own mansions in Calcutta. It was but right that the Maharaja of Tripura have one too. His young queen was bored in the palace of Agartala and was clamouring to see the sights of the premier city of which she had heard so much. Besides, the monsoon months were hot and sticky in Tripura and brought on various disorders of the spleen and stomach. The Maharaja had suffered several bouts of sickness and had been advised by his physicians to try a change of scene and climate. The English doctors of Calcutta, he had heard, had eradicated malaria and controlled cholera and other enteric fevers. If he had a place of his own in the city he could spend the monsoon months, each year, away from Tripura. So Shashibhushan was despatched post haste to look for a suitable house and have it fitted up with furniture and servants in preparation for the royal visit.

From the next day onwards Shashibhushan spent his mornings looking for a house, Bharat accompanying him everywhere he went. Returning home they had their noon meal together in Krishnabhamini's apartment—the two being served
side by side as if they were brothers. Bharat was surprised at this elevation in his status. He did not know that Manibhushan was planning to touch his brother for a loan and couldn't afford to displease him by treating Bharat in a cavalier fashion. Now that he had easy access to the inner apartments he came across Bhumisuta often. Though he rarely spoke to her he never failed to note the pallor of her cheeks and the sadness in her eyes. And his determination to look after her grew in intensity.

After several days of search a house was eventually found—a large mansion standing on one and a half acres of ground in Circular Road. It had a well laid out garden with some fine old trees and was surrounded by high stone walls. The house had two storeys with two separate wings. This was as it should be for the Maharaja was coming with his wife and would need an andar mahal for his privacy. The front wing had six rooms. Here Shashibhushan would take up residence, permanently, for such was the king's command. One of the rooms would be fitted up as an office. The inner wing was much grander. It had verandas on all three sides, floors of Italian marble and glass windows with wooden shutters.

Shashibhushan and Bharat went from room to room then came up to the roof. On one side lay a vast track of marshy land with stretches of water gleaming between clumps of reeds and mangroves. Some fishermen could be seen dragging a heavy net out of the still brown waters. On the other side were rice fields emerald green in the morning sun. Facing them were the dwellings of the fashionable rich—tall three-storeyed mansions set in landscaped gardens.

‘Bharat,' Shashibhushan put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Now we need to look for a place for you.'

‘For me! Shan't I be staying here with you?'

‘Have you taken leave of your senses? I don't want you within miles of anyone from Tripura. Someone might recognize you and inform the Maharaja. And then—' Shashibhushan laughed ruefully and continued, ‘I mean to get you out of the house in Bhabanipur. You won't be safe there. One can never tell with the Maharaja. He might walk in, without prior notice, upon a whim.'

‘When he does that I'll hide—'

‘That may not be possible every time. He may catch you
unawares. Why don't you rent a room in Shyambazar? He'll never get that far.' Then, seeing the stricken look on Bharat's face, he added hastily, ‘You needn't worry about the expense. I'll look after all that. Concentrate on your studies and leave everything else to me.'

The proposal was excellent. Bharat would have a place of his own for the first time in his life. He would be independent. His friends could visit him freely. And he could live as he pleased. Yet Bharat's heart sank at the thought. If he left Bhabanipur what would become of Bhumisuta?

After some search a place was found. Two small rooms with an adjoining terrace over a godown stocked with spices was rented for him in Hari Ghosh Lane—one of the smaller lanes that meandered out of Beadon Street. The area was respectable and the rent only eight rupees. Shashibhushan even found a servant for him—a young man named Mahim who had worked for the previous tenants. Everything was arranged quickly and efficiently and Bharat was instructed to pack his things and leave in a couple of days.

Bharat obeyed but with a heavy heart. He had promised Bhumisuta that he would look after her and he was abandoning her. What was worse, he hadn't even told her he was leaving. She would think him a liar and a cheat and she would be justified in doing so.

Bharat hung about Krishnabhamini's apartment hoping to get a few moments alone with Bhumisuta. He paced up and down the veranda outside his room in order to catch her on her way up to the roof. But Shashibhushan's presence in the house had added to her duties and she had no time for herself. And, then, on the day of his departure he got his chance. Returning from college that evening he saw a palki waiting at the gate. It being the night of a lunar eclipse one of the mistresses was going for her ritual dip in the Ganga. Presently three women, heavily veiled, came walking out of the house. He couldn't see their faces but he could swear that one of them was Bhumisuta. ‘Bhumi!' he called out in his desperation. Startled, she turned her head towards him but only for a few seconds. Then, hurrying, she stepped into the palki. But in that brief instant Bharat raised his hand as if to say, ‘I am with you Bhumi. However far I may go I shall always be there for
you.' But he couldn't tell if Bhumisuta understood.

Bharat left the next day his heart heavy with guilt. How could he have done this to Bhumisuta? He was a fraud and a coward. He should have made his feelings public. He should have taken Bhumisuta away by force if necessary. He should have kept her with him; looked after her. But how? Shashibhushan would never allow it. And he was dependent on Shashibhushan.

It took Bharat about a month to settle down in his new lodgings, Shyambazar lay to the north, in a much older part of the city. In comparison with Bhabanipur the streets here were narrow and heavily congested with pedestrians and traffic and the houses stood packed together in close proximity. The atmosphere was informal and congenial. The men called out to their neighbours in greeting and stopped to spend the time of day while passing one another in the street. Women leaned out of their windows and exchanged gossip and news. Everyone knew what was being cooked in their neighbours' kitchens, the maladies their babies were suffering from and the problems they had with their maids and servants. Bharat looked on interestedly from his veranda each morning on the streams of people who passed up and down—pedlars hawking milk, fish, fruit and vegetables in strange sing-song voices; women with head loads knocking on doors, offering
alta,
sindoor, bangles, saris and ribbons.

But even as the days flew by, Bharat was unable to rid himself of his sense of guilt with regard to Bhumisuta. Now, all his hopes of meeting her and begging her for her forgiveness were gone, for he had heard from Shashibhushan, who had visited him once, that Bhumisuta had been removed from Bhabanipur and was how employed as a maid in the mansion at Circular Road. That meant he would never see her again. What was worse, she was in greater danger then ever. Suhasini, in an effort to remove her from her husband's proximity, had thrown her from the frying pan into the fire. The Maharaja's mansion was a lion's den with himself as the most powerful and ferocious of all the animals that lurked there. The Maharaja appreciated beauty and talent in women. He was sure to notice Bhumisuta and then who could stop him from taking her as his kachhua? Certainly not Bhumisuta herself. What power could the poor girl wield against the selfish, tyrannical king? Every time he thought of Bhumisuta
in the Maharaja's bed-chamber his blood boiled with fury. And his inability, to protect her stung him like a thousand scorpions.

Bharat was too overwrought these days to concentrate on his studies. He turned the pages of his books without taking in a word and wondered why he was wasting his time with them. What he needed was not a college degree but a means of making a living. For a man was not a man while he depended on another.

One evening Bharat sat in his kitchen making tea. Mahim had disappeared a few days ago with Bharat's savings and a couple of vessels and Bharat had decided not to employ another servant. He drank a lot of tea these days. It helped to keep him awake and it also dulled the appetite.

Placing the kettle on the blazing wood he put in the tea leaves, milk and sugar and waited for the mixture to boil. Then he strained it over a piece of rag into a glass. The kettle was large enough to make three glasses at a time. As he was pouring out his second glass he heard a sound; a thud as of something falling from a height. Turning around he got the shock of his life for standing at the door, partly concealed by the shadows, was a man. Bharat hadn't lit the lantern for it wasn't quite dark yet and the light coming in from the gas lamp in the street was enough to work by. ‘Who? Who's that?' Bharat cried, his voice faint and trembling a little.

‘Namaskar
go
Dada. Namaskar,' the man came forward grinning amicably. ‘I caught the smell of your tea and couldn't resist the urge to have a few sips.' Bharat stared at him. He was fairly young with a tall gaunt body and a long nose sticking out of a thin bony face. His head was shaven in front and a thick
shikha
sprang up from behind. He wore neither vest nor shirt. A fold of his frayed dhuti was wrapped around his chest and shoulders. Bharat breathed a sigh of relief. If he wasn't a ghost Bharat had nothing to fear. He could fell the weak, malnourished body to the ground in a few seconds. ‘
Ki go
Dada!' the man laughed, ‘Did I frighten you?'

‘N-no . . .' Bharat stammered. ‘How did you get here?'

‘I live next door. Our roofs touch one another.'

‘But this house doesn't have a roof.'

‘Can a house be built without a roof? What you mean is there are no stairs to your roof. But there are footholds and I can climb
like a cat. I used to come to this house often when Nitai Babu lived here. I called his wife Bara Mami, However, all that is of no consequence. Won't you offer me some tea?'

Bharat lit his lantern and poured out a glass of tea for his guest. Cradling it in both hands the man drank great gulps from it with noises of relish, talking all the while. ‘My name is Bani Binod Bhattacharya. My grandfather named me Bani Binod. My neighbours call me Ghanta Bhatta and look down on me because I'm a priest by profession. If they could see the respect I get from my
jajamans
!
Rich, fat Kayastha
kartas
touch my feet in veneration. There's a Basak family in Shobha bazar, very wealthy, where the
ginni
washes my feet with her own hands and drinks the water. Can I have another glass? Do you know that I can't get a drop of tea in my own house? My wife refuses to make it. She says it's a
mlechha
drink . . .'

This was on the first day. After that Bani Binod came often and sat with Bharat in his kitchen chatting and drinking tea. Gradually Bharat came to know all about him. Though less than thirty years old he had two wives and seven children already. His first wife lived with her four children in Halisahar. His second wife was here with him in Calcutta. He hadn't much learning. His Sanskrit was faulty but he had a few rich
jajamans
nevertheless. With his sharp features, fair complexion, long
shikha
and thick white
poité,
he was quite impressive looking and had access to the women's quarters of several distinguished houses of Calcutta. The family priest was the one male with whom women from even the most conservative families could talk freely, for they had to assist him in his work. They picked flowers and bel leaves, washed the vessels, prepared the sandal paste and sat by while he recited his mantras. Bani Binod knew a lot about what went on in the inner quarters of wealthy families—gossip which he shared freely with Bharat. In such families the men often kept mistresses and spent the nights away from their wives. Bored and unhappy, these women formed relationships—with cousins, brothers-in-law and even friends of their husbands. And they used the family priest as their go-between, paying him handsomely for his services. This, according to Bani Binod, brought him more money than his appointed salary. Without it, in fact, he would have difficulty feeding his family.

When Bharat heard this he had an idea. ‘Bhattacharaya Moshai!' he said, ‘Many rajas and maharajas have taken up residence in Calcutta. Why don't you work for one of them?'

‘I would jump at it if I got the chance. But why should a maharaja employ me? The city is full of priests—far more learned than me. They come buzzing like flies at the smell of a job. Why, last Thursday they were feeding Brahmins in Rani Rasmoni's house in Janbazar. I went in the hope of a good bellyful and a gift. But what I saw there made my head reel!
Oré baap ré
!
About a thousand Brahmins were sitting in rows waiting to be served. The competition is getting tougher everyday. Soon I'll have to starve with my wives and children—'