First Light (29 page)

‘I'm being doubly entertained Moshai! By Girish Ghosh and by you. Can you blame me if I'm unable to hide my delight?'

At the end of the first act, when the curtain had descended for a brief interval, a man came huffing and puffing up to Mahendralal. ‘Would you come to the green room for a moment Daktar Babu,' he whispered urgently. Mahendralal rose to his feet instantly and followed him. As soon as they were out of earshot the man hissed in his ear, ‘Binod has fainted Daktar Babu. She came tottering out of the stage after the
Hari Bol
sequence and fell down in a heap. We'll have to stop the play if you can't revive her in a few minutes.'

‘But I haven't brought my box of medicines,' Mahendralal exclaimed. ‘And the shops
must have shut by now. It's past eleven o' clock.' Then, seeing the stricken look on the man's face, he added quickly, ‘Take me to her, anyway, and let me see what I can do.'

Binodini lay in a dark passage behind the stage her head cradled in the lap of a white man in a cassock whom Mahendralal recognized instantly as Father Lafon. Binodini's cheeks were pale and marked with tears. Her hair spilled out of the priest's lap and fell to the floor in rich curls as he massaged her head vigorously with long white fingers. Lying like that she looked young and vulnerable and every inch a woman. Even as the eyes of the two men met Binodini's lips
trembled into life. ‘Ha Krishna! Ha Krishna!' she muttered. Mahendralal smiled wryly. The crisis was over. Father Lafon had done whatever there was to be done
and his presence was not required. He knew what had gone wrong of course. The girl had pitched her emotions too high and had cracked under the strain. Anyway, she would recover very soon now and the play could go on.

‘What happened? Was someone taken ill?' Shashibhushan enquired as soon as he had returned to his seat.

‘If every little whore from the back alleys forgets she is Khendi or Penchi and starts believing she's truly the queen or goddess she's enacting—it poses a problem, does it not? The theatre is an artificial world, all glitter and no gold, and actors and actresses cannot afford to forget the fact.' Taking a breath he continued with his characteristic forcefulness, ‘Tell me. Why are all these people weeping and beating their breasts for a glimpse of Krishna? What can he do for them even if he does appear in their midst? Can he cure their illnesses? Or feed their wives and children?'

‘You're a practical man and you talk of worldly things. But in this play Girish Ghosh has tried to instill other feelings—'

‘What other feelings?'

‘Well! Detachment from worldly desire and . . . and a passion for realizing God. And he has succeeded as you can see.'

Mahendralal craned his neck to get a better view of the audience, then snorted his disgust and disbelief. ‘Detachment from worldly desire indeed! The people you see here wouldn't give a copper coin to a beggar if he saw him starving in the streets. They are the ones who kick their servants about and treat them like slaves and come to blows with their neighbours over an inch of land. And look at them now—sighing and snivelling. The hypocrites!'

‘Don't you like the play at all sir?'

Mahendralal seemed taken aback by the question. He rubbed his nose and said almost shyly, ‘The songs are truly melodious. And I must admit, the girl, Binodini I mean, is a great artist. She has kept the audience in thrall ever since she stepped on the stage. Do you know Shashi? I'm not religious in the least. I don't believe in gods and goddesses and I despise those who do. In fact, they make me vomit! Yet, whenever I hear good music, religious or otherwise, I feel my heart twisting with the strangest sensations. There's a sort of pain and also . . . also . . . a wild ecstasy. I can't
explain it. All I can say
is
that Girish is wonderful. Oof!'

The playgoers refused to leave even after the play was over. ‘Encore! Encore!' they shouted clamouring to see Binodini. She had appeared before them twice already but they kept calling. To prevent the frenzied
men from mobbing her, the guards formed a ring around the stage that left
the rabble out but not the wealthy and the powerful—rajas, zamindars and rich babus on whose patronship the company depended. These men insisted on seeing Binodini and showing themselves to her and had to be allowed entrance. Strangest of all, the shaven-headed,
shikha
-waving pandits from Nabadweep too expressed a desire to see Binodini and give her their blessings.

Up in his box Ramkrishna sat as still as a statue even after the play was over. His eyes were shut as if in a trance. ‘Thakur!' his followers prompted
softly. ‘The play is over. It's time to go home.'

‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!' Ramkrishna opened his eyes. They were glistening with tears. Suddenly he stood up ‘Sri Gouranga!' he cried, ‘Take me to Sri Gouranga!
Ogo.
I want to go to Him.'

He hurried out of the door, his disciples running after him trying to stop
him. Ignoring them he ran down the steps weaving his way in and out of the press of people till
he came to the stage, crying, ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!' all the while. The guards did not know him but, for some reason, they allowed him to pass.

Inside, Binodini sat on a stool surrounded by her admirers. She was weary to the bone and her limbs trembled from exhaustion. A little distance away Amritalal Bosu sat drinking brandy and snapping every time someone came to inform him about the presence of some great man in the theatre ‘
Ja! Ja
!' he cried dismissively. ‘Actors are drunks and actresses are whores! Haven't they being saying that all these years? What's happened to them now? Now they are crying all over us. But they won't be the only ones. We'll take the play to the suburbs and villages through the length and breadth of Bengal. We'll make all the bastards cry—'

‘Ramkrishna Thakur is here,' a man said, ‘The priest from Dakshineswar. Won't you go to him?'

‘What do I care for priests? Or for gods or goddesses? I'm no devotee. If he's here, he's here. It has nothing to me. I'm a lecher
and a drunk. And an outcaste from society. All decent people look down their noses at me—

Even as he spoke Ramkrishna came hurrying on to the stage crying ‘
Gour Hari! Gour Hari!'
Binodini saw him and rose to her feet. She was a prostitute, unchaste and impure. Touching the feet of a sadhak was a privilege denied to her. She folded her hands and lowered her head over them in reverence. But Ramkrishna ran towards her. His eyes were glazed and his voice cracked with emotion, as calling out ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!' he flung himself at her feet. The disciples, who were out of patience with their guru already, couldn't bear this last, monstrous aberration; He who was Paramhansa; he who never touched his own father's feet had prostrated himself before a depraved creature—a loose, immoral woman, a whore! Hauling him roughly to his feet they cried out, ‘What are you doing Thakur?'

That brought him to his senses. Looking into Binodini's face he realized that he had made a mistake. The one at whose feet he had knocked his head was not Sri Chaitanya. It was a woman. The knot of hair on the top of her head had come loose and rich dark tendrils crept down her neck and shoulders. Her painted cheeks were streaked with black from the eyebrows which had been darkened with kajal and were now beaded over with sweat. She was weeping as if her heart would break.

‘Prabhu,' she cried as she wept. ‘Will you not give me your blessing?' Ramkrishna smiled. Placing both his hands on her head he said softly, ‘May Chaitanya be yours.' Then, as he prepared to depart, someone asked, ‘What was the play like Thakur?'

Ramkrishna laughed. It was his normal high-pitched laugh, ‘I saw the true and the false as one and the same,' he answered.

Mahendralal and Shashibhushan stepped aside to let him pass. As he did so Shashibhushan whispered in his companion's ear. ‘That was Ramkrishna—the Kali sadhak from Dakshineswar.'

‘Hunh!' Mahendralal grunted indifferently.

‘I've never seen him before. People say he is an avatar.' ‘That's nonsense! How can a man be an avatar? He was born from a woman's womb, was he not? He feels hunger and thirst and the pains of the flesh, does he not? And I'm sure he yearns for sexual gratification as we all do—' Frowning a little, he added
after a few moments, ‘Yet, there's something in his face that
is different. I can't put my finger on it but he's not tike other men. I'm sure of it.' Walking up to Binodini he said to her, ‘You performed very well tonight. Girish should be proud of his training. But there's one thing you should remember. You're an actress acting a part. You're Binodini Dasi—not Nimai of Nadiya.'

Binodini, who was still
in a daze after her encounter with Ramkrishna, was brought sharply down to earth. The doctor's words, though kind, hurt her deeply. She turned her face away to hide her tears.

It was a cold windy morning in early winter. Jyotirindranath stood on the deck of his ship
Banga Lakshmi
gazing out on the Kirtan Khola river. The sky was blue and cloudless but a thin mist, rising from the water, obscured the horizon, clinging to it like a glimmering web. Jyotirindra's eyes were still heavy with sleep and he shivered a little under his expensive jamawar. The river was dotted with boats of different shapes and sizes most of them laden with grain. The land was fertile in these parts and this year the harvest had been even more bountiful than usual.

As he stood surveying the scene a boat moved rapidly over the water and stopped alongside the
Banga Lakshmi.
A man stepped out and, climbing the ship's ladder, came up on deck. He wore a dhuti of fine Farashdanga cotton with the
kachha
tucked securely in the small of his back. Over it went a coat of black china silk. ‘Good morning!' he called out heartily in English. ‘I hope I'm not disturbing you.' Puzzled though he was at this intrusion, so early in the day, Jyotirindra was his usual courteous self. Leading the man towards a chair, he enquired if he would like some tea.

‘Frankly I would be glad of a cup,' the man answered, seating himself. ‘I drink a lot of tea—up to twenty cups a day. But let me introduce myself first. I'm a lawyer and I go by the name of Abhaycharan Ghosh. My name, of course, will mean nothing to you. But you must have heard of my senior partner Pyarimohan Mukhopadhyay.' Jyotirindra's brow, till now furrowed in thought, smoothened. So that was who the man was. A lawyer. He should have guessed it from the way he was dressed. ‘I've heard of him,' he answered. ‘He's the son of Raja Jaikrishna Mukhopadhyay of Uttarpara is he not? He's a brilliant lawyer and very famous. But what can he want of me?' The man coughed delicately and averted his eyes. ‘I've seen you before,' he said avoiding a direct answer. ‘Your skin had the colour and radiance of beaten gold. Now it is burned to copper. You spend all your time on your ships. It's a hard life—one to which men from
families such as yours are not accustomed. Your health is breaking—' Then, his glance falling on Jyotirindra's face, he added quickly, ‘How much longer do you wish to run this business?'

‘What do you mean?' Jyotirindra felt himself reddening with anger at this invasion of his privacy. ‘I'll run it as long as I like.'

‘Can you do it? The shipping business is not a soft game. You're a zamindar. Collecting rents will be more in your line.' Jyotirindranath opened his month in indignant protest but the man stopped him with a gesture. ‘Just hear me out Jyoti Babu,' he pleaded. ‘I've come here on behalf of the Flotilla Company—a client of our law firm. I have a proposal which I've been instructed to place before you. The company is willing to buy you out—your ships and everything in them, tools, furniture, equipment—at a fair price. The matter can be settled in a day or two, as soon as you are ready.'

Jyotirindra's face flamed with indignation. He felt like ordering the guards to throw the man out. The dirty rascal with his glib, oily tongue had come pimping for the British! How low could his countrymen stoop? But men of his breeding did not display their feelings. He controlled himself with an effort and said quietly, ‘If a dwarf has a fancy to pluck the moon from the sky that's his problem. One cannot put a rein on fancies. But the owner of the moon may have a different idea. Kindly tell your client that I didn't buy my ships to sell them. This conversation need not go on any longer. Namaskar!'

But Abhaycharan did not take the hint. He kept sitting in his chair his mouth curled in a self-conscious smile. ‘You promised me a cup of tea,' he said. ‘So I needn't leave till I've had it. And since it will take a few minutes to arrive let me ask you a question How long can you hold out against overwhelming odds?'

‘I don't have to answer that question.'

‘It was in bad taste—amounting to probing in your personal affairs. I admit that. Let me ask you another. If the Flotilla Company were to reduce the fare by two pice they will get all your passengers. What will you do then?'

‘Reduce the fare! Why would they do that? There's not much profit in the business as it is. Why would they want to run it at a loss?'

‘To break you. Theirs is a large company with ships sailing in many parts of the world—England, Africa and other places in India. They can afford to lose a couple of lakhs here. They can easily make it up somewhere else. Their idea of doing good business is removing all obstacles and acquiring a monopoly. You're the obstacle and they'll squeeze you out even if it means incurring a loss. Then, when you're out of the picture, they can raise the fares as and when they please.'

‘They will never squeeze me out! I didn't start the business to wrap it up at a threat.'

‘Look Jyoti Babu. You're gifted and creative and you have the artist's vision. We are humble, ignorant folk and see things as they really are. The people of our country are poor; constrained to save every pie they can. Why will they pay more if they can help it? They'll abandon your ship before you have the time to blink. That's why I say it will be far better for you to sell out now while the going's good.'

Jyotirindra fixed his large dark eyes on the man's face—not in anger but in sorrow. Compassion stirred in his heart—compassion and understanding. ‘Your words imply that I dwell in an ivory tower,' he said, his voice deep and resonant and tinged with melancholy. ‘But let me tell you something. I am in close touch with the people of the land. And I know that though our rulers strike us mercilessly our backs are still unbroken. My passengers will not be fooled by the white men's wiles. They'll gladly sacrifice the two pice incentive to keep their native industry alive.' Abhaycharan shook his head. ‘I'm a Bengali too Jyoti Babu,' he said sadly. ‘And I would be glad to see you win. But the sahebs are too clever for us. Business runs in their blood. We'll never beat them.'

The Flotilla Company reduced its fare the very next day. At first the difference was not perceptible. There were plenty of passengers on Jyotirindra's ships. Jyotirindra's heart swelled with triumph. He had been proved right. His countrymen were with him. Then, after a week or so, things began to change. Jyotirindra's ships left Barisal laden with passengers but returned with a mere handful. Unlike Barisal, Khulna did not have a band of students making patriotic speeches at the ghat exhorting passengers to board the native ships. Gradually the numbers
began to dwindle even in Barisal. Passengers looked this way and that and, ducking them heads guiltily, ran towards the foreign ships. Within a month Jyotirindra's ships were going up and down practically empty while the ships of the Flotilla Company were bursting at the seams.

One day, as Jyotirindra sat booding over the disaster that had overtaken him, his manager came up and said, ‘This cannot go on any longer, sir. We'll have to do something. Why don't we reduce our fare by two pice?'

‘Two pice!' Jyotirindra thundered banging his fist angrily on the table. ‘I'll reduce it by four pice. Put up the notice this instant.'

And now a tug of war ensued the like of which had never been seen before. With the reduction in the fare the passengers abandoned the Flotilla Company and came crowding into Jyotirindra's ships. Within a few days the Flotilla Company had reduced its fare still further and Jyotirindra had followed suit. He gave orders for sweets and fruits to be distributed among the passengers and, when even that ceased to work, dhutis and saris. Travellers commuting between Khulna and Barisal had never had it so good. A four anna ticket not only took them to their destinations but took care of their breakfast as well with the added bonus of a dhuti or sari. People started travelling just for fun, the numbers swelling so greatly that Jyotirindranath was forced to employ guards who monitored the crowds and kept discipline on the ship.

Riding high on the crest of this wave of excitement Jyotirindranath was totally unprepared for the blow that fell. Caught in a violent storm, on its way to Calcutta, Jyotirindra's prized ship
Swadeshi
capsized and sank pulling down with it the entire future of the swadeshi enterprise its owner had struggled so hard to preserve. Mercifully there were no passengers on the boat. The crew managed to save their lives but the expensive cargo with which it was laden found their way to a watery grave. Jyotirindranath had sunk all his assets in the business and borrowed heavily from friends and relatives. He had been running it at a loss for the last few months. Now he found himself a pauper. Reeling under heavy debts, and broken in mind and body, Jyotirindra had to acknowledge defeat.

This time Pyarimohan Mukhopadhyay came to see him in
person. The Flotilla Company, he said, was ready to buy the rest of his ships and he would see to it, personally, that Jyotirindra got a fair price. Jyotirindra signed the contract and returned to Calcutta like a weary soldier scarred and mutilated after years of gory battle.

Avoiding Jorasanko he went straight to his Mejo Bouthan. There was a time when he would come to her house, striding in with the majesty of a prince, his face glowing with health and energy, his magnificient figure draped in silks and velvets and the finest of Cashmere shawls. Now his face was drawn and haggard, the eyes sunk deep in their sockets and his clothes hung limp and worn on his bony frame. Gyanadanandini had heard everything. She didn't ask any questions. Taking him by the hand she led him gently into the house.

From that day Jyotirindra ceased to speak except in monosyllables. He kept the door of his room locked and sat in it day after day unbathed, unshaven and muttering to himself. Bibi and Suren were shocked and frightened at the change in their uncle and took furtive peeps through the windows only to find him sitting in his chair staring at the wall or the ceiling. No one knew that, for the first time in his life, he was obsessed by thoughts of Kadambari. All through his busy life his awareness of her had been shadowy; almost elusive. Now he thought of her all the time. He remembered her tender solicitude, her grace and elegance, the beauty of her mind and spirit. Who was responsible for the way her life had ended? He asked himself the question, fairly and squarely, for the first time after her death. And, diving deep into his soul, he knew he could not be exonerated. He had taken her for granted. He had judged her wrong.

Although Jyotirindra had paid out every rupee he had received from the Flotilla Company it had not been enough to clear his debts. Now his creditors hung around Gyanadanandini's house baying for his blood. Gyanadanandini was worried on another account. Jyoti's behaviour was getting more and more abnormal every day. Was he losing his mind? There was a history of insanity in the Thakur family. Two of her brothers-in-law were not normal. Would Jyoti, her bright, beautiful, beloved Natun end up like them? She was too distressed even to weep. Her husband was away from Calcutta.

Her father-in-law had not been told anything of what had happened. To whom could she turn for advice? After some deliberation she decided to consult the famous barrister Taraknath Palit who was also their family friend.

Taraknath Palit was Satyendranath's closest friend and a man of phenomenal wealth. He had always looked upon Satyendra-nath's family as his own and treated Jyotirindranath as a younger brother. Now, at this hour of need, he truly proved himself. Calling all the creditors together he took stock of the situation. Assessing the exact amount of damages he made Jyotirindra sign a bond promising to pay back whatever he owed in easy instalments. A good amount he disbursed initially from his own pocket and stood guarantor for the rest.

But though one part of Gyanadanandini's worry was over the other remained. Jyotirindranath sat, hour after hour, sunk in gloom refusing to communicate with anyone—not even his beloved Mejo Bouthan. Taraknath, who visited them often, suggested a change of scene. A few days in Jorasanko might be good for him, he felt. After all, that was his home. He had been born there and had spent the best years of his life in that house. There he might be able to come to terms with himself and with the changes that his destiny had wrought for him.

Jyotirindranath stepped into his apartment and looked around with disinterested eyes. The mirror on the door had disappeared but everything else looked the same. He came and sat in a chair by the window. It was a hot, still afternoon and gusts of wind, warm and laden with the scent of bakul from the tree outside, came drifting in. And, sniffing that air, he was transported into the past. He saw himself lying prone on the bed writing . . . Kadambari opening her cupboard with her silver keys her slender form draped in a blue sari, her bangles jingling. And suddenly the face that had become a blur swam into view. He saw it clear and whole; the long neck, the proudly raised chin, the eyes—dark, vibrant and fringed with thick lashes—in a face that seemed cut out of marble. He knew, of course, that it was not her he saw. It was his memory of her. Memory deepened. The face came closer. And then he saw an expression on it that he couldn't fathom. It was not anger. Nor sorrow or reproach. Only a deep yearning and melancholy. The blood pounded in his heart and
great waves of it beat against his brain. That face told him, clearer than words, that he had failed her. But how? How? It was true that he had neglected her sometimes but that was only because he was busy—too busy. But he had been a good husband to her. They had had their good moments together. Sailing on the Ganga in Chandannagar; singing to her; reading out his poems and listening to her comments. Why couldn't he see her face as it used to be then—rapt and bright and suffused with love?

Jyotirindra stood up. He couldn't stay here to be haunted by that long pale face and yearning eyes. He ran down the steps shaking his head like one possessed. ‘No! No!' he cried as he ran. ‘I'll never come back here. No. Not as long as I live.'