First Light (33 page)

‘Why?' Bharat was startled by the passion in Jadu's voice, ‘What has he done?'

There was no answer. Jadu seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. ‘Haramohan was the performing priest in my grandmother's house,' he said after a few minutes. ‘He had a daughter of about seven or eight whom he would bring with him quite often. She was a beautiful girl and to hear her talk was like listening to music. But she had strange spells from time to time. She would stop still wherever she was and, fixing her eyes on a tree or a stretch of water, she would mutter to herself. Many of the things she said at those times actually came to pass. People said she wasn't quite right in the head. But that wasn't true—as I realize now. The truth is that she had a lot more imagination and insight than ordinary people. My grandmother recognized this quality in her. She wanted to keep her in the house and give her an education. But Haramohan would not allow it. He believed his
daughter to be abnormal and was anxious to give her away in marriage before people found out. Dwarika used to come up here with me on holidays the way you've come this time. On one of his visits he saw the girl. She was eleven years old at the time and a radiant beauty. Dwarika was so charmed he wanted to marry her but Haramohan rejected his offer.'

‘Dwarika wanted to marry her!' Bharat exclaimed. ‘Why didn't her father agree?'

‘He had promised her to an old man who held a mortgage on some of his property. Dwarika was a poor boy then. Haramohan turned down his request on the pretext that he was a Bhanga Kulin and therefore unfit to wed his daughter.' Jadugopal shook his head sadly and went on, ‘The girl's name was Basanti. “Basi,” I said to her one day, “You can look into the future. You've said so many things that have actually come to pass. Can you see what's before you? Do you think you'll be happy?” Basanti stood still at my words. Her eyes, fixed on a clump of marigolds, glazed over. “I shall float away over the river,” she murmured. “I shall be carried from this Ganga to another Ganga—wider, fuller and more turbulent . . .” And that is exactly what happened. The old man died within two years of the marriage. You know how widows are treated in this country. Particularly when they are young and beautiful. They are banished to Kashi or they fall victim to human predators who use them for a time then abandon them when the charm wears off. Basi passed through several hands before she ended up in the red light area of Calcutta—a city by the bank of a wider, fuller, more turbulent Ganga!'

‘Why didn't you stop the marriage?'

‘How could I? There's no law in the country that punishes a father for victimizing his daughter. You know why I went there today? I wanted to tell him that his daughter is a prostitute in Hadhkatar Gali. I wanted to see the look on his face. But, somehow, I couldn't bring myself to do it.' Bharat had been staring at Jadugopal all this while. Now he asked in a wondering voice, is her real name Basantamanjari?' Then, when Jadugopal nodded in affirmation, he murmured. ‘Dwarika keeps her—in a house in Hadhkatar Gali. Did you know that Jadu?'

‘Yes,' Jadugopal murmured. ‘He took you with him one night. I know that too. Isn't it a pity, Bharat, that they've come
together at last but only in sin?'

‘Can't they marry? Even now?'

‘How can they?'

That evening Bharat took a decision. He would return to Calcutta as soon as he could. He had to get back to Bhumisuta. She would suffer the same fate as Basantamanjari if he didn't save her from the king's clutches. Dwarika had failed Basantamanjari. But Bharat wouldn't fail Bhumisuta.

Swarnakumari Devi had taken charge of
Bharati
and changed its entire character. She had a strong personality and acted on her own inclinations dismissing the advice of others. The immediate effect of the journal passing from Jyotirindra's hands to hers was a marked decline in Robi's contributions. Robi sensed, instinctively, that his sister did not think much of his creative abilities. At the literary meetings held in her house, which Robi attended from time to time, he found himself at the periphery. Swarnakumari dominated the scene and occupied the position of honour.

Swarnakumari's house was permeated with the breath not only of literature but of politics. Her husband Janakinath Ghoshal was an enthusiastic supporter of all his wife's cultural endeavours but his own inclination was towards politics. The term Indian National Congress was being bandied about more and more but few knew precisely what it was or how it had come into being. Janakinath hadn't enrolled himself as member but he had attended its first meeting in Bombay quite recently.

The unrest following Surendranath Bandopadhyay's arrest hadn't quite died down and the student community was straining at the leash to become part of a larger movement. Their heroes, Surendranath and Anandamohan Bosu, were travelling extensively all over India trying to bring the people together. Meeting leaders of various parties in the different provinces they endeavoured to integrate them into a homogeneous whole. The Indian Association, whose members came from the upper middle class and from the intellectual community of Calcutta, was drawn in. There were two other associations—the British Indian Association of the industrialists and zamindars of Calcutta and the Central Muhammedan Association of the Muslims. Surendranath realized that a sense of nationalization could be aroused in his countrymen only if all these groups could be merged and given a common identity. It was thus that the Indian
National Congress was formed and two meetings had already been held—one in Bombay and the other in Poona.

Robi gathered all this information from his brother-in-law but it left him unimpressed. It seemed to him that the leaders of the Congress were only interested in displaying their superior English education in fiery speeches. They were not addressing themselves to the real problems of the country. The pleas of the Congress leaders for an extension of the age limit for the Civil Service Examination and their insistence that a centre be opened in India seemed, to Robi, to be ridiculously out of context. These advantages, if acquired would benefit only the tiniest fraction of the nation. What use were they to the common man? He hated the way his countrymen were always begging the rulers for something or the other. When would they acquire some self respect?

The great educationist and reformer of yesteryears Ishwafchandra Vidyasagar was of the same opinion. Soon after the party was founded some Congress leaders had requested him to join them. He had given them a patient hearing then asked with his usual candour,
‘Bapu hé
! Are you prepared to cross swords with the British for the independence of your country?' The men had glanced at one another in dismay. What kind of traitorous talk was this? Who had said anything about independence and crossing swords? Smiling at their discomfiture Vidyasagar had said, ‘Leave me out of it then and do what you have to do.' When the men had left he had muttered to himself disdainfully, ‘Congress! Leaders of the nation! Will big talk and fiery gestures save the country? What good is politics in a land where thousands starve to death every day?'

Robi, of course, was not in favour of taking up arms against the British. He knew that Indians could never do what the Irish were doing. Aggression, of any kind, went against the grain of the Indian people. What they needed was a sense of self respect and that could only be obtained through the achievements of some of their own people. Robi was a writer. It was his duty to address himself to his writing with all the devotion he was capable of. And, if in the process, it became good enough to instil a sense of pride in his countrymen it would be a job well done.

But, travelling through the small towns and villages of Bengal
as he was doing quite extensively as secretary of the Brahmo Samaj, Robi's views were changing. Everywhere he went he found his countrymen reeling under the pressure of poverty and ignorance. Famines were endemic in the country. Only a short while ago the districts of Birbhum and Bankura were devastated by a terrible famine. Passing through these areas Robi's heart was wrenched with pain. He realized, as never before, that it was not enough to write about the sufferings of the poor. Action was necessary. And he tried to do all he could. He offered to settle the famine ridden in the newly-acquired estate of the Thakurs in Sunderban. Each family would be given a plot of land and farming implements free of cost. Their housing would also be taken care of. But the Bengalis are a peculiar race. They would rather bite the dust of their ancestral villages and stare death in the face than move out and start a new and better life. Rani Swarnamayee Devi had the same experience as Robi. Moved by the sufferings of the peasants of Birbhum she opened public kitchens in her state of Kasimbazar and kept them in readiness to feed up to two thousand people a day. But hardly anyone came. And this was after travelling expenses had been offered them by the Rani. Looking on their starved, pinched faces and hearing their repeated pleas for ‘a little rice water' Robi understood, as never before, what a terrible opponent hunger was. Unlike other forms of suffering which rendered a man finer and stronger, hunger devastated him, robbing him of his humanity and bringing him down to the level of an insect. He saw another thing for the first time—the amount of food that was wasted in households such as his. The sight of mounds of rice and vegetables and baskets full of luchi being thrown out on the streets after a wedding or thread ceremony was so common in Calcutta that it made not even a dent on anyone's consciences. It appalled Robi to think that the same people who lived lives of such opulence and indulgence were the ones who were weeping copious tears on the fate of the poor and deprived. Politics was such a dirty game and bred hypocrites so easily!

After his near banishment from the realms of
Bharati
by his sister, Robi directed all his energies on
Balak
—a periodical started by Gyanadanandini Devi. Along with the task of contributing a large member of articles a lot of the editorial
responsibility also passed into his hands. Robi enjoyed going to Gyanadanandini's house. His niece Bibi loved him deeply and couldn't pass a single day without seeing her Robi Ka. She had turned thirteen now and was growing lovelier and lovelier every day. She was a meritorious student too and had a fine singing voice. She still wore skirts at times and behaved like a child particularly with Robi. She had
a
number of nicknames for him of which one was Buji. She would fling her arms around him the moment he arrived with cries of ‘Buji! Buji! Where have you been all this time?'

Of late Robi had started taking her along with him to his literary meetings. And, wherever she went, Bibi became the cynosure of all eyes. People stared, fascinated, at her dazzling beauty, grace and elegance. The girls from the house of Jorasanko were renowned for their beauty and charm but this one seemed to outstrip them all. Unlike others from the first families of Calcutta, the Thakur girls were not being given away in marriage before they attained puberty. Swarnakumari Devi's daughter had passed her Entrance but her parents weren't even thinking of a suitable match. Another of Robi's neices, Pratibha, a girl of extraordinary beauty and talent, was twenty and still unwed. Robi had turned matchmaker these days. He wanted his friend the barrister Ashu Choudhury to marry her.

Bibi and Mrinalini were of the same age but Mrinalini was no companion to Robi. She was shy and retiring by nature and preferred staying within the confines of her father-in-law's house to going out with her husband. In consequence, she was totally unknown outside the family. But Robi's nights with her were tender and pleasant and between them Bibi and Mrinalini kept Robi floating on a sea of bliss. Kadambari's memory had almost faded, only appearing in fits and starts in his poetry.

One night Robi had a strange dream. He had been returning by train from Deoghar where he had gone on a visit to his father's closest friend Rajnarayan Bosu. The latter had been seriously ill and it was a duty visit. But Robi had enjoyed his few days in Deoghar. His host was a charming old man and had entertained Robi with lively stories about the old days. Michael Madhusudhan Datta had been a class friend of Rajnarayan Bosu's in Hindu College and, although Robi did not think much
of Michael's poetry, he enjoyed listening to the anecdotes of which the old man had a goodly stock. ‘Madhu had a very dark complexion,' Rajnarayan said wagging his snowy beard, ‘and a voice that cracked easily. If anyone referred to the fact he invariably said, “I may be a voiceless cuckoo but at least I'm not a white duck and I don't quack.” Madhu had turned native in his old age. If anybody, from old habit, called him
Saheb
he said, “
Ohé
I happen to have a mirror in my house and I can see my colour for myself. I'm not a saheb and will never become one except perhaps in the hereafter.”'

Seeing that his host's condition had improved considerably, Robi left Deoghar and returned to Calcutta. After getting into the train he climbed up to his upper berth in a second class compartment and prepared to go to sleep. But one of the lamps was right above his head and shone uncomfortably into his eyes. Putting out a hand he clicked the cover in place. There was an immediate reaction from some Anglo-Indian passengers in the compartment. They had been drinking all this while and talking in loud excited voices. Now one of them strode purposefully up to the lamp and, glaring balefully at Robi, clicked the cover open. The others rose to their feet and started flexing their muscles. Robi knew that they were getting ready for a fight. Sun-heated sand, he thought whimsically, was hotter than the sun itself. Robi returned the man's stare for a few seconds then turned his eyes away. He wanted to blot the man's face from his consciousness; wipe out the ugly compartment in which he was trapped with these drunken beasts. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep but sleep would not come. He tried to think of a plot for a story. Mental exercise of this kind always soothed his nerves and calmed his spirit. But that night his mind was in a whirl and would not focus on anything. He tossed and turned on his bunk for some hours then drifted into a fitful slumber. And, then, he dreamed a strange dream. He saw a man standing outside a temple holding a little girl by the hand. They were both staring at a stream of dark fluid trickling from the door of the temple down to the steps where they stood.

Suddenly the girl gave an agonized cry, it's blood! Blood!' The man tried to pull her away but she kept on crying in a frightened voice, ‘But it's blood! It's blood!' Robi woke up with a
start. What was the meaning of this dream? He suddenly remembered something he had seen many years ago. He had been passing by the Kali temple at Thanthan. A goat had been slaughtered before the goddess and the blood was pouring out, over the threshold and on to the steps. Even as Robi watched in horror a low-caste woman bent down in reverence and, dipping her forefinger in the sacrificial blood, marked her infant's forehead with it. Robi shivered as he remembered the scene.

Returning to Calcutta Robi started writing
Rajarshi,
a historical novel depicting the life and times of Maharaja Gobindamanikya of the royal dynasty of Tripura.
Rajarshi
started appearing in serial form in
Balak.

One day Gyanadanandini said to him, ‘I've decided to put an end to Mrinalini's education. There's no sense in wasting money on her fees.' Robi felt somewhat peeved. ‘Why?' he asked defensively. He knew Mrinalini was not very keen on her studies. But surely that was no reason for putting an end to them. One had to go on trying. ‘It's better for her to stay at home,' Gyanadanandini laughed and flashed her eyes at her brother-in-law. ‘She shouldn't move about too much in her present condition. What if she feels unwell in school?'

‘Feels unwell!' Robi exclaimed, starded. ‘Why, what is wrong with her?'

‘As if you don't know.' Gyanadanandini laughed once again. ‘I don't,' Robi said. There was a trace of anxiety in his voice. ‘I really don't. No one told me she was ill.'

‘What an innocent little boy he is!' Gyanadanandini leaned forward and pinched Robi's cheeks. ‘You're about to become a father. Don't you understand?' Seeing the blood rush to Robi's face in embarassment she added kindly, ‘Take your wife away somewhere for a change of air Robi. It will do her good.'

But fate was against poor Mrinalini. Before Robi could make any plans news came from Bombay that his father was seriously ill. Debendranath had been spending the last few years either in the hills or by the sea. Looking out of the window from his sick bed he had hoped that this illness would be his last and that his soul would float away over the vast expanse of water to be merged with the Eternal and the Infinite. But that was not to be. Robi arrived at his father's Bandra residence to find him
considerably better and after a few days Debendranath left for Calcutta. Robi did not accompany him. Instead, he accepted his brother Satyendranath's invitation to spend a few days in Nasik where the latter was posted.

Once in Nasik he felt overwhelmed with remorse. Why hadn't he thought of bringing Mrinalini? Mrinalini was nurturing his unborn child with her life blood. Who knew what she was going through? Poor girl! She asked for nothing and received nothing. He had never taken her out with him except for one brief visit to Sholapur where Satyendranath had been posted. And this time he had come away in such a hurry that he hadn't even exchanged a few words with her before leaving Calcutta. The more he thought of his young wife the more he missed her. He remembered their days together in Sholapur. They had been alone for hours together, every day, for the first time and it was there, in Sholapur, that they had consummated their marriage. It had been a wild rainy afternoon and they had loved each other with all the frenzy and passion of youth. Shutting his eyes he could still feel her warm young body throbbing against his.