First Light (35 page)

His tea arrived shortly afterwards but it was brought in by a middle-aged serving maid called Sushila. Shashibhushan detested her. Her teeth were black from the
mishi
she rubbed into them all the time and her hair crawled with lice. ‘Why? Where is Bhumisuta?' he asked sharply resisting the impulse to dash the tray to the ground. He wondered what had happened. Why had Bhumisuta ignored his call? ‘She's just gone for her bath,' the woman replied and went on with her usual garrulity, ‘There's something wrong with her, Babu. She didn't sleep a wink the whole night. Everytime I opened my eyes I saw her sitting with her back to the wall crying as if her heart would break. I asked her if she had a stomach ache but she didn't reply.' A cloud came over Shashibhushan's face. Was Bhumisuta ill? She certainly hadn't looked her usual neat, serene self. Or could it be that she was offended by what he had proposed? Why should she be offended? He had offered her marriage. She, who was a slave, would be elevated to the status of a daughter-in-law of the Singhas. Her children would carry the family name. Was he too old? Shashibhushan rose and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. The face that looked back was rugged but not unpleasant.

There was a little grey at the temples but the hair was still strong and thick. And, though considerably older than Bhumisuta, he was not too old. Men, much older than him, took second or third wives.

An hour or so later Bhumisuta came into the room with his breakfast. She was freshly bathed and her long hair, dripping water, hung down her back. She looked stark and ascetic in a plain white sari. Shashibhushan saw that her feet had no vermilion and the sandalpaste was missing from her forehead. Her eyes had the resigned melancholy look of a girl widow. ‘I hear you've been crying all night,' Shashibhushan said tenderly, ‘Is anything wrong? Do you feel unwell?' Bhumisuta shook her head. ‘Why were you crying then?' Shashibhushan persisted, ‘Has anyone said anything to hurt you?' Bhumisuta shook her head again and said, ‘I'll fetch you some water.' But Shashibhushan stopped her with a gesture. ‘I don't need water,' he said, ‘Sit down. I need to talk to you.' Bhumisuta moved some distance away and sat on the floor. ‘No. Not on the floor,' Shashibhushan commanded. ‘Come and sit here in this chair.' Bhumisuta rose and came to the chair but did not sit down. She stood behind it, her eyes on the ground. ‘I don't understand you,' Shashibhushan said, ‘I wish to give you my name and status. But the prospect seems to make you unhappy. Why? No, silence will not do. You'll have to answer me.'

‘I'm not worthy of your offer.'

‘Who says so? You're more than worthy. You're peerless among women. Tell me Bhumisuta, don't you trust me? Do you think I'm trying to deceive you? That I have some evil intention?'

‘No. You're great and noble—'

‘Then why do you not respond to my call?' The words burst from Shashibhushan like a cry of agony. ‘Why? Why? I love you and desire you as I've never desired a woman. I want you for my life companion. These bonds of slavery are not for you.'

Bhumisuta trembled but did not speak. Throwing all caution to the winds Shashibhushan rushed forward and grasped her hand, Bhumisuta gave a little cry and shook it off. Then, running to the other end of the room, she cowered against the wall, crying, ‘Forgive me. Please forgive me.' Shashibhushan stared at her in wonder. Why was she asking for forgiveness? She had done no
wrong? ‘Don't you understand?' In his desperation he almost shouted the words. ‘There's no other way before you. It is only as your husband that I can protect you from the king. He is wayward and dissolute but he will not touch another man's wife. That much I know.' Then, in a gentler tone, he added, ‘This is no time for tears, Bhumi. We must make our plans quickly. I've found a place in Taltala where we can go tonight. We'll get married tomorrow then move to Chandannagar. It is a very pretty place right on the river. You'll love it there.'

Before Bhumisuta could respond the maid named Sushila walked in. She had a sealed envelope in her hand. ‘You're here Bhumi!' she exclaimed. ‘I've been looking for you all over the house. Purohit Moshai has brought a letter for you.' A letter for Bhumisuta! Shashibhushan's brows came together. ‘Who is this Purohit?' he asked sternly. ‘Why would he bring her a letter?' ‘That's just what I've been wondering,' Sushila cried, ‘We're maids of the house—unlettered and ignorant. Who would write to us? Perhaps it is for you Babu. Perhaps he was looking for Bhumi so that she could give it to you.'

Shashibhushan took the envelope from her and turned it over in his hands. There was no address. Motioning to the woman to leave he tore it open and drew out a sheet of notepaper which he proceeded to unfold. His eyes fell first on the name of the sender. A tremor ran through his body and he sat down heavily on the bed. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle came together and, in a startling moment of clarity, he knew the truth. He knew why Bhumisuta was eluding him. ‘Bharat!' The name came through his clenched teeth in a harsh whisper. Controlling himself, he read the letter, line by torturing line:

Hé Bhumisuta,

I gave you my word that I would release you from your life of humiliation. I have not kept it. Doubtless you think me a coward and deceiver. You have a right to think so.

But the truth is I am powerless to do anything for you at present. You are in the service of the Maharaja of Tripura. And, for a reason that I cannot disclose just now, I dare not go anywhere near him. But I think of you day and night. I keep seeing you everywhere—in whatever I do during the day and in my dreams at night.

I've heard that the Maharaja is leaving for Tripura in a few days. He will want to take you with him. Don't go Bhumisuta. Don't ever, ever, go. If you do you'll never see me again. Purohit Moshai is a friend of mine. Send me a reply through him. I'm in a fever of anxiety to hear from you.

Yours for ever

Bharat Kumar

Shashibhushan crushed the letter in his hands. A fire, such as he had never known before, rose in his limbs. His dream, his beautiful dream had been burned to ashes. And by whom? By that worm Bharat! That half crazed, emaciated spawn of a king that had sat among the beggars muttering gibberish to himself. Where would he have been if Shashibhushan hadn't rescued him; hadn't fed him and clothed him and given him his protection? He had quarrelled with Radharaman Ghosh over him and brought him to Calcutta. Even now the boy lived on Shashibhushan's charity. To think that he had to give up Bhumisuta to such a one! It was like hanging a string of pearls on a monkey's neck. ‘Bharat!' he said again. His eyes burned into Bhumisuta's. ‘It was for him that you wept all night. It was for him that you denied yourself to the king.' Bhumisuta did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the letter in his hand. ‘Are you mad Bhumi?' Shashibhushan continued, ‘You're relying on Bharat to save you? He has nothing—nothing. He lives on my charity. He'll starve in the streets if I withdraw my protection.'

Tearing his eyes away from Bhumisuta's serene, unyielding ones he looked around him wildly. He had to cling to his hopes. He couldn't give up his cherished dream. He couldn't give up Bhumisuta. He had believed the king to be his rival and had made preparations to snatch her away from his grasp. Who had ever thought that an insect like Bharat would stake a claim to the lovely creature he desired with all his heart and soul? Who was Bharat? A lowly ant that Shashibhushan could crush under his foot if he so desired.

He glanced at Bhumisuta's face and was surprised to see the change that had come over it. She hadn't read the letter but the very knowledge that Bharat had written to her had, obviously, imbued her with hope and strength. The frightened doe eyes of a
few moments ago now looked straight, unflinching and unafraid, into Shashibhushan's. There was determination in every line of her lovely face and form. Tossing the letter angrily to the ground Shashibhushan muttered through his clenched teeth, ‘Bharat will never disobey me. He'll wash your feet and knock his head on them if I command him.' Bhumisuta did not reply. Swift as an arrow she sprang on the piece of paper and, picking it up, held it to her breast.

Dr Mahendralal Sarkar was in a foul mood. He scolded the servants, snapped at his wife and strode from room to room on heavily shod feet. It was morning and he was preparing to leave for his chamber in Bhabanipur. But everything in his household appeared ugly and shoddy in his eyes and he took care to express his disgust with all the viciousness of which he was capable.

Sitting down to breakfast he eyed his toast and omelette scornfully, and announced to the world at large that the first was scorched and the second had the look and texture of a piece of shoe leather. Then, very grudgingly, he put a spoonful of fried liver into his mouth. Next moment he spat it out venomously nearly exploding with fury. The fool cook, he shouted, had drowned it in chilli paste. He gave his plate such a hard shove that it went spinning to the other end of the table. Not deigning to cast a glance at it he rose and marched out of the house. His wife ran after him begging him to eat something before he left. She could, she said, tell the cook to make some luchi and mohanbhog if he preferred it. But he answered rudely. ‘Eat it yourself. Stuff the luchi and mohanbhog down your own throat like the glutton you are. Don't bother about me.' Then, getting into his carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive to Sukia Street.

The carriage clattered down the road and stopped outside the house of the famous lawyer Durgamohan Das. Mahendralal, his face as dark and ominous as the Shravan sky above his head, strode into the house with the air of one marching into battle. ‘Durga! Durga!' he called in a voice of thunder. Durgamohan, who was sitting with his clients in the front room, rose hastily, ‘Mahendrada!' he exclaimed in hearty greeting. ‘What brings you here?' Mahendralal eyed the men in the room as if they were insects. ‘Get rid of these fellows,' he said, ‘I have something very important to discuss with you.'

‘Come this way,' Durgamohan took him by the elbow and guided him into another room. Then, smiling at his visitor,
though, inwardly apprehensive, he said, ‘What brings the great Dhanwantari to my door? No one is sick in my house.'

‘Who says no one is sick?' Mahendralal stood with his arms akimbo and glared at Durgamohan. ‘
You're
sick. You have a fever in the brain.'

Durgamohan burst out laughing. And that enraged the good doctor more than ever. ‘You laugh at me!' Mahendralal thundered. ‘You're more shameless than I thought. Anandamohan informed me last evening that you've decided not to send Abala back to Madras. Is that true?'

‘It is true. But why do you remain standing? Sit down. Sit down. I'm not sending my daughter back because she is to be wed.'

‘To be wed! Have you gone mad?'

‘Why do you lose your temper Dada?' Durgamohan cried good humouredly, ‘Don't fathers find husbands for their daughters?'

‘Let the whole world run around looking for sons-in-law. Why should you?'

‘What sort of talk is this Dada?' Durgamohan was dying to laugh but he managed to control himself, ‘My daughter is sixteen. I'm not violating the Marriage Act. What's wrong with getting her married?'

‘There's everything wrong with it. Is your daughter an ordinary girl who has nothing to look forward to but a husband and brats? She's one in a million with a brilliant career ahead of her. I felt as if the sky had fallen on my head when I heard the news. Have you forgotten with what difficulty we managed to send her to Madras? How proud we were when she set off to study medicine? If you had allowed her just two more years she would have been the first lady doctor of India.'

‘Dada,' Durgamohan said gently. ‘It was on your advice and that of Shibnath Shastri Moshai that I sent my daughter. But she isn't keeping well in Madras. The climate doesn't suit her and she doesn't like the food. She misses the
machher jhol bhaat
she's eaten all her life—'

‘That's nonsense!' Mahendralal spluttered with rage. ‘
Machher jhol bhaat
indeed! People don't die of eating the food they don't relish. How do Indians manage to survive in England?

Let her get her degree, then she can eat all the
machher jhol
she wants.'

‘But Abala doesn't wish to go back.'

‘I don't believe it. It is you who is putting all these ideas in her head. You're like all fathers. You can't rest in peace till you've pushed your daughters into other men's kitchens. I won't hear another word. I'll break your head if you try to contradict me.'

‘We are of the Brahmo Samaj. We don't marry off our daughters without their consent. Abala has met the boy and approves of him. If you don't believe me let me send for her. You can talk to her and find out the truth for yourself.'

Abala came in a few minutes later. Touching Mahendralal's feet she asked softly, ‘How are you Jethamoni?' Mahendralal's anger had spent itself by now and a great sadness had taken its place. His eyes clouded over as he looked at the girl. He had cherished such great hopes of her. Whenever he met young girls, in the houses of his friends and relatives, he had one mantra for them, ‘Work hard my dears,' he said over and over again. ‘Do well in school and then study for a medical degree. Our mothers, sisters and daughters die everyday for want of medical attention because male doctors are not allowed inside the zenana. So many children are stillborn and so many women die at childbirth. Don't you see? Only women can save women.' Most girls were frightened by such talk but not Abala. She had agreed enthusiastically and even after being denied admission to the Medical College of Calcutta, she had not given up. She had prevailed upon her father to send her to Madras. Placing a hand on her head in blessing, Mahendralal said sadly, ‘I'm as well as I can expect to be at my age, Ma. What about you? I hear you've decided not to go back to Madras.'

‘I didn't like it there Jethamoni.'

‘You were doing well. Your results show it.'

‘I wasn't happy. I had no friends. The girls there are all Christians and they keep to themselves.'

‘What sort of talk is this? Success doesn't come easily in this world. One has to struggle hard to achieve it. If you persevere just another two years you'll be the first lady doctor of India. Just think. Your name will go down in history. You'll be the pride of the country.'

‘I'm not meant to be a doctor Jethamoni. My head spins whenever I enter the operation theatre.'

‘That's quite normal. Everyone feels like that in the beginning. You'll get used to it. Everyone does.' Then, making his voice as soft and persuasive as he possibly could, he almost begged. ‘Go back child. It's only for another two years. Tell your father you don't wish to marry just yet. There's plenty of time . . .'

Abala stood silent and unyielding. Her eyes were on the floor and she drew patterns on it with her toe nail. Suddenly Mahendralal lost his temper, ‘Get out of my sight then,' he shouted. ‘Stubborn girl! If you were my daughter I would have slapped your cheeks. You've dashed all my hopes. Go. I don't want to see your face ever again.' Durgamohan motioned to his daughter to leave the room. Then, turning to his guest, he said, ‘Why do you lose your temper Dada? The girl's to be wed in a few months. Give her your blessing.'

‘I can't dole out false blessing,' Mahendralal Sarkar rose from his chair. ‘I'm leaving this house never to return. Send for some other doctor when anyone is sick.'

‘That's not fair Dada. I heard all you had to say. Now you must hear me out. Tell me. Would I have sent my daughter so far from home if I was not keen to see her a doctor? Now she has changed her mind. She's of marriageable age and wishes to get married. Shall I thwart her?'

‘Who is the boy? Some rich man's worthless offspring, I presume.'

‘Do you know Anandamohan's father-in-law Bhagaban Bosu? He was deputy magistrate of Bardhaman. A very fine, upright man and well known all over East Bengal. When I heard that he was looking for a suitable match for his son I sent a proposal. The boy has approved of Abala and—'

‘But what does he do? Fly pigeons like all spoiled brats of rich fathers?'

‘Bhagaban Babu is not a rich man. In fact he is quite heavily in debt. He lost quite a lot of money trying his hand at tea planting in Assam. The boy was also studying medicine but he had to give it up.'

‘Bravo! The ideal couple! Both half doctors! Phoh! I detest people who can't complete what they've started. Spineless
cowards! No spirit. No endurance. I spit on them!'

‘Listen to the whole story first. Jagadish—that's the name of the boy—was a brilliant student and doing very well in medicine. But, unfortunately, while in Assam he had contracted the disease kala azar and hadn't quite recovered. The fever kept breaking out from time to time. Finally his own teachers advised him to give up medicine and study something else.'

‘I understand now. Abala has seen the boy and is totally infatuated with him. And because he gave up studying medicine halfway she decided to follow suit. Woe to the woman who is more qualified than her husband!
Chhi
!
Chhi
! To think that Abala could be so stupid!'

‘Do hear the rest Dada. Then deliver your verdict. Jagadish couldn't become a doctor but he's become a scientist. He got his degree in Physics from Cambridge University. And, while in England, he recovered from kala azar. The air in that part of the country is extremely healthy. He's back now with a teaching assignment in Presidency College.'

‘Aaah!' Mahendralal s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He stood up in his excitement, ‘A Bengali boy teaching Physics in Presidency College! That's a white man's aakhra. How did they allow an infiltrator?'

Astute lawyer that he was, Durgamohan knew how to build up a case. The trump card had to be hidden in the sleeve to be brought out with a flourish right at the end. Smiling at the older man he said gently, ‘Consider the boy's calibre Dada. Has any Bengali achieved what Jagadish has? You are doing so much for the spread of science in the land. Have you received any recognition? Yet, do you know who recommended Jagadish for the post? Lord Ripon himself.'

‘What!' Mahendralal almost screamed the question. He started pacing feverishly up and down the room. ‘You know Father Lafon, don't you Dada?' Durgamohan went on. ‘Jagadish was his favourite pupil in St Xavier's College. When Jagadish left for England Father Lafon gave him some letters of introduction one of which was for Mr Fawcett—the famous economist and now Post-Master General of England. Mr Fawcett helped the boy in many ways. Just before Jagadish was to return to India Fawcett sent for him and said, “You've done exceedingly well, my boy,
and I'm proud of you. I would like to make sure that you get the job you deserve.” Then, handing him a letter he added, ‘The Viceroy is a friend of mine. Go to him as soon as you reach India and give him this.” Jagadish did as he was told. Lord Ripon examined his papers and interviewed him for over an hour. He was obviously impressed because he sent a communication to the Education Secretary to find suitable employment for the boy.'

‘I've never heard of the Viceroy recommending a native. It's unbelievable!'

‘It happened, nevertheless. But there is more to come. The Education Secretary, Sir Alfted Crawford, was of the view that a native had no head for science. He might be allowed to teach Bengali or Sanskrit or Philosophy at the most. But Physics was out of the question. Charles Tawney, Principal of Presidency College, was of the same opinion. Yet they couldn't ignore the Viceroy's recommendation either. Crawford offered Jagadish a job in the Provincial Service on the pretext that there was no vacancy in the Imperial Service. But why should Jagadish, with all his qualifications, accept a post in a lower service? He turned down the proposal.'

‘He was right. Absolutely right!'

‘But Lord Ripon had remembered his promise. When, on examining the
Gazette,
he found the boy's name missing he sent for Crawford and demanded an explanation. Crawford hastened to make amends. He offered Jagadish a teaching assignment in Presidency College. But the white race cannot overcome its contempt of the dark under any circumstances. The post was not only temporary—the salary offered was a third of what the white teachers received. Jagadish wrote to the Education Department saying that he would teach without an honorarium till such time as the Department deemed him fit to receive equal salary with the rest of his colleagues.'

‘Wonderful!' Mahendralal exclaimed. He was so moved that tears stood in his eyes. ‘The boy is one in a million. A true diamond! Marry him to Abala at once Durga. Only a mad man would let such an opportunity slip through his fingers.'

‘Do I take it, then, that you are not angry anymore? With me or Abala?'

‘Angry! I'm so happy I could dance with you on my head.'

Then, sobering down he continued, ‘I wasn't angry Durga. I was disappointed. I had set my heart on Abala becoming a doctor. There are so many women doctors and nurses in Europe. We don't have even one. You must have heard of Florence Nightingale? The nurse who performed such wonders in Crimea? Can't our girls follow her example?'

‘Of course they can and will. Abala is not the only girl in India, Dada. She has failed but others will succeed.'

‘Will Jagadish object to Abala taking her degree? Dwarkanath Ganguly is allowing his wife Kadambini to continue—'

‘That I can't say Dada. It's up to him and her.' Then, lowering his voice, he added, ‘They're not well off. Jagadish doesn't earn anything as yet and his father is heavily in debt. Jagadish is so high principled—he won't take a pie from anyone. Not even from me. I don't know how they'll manage.'

‘Don't worry!' Mahendralal patted the younger man on the back. ‘Everything will come out right. You've taken the correct decision. It is the man that counts—not his money. I'll go see Jagadish this evening and try to persuade him to let Abala take her degree. A doctor wife will be of great help to him.'