First Light (44 page)

Janakinath rose from his seat. ‘Some more tea?' he asked in an effort to steer the conversation away to a more neutral area. Motilal Ghosh came to his aid. ‘Let's have some music,' he said, ‘Call Sarala Ma.'

Sarala came into the room and, taking her place at the piano, sang the three songs she had prepared. The guests expressed their admiration of her singing in glowing terms. All except Mr Tilak who looked totally unimpressed. He had the same expression on his face when Swarnakumari presented him with two of her books. It was an honour she bestowed on very few. But her special guest just turned them over in his hands briefly before putting them away. Then he rose to his feet. ‘Friends of Bengal,' he began in the voice and manner he used when addressing a public meeting. ‘I wish to place a certain proposal before you this evening. That is why I am here in Calcutta.' Then, taking a deep breath, he continued, ‘We, the members of the Congress, meet once a year and mouth fiery speeches, needless to say, in English. Do these speeches or meetings have any impact on the masses? Do they even know what we are trying to do? Our trouble is that we
are hopelessly divided, hopelessly rooted in our own provinces and in our own small cultures. We need to come together; to bring the common folk together. But how? Not through meetings and speeches. And we don't have a national festival. The need of the hour is to organize a festival in which everyone will join. We have started celebrating Ganesh Chaturthi in Maharashtra and received excellent response. Why don't you introduce it in the Bengal Presidency? The idea is to get the common man in the streets on any pretext.' Mr Tilak's co-guests looked at one another. Sarala's mouth twitched with amusement. She found the Hindu god Ganesh with his protruding stomach and elephant head very funny. ‘Mr Tilak,' one of the guests pointed out. ‘You said Indians don't have a national festival. What about Muharrum? There are crowds in the streets throughout the length and breadth of India.'

‘Is that an Indian festival?' Tilak asked testily. ‘Or Arabian? I agree that the Muslims are united. But what about the Hindus? Are they not Indians? Why do they dwell in groups like frogs in their separate wells? If all Muslims can join in a Muharram procession why can't all Hindus do the same for Ganesh—the granter of boons?' Now Motilal Ghosh said with a little smile, ‘You're talking to the wrong people. This is a group of Brahmos who have rejected idol worship. They duck their heads and hasten away when passing a temple. And you're asking them to celebrate Ganesh Chaturthi!' Tilak was silent for a few moments. When he spoke there was a slight sneer in his voice. ‘Very well,' he said. ‘You Bengalis are very superior beings and don't have religious festivals. So be it. Let's think of something else. Can we not organize a festival around the birth of a great warrior? A national hero? The British think we are a weak and cowardly race. Let's show them that brave men have been born in this land. The only way we can fight our rulers is by organizing ourselves into a strong race of warriors and patriots.'

The others looked at one another in dismay. Bengal barely had a history leave alone a great king. Then one of them spoke. ‘He needn't be a Bengali. Why don't we take Emperor Akbar?' ‘Yes! Yes!' the others echoed. ‘Akbar would be acceptable to everyone.' Tilak looked steadily into the face of the man who had spoken first. A queer light flickered in the slate-coloured pupils of
his eyes as he said, ‘Was Akbar a great warrior? All he did was subdue a few native rajas and chieftans. Besides, can Akbar be called an Indian? Did he not have the blood of Timur and Chengiz running in his veins? I know my history. Akbar's grandfather Babar wrested the throne of Delhi from Ibrahim Lodi in the year
1526. And Akbar mounted it in 1556. Are you suggesting that it took only thirty years for an alien dynasty to turn native? If we consider the Mughals to be Indian what's wrong with the British?'

‘The Mughals made this country their own,' someone murmured. ‘They married Indian women and became Indian.'

‘By that logic we should wait another two or three centuries. By the end of that time, doubtless, the British would have married Indian women and become Indian.'

Following this an argument ensued in which everyone took part. Some maintained that the Mughals could not be compared with the British—Akbar in particular. He was secular at heart. He had even advocated a coming together of the two religions—Hinduism and Islam. Other names were also suggested. What about Porus? But he was a Greek. Sangram Singha? No one had heard of him. Nana Saheb? Guru Gobind Singh? Tilak rose to his feet and, in a voice that quelled the clamour, announced a name. ‘Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.'

Sarala was bored. Her magnificient home, filled with beautiful objects, had hardly any human beings in it. Her brother was in England; her father in the mofussils. Her sister, her closest friend and confidante, had recently left for Rajshahi with her husband. Her mother was at home, of course, but she had never been very communicative with her children. Besides, she spent most of her time writing and disliked being disturbed. The mornings and evenings were bad enough, but the afternoons were the worst. The hours crawled by, maddeningly slow. How much could one study? One could sleep, but Sarala hated sleeping during the day. Sitting on a mat spread out on the floor she pored over her lessons. When she got tired of Sanskrit she would take up a volume of Bengali poetry and read it aloud. Sometimes she even composed verses of her own. Every now and then she walked into the adjoining room. This room had been her sister's. Hironmoyee was very fond of mirrors and she had had a huge one put up on her wall. Sarala often stood before it examining herself. She saw a young woman, wrapped carelessly in a cotton sari with a face in which the eyes were the most prominent. They were large and bright and heavily outlined with kajal. Sarala dispensed with chemise and jacket during the hot afternoons but took care to adorn her eyes with kajal or surma. Standing, thus, before the mirror she asked herself, ‘What do I look like, really and truly? Am I beautiful?' The young men who visited her in the evenings, the ones her father called her ‘suitors,' never tired of telling her how beautiful she was. One said she looked like a princess; another like the Goddess Saraswati. But she shrugged off their compliments with a laugh. She knew that they said the same things to all the girls they met. If they were to see Bibi they would compose paeans in paise of her loveliness. Bibi was far more beautiful than she was.

Sarala was incapable of taking any of her suitors seriously. Without exception they all made her laugh, particularly when
they tried to become intimate with her. One afternoon a young man called Jogini Chatterjee came bursting into her room. It was a highly improper thing to do but he didn't seem to be aware of it. This Jogini was the brother of Mohini Chatterjee who had married Saroja the eldest daughter of her uncle Dwijendranath. On the strength of this relationship Mohini's four brothers had easy access into the houses of Dwijendranath's siblings. Jogini and his brother Sajani were head over heels in love with Sarala. But Sarala couldn't return the compliment and had evolved a method of dealing with them. The moment one of them tried to get too familiar she would say, ‘Let's play cards.' Then, shuffling the pack with deft fingers, she would deal and start the game. She was very good at it and invariably won.

That afternoon, however, she was so taken aback that she didn't know how to react. She was lying on the bedstead in Hironmoyee's room her eyes on the other Sarala who looked at her out of the sheet of Belgian glass on the wall. She started up at Jogini's entry. He hesitated at the door for a moment, then rushed up to her and thrust a blue velvet case in her hands. ‘Sarala! Sarala!' he cried theatrically, ‘I've been wanting to give you this for months. But I couldn't muster up the courage. There's a phial in it filled with
attar
of roses. And mixed with it is the essence of my heart. I beg you to anoint your limbs with it.' Jogini was young and handsome and Sarala was just blossoming into womanhood. But, far from being moved by this romantic declaration, Sarala burst out laughing. ‘
Oki
!
Oki
!' she exclaimed, ‘Why are you using such fancy language?' Jogini's ardour collapsed like a deflated balloon. He moved back, step by step, till he reached the door. There he stood for a while watching her as she rolled on the bed in helpless mirth.

Jogini didn't come near her for the next ten days. Sarala realized that he was hurt but she couldn't help it. Declarations of love made her laugh. She found them silly and theatrical.

Jogini's closest rival for Sarala's attention was Abinash Chakravarty, son of the famous poet Biharilal Chakravarty. When the two were visiting together each wanted the other to leave first and consequently both stayed on and on. Sarala yawned and looked bored but they paid no attention. Instead they measured each other up with wary eyes and urged one
another to go home. Jogini might say to Abinash, ‘It's getting late. Sarala looks tired.'

‘You're right,' pat would come the reply, ‘You start off. I'll follow you in a minute.' Or, if Abinash muttered meaningfully, ‘It's going to rain', Jogini was quick with the suggestion, ‘You'd better hurry home. My carriage is coming for me.' Though not a poet himself Abinash looked like one with his long hair, soft dreamy eyes and a silk
uduni
on his shoulders. He even spoke like one. One evening, hearing Sarala play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the piano, he rushed up to her and caught her hand. ‘Ah me!' he exclaimed. ‘What ethereal strains! What stream of nectar gushes forth from heaven! What waves of sound pass through groves and gardens; over flowers and leaves! Don't stop Sarala! For God's sake don't stop. Play more . . . more!'

‘Yes I will,' Sarala said solemnly, ‘But how can I if you keep holding my hand?'

Abinash released her hand with a jerk. Sarala resumed her music her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter as Abinash went on murmuring extravagant compliments in her ears, ‘Sarala! Sarala! Your fingers are the colour and shape of champak buds. Your teeth are as lustrous as pearls. Your cheeks have the delicate flush of the pomegranate seed. You're no ordinary mortal. You're an apsara Sarala! A goddess!'

At this point Jogini's brother Sajani walked in. He couldn't stand Abinash and tried to frustrate his attempts at coming closer to Sarala in every way he could. Now he made a dash for the piano and exclaimed, ‘Let's have a duet Sarala! I'll sing and you play.' Abinash and Sarala were both alarmed at the prospect of hearing Sajani sing. ‘Brother Sajani,' Abinash said quickly in the voice mothers use with troublesome children, ‘Why don't you go out into the garden and sing? Sarala was playing an exquisite piece of music for me and—'

‘Look here Abinash,' Sajani turned angry, red eyes on his rival. ‘I'm not your brother—in the first place. In the second—why should I go out into the garden? I shall sing right here.'

‘You can if you so wish. No one can stop you. But Sarala was playing classical music. That won't blend with your brand of music, will it brother?'

‘Why not? Classical means ustadi music—does it not? I can sing ragas.'

‘The two classicals are not the same.
East is East and West is West. And ne'er the twain shall meet.
They won't blend. They can't.'

‘They can and they will,' Sajani declared stubbornly. Abinash pursed his lips and whistled a bar from the work of some European composer. And all the while he eyed Sajani as if egging him on to battle. Sajani stood with his mouth open glaring at his opponent. Sarala found the scene so comic she had to clamp a hand on her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Then, controlling herself with an effort, she said. ‘I have a suggestion. Why don't you two gentlemen go out into the garden and get your blending done? Then we can take up the duet here and—'

‘You're right,' Sarala's two suitors agreed instantly and marched out of the room arm in arm. Sarala looked after them, a quizzical gleam in her eyes. They were nice young men; well born, well educated and good looking. Why did they not put their assets to better use? Did they really imagine that playing this silly game of love was the way to win a girl's heart? Women liked men of character and purpose. All the young men who came to her house were so petty; so wishy washy; so caught up in their own rivalries and jealousies. They never gave a thought and, consequently, had no opinion on real problems like the state of the country, the presence of the foreign rulers and the need for social reform. There was only one of her acquaintance who fitted her mental picture of a real man. He was Loken Palit—son of the barrister Taraknath Palit.

Sarala had met Loken in Rajshahi when she and her mother had gone on a visit to her sister. He had just returned from England after passing his ICS examination and was posted in Rajshahi as Deputy Magistrate. He had plenty of time on his hands and spent several hours each day in the company of the two sisters. Sarala had liked him very much. He was not only smart and handsome, he had a keen, alert mind and was wonderfully articulate. Extremely well travelled and well exposed to other countries and cultures, he could engage Sarala in conversation for hours on end. He was also very well read and had a vast knowledge of literature both Indian and Western. He was Robi
Mama's friend, as she knew, and that fact endeared him even more to her.

‘Loken Babu,' she had said to him one day. ‘Being a deputy magistrate you are surely expected to socialize with the British; to attend their parties and to drink and dance. But I never see you go. Haven't you made any English friends?'

‘How can Indians be friends with the British? It's not that I never go to parties. I do, sometimes. But I don't enjoy them. I feel I don't belong. As a student in England I had several English friends. We studied together, chatted for hours on end and really enjoyed each other's company. One day we were in a singing mood so one of the boys, a Scotsman, began singing and the others took up the chorus, “
Rule Brittania, Brittania rules the waves, Britons never, never never shall be slaves
”. That day I got a jolt. I realized that they belonged to a race of rulers and I to a race of slaves. After that I have never been very comfortable with the English.'

One day Loken asked the two sisters to define the difference between love and friendship. Hironmoyee blushed to the roots of her hair at the question and nudged her sister. But Sarala looked Loken straight in the eye and said, ‘Love and friendship are closely related emotions. But love has wings. Friendship doesn't. Friendship is love without its wings.' Loken was suitably impressed by her definition and told her so. Then he made a suggestion. ‘Hironmoyee has an opinion, too, I'm sure,' he said, ‘Only she's too shy to speak out. Why don't you two sisters write a few lines on the subject. I'll mark the exercises and the winner will get this.' He drew a spectroscope out of his pocket, as he spoke, and showed it to the girls.

Sarala and Hironmoyee wrote their pieces and handed them over. Loken read them through and announced in a mock ponderous tone, ‘In my capacity as Deputy Magistrate of this district I declare Sarala to be the winner.' Sarala took the spectroscope he put in her hands and opened it. There was an inscription inside.
To Sarala,
it ran,
From a dear friend.
Hironmoyee bent over it eagerly then, raising an indignant face, she cried out. ‘This is very unfair. You had made up your mind to give it to her.'

‘I knew hers would be best.'

‘It
is
unfair,' Sarala said quietly. ‘You should give the prize to Didi.'

But Hironmoyee, though annoyed at being tricked, had no grudge against her sister whom she loved dearly. Needless to say the matter was resolved in a few minutes in Sarala's favour.

The three loved going for long walks. Sometimes they left the town and walked over fields and meadows or by the thick jungles that skirted them. Sarala and Loken were so wrapped up in one another that they often forgot Hironmoyee who was left lagging behind. ‘You two walk on,' Hironmoyee said one day. ‘I'm going back home.'

‘Why?' Loken asked, ‘Are you tired already?'

‘I'm not tired in the least. But I realize that three is a crowd. You don't need me here.'

‘But we do. Three is a safe number. It spells friendship. Two might signify love.'

‘What's wrong with that? I'm sure both you and Solli are ready to put out your wings.'

Hironmoyee had barely finished her sentence when a shout came from behind them. Looking around they saw Jogini puffing and panting towards them. ‘Sarala!' he exclaimed. ‘Thank God I've found you. I was so bored in Calcutta without you—I had to come. I've just arrived. Phanidada said you were out walking. How are you Sarala?'

With Jogini's arrival the equations changed. Loken reduced his visits to Hironmoyee's house. His withdrawal from Sarala was subtle, almost imperceptible. In consequence their friendship remained where it was and could not blossom into love.

During the long lonely afternoons at home in Calcutta, Sarala often recollected the days she had spent in Rajshahi. And, sometimes, her thoughts were so unbearable that she felt like running out of the house into the hot empty streets and go wherever her feet took her. That, of course, was not possible. The next best method of escape was to visit one of her relatives. But she had to take her mother's permission first. One afternoon Sarala walked timidly into her mother's room and called softly, ‘Ma'. Swarnakumari was sitting at her desk with some papers spread out before her. She couldn't have heard Sarala for she did not look up.

‘Ma,' Sarala called a little louder. ‘I would like to go to Jorasanko. May I take one of the carriages?' Now Swarnakumari raised her face and looked coldly at her daughter. ‘You saw I was at work Sarala,' she said, ‘Did you really need to ask me such a trivial question just now? Couldn't you have waited till the evening?'

‘I'm bored and lonely. I want to go now.'

‘Go if you wish. But you shouldn't have disturbed me while I was writing. You've spoilt the flow.'

Sarala put on her chemise and jacket her breast swelling with indignation and self pity. Her mother had no time for her. All she thought about was her writing. She had often seen Bibi go up to her Robi Mama when he was writing and ruffle his hair or snatch his manuscript away. But he never reprimanded her. He was ever ready to put away his work and have a chat. Was her mother's work superior to Robi Mama's? Sarala took a decision. She would leave home and go away somewhere; anywhere. She might even go to England, like her brother. But she was a woman. Would her parents agree to send her? She would work on them and make them change their attitude. But, before she did so, she would have to go to her grandfather, the head of the vast clan of Thakurs, and take his permission.