First Light (45 page)

Sarala was lucky. On reaching Jorasanko she found that Debendranath had arrived that very morning from Chinsura. She went straight to him and, after touching his feet in the customary greeting, told him what she had decided. Debendranath was surprised but not angry. ‘Times are changing,' he said solemnly, ‘And there's little sense in holding on to ancient traditions. Whatever you do; wherever you go—my blessings will be with you. Have you decided on a place?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Let me know when you do.' Then, smiling a little, he added, ‘I hear you are resisting marriage. Why is that? You have attained marriageable age for quite some years now. Soon you'll have crossed it.'

‘Everyone tells me that. Bibi isn't married yet and she's the same age. But no one—'

‘Bibi is a memsaheb. They marry when they please. Besides Bibi doesn't come to see me anymore. Listen to me Sarala. It's not
right for a girl to remain unwed all her life. If you don't wish to marry a man I shall marry you to a sword.'

Sarala came home her heart dancing with joy. Her grandfather had been so kind and understanding. And he had actually joked with her. Marrying a sword! What a romantic, exciting idea! The sword would lie beside her all night and no man would dare come near her. She lay sleepless that night for hours fantasizing about her future. She would go away to a far country. She would work hard, like a man, and return home at the end of the day tired and spent. She would spend her evenings alone, quite alone, singing and playing the piano. She wouldn't have to endure the company of silly, foppish young men who hadn't a single, sensible thing to say. She would be free of them forever.

But in a couple of days Sarala had changed her mind. She couldn't; she wouldn't live alone all her life. She wanted a companion—someone brave and strong and sensible. Someone she could love and respect. If some such person came into her life she would not turn her back on him. If she never knew love she would never know anything. Poetry, art, music would turn to dust within her. Love was the fount of all inspiration; of all creativity. She would seek love and find it—no matter how long, how arduous the search.

Ghosh tiptoed out of the green room and came to the yellow wall that separated it from the stage. On it hung a portrait of Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb. Girish Ghosh stood before it, eyes closed and hands folded in reverence. His attitude of humble submission was at variance with his appearance which was that of a dashing Englishman of several centuries ago. He wore velvet trousers with a sword at the waist, a ruched silk shirt and high-laced boots. His face was painted a bright pink and his salt-and-pepper whiskers were dyed a jet black hue. A curled wig covered his bald pate. He was making a comeback to the stage at the age of fifty and he needed the blessings of his guru.

Tonight was the opening night of an adaptation of Shakespeare's
Macbeth.
Girish, who had written the play and was playing the title role, had serious apprehensions. He had been out of the theatre circuit for years. How would the audience receive him? There were many among them who hadn't even heard of him. He was also worried by the fact that a raw, untrained, bit actress was to perform the female lead. Teenkari Dasi, the girl he had trained for months to play Lady Macbeth was suffering from an attack of vomiting and purging and hadn't yet recovered. A strong, young, healthy woman like Teenkari! Who had ever dreamed that she would be so ill that she couldn't raise her head from the pillow for days together? Consequently no one had been trained to replace her in an emergency.

The crisis upon them, some members of the cast suggested that he send for Binodini. There was only one actress in Bengal, they pointed out, who could learn a part in a couple of days and play it to perfection—and that was Binodini. But Girish Ghosh shook his head. Seven years ago, at a rehearsal of
Roop Sanatan,
Binodini had quarrelled bitterly with some of her colleagues and swept out of the Star theatre never to enter it again. Girish Ghosh had been shocked. He couldn't believe that an actress of her standing and reputation could put her personal emotions above
her commitment to the theatre in such a blatant, shameless way! He had been so hurt and offended that he had resolved never to see her face again and had severed all connection with her. But much water had flown under the bridge in those seven years. At a time when the fame of the Star was at its height with play after play emerging from Girish Ghosh's powerful pen; when the competition with Star was so tough that other companies were hard put to scrape their production costs together, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a lawyer walked into the theatre and addressed Girish Ghosh thus: ‘
Ohe
Ghosh ja! Start packing and get ready to quit. My client is buying up your land.'

Girish Ghosh and his friends thought it a joke and burst out laughing. But within a few days truth dawned. Though the theatre was their own, the land on which it stood was not. The land, taken on a lease, had been bought by Gopal Lal Sheel, grandson of the immensely wealthy Motilal Sheel, in a secret deal. The latter's toadies had been urging him to open a theatre pointing out that it was not only sound business but would provide a lot of entertainment as well. Gopal Lal was tempted but he was astute enough to realize that if he wanted to run a theatre successfully he would have to mow down the Star first.

Girish and Amritalal were completely flummoxed by the situation in which they found themselves. What would happen now? Would they be forced to abandon their theatre? Moving the courts was possible but they dared not take on an opponent as rich and powerful as Gopal Lal Sheel. They decided to settle the matter out of court. After a great deal of bargaining an agreement was reached. Gopal Lal would buy the auditorium for a sum of thirty thousand rupees but the name Star would remain the property of Girish Ghosh and Company. With the money received the latter bought land in Hathibagan following which they got busy raising funds with which to build a new Star theatre. The old theatre, renamed Emerald, underwent extensive renovations before Gopal Lal's' first play
Pandav Nirvasan
was launched. But it fell flat. Despite the bright lights, the expensive decor, the brilliant actors and actresses—Mahendralal Basu, Ardhendushekhar, Bonobiharini, Kusum Kumari—the audience found it disappointing. The play lacked life and verve. It was like a sky without a moon; a
yagna
without a presiding deity.

Now the toadies started pressing Gopal Lal to rope in Girish Ghosh. He was the one, they said, who held the strings of the theatre in his hands and could make a play come to life. The players were puppets who responded only to his pull. Moved by these arguments Gopal Lal sent a messenger to Girish Ghosh with an offer. He would make the latter manager of Emerald at a monthly salary of two hundred and fifty rupees and a ten thousand rupee bonus. But it didn't take Girish even a second to reject the offer. He wouldn't; he couldn't leave Star. He had created it. From the biggest star in the cast to the humblest dresser and promoter—he had trained them all. The messenger came back the next day. This time Gopal Lal was offering three hundred rupees a month and a bonus of fifteen thousand. Girish folded his hands and said humbly, ‘Give Sheel Moshai my thanks and tell him that I'm unable to accept his most generous offer. I cannot leave Star.' But the following day the man returned. This time he had a lawyer with him and a couple of guards with guns. ‘Ghosh Moshai,' the lawyer said weightily while the guards stroked their whiskers and looked fiercely at Girish. ‘My client has sent me with a final offer. Three hundred and fifty rupees a month and a bonus of twenty thousand. I urge you to accept it. Who, barring the Laat Saheb, earns this much? Besides, if you live in the river you cannot afford to quarrel with the crocodile. You know how powerful Gopal Lal Sheel is. He can buy up your entire cast if he so wishes. What will you do then? Can you build your precious Star and run it all by yourself? He has made up his mind to employ you as his servant and he will. You cannot escape him.'

Girish Ghosh was trapped. Not so long ago Binodini had sold her body to build Star. Now Girish had to sell his soul. Calling his colleagues together he explained the situation to them. Then, handing over sixteen thousand rupees out of the twenty he had received, he gripped Amritalal's hands and said, ‘Build the theatre and get it going as soon as you can. But see that everyone associated with it, from the highest to the lowest, gets fair and equal treatment.'

And so Girish Ghosh became the manager of Emerald. His first play
Purna Chandra
was staged with a lot of fanfare and was very successful. But, though Girish did everything that was expected of him, his heart was not in his work. The new Star
theatre in Hathibagan had been completed and his old colleagues were visiting him in secret. They needed a play. Who would write for them? Girish Ghosh shook his head. As per the terms of his contract with Gopal Lal Sheel he could not write for any company other than Emerald. Besides, Gopal Lal's spies kept a strict watch on his movements.

One day, Girish draped a sari and went out of the house. He was a great actor and walking like a woman was not difficult for him. He had to hide his whiskers, though, and to that purpose he pulled the veil on his head down to his breast. Watching him walk away no one could dream that he was a man. He went to the house of a friend and dictated the play
Nasiram.
It was performed at the Star but no one knew who the playwright was. The name appearing in the titles was a pseudonym—Sevak.

The two plays were performed night after night at their respective theatres. Both were doing well but Girish Ghosh was happiest when the sales at Star outstripped those of Emerald Already people were saying to one another. ‘
Oré bhai
! Have you seen the new play at Star? There's a new playwright called Sevak whose work puts Girish Ghosh's to shame.'

A year or so went by in this manner. Then, one afternoon, Gopal Lal Sheel stormed into his manager's office and said, ‘I've had enough of this theatre nonsense Ghosh Moshai. It's a low business—not worthy of a man with a lineage like mine. I want you to shut up shop. Right from tomorrow.' Gopal Lal was a rich man. He had launched the project upon a whim. Now he was abandoning it upon another.

The theatre was sold, in due course, and the new owner proceeded to run it. But Girish Ghosh had no contract with him. He was free. Bursting with joy he returned to the Star to be installed as manager in place of Amritalal. He felt like one, exiled for many years, returning to his motherland.

But Amritalal, though he had conceded his post to his erstwhile mentor, was far from happy at his return. He didn't see why he should spend his whole life in his guru's shadow. Had he not proved his worth as manager of Star when Girish Ghosh was away? And now, even after his return, was it not he, Amritalal, who was bearing the heaviest load? Girish Ghosh wrote play after play—
Prafulla, Haranidhi, Chanda
—but did not attend the
rehearsals barring one or two right at the beginning.

‘Get them into shape Bhuni,' he would instruct Amritalal briefly before vanishing from the scene. Amritalal had to take care of everything but, when the play was a success, the credit for it all went to Girish Ghosh. ‘Girishchandra Ghosh Mohodai,' a newspaper column ran, ‘has written a very superior play. The excellent production and flawless acting is all owing to his tireless training and scrupulous attention to detail.' Although an intelligent man, Girish hadn't a clue as to how all this was affecting Amritalal. He persisted in his naïve conviction that Amritalal was perfectly content to bask in his reflected glory.

Around this time Girish was overtaken by a domestic crisis. His second wife passed away after a prolonged illness and he had no one to help him take care of the sickly child she had left behind. This boy was the apple of his father's eye. Once, in a drunken state, he had begged his guru Ramkrishna to be his son. Then, when the child was born, he fondly believed he was his guru come back to life. He was completely wrapped up in the child and wouldn't leave him for a moment. He spent all his time caring for him, consulting doctors and trying out new remedies. He hardly ever came to the theatre. If they needed a new play he dictated something hurriedly to whoever came to ask for it. He was the manager of the theatre and took a monthly salary. But he wasn't there—either physically or in spirit.

Discontent had been simmering in Amritalal and his cronies for quite some time. It now rose to a raging fire. What was Girish Ghosh doing for Star, they asked each other, except writing a few plays? Anyone could write plays. Amritalal's own
Sarala
had proved more popular than Girish Ghosh's
Nasiram.

Gradually the resentment started expressing itself. Words were exchanged, first mild, then heated. ‘You dare to talk to me like that,' the impulsive, egoistic Girish Ghosh cried out one day, ‘because I take a salary. Well—I won't take a paisa from this day onwards. And I won't write for you. Fend for yourselves as best as you can.' Girish Ghosh was sure Amritalal and his group would come to their senses and beg him to continue as before. But nothing like that happened.

The doctors having advised a change of climate for the sick boy, Girish Ghosh proceeded to leave Calcutta for Madhupur.

But he was very short of money. Nothing was coming in and he had spent most of his savings. Around this time a man named Neelmadhav Chakravarty approached him with an offer. Neelmadhav had recently purchased a theatre named Bina and started running it under the new name of City Theatre. He wanted to stage three of Girish Ghosh's old plays—
Bilwamangal, Buddhadev Charit
and
Bellik Bazar
—and was prepared to pay a fair sum for them. The terms were acceptable to Girish and the deal was concluded.

With the money received Girish rented a house in Madhupur and threw heart and soul into nursing his son back to health. The air of Madhupur was clean and unpolluted. The vegetables were fresh and eggs and mutton were plentiful and cheap. The boy improved slowly and Girish Ghosh felt greatly relieved. Then, suddenly, a message reached him that Star had brought a suit against Neelmadhav Chakravarty for appropriating plays Girish Ghosh had written for Star as its paid employee. The management had also made a public announcement of Girish Ghosh's dismissal as manager of the company.

The news was so unbelievable that Girish Ghosh shrugged it off at first. It just couldn't be true! Star was his. He had created it with his blood and tears. How could they sack him as though he was any paid employee? How could they bring a case against him? Then, gradually, he saw the truth. Amritalal was the leader of the group that wanted him out. And he had worked silently and stealthily. Amritalal—his favourite student whom he had loved as a son! Only the other day, it seemed to him, Amritalal had brought him home, dead drunk, practically carrying him on his back. What had happened? Why had everything changed so drastically?

But Amritalal and his friends had their own arguments. Girish Ghosh had worked hard for the theatre in the past. No one denied it. But how long could he cash on that? For several years now he had done nothing but take a salary. Didn't Binodini have to leave? Had her contribution been less than that of Girish Ghosh?

The realization that he was truly in trouble brought Girish Ghosh post haste to Calcutta. Amritalal came to see him. Although he was the prime instigator of the present crisis Amritalal was the soul of courtesy while addressing the older
man. ‘Gurudev,' he began humbly, ‘I wish to say a few words to you. If you find them offensive you may panish me as you will. But hear me out first. I've observed that, for some years now, the bonds between you and the theatre have slackened. First you stopped acting. Then you gave up directing and training newcomers. Your heart is elsewhere. You've lost interest—'

‘Lost interest!' Girish Ghosh burst out angrily. ‘You're telling me I've lost interest in the theatre! It's like telling a fish it's not interested in water; like telling a bird it's not interested in the sky. Where has my interest gone—may I ask?'