First Light (46 page)

‘Beyond the pale of the Earth. The day you accepted Ramkrishna as your guru you gave up the theatre—in spirit at least. Try to recall the past Gurudev. You were present in the theatre every single day. Your wife's illness; your eldest son Dani's near death; your own diseased liver—nothing, nothing could keep you away. But ever since Ramkrishna fell ill and you started visiting him in Kashipur—' Amritalal did not complete the sentence. He didn't need to. Girish Ghosh sighed and was silent. After a while he raised his head and asked with a great sadness in his voice, ‘What do you want of me?' Amritalal hesitated a little, then said softly, ‘You've loosened your link with the theatre little by little. Let the break be final. You're still a great playwright. If you sign a new contract with us promising to give us everything you write I'll persuade the others to withdraw the suit.' Girish Ghosh laughed—a hard, dry, mirthless laugh. ‘You want to get rid of me, don't you Bhuni?' he asked bitterly. ‘You're an important man now. Manager of Star and a playwright besides. My presence is a thorn in your side. But, rest assured. I won't dream of entering into competition with you. In fact, my sincerest blessings are with you. Be a big man—bigger than your guru. May your fame spread throughout the land and far beyond it.'

The contract form arrived the next day. Girish Ghosh was to have nothing to do with Star from henceforth, but he would not join any other theatre company, either, for acting, directing or training. He would be obliged to offer anything he wrote first to Star, for which he would receive a monthly salary of one hundred rupees. If Star rejected a manuscript he was free to give it to any other theatre company. In short, as per the terms of the new
contract, Girish Ghosh could not enter a theatre except as a member of the audience. Girish Ghosh signed his name with a flourish, then, throwing the pen away, said whimsically, ‘I'll never take up a pen again. I won't act, direct, train or even write anymore. That should make you happy Bhuni.'

With his occupation gone, the Garrick of Bengal didn't know what to do with himself. ‘Binodini's curse has fallen on me,' he thought. Life became even more unbearable after his little boy's death. The thought that he hadn't been able to save the child even at the cost of giving up his life's mission tortured him day and night. In this mood he longed to get out of Calcutta. But where could he go? Suddenly an idea came to him. Saradamoni was still alive. He would go visit her and see Ramkrishna's birthplace.

As the bullock cart wended its way slowly towards Kamarpukur Jairambati, Girish looked out eagerly. He had lived in the city all his life and had never seen a village as primitive and backward as this one. He was charmed, nevertheless. Meadows, green as emerald, stretched far away merging into the horizon. The sky was blue and cloudless and the air fresh and pure. There was not a brick structure to be seen anywhere. Little homesteads built of bamboo and straw dotted the landscape appearing between fields of golden paddy and waving palms.

Saradamoni was very happy to see him and Girish, who had been orphaned as a child, experienced a mother's love for the first time in his life. Saradamoni cooked delicious meals for him and sat by while he ate waving away imaginary flies with a palm leaf fan. She washed his clothes and made his bed smoothing down the sheets with gentle hands. When he lay down to sleep he felt her touch, warm and tender, soothe and caress his tortured body and mind. ‘You're my mother,' he said to her one day in a gush of sentiment. ‘I'm your son. I left you and was miserable—'

‘You've come back haven't you?' Saradamoni smiled at him, ‘Stay as long as you like.'

Girish, who had come to spend a week, stayed on for two months. Then he left for Calcutta with a new resolution. He would take up his pen again, but not to write plays. He would write a book based on the lives of his guru and guru ma. This would be his new mission in life. On his return Girish gave himself up to the task with a singlemindedness that was quite
unusual for him. He didn't go near the theatre again. Not did he care to hear about it. In fact, whenever some of his former colleagues came to see him, he abused them roundly and drove them out of the house. The only people he associated with were Ramkrishna's disciples.

One day a gentleman called Nagendrabhushan mukherjee came to see him. Girish knew him slightly. He was the grandson of the famous Prasanna Thakur of the Pathuriaghata branch of the Thakur family. It was hardly possible to turn away a man with such a distinguished lineage, so Girish Ghosh was obliged to give him a hearing. After the initial courtesies were over Nagendrabhushan came to the point. ‘Girish Babu,' he said shaking his head in a dejected manner, ‘Are you aware of the depths of depravity to which the Bengali theatre has sunk? Cheap dialogue, obscene gestures, titillating song and dance sequences are being offered to the public in the name of the theatre. You're still alive, Girish Babu, and here in Calcutta. How can you be so indifferent? You must find a way to curb this disgusting trend and bring the glorious age of the Bengal theatre back again. Don't you realize that it is a blot on the reputation of the entire race? Do you know what was reported in
Englishman
—?'

‘Nagendra Babu,' Girish interrupted. ‘You're probably not aware that I've snapped my links with the theatre. I have nothing to do with it anymore.'

‘I'm aware of the fact. But I don't see why I should accept it. The reputation of our whole nation is at stake. How can you have the heart to hold yourself so aloof when the fabric you wrought with your blood and tears is falling in shreds about you? The sahebs were forced to admit once that our theatre was not a whit inferior to theirs. Now they laugh and pass snide comments. Won't you do anything about it?'

‘Why do you come to me? Ardhendushekhar is your man. If anyone can stand up to the British—he can.'

‘Ardhendu is as slippery as a fish. He's here today—there tomorrow. No one can get hold of him. Besides, his brains have addled with the passing years. No, Girish Babu. You're the only one who can grasp the oars firmly and bring the floundering boat back to the shore. The need of the hour is a new hall and a new play of such excellence that even the sahebs will have to sit up and
take notice.'

‘Who will pay for the new hall?'

‘I will. I've bought up the land on which the Great National stood and I've started building a new auditorium. It's a fine imposing mansion fitted with the most modern equipment. I'm calling my theatre Minerva. Do you like the name?'

Girish Ghosh sat silent, frowning in thought. No one had come to him with such a proposal for years now. People thought he was finished. He had thought so too. But the fire of his ego, reduced to ashes by domestic cares, heart break and humiliation, now roared into life. His breast heaved as though huge breakers of salt water were pounding against it. He was Girish Ghosh and he could still show the world what was what. Then, suddenly, he remembered the bond he had signed. Shaking his head sadly, he sighed and said, ‘My contract with Star debars me from joining any other company. I'm sorry. I must respect my own signature.'

‘Nonsense!' Nagendrabhushan cried out angrily. ‘No one has a right to put in a clause like that. It has no legal standing. You're Girish Ghosh—not a man to be trifled with. Let me have a look at the contract—'

‘No, no,' Girish said hastily. ‘I've no wish to embroil myself in legal wrangles any more. I'm at peace now. Leave me as I am.'

However, he handed the document over and Nagendra-bhushan read it carefully. Presently his lips twitched in a smile. ‘Have you gone through this contract?' he asked. ‘I don't need to,' Girish shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was told what it contained.' Nagendrabhushan shook his head in admonishment. ‘If you had taken the trouble to go through it you would have realized that you had nothing to fear. The men who drew it up knew that it would have no standing in a court of law. They've taken the precaution of adding a line right at the bottom. It says that you'll have to pay five thousand rupees in case you break the contract.' Girish Ghosh stood up in his excitement. ‘Really? Let me see,' he cried, bending over the paper. Nagendrabhushan ran his forefinger over the line and said, ‘I'll send five thousand rupees to the manager of Star this very evening. Consider yourself released from your bond and get busy writing a crackling good play. We must remember that we are undertaking an important mission—that of reviving the reputation of the theatre in Bengal.'

Girish Ghosh hadn't touched a bottle for many months but that evening he sent for one. His mind was in a whirl. Sitting before his writing table he hesitated a few moments before taking up his pen. He had known peace and tranquillity for the first time in many years. Did he really wish to exchange them for the strains and anxieties of his old life? The backbreaking work, the hard drinking, the sleepless nights, the endless bickerings and jealousies. He closed his eyes in weariness at the thought. Then, suddenly, he felt the blood leap up in his veins and pound in great waves against his heart. He remembered the bright lights, the gorgeous costumes, the crowds, the music. What glamour! What excitement! He had lived without them for many months. But could he call it
living
?

Girish drew a sheet of paper towards him. Picking up a quill he dipped it in ink and wrote MACBETH. The idea of an adaptation of this great play had been simmering in his head ever since Nagendrabhushan had told him that they needed a script that would shock the sahebs out of their complacence. He would begin with Shakespeare; with one of his greatest tragedies. Girish's pen raced over the paper for an hour or so. Then he rose and, taking a swig from the bottle, paced up and down the room with the air of a caged lion. His eyes burned and he breathed heavily. ‘They tried to get rid of me,' he muttered between clenched teeth, ‘But they forgot who I am. I am Girish Ghosh.' And that moment he took a decision. He would not only write and direct. He would act once again. He would play the lead role. He would be a Macbeth that people wouldn't forget in a hurry.

But who would play Lady Macbeth? Girish considered Promoda Sundari at first then rejected the idea. She was a good and experienced actress but she had grown quite obese of late and waddled like a duck. Next he considered Teenkari. Teenkari was much younger and far less experienced. But she had promise. Besides, she would look right in the role. She was tall and gaunt and there was something decidedly musculine in her voice and manner.

Girish's calculations were proved right. The first two nights went off without a hitch and Teenkari received several rounds of applause. Then the blow fell. Teenkari was taken ill and there was no one to replace her. Disaster stared Girish in the face. He had
invited the press and some distinguished gentlemen of the city, several Englishmen among them, for the Saturday night's performance. And he didn't have a Lady Macbeth.

Ardhendushekhar came to him where he sat disconsolately with his head in his hands. It was lucky for Girish that Ardhendushekhar had suddenly surfaced from heaven knew where and had offered his services. He was playing several characters in the play—one of the witches among them. ‘There's a girl in the cast Gurudev,' he said, ‘who knows the whole play by heart. Why don't you try her out?'

‘Don't talk nonsense,' Girish lashed out at him. ‘Simply learning the part by rote means nothing. Can she act? And that too—Lady Macbeth?'

‘There's no harm in trying her out, seeing as we have no other option.'

Girish sat abstracted in thought for a few minutes. Binodini was out of the question. Should he send word to Bonbbiharini? Or Kusum Kumari? They were too old. They had retired from the theatre ages ago. Promoda Sundari? He shook his head. ‘Call the girl in,' he muttered. ‘Let me have a look at her.'

Ardhendushekhar left the room and reappeared a few minutes later bringing a young girl with him. Girish recognized her. She was playing Lady Macduff's son. She was tall and slim and had long tip tilted eyes with a clear, unflinching gaze.

‘What's your name?' Girish asked.

‘Nayanmoni,' the girl replied.

‘That's the name we've given you. What's your real name? The name your mother calls you by. Is it Penchi, Khendi, Dekchi, Podi? Which is it?'

‘I don't have a mother and my name is Nayanmoni.' ‘Where were you born? Sonagachhi or Hadh Katar Gali? Or was it Goabagan or Ulta Dinghi?'

‘In none of those places. I was born very far away.'

Now Girish looked the girl up and down appraising her carefully. ‘You're very thin,' he said disapprovingly. ‘Don't you get enough to eat? I hear you know my whole play by heart. Let me see. Can you recite Lady Macbeth's
Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts
?' The girl not only recited the lines with a rare fluency—she even enacted the part. Girish Ghosh heard her
out his brow creased in a puzzled frown. ‘There's something alien in your pronunciation—a tendency to enlarge the vowel “a”. Tell me truly. Where were you born?'

‘Very far away' Nayanmoni repeated, then hastened to add, ‘I'll correct my pronunciation and—'

‘Can you walk like an Englishwoman? Show me.' Nayanmoni drew herself to her full height. Then, head held high, she walked with arrogant strides across the stage. Girish turned to Ardhendushekhar. ‘Where did you find this girl Saheb?' he asked.

‘From the ash heap you might say. She has many other talents. She can sing and dance. She hasn't had a proper break so far. She's done bit roles—mostly of little boys.”

‘Do you have a regular Babu?' Girish asked the girl. ‘What?' The girl didn't seem to understand the question.

‘I mean, are you free to spend the night with me?'

A deep flush rose in Nayanmoni's cheeks. Her eyelids quivered a little as she stood silent, eyes downcast. Girish, who was in a fever of anxiety, couldn't brook her silence.