First Light (50 page)

After many hours of trying Naren gave up the attempt and sat down on the road faint with hunger and exhaustion, his limbs stiff with cold. And then, when all hope was gone, an angel of mercy descended from heaven and saved him from sure death. A lady had been observing him from an upstairs window of a three-storeyed house. Now she opened her door and approaching him,
where he sat in the dust, asked an unexpected question. ‘Have you come as a delegate to the Parliament of Religions?'

Everything was smooth sailing after that. Mrs Hale, for that was her name, took him home with her. After a hot bath, a good meal and rest, Naren was escorted by his benefactress to Dr Barrows' office. Fortunately, Henry Wright had taken the precaution of sending a letter by post to his friend and all the arrangements had been made already. Naren was given a delegate's badge and conducted to the quarters he would occupy. Naren's troubles were over at last . . .

Naren had put off speaking for a long time but he couldn't do so indefinitely. Finally the hour came when he had to take up the task for which he had undertaken such a long journey and so many hazards. He rose and walked towards the rostrum. Pratapchandra had told him to take his guru's name before he began his speech but the blood was thudding so violently in his heart that his mind went blank. He couldn't remember a single name—neither Ramkrishna's nor Ma Kali's. He looked with glazed eyes at the sea of human faces in front of him. Beyond them was a statue of white marble; a female figure—her hand stretched out as if in blessing. It must have been the representation of some Greek goddess but, in his overwrought condition, he thought it was the goddess Saraswati newly descended from heaven. ‘Ma Saraswati!' he murmured ‘Have mercy on me. Unlock my tongue and give me speech.' Then, taking a deep breath, he began: ‘S
isters and Brothers of America
.'

As an opening sentence this was an unusual one. People started clapping—a few at first. Then more and more joined in till the hall echoed with applause. Naren stood, nonplussed, for a while. Western audiences were generous with their applause—he knew that. But the kind he was getting wasn't a form of politeness. It seemed to be something else—a frenzied endorsement of his sentiments by a gathering of which the majority were women. Stirred by an emotion he couldn't explain, even to himself, his fear vanished. His voice rose, strong and clear, and rang like a sonorous bell through the length and breadth of the room:

‘I thank you in the name of the most ancient order of monks in the world . . . I am proud to belong to a religion which has taught
the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. We believe not only in universal toleration, but we accept all religions as true
. . . As the different streams having their sources in different places all mingle their water in the sea, so, O Lord, the different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear, crooked or straight, all lead to thee . . .'

The applause rose to a crescendo. Like a mighty storm, it washed over the vast hall, in wave after deafening wave. People started leaving their chairs and running towards the rostrum at which he stood. The other speakers stared at one another, dumbfounded. What had the young man said that they hadn't? They had all, at some point or the other in their discourses, advocated tolerance of other religions. What they didn't realize was that their discourses had been academic exercises. Naren had had no written text before him. He had spoken from the heart and, in doing so, he had won over the hearts of the Americans. He hadn't extolled the virtues of his own religion. He had pleaded for a Brotherhood of Man. ‘The boy spoke well,' one of the organizers whispered to another, ‘but who could have thought he would receive an ovation such as this? If he can keep his head in the right place after today he's a remarkable young man indeed!'

A little distance away from Bharat's lodgings in the town of Cuttack was the residence of the district judge Biharilal Gupta. Biharilal and his wife Soudamini were warm and sociable in temperament and very hospitable. Consequently their house was packed with guests at all hours of the day and the air redolent with the aroma of delicious food. The evenings, in particular, rang with music and laughter for Biharilal liked to relax in the company of his friends after a gruelling day in court. Soudamini was a motherly sort of woman who loved feeding her guests. Though she had many servants she insisted on cooking some of the dishes herself and serving them with her own hands. She was small and slight in build and ate very little herself. But she loved the sight of others enjoying a meal and that included birds and beasts. Her heart sang with joy, each morning, as she threw handfuls of grain to her pigeons and pushed the tenderest of leaves into the mouth of the doe in her garden. She even looked
on with pleasure at the sight of the syce giving the horses their gram.

Biharilal and Soudamini were Brahmos and intimate friends of the Thakurs of Jorasanko. Soudamini had once been a member of Swarnakumari Devi's Sakhi Samiti. Now, having moved to Cuttack, she had opened a branch for the women of the town. Classes in music, painting, dancing and needlework were held in her house and she encouraged all the young girls she knew to come and join
them. She was dead against the notion of purdah and could be sharp in her criticism. ‘Are you a doll?' she would scold if she found a girl sitting timidly, her eyes on the ground, ‘Haven't you learned to talk?' And if anyone covered her face before a man she would rail at her, ‘Why has god given you a pretty face if you don't show it?'

Bharat, though only a bank clerk, had managed to find a place in these gatherings. Biharilal and Soudamini made no distinction between people. They kept open house and made everyone welcome—Bengali or Oriya, rich or poor. Bharat liked Orissa
and felt a strange bonding with her country and people. They were Bhumisuta's and since Bhumisuta was his he felt they were his too. After scouring the streets of Calcutta for months, trying to find her, he had decided to come to Orissa. She might have, in her disgust and disappointment with Bengal, gone back to her roots. He had roamed from place to place—Puri, Baleswar, Cuttack—his eyes strained for a glimpse of her. Finally, worn out with physical and mental exhaustion, exposure and starvation, he had fallen in a dead faint outside the temple of Jagannath in Puri. No one had picked him up. No one had extended a helping hand. Puri was full of lepers, beggars and lunatics. Who had the time to glance at them? Pilgrims crowding into the temple had thrown a brief glance at the fair youth lying on the ground and, thinking it to be a novel way of begging, had flung a few paisas in his direction before walking on. How Bharat had come out of that faint he did not remember. But he had not only survived—he had managed to make a living in Puri. Sitting under a tree outside the Post Office, he had filled out money order forms, at the rate of one paisa per form, for those who could not read or write. With the ten or twelve paisas he made each day he could buy himself two coarse but nourishing meals, for Orissa was a cheap place. And at night, he slept under the stars on the vast
chatal
of the temple.

He lived like this for a year clinging to the hope that he would find Bhumisuta. All Oriyas visited the temple of Jagannath some time or the other. She might be married, by now, of course. He didn't mind that. All he wanted was to meet her and beg for her forgiveness. But Bhumisuta eluded him and the hope died slowly in his breast.

Then, one day, a gentleman offered him a job. He had seen Bharat several times sitting outside the Post Office filling forms and been surprised by the neatness and elegance of his hand. Lloyd's Bank, he told Bharat, had recently opened a branch in Cuttack and was looking for young men who knew English. Bharat was obviously well educated. Why didn't he send an application? Bharat took the man's advice and got the job. That was six years ago. Now he had risen to the post of Chief Accountant and was a regular visitor at the house of Biharilal Gupta.

One day Soudamini said to him, ‘Do you know how to sing Bharat? We are putting up Robi Babu's
Balmiki Pratibha
this Maghotsav and are short of a male voice.' Bharat blushed and protested. He had never sung in his life, he said, and didn't know one note from another. But Soudamini wouldn't let him off. Thrusting the role of the first dacoit on him she started training him for the part. Within a few minutes she realized that he hadn't exaggerated. But there was no one to replace him so, comforting herself with the thought that a dacoit's voice needn't be very sweet or tuneful, she started working on him harder than ever. As for Bharat, his original reluctance wore off in a few days and he started enjoying the rehearsals.

Doing the female lead was a girl called Mohilamoni. She was a child widow, beautiful and intelligent. Having received some education she was a great help to Soudamini in running the Samiti and spent most of her day in Biharilal's house. Bharat had been struck with her beauty and charm the first day he had seen her which was over a year ago. Now he marvelled at her singing voice. She sang the songs of the ‘little maid' with so much feeling! And her enunciation was perfect!

‘I saw
Balmiki Pratibha
for the first time in Jorasanko,' Biharilal said during one of the rehearsals. ‘Robi Babu played the male lead and a niece of his, a girl called Pratibha, played the heroine. In fact the opera was named after her. She was a beautiful girl and had the sweetest voice I had ever heard. But, to tell you the truth, our Mohilamoni is doing even better than Pratibha.'

‘Mama Babu!' Mohilamoni laughed and shook her head with mock severity at Biharilal. ‘You mustn't flatter me with all these lies. I'll stop acting and go home if you do.'

‘I'm not flattering you child. It's nothing but the plain truth I'm telling you.'

A few days later news reached the players that Robi Babu was coming to inspect the family estates in Balia and would not only be visiting Cuttack but would actually be staying in the house. It was instantly decided that a performance would be put up expressly for him and his opinion on its quality sought. It was a rare opportunity and should not be missed on any account. This decision threw everyone in a flurry of preparation. Rehearsals
began an hour earlier and went on till late into the night. Bharat could come only after the bank was closed for the day but he stayed on right till the end.

It was during one of these rehearsals that Bharat had a strange experience. His role over for the time being, he was sitting with the others looking at Mohilamoni as she sang her lines. Suddenly she turned her face away from him and he saw it in profile for the first time. His heart gave a tremendous leap. It was Bhumisuta's face. He almost stood up in his excitement but, before he could do so, Mohilamoni was facing him once more and the resemblance was gone. Now Bharat started watching her covertly and, after a while he realized that though their figures, colouring and facial expressions were dissimilar their right profiles were uncannily alike. That and a trick both women had of lowering their lashes and fixing their eyes on the ground. Whenever Mohilamoni turned her face to the left and lowered her glance she looked exactly like Bhumisuta. Was there some relationship between the two, Bharat asked himself feverishly. Were they sisters? No. That was not possible. Bhumisuta's parents had died long ago. Were they cousins then? If that were so Mohilamoni would have news of Bhumisuta. Should he talk to her and try to find out?

Next evening Bharat was even later than usual for the rehearsal. An angry Soudamini railed at him for not taking the show seriously. But her complaints and criticisms made not a dent on his consciousness. His eyes, his mind and spirit were fixed on Mohilamoni as she sat, her face turned to one side, her eyes on the carpet. He had seen that expression so many times before that it seemed as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart. He felt Bhumisuta's presence, in this room, as he hadn't felt it in these seven years since he had lost her. Bhumisuta was here and she was trying to reach out to him . . .

The two friends bumped into one another outside Bankimchandra's, house in Pratap Chatterjee Street. They had been students in college together. Now Dwarika was a wealthy landowner, stout and handsome in his tussar kurta stretched tight across a great expanse of chest. An expensive Kashmiri shawl sat carelessly on one shoulder and a pair of magnificent whiskers waved luxuriously above his upper lip. Dwarika visited his estates in Khulna once a year. The rest of his time was spent in Calcutta running a journal called
Nabajyoti
for Dwarika had retained his love of literature. Jadugopal had fulfilled his life's ambition of going to England and returning a barrister. And having married a daughter of the illustrious house of Jorasanko was, now, numbered among the elite. He wore a faultless three-piece English suit and shining boots.

‘Why Dwarika!' he greeted his old friend facetiously, ‘Can't you let the poor man alone? Must you wrest a story for your infernal magazine even from his sick bed?'

‘No brother,' Dwarika's face looked pale and worried. ‘Bankim Babu is in no condition to write—for me or for anyone else. The doctors say he's critical. Besides, he left off writing years ago.'

‘Why? He's not that old. Fifty-five or fifty-six—at the most. That's no age to retire. He's the king of Bengali literature. He should go on and on.'

‘His spirit is broken. After his daughter's death he—'

‘Ah yes! I remember. His youngest daughter Utpalkumari committed suicide, didn't she?'

‘It wasn't suicide. I'm close to the family so I know the truth. Utpala's husband Matindra is a beast in human form. Wine, women, gambling, ganja—he indulges in every vice you can find on this earth. He has a gang of toadies who feed on him constantly and egg him on. Naturally, it didn't take him much time to run through his own money. Then he started pestering
Utpala to give him her jewels. But Utpala was a strong woman and denied him resolutely. They were her own
Stridhan,
given to her by her father. Why should she let her husband squander them away? He harrassed her in every way he could but didn't succeed in getting them out of her. Then, with the help of a doctor friend of his, he got hold of a drug and poured it into her bottle of medicine. He had no idea of the potency of the drug. So he may have put in more than he was supposed to. He said he hadn't meant to kill her, only to make her unconscious. Anyhow, Utpala died and Matindra, in a panic, hung her body from a beam and made it look like suicide. It was later, during the post mortem, that the poison was discovered in her system.'

‘But the court gave a verdict of suicide.'

‘Bankim Babu didn't contest the case. After all, his family honour was at stake. To prevent the ugly story from coming out into the open he supported his son-in-law.'

‘Kundanandini!' Jadugopal breathed.

‘Exactly. He was haunted by that thought himself. “I poisoned Kundanandini,” he said over and over again. “I killed her. And now my own daughter—” Is it not tragic, Jadu, that such a fiery pen has been extinguished? The doctors say he has lost the will to live.'

‘I've come to him with a proposal. You must help me get his permission. Some of my friends in England wish to translate Bankim Babu's works and publish them.'

‘You won't get his permission.'

‘Why not? He won't have to do anything himself. All the work will be done by others. If translations of his books are available they'll be read by people of other countries and his fame will spread far beyond Bengal. Besides, he'll get a lot of money.'

‘He's a proud, stubborn, bitter man. He doesn't permit translations because he's convinced that the sahebs won't read his work. And, even if they do, they won't understand it. He has translated his own
Debi Choudhurani
but hasn't published it. He detests the English and won't have anything to do with them.'

The two friends were sitting in the drawing room with the other visitors—all waiting in the hope of seeing the great man. No one was being allowed into the bedroom for Dr Mahendralal Sarkar was examining the patient. Bankimchandra had been
suffering from diabetes for quite some time. He had recognized the symptoms—a raging thirst and frequent urinations—but hadn't called in a doctor. Then, one day, he suffered a violent attack of pain in his underbelly. The pain was so agonizing that he twitched and flung his limbs about like a newly slaughtered goat. There was no question of fighting it alone. The best doctors of the city were sent for and, after careful examination, a large boil was discovered in his urethra. The doctors advocated an operation but Bankimchandra would not hear of it. ‘I know I'm doomed,' he told Dr O'Brien. ‘What's the use of cutting me up? Operation or no operation—I won't survive. I feel it in my bones.' Now the family had sent for Dr Mahendralal Sarkar.

After a while the doctor came down the stairs his great boots clacking noisily. He stood with his arms akimbo, thumbs thrust in the pockets of his waistcoat, and looked solemnly at the waiting men. ‘You'll have to go back—all of you,' his big voice boomed. ‘The patient can't see anyone. He needs his rest.' Jadugopal and Dwarika sprang forward to help carry his bag but he waved them away imperiously. ‘I can do all my own carrying, thank you,' he said and strode out of the room. Jadu and Dwarika ran after him crying, ‘How is he Daktar Babu? Do tell us.'

‘Why don't you ask him?' Mahendralal snapped. ‘He's a bigger doctor than I am. He knows everything. He informed me that if we cut out the abcess the pus will mingle with his blood and contaminate his whole body. As if we doctors don't know what we're doing.'

‘You mustn't listen to him,' Dwarika cried, ‘You must force him; threaten him. Everyone is afraid of you.'

‘He's not. Besides, no doctor should use force on a patient. Particularly on one as famous as he is.'

‘Have you given him medicine?'

‘No. There's no sense in mixing homeopathy with allopathy. His present treatment can continue for what it's worth.'

Leaving the two young men staring after him, Mahendralal Sarkar climbed into his carriage. Poking his head out of the window, immediately afterwards, he added, ‘I've learned one thing in my many years of doctoring. And that is, if a patient has lost his will to live no doctor can save him. No—not even if Dhanwantari visits him in person.'

Mahendralal's carriage clattered down the road. Dwarika watched it go, his eyes blank with despair. Then, suddenly, he burst into tears. ‘I can't bear it Jadu,' he wept, his face working like a child's. ‘I can't bear the thought of Bankim's death.'

‘
Arré
!
Arré
! Jadugopal clasped his friend in his arms, ‘He's still with us. Besides, doctors are not gods. They may be wrong.' He took Dwarika's arm as he spoke and dragged him to his carriage. ‘Go home and don't worry,' he said helping him in. But Dwarika clung to Jadu's hand. ‘Come with me Jadu,' he pleaded. Jadugopal hesitated for a moment, then climbed in after Dwarika. The coachman whipped the horses and they set off at a fine canter. Jadugopal noticed that the coachman didn't wait for instructions. He seemed to know where to go. At the mouth of Hadh Katar Gali Jadugopal cried, ‘Stop! Stop! I must get out here.' But Dwarika grasped Jadu's arm and begged, ‘Come with me Jadu. I'm going to Basantamanjari. Do you remember her? She talks of you often and will be delighted to see you.' Jadugopal had never entered a red light area before. He took a strictly moral view of such matters. But he couldn't find it in his heart to shake off the clinging fingers. People believed Dwarika to be a man of loose morals. But Jadugopal knew that he loved Basantamanjari and had loved her from the first flush of his manhood. His love was like a pure, shining flame which had endured through the ups and downs of his life. He couldn't make her his wife but he honoured her more than many men honoured their wedded wives.

As Jadugopal stepped gingerly on the steps leading to Basantamanjari's room Dwarika said, ‘Basi has a strange gift. She can look into the future. Did you know that Jadu?'

‘Can she see her own future?'

‘She never talks about herself.'

Basantamanjari was sitting on the floor plucking at the strings of a tanpura and singing softly to herself. Her voice was husky, sweet and deep. She didn't hear the two men enter at first and went on singing. Then, sensing their presence, she rose to her feet with a cry, ‘Jadu Kaka! It's been so long. So long!' Running up to him she fell at his feet and burst into tears. Jadu let her cry. He knew how she felt. He had brought her childhood, long lost and forgotten, back to her and the experience was painful.

In a little while she collected herself and started plying him with questions about everybody and everything she had known in the village. The only names she didn't bring to her lips were those of her father and mother.

Dwarika poured himself some brandy and muttered, almost to himself, ‘We lost Vidyasagar three years ago. And now Bankim—' It seemed he could think of nothing else. Even Basantamanjari's storm of weeping had gone unnoticed. ‘Vidyasagar suffered agonies before he died,' Dwarika continued. ‘He had lost his speech near the end and kept looking blankly from one face to another while the tears streamed out of his eyes. He was trying to say something —'

‘I was in Allahabad at the time,' Jadugopal murmured, ‘So I couldn't go and see him.'

‘I remember it as if it was yesterday.' Dwarika's voice rose, loud and full, as though suddenly enthused. ‘It was the thirteenth of Sravan. I remember the date clearly. Basi and I were sitting on the terrace and she was singing . . . It was well past midnight when she pointed to the sky and cried, “Look! Look at that beam of light moving slowly across the sky! A great soul is leaving the earth.” I looked up but could see nothing. Next day I heard Vidyasagar Moshai had breathed his last in the middle of the night—at two-thirty to be precise.'

‘
Ogo
!' Basantamanjari interrupted Dwarika's reminiscences with a sudden question. ‘Where is that friend of yours? The one called Bharat.'

‘I have no news of him. Irfan says he disappeared one morning and was never seen again.'

‘He's gone far—very far,' Basantamanjari murmured dreamily.

‘When did this happen?' Jadugopal asked curiously.

‘It's been many years now. Six—no seven years. Basi keeps asking after him even though she has seen him only once in her life. I used to feel jealous at one time. But it's over now. He may be dead for all I know.'

The two friends chatted for a while longer then Jadugopal rose to his feet. He had a long way to go.

Dwarika went to Bankimchandra's house religiously every day. The great man was adamant in his refusal to have the
operation preferring to die of the pain than suffer the indignity of being cut to ribbons by the surgeon's knife. Fate was on his side for, quite miraculously, the boil burst on its own and the blood and pus drained away out of his body. The wound healed and he felt much better. Now he could sit up and talk to his visitors.

‘Why do you haunt my bedside you foolish boy?' he asked Dwarika one day. ‘Are you still hoping to get a novel out of me?'

‘You mustn't give up writing,' Dwarika begged, clasping the sick man's feet with his hands. ‘Don't write for my journal if you'd rather not. Write for
Bharati.
Or for
Sahitya.
You are our pride and strength. We won't let go of you that easily.'

Bankimchandra smiled wryly. The end was coming near slowly but steadily. He knew it. He felt it in his bones. Around the ruptured boil others were rearing their heads—a whole crop of them, small as pimples but filled with a deadly poison. Pain lashed his worn body once again; excruciating pain that drove him into a coma. Then, one day in late Chaitra, between sleeping and waking, Bankimchandra passed away. It was not only the end of the year; it was the end of the century. A new age was being ushered in. It would dawn in a few days but Bankimchandra would not be there to see it.