First Light (56 page)

Exactly eighteen months after their marriage Mohilamoni gave birth to a son. Bharat looked on as the baby lying in the chamber was put up in the courtyard and marvelled at himself. Mohila-moni was in labour but he felt nothing—nothing at all. Not apprehension or anxiety on her behalf nor elation at the thought of becoming a father. But when it started to rain, the water lashing mercilessly at the flimsy structure of grass and bamboo, he suddenly woke up to a sense of impending doom. Mohilamoni was in there, tossing and turning in agony, sweating and strugg-ling to bring forth his progeny, while he stood helpless. The water was seeping through the grass and soaking her to the skin. He was sure of it. What if she caught a chill and died and the unborn babe with her? He ran into the courtyard and started pacing up and down in a fever of anxiety, oblivious of the rain that fell on him in torrents. The midwife and the two women who were assisting her railed at him for his foolishness and bade him to go back to his room and wait. But he turned a deaf ear. He stayed out in the wind and rain till a cry, much like a night bird's shriek, entered his ears. He breathed a sigh of relief. His child was born and, like every other human being, was weeping its way into the world.

Bharat came back to the house and, entering Mohilamoni's puja room, knelt before the images of Radha and Krishna. Knocking his head on the floor he wept in gratitude to that Supreme Deity who, in his infinite mercy, had thought fit to bless him with a child. He who had never known a father's love now had a son to love and protect; to nurture and cherish. He vowed to keep the tiny flame alive through all the winds and storms that might buffet it. He had suffered excruciating agonies at the hand of god. But now he had his reward.

God had rewarded him in other ways too. His hard work at the bank had been recognized and he had risen step by step. Soon after his marriage the agent of the bank, Mr Ferguson, had sent for him. ‘Babu,' he had said, ‘You will need to improve your
financial situation now that you're married. I'm elevating you to the status of a manager. I could send you to Calcutta if you so wish. Alternatively, you could go to Puri. We are opening a new branch there of which you could take charge.' Bharat had no desire to return to Calcutta. He had promptly accepted the transfer to Puri and moved there with his wife. Opening a new branch and getting it going was strenuous but he didn't mind. He worked hard all day then went back to the house he had rented near Singhadwar, with a sense of eager expectancy. He love his home. It was the only home he had ever known. Mohilamoni kept it very neat and pretty with a few pieces of elegant furniture, lace curtains and flowers. She, too, had never had a home of her home and gave it all she had. With her good sense and natural good taste she had created a haven for Bharat to return to at the end of each day. And it was here that God had blessed them with a son.

Mohilamoni recovered from her ordeal in a few days. And to Bharat's amazement, the child seemed to be growing by the hour. His features were taking shape and the mottled redness of his skin started disappearing leaving it as smooth and silky as a rose petal. His eyes were like two spoonfuls of the clearest sea water and he kept turning them this way and that exploring his surroundings. He didn't cry so much these days. He had learned to laugh and he did so frequently, opening his little mouth wide and displaying a tiny tongue and palate as fresh and pink as a kitten's. Bharat wondered at the child's innocence. What did he see in this miserable world that made him so happy?

The neighbours were dropping in every day and commenting on the child's beauty. He was exactly like his mother, they said, except for the chin which was like that of his father's. Bharat laughed at these remarks. He saw no resemblance to anyone. But one day he got a shock. The cash clerk at the bank, a conservative Brahmin, came to see the child. ‘He is like his mother,' the man remarked, ‘Happy is the son who has his mother's face. But his brow is like yours. It bears the royal stamp.' Bharat's heart quaked and a shudder passed over his frame. ‘Why did he say that?' he thought frightened, ‘Does he know the truth?' But the very next moment he laughed in relief for the man continued, ‘This boy will grow up to be a judge. Or at the very least—a magistrate.' It was true, Bharat thought. Judges and magistrates
magistrate.' It was true, Bharat thought. Judges and magistrates were treated like kings these days.

Bharat caught himself staring at mother and babe particularly when Mohilamoni was suckling him. He found the scene incredibly beautiful. Her face, turned sideways to her son, had a radiance—a rare beauty. Her long eyelashes quivered; her lips shone. The breast, pushed out of her jacket, gleamed as lustrous as mother of pearl. He wondered if anyone had ever held him like that. His mother had died when he was born. Had any other breast given him sustenance? Now, more than ever, he saw Mohilamoni's resemblance to Bhumisuta. Her new motherhood made it sharper; more poignant. And, looking on his son, he saw the same tilt of the eyes and curve of the mouth. The child could have been Bhumisuta's! He caught himself sharply. What was he thinking of? Bhumisuta was lost to him. That phase of his life was over. He must try and forget her. He owed it to Mohilamoni.

One day Mohilamoni said to her husband, ‘We call him Sona but the boy must be given a proper name. You must choose one for him. I have no idea of the kind of names men have in Assam from where you come.' Bharat was silent. He had told everyone here that he came from Assam because his mother had been Assamese. He hadn't breathed a word about Tripura or Calcutta. He didn't feel as though he belonged to either of those places. His natural father had banished him from Tripura and his surrogate father Shashibhushan, who had brought him to Calcutta, had told him that he didn't want to see him ever again. It was only here, in Orissa, that he felt loved and wanted. He worked here and had married here. He would spend the rest of his life here and his son would be Oriya. ‘We'll call him Jagannath,' he said on an impulse then, correcting himself, he added, ‘No, Jagannath is too common. Jagatpati is better. I am Bharat Singh. My son will be Jagatpati Singh Deo.'

When Jagatpati was a year and a half, word came that Mohilamoni's father was seriously ill and wished to see his daughter. Making arrangements at the bank took three days and, at the end of that period, Bharat set off for Cuttack with his wife and son. There was a train to Cuttack but it had to be caught from Khurda Road. Thus the first phase of the journey had to be undertaken by palki. It was a winter morning and bitterly cold.
through a deep forest, Bharat had been warned that it was infested with brigands who waylaid travellers and robbed them of their lives and valuables, and had, in consequence, taken the precaution of travelling with two armed guards. He had no fears that bright winter morning particularly in view of the fact that it was only a day's journey. They would reach the rail station well before sundown. Husband and wife sat facing one another in the palki taking turns in holding the child. Bharat's heart was fit to burst with pride as he looked on his little family. The aanchal had slipped from Mohilamoni's head and her face was open to view. Her fair cheeks glowed in the winter sunlight and a sweet fragrance came from the flowers that adorned the knot of rich hair on top of her head. She had dressed the boy with special care in a red velvet coat, white woollen cap and socks and gold bangles on his tiny wrists. They laughed and chatted as they went along. And then . . .

The bearers screamed in terror and dropped the palki. Bharat thought they had seen a wild animal and, opening the door, he stepped out to see them fleeing into the forest. He tried to call out to them but before he could do so three men, terrifying in aspect with swords in their hands, bore down on him. One of them touched the tip of his sword to Bharat's chest and hissed, ‘Shut your mouth, bastard. Utter a word and you sign your death warrant.' Bharat could hardly believe his eyes. It was broad daylight. How could this be happening? And the guards—the armed guards he had brought to protect them! Where were they? He turned his head to find one of them lying on the ground threshing his limbs in agony. The other had disappeared. ‘Don't take our lives,' he entreated his captor in a hoarse whisper, ‘We'll give you everything we have' A harsh command from one of them compelled Mohilamoni to come, trembling, out of the palki—her baby clasped tightly to her bosom. The men dragged her forward by the hair and proceeded to strip her of all her jewels, from the gold pins in her hair to the rings on her toes. But they wanted more than just her jewels. Their eyes burned with lust. One of them snatched the baby from her breast and flung him into a bush. Another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him. Mohilamoni screamed. And, hearing that scream,
something snapped inside Bharat. It was happening again! His cursed destiny was dogging him, threatening to take all he had. Over and over again he built up something only to lose it. He wouldn't allow it. Not this time. Without stopping to think he flung the sword aside with a powerful thrust of his arm and leaped on his captor. The strength and frenzy of seven devils seemed to have entered his body as he rolled over and over and, reaching the sword, took it in his hand. Then, springing up, he cried out in a terrible voice, ‘Let go of her, sons of bitches, or you die!' Bharat had never uttered a term of abuse in his life. He never raised his voice. But now, he wasn't himself. He was someone else. He knew only one thing. He had to save his wife and child or die in the attempt.

But, however desperate he was, he couldn't have fought the three men single-handed for long. Luckily for him, two more palkis appeared on the scene. The armed guards accompanying them rushed towards the brigands crying ‘Ré ré ré!' at which the three bandits dropped their weapons and fled. Bharat chased them through the woods for a while, then turning back, he fainted. He was revived and taken to the rail station by his saviours where he caught the train to Cuttack. He had averted the disaster that threatened to engulf him and in the process he had learned a lesson. He realized that he had to fight his destiny; to resist it. He decided to buy a gun and keep it with him all the time. But the next blow came so swiftly and suddenly that he got no chance to retaliate.

Three or four days passed. The child, having fallen inside a leafy bush, had escaped unhurt. And Mohilamoni, except for being dragged by the hair and pushed to the ground, hadn't suffered any physical injuries. The wound was to her spirit, and that refused to heal despite the love and affection that was showered on her and her child by her parents and siblings. Everyone went into raptures over the boy's beauty. Mohilamoni's ailing father, though he hadn't fully endorsed his daughter's second marriage, softened towards her on account of the child who was his only grandson. All the other children of his generation were girls. Pressing five gold guineas in the little hands he blessed the boy. But none of this had the power to soothe
Mohilamoni and make her forget. It was only when she thought of how her husband had taken on three armed men, single handed, in an attempt to save her, that balm fell on her lacerated soul. Bharat often found her weeping into her pillow. ‘Forget it Moni,' he told her, stroking her head tenderly. It won't happen again. No one can touch you while I draw breath, ever again.'

Somewhat stifled in the cocoon of love and warmth that enqulfed him Bharat escaped, now and then, to Biharilal Gupta's house and to those of some of his old friends. One morning he decided to visit the bank in which he had worked and meet his ex-colleagues. While they sat drinking tea and talking shop a servant came running in with the news that Bharat was wanted in the house immediately. Mohilamoni had had a fall, while bathing, and lost consciousness. Bharat came rushing back to find a kaviraj sitting by his wife's side, a finger on her pulse, while she lay as pale and still as if in death. The man looked up as Bharat entered and shook his head helplessly. She was still alive, he said, but in a state of acute danger. A vein had ruptured in her head and was haemorraging into the brain.

Three days went by with no change in Mohilamoni's condition. More doctors were sent for but not one—not even the English civil surgeon—held out any hope. They all had the same prognosis. Death was only a matter of time. Only a miracle could save her.

Bharat couldn't believe what he heard. Mohilamoni was only twenty-three. Why should she leave the world? What had she done? What kind of judgment was being passed on her? And why? He could fight life but how could he fight death? Standing by her bedside he broke into a violent fit of weeping, calling out her name, again and again, with the passion of a madman, till her brothers were forced to take him away.

After that Bharat, who had been taught to shun idol worship by his mentor Shashibhushan, went from temple to temple offering prayers and begging the gods for Mohilamoni's life. ‘Hé Ma Kali!' Hé Ma Chandi!' he cried, ‘Save my wife. Return her to me. Take everything I have except her.' On hearing that there was a tantrik somewhere near Udaigiri who had miraculours powers, he went rushing there. Three whole days he waited outside the
tantrik's cave, shivering and calling out, ‘Save Mohilamoni! Take my life but save hers. She's my son's mother. Have mercy! Oh God have mercy!'

It was the end of April—a season of hot winds and blazing sunlight; of desperate longings and thwarted hopes when the eyes are turned involuntarily upwards, over and over again, in the hope of a speck of cloud; when the parched earth lies open and waiting for a shadow to pass over it; when even the blue of the sky is burned out to ashes . . .

Fortunately for him, Rabindra did not feel the heat all that much. Or the cold. When other people smothered themselves in caps, coats and mufflers all he needed was a light shawl flung carelessly across his shoulders. And on summer afternoons, when his brothers and nephews lay sleeping in darkened rooms under undulating punkahs, he went about his work walking or riding down the burning streets with not even an umbrella to protect his head. He spent his mornings and evenings writing in the covered veranda on the second floor. It had no punkah and since Rabindra was not in the habit of using a palm leaf fan sweat poured down his limbs in streams. But it didn't bother him one bit. He filled page after page with his flowing hand stopping only to brush away the drops that fell on the paper.

Rabindra often wrote far into the night after everyone was asleep. Poetry seemed to come unbidden to him when the world was dark and silent. Of his five children Rathi and Madhuri were old enough to sleep in a separate room, apart from their parents. The three youngest still slept with their mother on her vast bridal bed. They were fast asleep by nine o'clock after which Mrinalini took up some sewing for an hour or two. Rabindra had told her several times that sewing by candlelight was bad for the eyes but Mrinalini ignored his advice. For one so quiet and placid she had a strong will and could be quite stubborn on occasions.

Mrinalini had tried, in the past, to sit by her husband at this hour, when they were alone together, and engage him in conversation. But, though Rabindra never reproved her for disturbing him and answered her questions patiently, there was
something missing in the exchange—something that she felt should have been there and wasn't. Though neither analytical nor brooding by nature, she sensed a gap in their relationship. He was a good husband and father—kind, gentle and caring but he had nothing to say to her. It was true, of course, that he was a reticent man and didn't open up easily. He treated everyone, including his wife, with the same formal courtesy. He changed only in the presence of Bibi—her second brother-in-law's daughter. Mrinalini had seen them sitting together talking animatedly for hours together. The women of the household had told her that her husband wrote masses of letters to Bibi whenever he was out of Calcutta, touring his father's estates or for any other purpose. But to Mrinalini, his own wife, he only sent a few lines and that too at long intervals. And all they contained were polite enquiries after her health and that of her children. Mrinalini had accepted the fact that she was no match for her brilliant, famous husband; that she could never share his thoughts. She knew she had no role in his life barring that of ministering to his physical needs and giving birth to and nurturing his progeny. But, still, the thought that he preferred another woman's company to hers hurt her, sometimes so cruelly that the scalding tears oozed out of her eyes and burned their way down her cheeks.

One night Robi sat writing a song. He had begun by humming a tune in Hambir and gradually it had fallen into rhythm with Teora Taal. And now he had found the words:

How far?

How far away lies that land of Joy?

Blinded and weary I grope my way . . .

Suddenly he felt a cool breeze at the back of his head. He turned around startled. Where had that come from? The night was stiflingly hot. Was a storm brewing at last? He rose from his chair and walked to the veranda. There wasn't a breath of wind. Not a leaf stirred in the potted plants. He came back to his room and recommenced his work. Again! Again he felt the cool lifting of his hair as though touched by a gentle hand. ‘Natun Bouthan,' he murmured involuntarily. She used to steal up behind him, on hot still afternoons, as he wrote industriously and ruffle his hair or fan him with a palm leaf fan. But she had been gone these twelve years!

Soon after Jyotirindra's self-imposed banishment from Jorosanko, Rabindra had moved into his rooms, partly because they were the most beautiful in the house but even more so because, in them, he felt his Natun Bouthan's presence. He often saw her shadow lurking behind a door or gliding past the gallery or washroom. And it didn't frighten him. If anything, he welcomed these visitations and looked forward to them. He felt as though Kadambari's wounded, tortured spirit was struggling to attain human form again; to come close to those she loved. But every time she attempted it, it shattered to splinters like a sheet of clear glass. He knew he was imagining it all but he clung to the idea out of a strange desperation and hope. What if her efforts bore fruit, after all, and she came back to him? The thought sent a tremor of happiness through him. He had been very young then; a young, unknown poet struggling to attain fame and recognition. The dead woman had been his only admirer and he had wanted to cling to her memory. But the situation had changed. He was, now, the brightest star on the horizon of letters in Bengal and had thousands of admirers. Besides, he wielded power as adminis-trator of the Thakur estates, practically ran the Brahmo Samaj, was a husband and father to five children.

Rabindra recalled an experience he had had exactly two years ago. It was another April night, not hot and still like this one but wild and stormy. Rabindra had been sitting at his table, writing, when the storm broke. A wild wind, moist with approaching rain, came lashing in making his papers fly about the room. He rose and shut all the windows, then came back and took up his pen. But one of the windows had a loose latch, perhaps, and rattled noisily every time the wind blew on it. Looking at that window Rabindra had the strangest feeling that Natun Bouthan stood outside it, and that she was rapping on it begging him to open it and let her in. He knew that was nonsense. The room stood on the second floor. No one could come in that way. Nevertheless, he rose and, walking over to the window, opened it wide. There was no one there. A gust of wind blew in and a flower fell on the floor. Rabindra picked it up. It was a
juin
—her favourite flower. He shut the window and went back to his table. A memory stirred
deeply within him. Natun Bouthan used to attract his attention, when he was engrossed in his writing, by throwing flowers at him. It was her soul, he thought whimsically, that had come flying in on the wings of the wind and startled him out of his abstraction. Pushing aside the work he had been engaged in, he took up the pen and wrote:

‘You come too late

Now, when the door is barred against you.

Dark is the night and the street deserted,

The lost wind howls its way along the path

Begging sanctuary . . .'

Suddenly, it seemed to him, the rapping grew louder and a voice sobbed piteously, it's not the lost wind. It's me! Me!' A shudder passed over Rabindra's frame. But he didn't move from his place. He turned his eyes this way and that and looked around the room. This was Natun Bouthan's apartment. Her plants were still here and her books. It was her hand that had hung those lace curtains and put up the pictures on the walls. He wrote:

‘Why do you wait forlorn and destitute

Outside a door that was your own?

For whom this thwarted love? For whom this pain? . . .

Let sleepers sleep

Why wake them from their slumbers?

Seeing your anguished face this sudden night . . . .'

The suckling infant, sleeping with his mother in the next room, gave a startled cry shocking Rabindra out of his reverie and bringing him back, sharply, into the real world. Rabindra took hold of himself. What was he thinking of? He had actually believed Natun Bouthan . . . It was only a storm outside—a phenomenon quite usual during this season. And the rattling of the window was clearly owing to a loosened latch. He must get it fixed tomorrow. And then, suddenly, he remembered. Exactly twelve years ago, on this night, Natun Bouthan had taken her own life . . .

Rising from his seat he walked to the veranda and, leaning on the balcony rail, yielded himself up to the elements. The driving
rain soaked him to the skin. Thunder roared all around him accompanied by flashes of lightning. He stood there for a long time. But, for some reason, he didn't think of Kadambari or feel her presence. He thought, instead, of the diseases that had broken out in the city. Cholera and chicken pox were usual at this time of the year but, to add to people's woes, plague had come sweeping in from Maharashtra and was killing thousands of men, women and children. Rain was needed—a lot of it. Rain washed away the germs and cleared the atmosphere.

Next morning Rabindra instructed the servants to bring his writing table and chair down to a room on the first floor. The inmates of the household were puzzled and asked him, repeatedly, why he was exchanging his beautiful room on the highest floor of the mansion for one so ordinary. Rabindra smiled shyly. The children disturbed him as he wrote, he explained, and Mrinalini had a hard time keeping them away. He needed quiet and seclusion for, without them, he couldn't concentrate . . .

Clinging to the past was useless. Rabindra realized that he had to let go. He had to turn his face to the future and go on with his life. Besides, he was growing busier by the day and the demands on him were endless. Over the last few years the Congress had been gaining popularity with the masses, evoking the interest and curiosity of the common man. More and more meetings were being organized all over the country. That winter a session was to be held in Calcutta and several members of the Thakur family were caught up in the preparations. Rabindra, who was to be a delegate, had been given the responsibility of composing the invocation song.

One morning, Bipin Pal came to Jorasanko with a strange request for Rabindra. He had heard that Ganesh Puja was being celebrated with great success in Maharashtra every year with vast numbers of people participating in it. Something like that, in his opinion, was needed here in Calcutta. The most prominent deity of the Bengalis was Durga. The thing to do was to bring the festival out of the mansions of rajas and zamindars and hold it in the streets where the masses could congregate. With a different focus, of course. The public needed a symbol for their country;
one with which they could identify. What could he better than worshipping Ma Durga as
Desh Mata
? That would arouse patriotic feelings among all sections of people. Could Robi Babu write a lyric in praise of the Mother Goddess which could be sung as the invocation song at the meeting of the Congress?

Rabindra heard him out quietly but was shocked at the proposal. An invocation in praise of Durga! Was the Congress a Hindu party? Had it not been formed to bring all the people of India—Hindus, Muslims, Parsees, Buddhists and Christians together? Noting the expression on Rabindra's face Bipin Pal added quickly, ‘I'm not asking you to write a religious poem. All I want you to do is compose a paean in praise of our country in the Mother image. Just looking at a map tells us nothing. Visualizing the country as Mother will have a powerful effect on ordinary people. Don't be so finicky Robi Babu. After all we are not asking Muslims and Christians to perform puja. We're only asking them to look upon the country as their Mother.'

‘Bankim Babu's
Bande Mataram
should serve your purpose,' Rabindra said quietly, it expresses both devotion and patriotic fervour. We could sing that.'

‘The language is too high flown, beyond the comprehension of the common man. If you could give us a simplified version perhaps—'

‘Forgive me,' Rabindra said, shaking his head. ‘I can't do that.'

Bipin Pal's face fell. He hadn't anticipated such a reaction. Making his displeasure obvious he rose and left the house. Rabindra sat, frowning, for a while pondering on the subject. He was a Brahmo; a member of a sect that rejected the worship of images. How could he compromise his deepest sentiments by composing a paean of praise to Durga? And sing it at the Congress meeting, of all places? Impossible! He could write a different kind of lyric though; one that could be understood by the entire gathering. People were coming in from all parts of the country. He had to find a common language and sentiments that were universal. Taking up his pen he wrote:

‘Oi bhuvan man mohini
Oi nirmal surya karajjwal dhwani

Janak janani janani . . .

Neel sindhujal dhauta charan tal

Anil vikampit shyamal anchal

Ambar chumbit bhaal himachal

Shubhra tushar Kiritini . . .'

He frowned and put down his pen. There were too many Sanskrit words in the poem. But Sanskrit was the only Indian language common to the diverse people of the country! All the languages of India were derived from Sanskrit barring Tamil and Telugu. But all educated Indians knew Sanskrit—even Muslims. Rabindra completed the lyric oblivious of the fact that it, too, evoked an image—a woman's image. The invocation song, the elders decreed, was to be
Bande Mataram
after all. As Robi Babu had said, a song in Sanskrit would be more acceptable to the entire gathering. But when Rabindra took up the task of training the singers he found that it was too difficult a composition to be sung by a group. After some deliberation he picked out a song written and set to music by his brother Jyotirindranath:

Chal re chal sab é bharat santan

Matribhumi kare ahwan

A huge pandal was put up on Beadon Square for the twelfth session of the Indian National Congress. Chaired by the famous lawyer Janaab Rahim-u-tulla M. Sayani, it was represented by the eminent elite from all parts of the country. After the invocation was sung the crowd cheered lustily and called out, ‘Robi Babu! We want to hear Robi Babu!'

Robi stood on the stage facing the audience. It numbered more than two thousand. He took a quick decision. He would sing
Bande Mataram
. Beckoning to Sarala to accompany him on the organ he commenced singing in his rich baritone. There was pin drop silence as the impassioned voice, throbbing with powerful feeling, rang around the auditorium. This was the first time that people from all over India heard
Bande Mataram
and it left every man, irrespective of region, religion, caste and creed, moved beyond his wildest imaginings. Tears stood in every eye and a hush fell on the assembly to be broken, at last, by a storm of
applause that went on and on.