First Light (11 page)

Manibhushan had been fiddling with a purse in his pocket all this while. Now, as the doctor rose to leave, he drew it out. ‘My fee is thirty-two rupees,' Mahendralal said. The two brothers exchanged glances. The best of allopaths charged sixteen rupees a visit. A homeopath, they had thought, would be much cheaper. The doctor looked from one face to another and said brusquely, ‘You don't have to pay me now. I'm leaving some medicine which the patient will take for the next three days. He'll be up and about by then and must report to my chamber on the fourth day. If he is unable to do so you needn't pay a paisa. Mahen Sarkar doesn't take money without effecting a cure.'

As the doctor moved towards the door Shashibhushan cried out, ‘Doctor Babu! May I ask you a question?'

‘You may,' the doctor replied turning back. ‘A doctor is obliged to answer his patient's questions.' Shashi turned pleading eyes on his brothers. ‘Will you leave the room please,' he begged. After they had left, Mahendralal shut the door and came up to the bed. ‘I thought I was dying,' Shashi burst out as if in desperation. ‘I couldn't breathe. I couldn't eat. Then my mother came to me. She said I was to have bel sherbet and soft rice gruel. I feel much better—

‘Very well. Eat whatever you like. All food is good if the body doesn't reject it. Besides, mothers know what is good for their children.'

‘You don't, understand. My mother's been dead these seventeen years. Yet she came to me. You examined me doctor, am I going mad?'

‘No. I found no trace of insanity. And your speech is perfectly coherent.'

‘I can't talk about it to anyone. They'll dismiss it as a dream. But I saw her as clearly as I see you now. I touched her—'

‘What of it?' Mahendralal said comfortably. ‘You've seen your mother. You're the better for it. Let's leave it at that.'

‘Can the dead come back to life?'

‘No,' Mahendralal's voice was firm. ‘No one, not even God can raise the dead. But the human mind has strange and unlimited powers. It can create everything out of nothing. When the desire is strong enough, even the dead can be seen and touched.' Patting Shashi gently on the head the doctor rose to leave. ‘I have a theory on the subject,' he said, ‘which I would like to share with you. But not in your present state. Come to me when you are fully recovered and we'll have a long chat. And, for the present, carry on with the diet the ghosts have prescribed. It has done you good.'

Dr Mahendralal's medicine had the effect he had anticipated. Within three days Shashibhushan was able to walk about freely and eat his meals with enjoyment. What was more the old urge to read returned. His brothers sent for all the latest papers and journals. Shashibhushan threw aside the
Englishman
and took up the
Indian Mirror
instead. But what intrigued him most were the journals of the Brahmo Samaj. He was appalled at the state into which the Samaj had fallen. Debendranath Thakur had loved Keshab Sen as one of his own sons. Yet Keshab had broken away from the Adi Brahmo Samaj and formed an association of his own called Naba Bidhan the chief activity of which was his own self projection. In consequence a third group had come into being under the leadership of Shibnath Shastri. Revolted by Keshab's behaviour, Shibnath never lost an opportunity to point out the former's contradictions and retrogressions. Keshab, who had made burning speeches against child marriage, had recently married his own ten-year-old daughter to a prince of Coochbehar. That too by Hindu rites. It was rumoured that Keshab was advocating a return to idol worship. He had put up a flag in the Brahmo prayer hall before which arati was performed
every evening and at the foot of which every Brahmo was expected to knock his head in homage. Shashibhushan tossed the paper away in disgust.

One morning as Shashi sat up in bed, his back resting against the pillows and a newspaper propped up before him, he saw a girl holding a bunch of white flowers run past the door. Shashi trembled and his heart beat so rapidly that he was compelled to hold his chest tight with his arms. This was the same girl he had seen on two occasions. Calming himself with an effort he thought
‘Am I going mad? Or is there a rational explanation?' At that moment Krishnabhamini came in with a glass of sherbet. Shashibhushan decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Boudimoni,' he asked, ‘I saw a girl running down the veranda just now. Who is she?'

‘Why that was Bhumi!' Then, seeing the puzzled expression on her brother-in-law's face, she added, ‘Don't you know Bhumi ? She's been looking after you in your illness.'

‘Call her in. I want to see her.'

The girl came shyly to the door and stood there her eyes downcast. Shashi stared at her. She had a strange compelling beauty. Her body, draped in a plain red bordered white sari, was slim and supple as a young bamboo and her golden face gleamed as though burnished with gurjan oil. She held a bunch of white camellias to breast. Shashibhushan's heart leaped up with relief. She was real. At least one of the women he had seen had not been a vision. ‘Why does she always carry white flowers in her hands?' he murmured almost to himself.

‘She picks flowers for the morning puja and decorates the puja room. That is the work apportioned to her.' Krishnabhamini replied.

Now Shashi turned to the girl. ‘Who are you?' he asked. ‘What is your name?'

‘My name is Bhumisuta Mahapatra,' the girl answered shyly but clearly. At this point Krishnabhamini took upon herself the task of enlightening her brother-in-law. A year and a half ago, she said, when Manibhushan and Suhasini went on a pilgrimage to Puri they came upon the girl near the temple of Jagannath. Her parents had just died of cholera and her uncle had sold her to a
panda
to use as a devdasi. Coming upon the scene by accident
they saw the old man dragging her by the hair while she resisted with all her strength. Suhasini's heart was filled with pity. Paying the
panda
the sum he had parted with, she brought the girl to this house. Bhumisuta performed odd tasks about the house but she, Krishnabhamini said, was no ordinary maid. She came from a good family, was well educated and extremely intelligent.

From that day onwards Shashibhushan found himself watching Bhumisuta and looking out for her. He would stand on the balcony outside his room at dawn looking out into the garden. She would come, sooner or later, her basket on her arm. She would move from bush to bush picking the choicest, freshest blooms—jasmine, camellias and tuberoses. At such times she looked like a flower herself. Her sari was a spotless white and her face, framed in its halo of hair, was like a newly opened lotus. Shashi was charmed by the scene and longed to capture it on camera. How would it be, he thought, if she could be persuaded to wear a colourful sari? He could not, quite naturally, focus from the balcony. He would have to set his camera in the garden. He decided that, when he was a little stronger, he would take a picture of Bhumisuta.

Robi ran lightly down the steps and round the house into the garden where Kadambari waited. She had just had her bath and her wet hair fell in long strands over her back and shoulders. A pale blue sari was draped over a simple white chemise. Her beautifully moulded arms were bare of ornament but a large, flawless diamond glittered from the middle finger of her left hand. Her feet were bare and her hands were full of
bakul
. She looked up shyly at her young brother-in-law. ‘See Robi,' she said holding out her hands, ‘How lovely they smell.' Robi came close to her and buried his nose in the flowers. Mixed with the scent of the newly opened
bakul
was her own distinctive fragrance.

‘Look up at that tree,' Kadambari pointed a finger. ‘It is covered with blooms. They fly about like tiny white stars before falling to the ground. Climb up and get me some from the top.'

‘What will you do with so many?'

‘I'll string them into garland and put it around someone's neck.'

‘Whose?'

‘Yours.' Kadambari gave a little giggle. ‘You'll be king for a day.'

‘I'll need a throne.'

‘That can be arranged. What sort of throne would you like?' ‘What better throne can I ask for than someone's heart.' ‘Shh! You talk too much.' Kadambari flashed her eyes at him and continued. ‘We'll stay in the garden all day. Look at that sky. See how it is darkening with cloud! It is an ideal day for spending out of doors. I won't let you mess about with pen and paper today. You'll be a
rakhal raja
and sing and play the flute. That will be a lovely game.' She turned to him eagerly as she spoke her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. But there was no answering glow in Robi's eyes as he said solemnly, ‘You play with me as if I were a doll Natun Bouthan.' A shadow passed over Kadambari's face. She stood immobile for a few seconds looking at him, her
eyes dark with pain and bewilderment. Then, opening her palms, she let the flowers fall to the ground. Averting her face she murmured to herself, ‘He sleeps till eleven, then rushes off to the theatre. The actors and actresses need him and he needs them. But don't I need anything? Anyone? Who shall I turn to Robi?'

Robi stood in abashed silence. It was true that Jyotidada had become very busy of late and was practically living in Calcutta, He was even thinking of moving out of Chandannagar and going back to Jorasanko. Natun Bouthan felt neglected. But men were like that. In wealthy households such as his, wives rarely saw their husbands except at night and that too not often. The younger generation of men, educated in the notions of the West, were pushing their wives out of purdah and bringing them within the mainstream of their lives. These women had tasted freedom and known the companionship of their husbands and were loath to go back to their lives of loneliness. It was a modern day dilemma. In an attempt to change the subject and woo his sister-in-law back to her earlier happy mood, Robi picked a handful of
kadam
and brought them to her. ‘See Bouthan,' he said. ‘The first
kadam
flowers of the rains.'

‘They aren't the first,' Kadambari replied indifferently. ‘They've been here for quite some time. The trees are covered with blossom.'

‘They are my first. And they are for you. Take them.' Kadambari took the cluster of golden globes in her hands and seated herself on the swing. ‘Come and sit by me Robi,' she invited. Robi obeyed and the two sat silent for a while the swing moving gently to and fro. Kadambari seemed lost in her own thoughts but Robi felt uneasy. He kept looking at the sun and trying to gauge the time. ‘Bouthan!' The words came out in a rush. ‘I have to leave you now. We'll spend the whole of tomorrow in the garden together.'

‘You wish to go back to your writing?' She asked gently, sensing his embarrassment. ‘Which one?
Bouthakuranir Haat
? Or have you started a new poem?'

‘I have to go to Calcutta.'

‘Why?' Her brows came together in annoyance. ‘You shan't go. I won't let you.'

‘I must,' Robi cried desperately. ‘I've given my word.'

‘To whom? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘You know, don't you, that Rajnarayan Bosu's daughter Lilavati is to be wed. I've been asked to compose two songs for the occasion. I'm to go today and teach them to the singers.'

‘Why don't you sing them yourself?'

‘Because Baba Moshai has forbidden me to go to the wedding.'

‘Forbidden you!' Kadambari exclaimed, amazed. ‘Rishi Moshai's daughter is to be wed and you can't go! Think how it will hurt him. He loves you so much.'

‘Rishi Moshai won't attend either.'

The truth of the matter was that Lilavati's chosen husband Krishna Kamal belonged to the third group of Brahmos—those who had broken away from Keshab Sen's Naba Bidhan and formed an association called the Sadharan Brahmo Samaj under the leadership of Shibnath Shastri. The Civil Marriage Bill having been passed a few years ago, these young Brahmos preferred a registry marriage to any other form infuriating the elderly members of the Adi Brahmo Samaj who, led by Debendranath Thakur, denounced civil marriages as godless and heretical. A union which did not invoke the blessings of Param Brahma, they maintained, was no union at all. When Debendranath heard that Krishna Kamal and Lilavati were also to be married by registry he withheld his consent. Rajnarayan Bosu, though equally distressed, bowed to the inevitable. He declared that he would not stand in the way of his daughter's happiness. He would allow the marriage but not attend it. Nor would the members of his family.

When Kadambari realized that Robi was determined to go she rose to her feet. ‘You must have something to eat before you leave,' she said, then turning to him eagerly, she added, ‘You'll come back, won't you? Promise me you won't spend the night in Calcutta.'

In the steamer, on his way to Calcutta, Robi felt a pang of guilt. Natun Bouthan had asked him to stay back. He could have obeyed her and gone another day. Only, it gave him so much pleasure to hear someone else sing his songs! His compositions were becoming quite popular. They were being sung regularly at Brahmo prayer meetings. Only the other day his nephew
Satyaprasad had heard a group of boys singing one of his songs by Hedo Lake. Robi had felt a surge of triumph at the news.

Getting off the steamer at Babughat, Robi made his way to where the public carriages stood waiting. It had just stopped raining and the road was muddy and full of potholes. It was very crowded and people pushed and pummelled each other in order to get ahead. Not a single phaeton was in sight. Three or four hackney cabs, so crammed with passengers that they seemed to be bursting at the seams, were just pulling out. As Robi gazed despairingly after them someone stepped heavily on his foot coating his shining pump with horse dung. Wincing with pain Robi decided to walk.

Following the arrival of the exiled Nawab Wajed Ali Shah, Metiaburj was transformed from a marshy wilderness; into a bustling Muslim colony. Shops and eateries had sprung up like mushrooms lining both sides of the road on which Robi walked. As the delicious odours of meatballs and Mughlai curries wafted into his nostrils he remembered his brother Satyendranath's khansama Abdul. Abdul's cooking had smelled just so. Satyendranath had found Abdul here in Metiaburj and taken him to Ahmedabad where he was posted as Assistant Collector and Magistrate. Robi had spent some months with his Mejodada and Mejo Bouthan in their house—an old Mughal place overlooking a river. Robi had been delighted with it. It had seemed to his newly awakened adolescent senses that here, within these high stone walls, history was trapped and stood transfixed. Walking up and down the huge terrace on moonlit nights he could swear he heard voices around him—moans and sighs and anguished whispers.

As Robi entered Lalbazar a passing carriage stopped by him. A head emerged from the window and a voice exclaimed, ‘
Arré
! It's Rabindra Babu. Come in. Come in.' Robi folded his hands in greeting. The man's name was Shibnath Bhattacharya but many addressed him as Shastri Moshai. He was a fine scholar and a dynamic social reformer and had done a lot to reduce the prevalence of child marriage. He had promoted widow remarriages and made burning speeches in favour of education for women. Under his leadership the Sadharan Brahmo Samaj was gaining in popularity every day. Seating himself in the
carriage Robi said, ‘I was on my way to your Sabha. But I'm afraid I shall be late. You see, I'm coming from Chandannagar.' Shibnath Shastri drew a watch out of the waistband of his dhuti. He noted that Robi was one hour and ten minutes late. The young Brahmos were sticklers for time. Nevertheless, he said kindly, ‘I'm sure Nagen, Kedar and the others are waiting. After all, Chandannagar is a long way off.'

The bells on the horses' hooves jingled merrily and their plumes danced gaily as the carriage rolled down the road. Robi was afraid that Shastri Moshai would launch on a tirade against the members of the Adi Brahmo Samaj but he did nothing of the kind. He spoke lightly and briefly on a variety of subjects giving a patient hearing to Robi's opinions.

Dismounting at the gate Robi entered the great hall where the
‘Brahmo prayer meetings were held. The room was empty except for a small group of young men who rose to receive him. Robi's apologies for the delay were waved away with punctilious deference and he was led to a carpet spread with white sheets at the far end of the room. Robi took his seat facing the five singers. One had an esraj in his hand and another a pair of cymbals. He knew four of them well. They were trained singers and would pick up the songs easily and quickly. But who was the fifth? He looked very young, scarcely past boyhood. His body was strong and muscular and his eyes large, dark and compelling. His name, Robi was told, was Naren Datta. The name meant nothing to him but there was something familiar about the way the boy's eyes looked steadily out of a pair of heavy brows. Of course! Naren Datta was his nephew Dipu's friend and had come to Jorasanko on one or two occasions.

After a couple of hours, when the two songs had been rehearsed to Robi's satisfaction, one of the young men said, ‘Our Naren sings one of your songs really well. Can we not include it in the programme?'

‘Which song is that?' Robi looked at him curiously. ‘
Tomaréi koriyacchi jeevan ér dhruba taara
.' Then, turning to Naren, he added. ‘Sing it Naren. Let Rabindra Babu hear it.'

Bashfulness and delicacy were alien to Naren's personality. Sitting upright and slapping his thighs vigorously to the beat he commenced singing the song in a powerful baritone. Robi
listened quietly, his head bowed, his fingers etching imaginary patterns on the sheet. His chest felt tight with emotion. This song had been written for
her
. Standing on the deck of his ship on his way to England, he had missed her so desperately that the words had come rushing out of the turmoil in his breast:

You are the lodestar of my soul

I shall follow your light

Never again shall I flounder

In this ocean of life

It was
her
song. It made a secret bond between them. He wouldn't, he couldn't allow it to be dragged into the limelight. ‘Naren sings it well,' he said as he rose to leave, ‘But being a song of sorrow and parting, it is not suitable for the occasion.'

It was late afternoon and Robi felt prodigiously hungry. He decided to go to his brother Satyendranath's house before leaving for the steamer ghat. The children, Bibi and Suren aged nine and ten, were very fond of him. So was his sister-in-law.

Satyendranath's wife Gyanadanandini had been the first to introduce a Western style of living and etiquette into the feudal atmosphere of the mansion in Jorasanko. In this she had been supported by her husband who believed women should have equal rights. Satyendranath had tried, in his own way, to bring a breath of fresh air into the closely shuttered interiors of the Thakur household. While still a student in England he had sought his father's permission to keep his wife with him. But it had not been given. Debendranath believed that genteel women kept themselves well within the zenana. Gyanadanandini had obeyed her father-in-law but not forgiven him. As soon as her husband became financially independent she took the bold step of travelling to England and living there alone for several months with her three minor children. Such a thing was unheard of in those days. No Indian woman had ever crossed the ocean without a male escort. Gyanadanandini was twenty-six years old at the time and a dazzling beauty.

Gyanadanandini's metamorphosis from an ordinary village girl to the most advanced Indian woman of her times was like a fairy tale come true. Born in a lower middle class Brahmin family of Jessore, she had been married at the age of seven and brought to the mansion of the Thakurs in Jorasanko. The size and
splendour of the apartments had daunted her so much that she had spent the best part of her first few years cowering in a corner of her room. Then, as infancy passed into adolescence, a change came over her. At first it was physical. Her frail gawky limbs filled out and became supple and voluptuous. Her skin, fair but pale and sallow, acquired the lustre of a land lotus. Then, with the passing of the years, she grew into a woman of surpassing beauty, spirit and intelligence. She spoke French and English with elegant fluency, entertained her husband's friends as a gracious hostess and attended official balls and banquets as easily as though she had been born to such things. She was the first to adapt the Western style of dress to the needs of her own country. A woman's body had, heretofore, performed two functions. It catered to the needs of her husband in his bed and to the growth of his children in the womb. What more did it require, the conservatives argued, than a length of cloth? Undergarments were considered unnecessary luxuries for creatures who spent their days huddled over their work in the dark interiors of the zenana.