First Light (14 page)

Birchandra stood at the door for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the vision of loveliness in front of him. And, as he gazed, a film came over them. The years rolled away. This was the night of his first marriage and the girl who stood before him was Bhanumati. Birchandra had seen no resemblance between aunt and niece when Bhanumati was alive but now the latter's face came sharply before him. At her age Bhanumati had looked exactly like Monomohini. And she had worn the same jewels as a bride. Bhanumati had taken her life in a fit of anger. But now all was forgiven and forgotten. She had come back to him. He murmured beneath his breath:

‘Goddess! Where lies that Heaven in which you dwell?

In close guarded silence, away from the haunts of men.

Can my hopes ever reach—'

‘What are you saying my lord?' Monomohini came forward. ‘I don't understand . . .'

Birchandra came to with a start. He looked wildly at her for a few seconds, then, covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears. On this, his wedding night, he truly missed and mourned his first wife.

On one side of Hedo Lake rose the imposing building of the General Assembly Institution. The lake, recently cleaned and dredged, was now part of a park enclosed with railings and set out with flowering trees and shrubs. The boys of the college had appropriated it and were seen walking about the grounds or sitting on the benches long after college hours. They smoked incessantly, quoted Shelley and Wordsworth and held heated discussions on the relative merits of Hume and Herbert Spencer. Quite often, of course, they descended from those heights. Then their talk was peppered with tales of sexual encounters with newly wedded wives or the prostitutes of Rambagan.

On this dark cloudy day the park was deserted. With one exception. Narendranath Datta, son of Advocate Bishwanath Datta of Shimle, could be seen pacing about by the lake as if lost in his own thoughts. Narendranath had been a student of Presidency College but, having suffered a bout of malaria, had been unable to take the examination. Recovering, he had joined the General Assembly Institution, passed his FA and was now preparing to appear for his BA examination. Narendranath, though still in his teens, was a fine figure of a man. Tall and strong with broad shoulders and a heavy frame, he towered over the other boys not only in looks but in energy, intelligence and spirit. His large dark eyes flashed out from his handsome face sometimes with anger and sometimes with fun and good humour. Naren was a brilliant student and a good sportsman. He could fence, wrestle and play cricket with a fair degree of proficiency. He was an excellent boxer too and had won the Silver Butterfly at a college contest. With all this he was a fine singer and could play the pakhawaj and the esraj. Very popular with the boys, he was always the centre of attention.

Yet, that afternoon, he was roaming about by himself his face as dark and sombre as the sky above his head. A strange restlessness seized him. Classes were over for the day. All the boys
had gone home but he had nowhere to go. He thought of several possibilities and rejected them all. He could go to Beni Ustad and practice a few taans or he could work out his frustrations with some wrestling in the akhara. But neither held any charms for him at the moment. He thought briefly of his friends in Barahnagar. He might go over for a chat. But the prospect didn't tempt him. Neither did the idea of visiting the Brahmo Mandir and listening to the prayers and singing. Above all he didn't want to go home. Ever since he had passed his FA his parents were pestering him to get married. The house was always full of prospective fathers-in-law vying with each other to catch him for their daughters. One offered a dowry of ten thousand; another twenty. One or two even offered to send him abroad to study at the Bar or qualify for the ICS. His parents were more than ready to sell him to the highest bidder. But Naren wanted to make something of his life; to gain a vision of his own before he took on the responsibility for another. Life was short. Life was precious. It was foolish to squander it away. One had to discover the truth of it, the worth of it. Eating, sleeping and proliferating were for animals.

As the sky grew darker and more menacing; as the thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, Narendra's restlessness increased till it reached a state bordering on frenzy. He walked faster and faster, shoved pinches of snuff deep into his nostrils, spat venomously here and there then, coming to the railing, suddenly started beating his head against the iron spikes. ‘
Arré
Naren,' a voice cried behind him and two strong hands held his head in a vice-like grip, ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?' It was his friend Brajendra Sheel. Brajendra was a poor student but very meritorious. He could not afford to buy many books so he spent long hours reading in the college library. He was on his way back home when he spotted Naren in the park. ‘What were you trying to do?' he asked. ‘Your skull would have cracked open if I hadn't caught you in time.' ‘I have a headache,' Narendra answered shamefacedly. ‘I thought it would help—'

‘Go to a kaviraj if you have a headache.'

Naren took out his snuff box and started pushing the obnoxious stuff up his nostrils with a pencil. ‘Stop it Naren,' Brajendra cried out in horror. ‘It's making me sick.'

‘It clears the head and relieves the pain.'

‘That's nonsense. I've never heard of snuff relieving, pain. Why don't you take some proper medicine? What kind of pain is it?'

‘I feel an acute throbbing in the centre of my forehead—just between the brows. And sometimes I see a flame flickering in that spot. Have you ever experienced anything like that Brajen?'

‘No. You'd better see a doctor. It could be something serious.' Suddenly the rain came down in a torrent drowning his words. Brajendra whipped open his umbrella and, holding it over his companion's head, said briskly, ‘Come Naren. Let me take you home.'

‘I'm not going home.'

‘Let's go together, then, wherever you are going. We'll part company the moment you want it.'

But the rain came on faster and fiercer as the two boys crossed the park and came on to the street. The umbrella tilted backwards in the strong wind and started fluttering like a flag above their heads. At length, thoroughly drenched and unable to combat the wind and water, the two boys took refuge under the portico of a large mansion. As Naren prepared to draw out another pinch of snuff, Brajendra said suddenly ‘Naren! Kishorichand tells me that you're a frequent visitor at the temple of Dakshineswar; that you hang around Ramkrishna Thakur and have long conversations with him. Is that true?' There was no reply. ‘From the prayer halls of the Brahmos,' Brajen murmured, ‘to the temple of Kali is a long way! I've heard that Ramkrishna Thakur goes into a trance every now and then. You know who told me that? Our Principal, Mr Hasty. While teaching the poem “The Excursion” he was telling the boys about reverie and trance. “When a man's senses,” he explained, “are suffused and overwhelmed by some phenomena, earthly or unearthly, to a point beyond his control, he goes into a trance. It happened to Wordsworth. It happens to Ramkrishna—a priest in the temple of Kali in Dakshineswar. If you boys wish to see the state with your own eyes, go to Dakshineswar.” Mr Hasty believes in Ramkrishna. But quite a few others think he is a fake. You've been there several times. What do you think of him?'

‘What do I think of him?' Naren turned his large eyes, burning with a strange passion, upon his friend. ‘I don't know,' he said
simply. ‘I don't understand.' He shut his eyes for a few moments brooding on the subject, then said. ‘Certain religious beliefs and customs have entrenched themselves in our culture for centuries! Can we wipe them out in an instant? And even if we could would it not create a terrible void? A vast chasm under our feet? With what would we fill it? Tell me Brajen, how would we bear the loss?'

‘I see the drift of your argument Naren. And I understand your dilemma. You've read the Western philosophers—Descartes, Hume and Herbert Spencer—and have been influenced by them. But deep down within you is a core of Hindu fundamentalism that will not let you rest. What you're looking for is a God who walks the earth.'

‘Aren't you?'

‘No. Logic and Reason are my watch words. There's no room in my philosophy for faith. I don't need a God. But you're being driven by the question “Is there such a Being? Can we see Him?” That's true—isn't it?'

Naren was silent. He did not tell his friend that once, unable to control the curiosity that burned so fiercely within him, he had gone to Debendranath Thakur and asked him, ‘Have you seen God?' But, Maharshi though he was, he had evaded the question. ‘Your eyes are those of an ascetic's,' he had said. ‘Abandon all else and give yourself over to Him. With prayer and meditation you will experience him some day.'

Afraid of exposing his weakness, Naren dashed out in the rain. ‘Let's go,' he called out to Brajen. ‘This blasted rain won't stop in a hurry. And I'm dying for a whiff of tobacco.' He started running down the street Brajen coming after him with his umbrella. As he ran he thought of the meetings he had had with Ramkrishna. The first time had been at Surendranath Mitra's house where he had been invited to sing before a gathering of disciples. It had been very hot and stuffy in the room and Naren had barely glanced at the slight dark figure in a coarse dhuti and
uduni.
He had sung a couple of songs, then slipped away. Then, last month, his kinsman Ramchandra Datta had invited him to Dakshineswar. ‘Bilé,' he had said, ‘I can see how harrassed you are with all the matchmaking going on in the house. Why don't you come with me to Dakshineswar? It's very pleasant there. The
temple stands right on the bank of the Ganga.” Naren had agreed. He had taken a couple of friends and journeyed by boat to Dakshineswar. They had been charmed with the place—the wide flight of steps rising from the river; the river itself, vast and turbulent; the
chatal
with
its many temples. And then they had entered a little room in the north-west corner of the courtyard where Ramkrishna sat with his disciples. ‘Thakur!' Ramchandra had introduced the boy to his guru with the words. ‘This is my nephew Naren. He sings well.' As soon as they heard this the people assembled there clamoured to hear a song. Naren had no objection to obliging them. Raising his voice he sang not one but two songs. As he sang his eyes fell on Ramkrishna. Something queer had happened to the man. His eyes were open but his limbs were absolutely still. Not a muscle twitched. Not an eyelash flickered. He remained like that, in suspended animation, till the end of the song, then, suddenly came to life. Springing up, he caught Naren by the hand and dragged him out of the room to another empty room next to it. ‘
Oré'
he cried bursting into tears. ‘Why did you take so long in coming to me? I've waited such long days and nights. All these men around me with their worldly talk! I cannot hear them anymore. I'm sick to the heart. But what do you care?' Then, bringing his face close to Naren's, he muttered, ‘I know you my Lord! You are an ancient Rishi. You are my Narayan in human form.' Naren was quite frightened. The than was mad, he thought. Stark, raving mad! What if he jumped on him and bit off a hunk of his flesh? He took a step backwards. ‘Stay where you are,' Ramkrishna commanded. ‘Wait here till I return.' He went out of the door and returned a few minutes later with a thala in his hand. It was piled high with sandesh, masses of pale yellow butter and palm candy crystals. ‘Eat,' he commanded.

‘All of it?' Naren exclaimed. ‘How can I eat so much? I'll share it with my friends?'

‘No. They'll be served later. I want to see you eat in my presence.'

Naren felt acutely uncomfortable as he stuffed handfuls of butter and sandesh into his mouth. Ramkrishna stood before him with folded hands all the time he ate, his eyes fixed solemnly on his face. When the last morsel had been swallowed Ramkrishna said, ‘Promise me you'll come again. Very soon. Don't bring
anyone else. I want to see you alone.'

These thoughts went round and round in Naren's head as he ran down the street into Ramtanu Bosu Lane and entered his grandmother's house. His own home being too noisy and crowded for quiet study, a room had been kept for him in this old mansion. It was outside the main house, in a sort of dome, and here Naren read his books, practised his music and chatted with his friends. It was a small room but it contained all the basic essentials of living. A canvas cot with a soiled pillow on it stood in a corner. A clock ticked away on one wall. A tanpura and an esraj hung from hooks on another. There were books everywhere—on the bed, on the mat on the floor and the window sill.

Naren shed his wet clothes, wiped his head with a gamchha and wrapped a dry dhuti around him. Then, ducking his head under the string that held his few dhutis and pirans, he stood before a niche in the wall. Inside it was a hookah, a mass of coconut fibre and an earthen platter with some lumps of tobacco
gul
and a matchbox.

Naren had lit his hookah and taken a few puffs by the time Brajendranath arrived. He felt calmer now and readier to continue the conversation. ‘Brajen,' he said passing the hookah to his friend. ‘You wanted to know what I thought of Ramkrishna. I'll tell you. I asked him if he had seen God. And he answered that he had. He had seen God with his own eyes as clearly as he saw me standing before him.'

‘Did you believe him?' Brajen gave a short laugh.

‘I didn't,' Naren answered, hesitating a little. ‘Yet, somehow, I'm sure he wasn't lying. What he claimed was the simple truth as far as he was concerned. The man is half mad but he is not a charlatan. I'm convinced of it. Whenever I'm with him I experience something I can't explain—even to myself. I keep racking my brains to find out what it is but the answer eludes me.' Naren's eyes clouded over and his voice shook with emotion as, having decided to open his heart to Brajendra, he recalled the strange sensations that he had experienced on his third visit to Ramkrishna. He hadn't wanted to go, he said. He had made up his mind he wouldn't. But he had promised and something, someone, seemed to be pushing him from within to redeem his promise. Finally, unable to bear the tension, he had decided to go
and get it over with. It would be for the last time, he had told himself. He would tell the man politely but firmly that their worlds were different and he, Naren, had other things to do.

Flushed with his new resolve Naren had set off for Dakshineswar walking at a brisk pace. But his idea of the distance from Shimle was far from accurate. In consequence he was completely exhausted by the time he reached the temple complex and entered Ramkrishna's room. He found him alone, sitting on his bed, apparently lost in his own thoughts. But his eyes lit up with pleasure the moment he saw Naren. ‘Come sit by me,' he said, patting the space next to him. Then, when Naren had obeyed, he fixed his strange, sad eyes on his face and, muttering something below his breath, he raised his right leg and planted it on the boy's shoulder. Naren was frightened. He tried to move away; to throw it off but he was trapped between the wall and the leg—as heavy as stone and as implacable as death. Naren felt the blood rush to his head. Everything around him—the room, the bed, the man himself seemed to be dissolving in a mist. The walls of the room were spinning round and round, slowly at first then, gaining momentum, faster and then incredibly fast. He was being lifted out of himself into a vast expanse, a sea of emptiness which he knew was death. He would reach it soon, very soon now. ‘
Ogo
!' he cried out in terrible fear. ‘What are you doing to me? My mother will weep. My father—' A cackle of mad laughter came to his ears. Then the weight was lifted and he could breathe again. The spinning slowed down, stopped and the walls became themselves again. Naren felt a hand on his chest. It was soothing; gentle. A voice murmured in his ear, ‘Enough for now. There's plenty of time.' Naren stared in wonder at the smiling eyes that gazed with infinite tenderness into his but before he could speak a word, the moment was lost. The room started filling up with disciples and he rose and walked away.