First Light (20 page)

He entered the bed chamber to find Kadambari lying on her side on a huge bedstead of carved mahogany. Her form looked thin and wasted, her face pinched and her breath came in slow, painful gasps. Not a soul was in sight—not even a maid. A wave of anger rose within him and bitterness filled his heart. Jyotidada had no time for Natun Bouthan. He was lost in his new infatuation—his ship, which he was fitting up as a luxury liner. He wanted to beat the English at their own game and had thrown all his time and energy into the project. The rest of the household was equally indifferent. Robi felt the hot tears pricking his eyes as he gazed on Kadambari's face. His heart was suffused with pity. She looked so frail, so helpless—like a banished princess in a glass tower. He wanted to serve her, protect her, nurse her back to health. But he didn't know how.

‘Robi,' Kadambari opened her eyes and her parched, wan lips parted in a smile. ‘How long have you been here?'

‘Are you angry with me Natun Bouthan?'

‘No,' Kadambari's eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why should I be?'

‘Because I've left you. Because I'm staying with Mejo Bouthan.'

‘No Robi. You're happy to be there and Bibi and Suren are enjoying your company. I can't expect you to be with me all the time.'

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘I don't know. My limbs ache terribly and my head and chest feel as heavy as stone.'

‘What do the doctors say? I must talk to them.' Then, taking a quick breath, Robi blurted out the question that had been plaguing him for a long time. ‘Tell me the truth Natun Bouthan. I
. . . the fact that I'm to be wed . . . Is it . . . is it worrying you in some way?'

‘
O Ma
!' Kadambari sat up in her astonishment. In a voice resonant with mingled tears and laughter she said, ‘Why should it worry me? I'm happy. Very very happy. Is there something wrong? Don't you like the girl? I think she's nice. A sweet, simple girl. She's young and unfledged of course. But wait and see. In a few years she'll come out of her cocoon spreading her wings like a gorgeous butterfly.'

‘Get well soon Natun Bouthan. I can't bear to see you like this. I'll pack my things tomorrow and move back here.'

‘You mustn't do that,' Kadambari gripped his hand with her own, light and brittle like a fallen leaf. ‘It will hurt your Mejo Bouthan. And the children will be so disappointed. I'll be well in a few days. Don't worry so much.'

As the preparations for Robi's wedding rose to a crescendo some of the excitement started seeping into him as well. If he had to marry an infant, he reasoned with himself, he might as well do so gracefully. While the women got busy ordering clothes for their children and servants, and jewels for themselves, Robi turned his creative energies into composing letters of invitation to his friends. So, along with the formal card Priyanath Sen received this strange epistle.

Priya Babu,

My close relative Sriman Rabindranath Thakur is to be wed on the auspicious day of Sunday, the twenty-fourth of Agrahayan, at the auspicious hour of dusk. The members of my household and I myself will be obliged to you if you grace the
dwelling of Sri Dehendranath Thakur at 6 Jorasanko and witness the ceremony.

Yours humbly

Sri Rabindranath Thakur

Priyanath Sen read it through twice but could make no sense of it. Rabindranath was getting married. That much was clear. But why did he call himself his close relative? And why had he invited him to Jorasanko? The rituals of marriage always took place in the bride's house. He spoke to Nagendra Gupta to be informed that the latter had received exactly the same message.

The truth was that, in a deviation from the norm, the wedding was actually taking place in the bridegroom's house. Robi's father-in-law was a poor man and could spend very little. Clothes and jewels befitting a daughter-in-law of the Thakurs had already been sent and a house rented in Calcutta for Beni Rai and his family. As a final gesture of goodwill the Thakurs decided to spare him the expense of the wedding feast. The ceremony would be held in Jorasanko and Beni Rai and his family would attend as guests.

A Brahmo wedding is not much different from a Hindu one except in one thing—the absence of the
Shalagram Shila.
Robi's last bachelor meal was served to him with the ostentation made familiar by custom. And the following day his sisters and sisters-in-law annointed him with turmeric and oil, gave him a ritual bath and dressed him up as a bridegroom. Robi wore a silk dhuti and carried a family shawl on one shoulder. He refused to wear a crown though he allowed his forehead to be marked with sandal. Since the wedding was taking place in his own house there was no need of a ceremonial carriage. All he had to do was walk down a veranda and enter the women's quarters where the bride awaited him. After the saat paak, the bride being carried on a plank around the bridegroom seven times, came the shubha drishti—the auspicious exchange of glances. Robi peered hard, trying to catch a glimpse of her face but he could see nothing. Overcome with shyness Bhavatarini (her name had been changed to Mrinalini as more suitable to her new status) kept her head bowed beneath her heavy veil and would not look up even when urged to do so. After the shubha drishti had misfired thus, the bride and bridegroom walked into the great hall and the
sampradan—the giving away of the bride, began. After the sampradaan the young couple were led to the wing newly prepared for them for the
baasar.

Debendranath did not attend his youngest son's wedding. He rarely graced his children's marriages but duly sent gifts after they were over. Many of Robi's brothers were missing too. In fact, there was a distinct lack of pomp and festivity in this last wedding of the generation. The
baasar
or congregation of women around the newly wed couple was a dim affair. The jokes and laughter seemed forced and lacked spontaneity. And no one was prepared to sing. ‘O Robi!' his aunt Tripura Sundari cried, ‘You're such a wonderful singer that the girls are scared to raise their voices in your presence. Why don't you break custom and sing at your own
baasar
?'

Robi did not hear her. His eyes scanned the crowd seeking a dear, familiar face. She was missing. Now that he thought of it, he remembered that he hadn't seen her at any of the rituals. She had said she was happy. But was that the truth? A vision rose before his eyes—of Kadambari standing quietly before her window, the dark chill of a winter twilight enveloping her like a mist. How different she was from Gyanadanandini! Mejo Bouthan was so strong; so superbly self confident. She had planned the wedding to the last detail and assumed complete charge. She was everywhere, resplendent in brocade and jewels, giving orders to servants, instructions to her sisters-in-law, greeting the guests, laughing, scolding—managing everything and everyone. And Natun Bouthan . . . ‘Come Robi, sing.' The women sitting around him urged. Robi sighed and gave himself up to the present. ‘
Aa mori lavanyamayee
,' he began, ‘
Ké o sthir soudamini
.' As he sang this composition by his sister Swarnakumari, he cast sidelong glances at the bashful bride whose head was bowed so low that it almost touched the ground. A sense of mischief seized him. Rippling his hands in keeping with the taans he sang, he brought them close to the bride's face and repeated
Ké o sthir soudamini,
over and over again, till the company rocked with laughter. He was equally naughty during the
Bhand Kulo,
when the bamboo tray with its mound of rice and gaily coloured pots was brought in. This was a game in which the patience and deftness of the bride and bridegroom were tested. The one who could fill the pots
most neatly and swiftly with the rice was adjudged the winner. When Robi's turn came he took each pot and planted it upside down over the rice.

‘What have you done you foolish boy!' his aunt scolded but Robi answered, ‘My life has turned upside down Kakima. These are only pots.' And he laughed gaily with the cold shadow of doubt and despair falling over his heart.

Naren continued to visit Dakshineswar from time to time driven there not by his own faith but the love of another. Ramkrishna loved him with a depth and passion he could neither understand nor reciprocate. But he couldn't reject it either. Ramkrishna asked nothing of him. He could argue and blaspheme all he wanted; brag about his atheism and laugh at the blind faith of ignorant folk. Ramkrishna never uttered a word of censure. Only once he had said, smiling into Naren's agitated face, ‘Naren
ré
! Faith, unlike knowledge, is blind. You must choose one or the other but don't confuse the two.'

But though Naren found it impossible to reject Ramkrishna's love, he was embarrassed by it all the same. Ramkrishna not only singled him out of a roomful of people to ply him with sweets and fruits, he also praised him to an extent that bordered on the ridiculous. ‘Naren's soul is far stronger and finer than Keshab's,' he had blurted out at a public meeting, ‘Sixteen times more so.' Naren's ears had flamed with embarrassment. The news was bound to reach Keshab Babu. What would he think? It was madness to compare a man like Keshab Sen, respected and revered in the whole country and even beyond it, to a mere college student! With his disciples, he was even harder. ‘You are at one level, spiritually' he told them often, ‘Naren is at another.' ‘All of you are flowers,' he had said once, ‘Some with ten and some with fifteen or at most twenty petals. But Naren is a myriad petalled lotus.'

The disciples, quite naturally, did not like these comparisons and took their revenge by maligning Naren and spreading scandalous rumours about him. There were two passions in Naren's life. One was singing and the other the company of his friends. He enjoyed smoking and taking snuff and loved food seasoned with plenty of chillies. But he neither drank nor spent time in brothels. Yet these vices were attributed to him by some of the envious disciples of Ramkrishna. Naren was aware of it; he
even knew the names of the chief offenders. But he didn't care to contradict the rumours. On the contrary, he took pleasure in shocking people with statements like, ‘Life is a hard and bitter struggle! If someone snatches a little pleasure out of it by drinking and whoring we shouldn't stop him, should we? I'll do the same any time I really feel like it.' Naren's detractors took care to keep their guru informed about Naren's misdemeanours—real and imagined. But none of it touched Ramkrishna. He either smiled in disbelief or flew into a temper. ‘
Doos sala
!' he cried out angrily when he could bear it no longer. ‘Don't dare talk against Naren. He's a pure spirit—one of the seven rishis. He can never go wrong.'

One afternoon Naren and his friends were enjoying a meal at Wilson's Hotel when he suddenly rose to his feet and walked out leaving the company gaping in astonishment. Once out of the hotel he walked all the way to Dakshineswar and barged into the room where Ramkrishna sat with his disciples. Fixing his large fiery eyes on Ramkrishna's face he said aggressively, ‘I've just eaten a meal in an English hotel. I've eaten what is generally termed “forbidden meat”. If you have any problem with that just say so. I'll go away before touching anything in your room.' Ramkrishna gazed at Naren's face for a long time. Then beckoning him to come closer, he said, ‘Eat whatever you like. It makes no difference to God. He doesn't inspect a man's stomach to see what is in it—beef and pork or vegetables and greens. He listens to the call of the heart. If God has no problem why should I?' Putting out a hand he gripped Naren's arm and said, ‘See, I've touched you. Am I changed in any way?'

Naren stood as still as a block of stone. What was this man made of? Had anyone who called himself a sadhu ever said anything like this before? He knew that Ramkrishna practised many austerities in his personal life. But he allowed his disciples to follow their own inclinations. This was rare; unprecedented. Usually the opposite was true. The guru demanded many sacrifices from his disciples and indulged himself in secret. And this man? Suddenly Naren saw the truth. He had assumed that faith was contradictory to logic. That they were two opposites and one could survive only by denying the other. But Ramkrishna saw faith, as empathy in any relationship, human or divine.

Ramkrishna saw Naren as a part of himself and so his faith in him was unassailable. There was something wonderful about the concept. Could he ever repose that kind of faith in anyone—man or God?

There was something else that puzzled Naren. Ramkrishna held him in such high esteem! Was he worthy of it? Was it true that there was something special in him? If there was why did he not feel it within himself? Again, as he groped, he arrived at an answer—dim and shadowy but consistent. He was special because Ramkrishna thought him so. Whether he liked it or not he would have to carry the burden of the latter's esteem all through his life. And become worthy of it. But how, how would he do so?

A few days after this meeting with Ramkrishna, Naren lost his father. That night, as he lay fast asleep in his room in the tower which his friends jokingly referred to as
Tong
, he heard his name being called out ‘Naren! Naren!' The voice was insistent; urgent. Naren stumbled out of bed and opened his window. A boy called Hemali, their neighbour's son from the house in Shimle, stood outside. ‘You must come home at once,' he cried. ‘There's trouble—' Naren ran out of the house, bare chested and barefooted as he was, with Hemali by his side. ‘What is it? Tell me quick,' he cried as he ran.

‘Your father—'

‘He's ill?' Naren gripped Hemali's arm ‘Is he, is he—alive?,' ‘I don't know. Perhaps n-not.'

Dawn was breaking over the city when Naren reached home. He went straight to where his father lay and knelt at his feet. All around him women were weeping and men talking in agitated whispers. Bishwanath Datta had felt perfectly well all day yesterday. He had attended the court in the morning as usual and met his clients in the evening. Then, after the night meal, while smoking his
albola
and turning over some legal papers, he had complained of weariness and a slight pain in the chest. He had stopped breathing suddenly, even as his wife was rubbing his chest down with camphor oil. Naren was a strong young man of the new generation. He hated tears and emotional effusions. He sat silent for a long time his head held in his hands. Then, suddenly, a dam seemed to burst within him. Flinging himself on
his father's body he burst into tears.

As the eldest son of his father, everyone expected Naren to take on the responsibility for the family. But no one was aware of the enormity of the task. Bishwanath Datta had died a pauper. What was worse, he had left behind a trail of debts. He had always lived far beyond his means, hoping with his habitual optimism, that hard work, together with a little luck, would enable him to make up the difference. Even after he was betrayed by his close associate and business partner and his firm's stock had dwindled to practically nothing, he had not panicked. He hadn't mentioned the matter to anyone—not even to his wife or his eldest son. But there was one thing he hadn't reckoned with. Death. That came so swiftly and suddenly that Naren's whole world was shattered by the blow.

Naren had never had to worry about money. Bishwanath was a generous father and gave him all he needed. His wants had always been few. He didn't care for fine clothes, fine foods or carriages. He wore a corse dhuti and
uduni
by preference and walked wherever he wished to go—sometimes ten to twelve miles a day. He knew, of course, that he would have to take up a job after his graduation. His father expected it of him. But he didn't realize that the need for it would come so suddenly and cruelly. Now, with the creditors baying like a pack of wolves outside the door, Naren was forced to run from pillar to post seeking employment. He had no idea that it was so difficult. The British had started their campaign for educating the native in the interest of building up a work force of clerks. But the number of graduates that was being churned out every year far exceeded their need and, in-consequence, the streets were flooded with job seekers.

After trying his hand at translation, which brought in a few rupees from time to time, Naren approached Mahendra Gupta, whom he had met in Dakshineswar, for help. Mahendra Gupta was Principal of the Metropolitan Institution founded by Vidyasagar and, being very fond of Naren, he took him to the great man himself. Vidyasagar was so impressed with the fiery young graduate that he appointed him headmaster of one of the institution's newly opened branches. But Naren did not grace the seat for long. Destiny had other plans for him.

The School was new and so was the headmaster. Naren was
brimful of ideas for his new vocation which he proceeded to implement. Textbook education was not enough, in his opinion. What was important was personality development. His boys would learn music, excel in sports and gain a comprehensive view of the world. They would learn to think for themselves. But these ideas, fine as they were, cut no ice with the authorities. The secretary of the school, who was Vidyasagar's son-in- law, didn't approve of such unorthodox methods of teaching and instructed Naren to stick to the syllabus. Mild differences of opinion led to a severe personality clash and a complaint was lodged with Vidyasagar.

Old and enfeebled by many ailments, Vidyasagar heard his son-in-law's account and said with a trace of irritation, ‘Leave every thing else for the moment. Just tell me, what sort of teacher is Naren?'

‘That's crux the of the matter. He doesn't teach at all. He and his pupils spend all their time in singing and gossiping.'

The fact was corroborated by a few senior boys the secretary had brought along with him. Needless to say, they were merely following instructions. Vidyasagar was too sick and dispirited to probe further. He could have sent for Naren and heard his side of the story. But he hadn't the heart or the energy. ‘Tell Naren,' he said to his son-in-law, ‘that he needn't teach anymore.'

After this life became really hard for Naren. Dismissal from Vidyasagar's institution was a terrible stigma—one that no teacher could shake off easily. There seemed little chance now of his securing employment in any other school. However, one day, his friend Haramohan came bustling into his room and said ‘I've news for you Naren. One of the teachers of City School died this afternoon. Why don't you go to Shibnath Shastri and ask him for the job? He knows you.' The problem of unemployment had assumed such vast proportions that young men had taken to hanging outside the
samsan
their eyes skinned for the sight of a male corpse. As soon as one was brought in they asked eagerly, ‘Where did he work? Was he a clerk or a policeman?' Then, rushing home, they dashed off letters which began:
Sir, Learning from the burning ghat that a post is lying vacant in your office
. . . Naren slipped his feet into his slippers that instant and ran all the way to Shibnath Shastri's house. He had to have the
job His dependents were half starved: already. If he didn't earn some money soon they would die of starvation.

Shibnath Shastri welcomed Naren with his habitual courtesy. He knew him, of course, and had heard him sing at the Brahmo prayer meetings. He had liked the young man for his intelligence and spirit and had hoped that, in time, he would become one of the pillars of the Samaj. But, of late, the boy had come under the influence of Ramkrishna of Dakshineswar. Shibnath Shastri had nothing against Ramkrishna. He was a simple unassuming man, flawless of character and truly devout. But he was a worshipper of idols and he was drawing some of the brightest boys of the Samaj into his web! There was no dearth of unemployed young men among the Brahmos. If he had a job to dispense why should he give it to a follower of Ramkrishna's and not to one of their own boys? He heard Naren out and smiled disarmingly, ‘You have so many talents Naren!' he said. ‘I'm sure you'll find a better job than that of a school master.' Naren got the message. It was a polite refusal. He rose to his feet. He knew that if he told Shibnath Shastri the truth about his condition the man's response would be different. But he would not do so. He would not beg for pity.

There was an easy way out, of course. He was a highly eligible young man—well born, handsome with a superb physique, and a graduate. Rich men were vying with each other to make him their son-in-law. A beautiful bride bedecked with jewels from head to foot and a huge dowry could be his if he only gave one of them an affirming nod. But that was another thing he would not do.

Naren's situation worsened day by day. There was so little to eat that he took to staying away from home during meal times so that his younger brothers and sisters could get his share. When the hunger pangs became unbearable he drank vast quantities of water to deaden them. His shoes were gone. His bare feet were covered with blisters from miles of walking and his clothes hung from his emaciated frame torn and dirty. He stopped going to Dakshineswar. He had lost faith in God and man.

As he saw it there were two options before him—marriage or escape. He could run away to the mountains and become a sadhu like his grandfather Durgaprasad Datta. An ascetic had no obligations to the world he had left behind. And the idea of moving from place to place, unfettered and free, had always
attracted him. People would blame him for running away from his responsibilities. They would call him an escapist. But he didn't care.

He told a few friends about his resolve. The word spread and eventually reached Ramkrishna's ears. Ramkrishna was thoroughly alarmed by the news. Naren was one of the seven rishis—destined to bring light into the lives of many. He could not be allowed to hide himself in a cave in the Himalayas. That would be selfish of him and a great loss to the world. Ramkrishna wanted to see him at once and sent a disciple with a message but Naren didn't respond. He sent several others but Naren ignored them all. The truth was that he was nervous of Ramkrishna. He couldn't make him out. He was assailed by strange sensations whenever he came into the latter's presence. His body vibrated violently to Ramkrishna's touch, his head swam and his limbs felt weightless. These feelings persisted—sometimes for days together. Then, gradually, they passed. He became himself again—his old, tormented, doubting, questioning self. Yet, despite it all, his fascination for the man remained. Ramkrishna drew him like a magnet and he needed all his strength of will to resist that pull.