First Light (22 page)

‘Nathun Bouthan,' Robi called softly.

Kadambari turned her head and looked at him. But her eyes conveyed nothing—not joy on seeing him nor pain at his prolonged absence. Her lip quivered a little but she didn't speak. Not knowing what to say next Robi asked awkwardly, ‘Are you well?' Kadambari swayed her head gently and said, ‘Yes!' Robi tried again. ‘Why is it so dark in your room?' he asked,'Why don't you light the lamp?' Kadambari did not answer. She turned her face again to the window and gazed out at the darkening sky.

‘Here is my new book
Chhabi o Gaan
,' Robi said after a while. Kadambari put out a hand and, taking the book, glanced briefly at the dedication. Then, ruffling the pages absentmindedly she placed it on a small table beside her. Robi thought he heard her murmur ‘last year's,' before she put it aside. The complete absence of interest in his book shocked Robi and wounded him deeply. Tears pricked his eyelids. Mixed with the pain of his rejection was a touch of guilt. He knew that Kadambari had been deeply hurt the day he had gone away with Gyanadanandini. A wave of anger and frustration rose within him. Mejo Bouthan had forced him to go with her! Not content with taking Natun Bouthan's husband away from her she was doing the same with Robi. She seemed to enjoy pushing Natun Bouthan deeper and
deeper into her dark, lonely world. And Kadambari! Robi sighed. Why didn't she fight for her rights? Why didn't she go with her husband wherever he went? Instead she sat hour after hour, day after day, night after night, waiting for him to return.

Looking on that still, sad figure sitting at the window in the twilight Robi's heart twisted within him. He longed to return to Jorasanko and spend all his time with her. But he knew that the moment he did so tongues would start wagging. The house would echo with whispers some of which might even reach his father's ears. Besides he was very busy now and had little leisure. The long golden days and starry nights at Moran's villa were like a dimly remembered dream!

‘Why don't you go with Jyotidada to Swarnadidi's house Bouthan?' Robi said at last, ‘We have such fun every evening. There's singing and—'

‘I can't go there,' Kadambari answered in a stifled voice. ‘I'm an accursed creature with an evil eye—'

‘What nonsense!' Robi cried. ‘Why do you say that?' ‘Thakurjhi's daughter Urmilla used to come to me. I would wash and feed her and put her to bed. Everyone says she died because of me. They say such things because I'm a sterile woman—incapable of bearing a child in my womb.'

‘
Chhi! Chhi!
Don't ever utter those words again. That was an accident. It could have happened anywhere. Besides no one says such things about you.'

‘Don't they? But I seem to hear them all the time. The air is thick with whispers —'

‘You're imagining things. You sit locked up in this room day and night. You don't go out anywhere. You don't talk to anyone. If you did you would know how much everyone loves you. Come with me to Swarnadidi's house tonight. You'll feel much better.'

Kadambari hesitated a little then said softly,'No Robi. They may not . . . The truth is I don't like going anywhere. I don't belong—' she turned her face away fixing her gaze, once more, on a sky now black with night and sprinkled all over with stars. Robi decided to be firm. Taking her by the shoulders he turned her around. ‘Come with me Bouthan,' he said with a desperate edge to his voice. ‘You must. They'll all be so happy—' Kadambari shook her head. Putting his hand gently away she said evenly,
‘You're getting late. Go Robi.'

Robi stood uncertainly for a few moments. He realized that pleading with her was useless. She had made up her mind. Besides he
was
getting late. The group in Kashiabagan would have assembled by now and must be waiting for him. He had promised to write two songs and bring them along but he hadn't even thought of a line. Stifling a sigh he walked quietly out of the room.

The moment he entered Swarnakumari's house he was greeted by a chorus of voices. ‘Robi!' ‘Why are you so late?' ‘We've been waiting and waiting.' Robi removed his shoes and socks and took his place on the carpet along with the others.

‘Explain the situation to Robi,' Swarnakumari prompted Akshay Chowdhury who hurried to do so. ‘It's like this,' he explained, ‘The hero sees the heroine for the first time and is enchanted by her. We need a song to convey his feelings.' Jyotirindranath rose from his seat at the piano and picked up his esraj. ‘I've set the tune,' he said. ‘What do you think of this Misra Khambaj Robi?' Robi sat in dazed silence. An image rose before his eyes—the same image that had haunted him all the way to Kashiabagan—of a slender figure sitting in a room full of shadows . . . her hair lifted softly in the breeze . . . flowers falling into her lap. He murmured as if in a dream,

‘She sits silent by that window

Cheek resting on one hand

Her lap is strewn with flowers

Her garland lies unwoven . . .'

Then, as the soft nostalgic strains of Jyotirindra's esraj floated into his ears he lifted his voice and sang

‘Clouds glide before her eyes

Birds go winging past

All day long the falling blooms . . .'

The hot tears welled into Robi's eyes and his voice was charged with emotion as he sang. Why had everything changed so? Natun Bouthan was desperately unhappy and he could do nothing about it. He felt powerless; trapped. Till the other day he had spent all his time with her without experiencing a twinge of guilt. Why was he being assailed by such feelings now? Why was he considering what other people would think and say? Nobody loved her. No one cared for her. There was not one person in this
room who ever asked Jyotidada, ‘Why don't you bring Kadambari?' And Robi! He too had deserted her. Here he was sitting and singing with this lively group while Natun Bouthan—

‘She sits silent by that window Cheek resting on one hand . . .'

Working with Binodini was getting more and more difficult day by day. She was invariably late for rehearsals and Girish and his cast had to sit idle for hours waiting for her. On a couple of occasions he had sent a servant to call her but she had expressed her resentment so openly that he dared not repeat the attempt. When she did come, she expected the entire cast to fawn over her, fussing and pampering. And she was very autocratic in her manner. ‘That light is bothering my eyes,' she might say sharply in the middle of someone's lines. ‘Will someone take it away?' She thought nothing of humiliating her co-actresses. ‘You smell so foul Jadukali,' she said once to a young actress, ‘that I'm about to vomit. Go take a bath and change your clothes before coming near me.' Such comments were not only extremely offensive—they ruined the tempo of the rehearsal. She even took on Girish Ghosh from time to time, something she had never dared to before. ‘This speech has too many difficult words in it,' she said on one or two occasions, ‘Can't you make it simpler?' Though couched in the form of a request it sounded like a command. Her behaviour set Girish's blood on fire but all he would do to assuage his feelings was to open a brandy bottle and pour the contents, neat, down his throat. Never had he felt so helpless.

In his long career as director and playwright Girish Ghosh had trained many women picking them up from among the lowest of the low if they so much as had a presentable face. These girls, when they first came to him, had neither grace nor poise and spoke in atrocious accents. But Girish worked so hard over them that many were metamorphosed from cocoons to butterflies. Some, of course, couldn't make the grade and fell by the wayside. Binodini, who had won acclaim early in her life becoming a star before she was twenty, was a supreme example of his skill as a trainer. But now he had lost his power over her. She was the proprietor's mistress and he ate out of her hand. If Girish attempted to discipline her as he had done in the past he might
lose his job. He knew the reason for the change in her. She hadn't forgotten or forgiven the fact that he had played on her emotions and pushed her into Gurmukh's bed. This was her revenge. She was sending a clear signal to him and to the others that the theatre had been bought with her blood and tears and that she wouldn't let them forget it.

The play that was being currently performed was
Nal Damayanti
with Binodini playing Damayanti. It had proved vastly popular and sales were soaring every day. The acting was brilliant, Binodini playing her part with a sensitivity unusual even for her. The stage effects were spectacular. There was a scene in which a bird flew away with Nal's garment in its beak. In another, dancing apsaras emerged from an unfolding lotus.

Yet, even though
Nal Damayanti
was running to packed houses, Gurmukh Rai wanted a new play. He cared little for the money that was coming in—he had so much. His burning ambition to cripple the National Theatre and bring Pratapchand Jahuri to his feet was well on its way to realization. The reputation of the National Theatre was declining everyday. Soon it would have to wind up.

Goaded by Gurmukh, Girish Ghosh put together a new play called
Kamalé Kamini
and commenced taking the rehearsals. But Binodini, flushed with the success of her Damayanti, turned up her nose at the part assigned to her. It was, she complained, unworthy of her talent at an actress. She wanted a role equal in passion and power to Damayanti. Girish tried to reason with her. Could two plays be identical? But she continued to sulk till Girish was driven to a fury he could barely conceal. He wanted to shut her up with a sharp rebuke but he dared not. He was afraid of Gurmukh. In an effort to hide his anger and frustration he would walk away from the stage and, sitting in a dark corner of the wings, take a long draught from the brandy bottle. He also took to reciting stotras in praise of Kali, his voice growing louder and more sonorous with every line. At such times no one dared go near him—not even Binodini.

One day Mahendralal Sarkar caught him in this mood. Although a very busy doctor Mahendralal was a great theatre lover and was often seen among the spectators at the Star. That evening, after watching a performance of
Nal Damayanti,
he
hurried backstage to congratulate Girish whom he had known for several years. ‘Girish!
Ohé
Girish!' he called out in his booming voice as, crossing the stage, he stepped into the wings. Then he got a shock. Girish was sitting crosslegged in a dark corner. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face as he rocked to and fro reciting verses in praise of Kali.

Girish was particularly upset that day. Binodini had gone to the green room to change her costume, and had taken up her cue seven minutes after the due time. The other actors and actresses had covered up for her and the spectators had not sensed anything out of the ordinary. But Girish was furious. He felt like slapping her across the face but he didn't dare even rebuke her. Gurmukh was waiting in the wings watching over her. Girish felt his heart thumping so hard with agitation that it threatened to burst out of his rib cage. But all he could do was drink and sing stotras to Kali.

‘
Oré baap ré!
' Mahendralal Sarkar exclaimed on seeing him there. ‘Here is another one devoured by Kali.' At the sound of his voice Girish opened his eyes. ‘Daktar Moshai!' he said. ‘Come in and sit down.'

‘Is this a joke? Or have you really turned religious?'

‘I'm trying hard to. But it's difficult—'

‘I thought you had a scientific bent of mind.' Mahendralal said staring at him in dismay. ‘You said you believed in Kant's doctrines. What has happened to you? Since when have you become a devotee of Kali?'

‘What did you think of the play?' Girish tried to evade the question.

‘The play was excellent. Not a dull moment. But to go back to my point. I had an idea that there were two aspects to your personality. The real you—I mean the man—is an atheist; an unbeliever. But the artist in you brims Over with religious feelings. Something like your heroines. The actress is a goddess—the real woman a whore. The playwright is also an actor. Ha! Ha! Ha!'

‘You are right Daktar Moshai!' Girish said softly. ‘I was an atheist not so long ago. Then something happened. Ever since then—'

‘What was it? Tell me.'

At that moment Binodini and Gurmukh came in. Girish
sighed and said, ‘Some other time Daktar Moshai. I'll come'to you myself.' Mahendralal Sarkar rose to his feet. He realized that this was neither the time nor the place for the kind of confession Girish wished to make. Besides, a performance had just been concluded. The producer and director, quite naturally, had important matters to discuss. His curiosity unsatisfied, he walked down the hall out into the street where his carriage stood waiting.

Mahendralal was wrong. Gurmukh had not come to discuss anything but to have a few drinks with Girish. He kept a bottle with him all the time and took swigs from it from early afternoon onwards. His eyes were red and slightly unfocussed already, although the night was still young. Suddenly a whim seized Girish. He would drink this arrogant brat out of his senses. A boy, barely out of his teens, pretending to be a man! He would show him what a man was truly like. He would show him what Girish Ghosh was!

Brandy bottles were brought in, one after another, and emptied with astonishing rapidity. As the night progressed Gurmukh got so drunk that he could barely keep his eyes open. But he wouldn't give up. He was determined to outdrink the old rascal who had so much power over Binodini. Then, just as dawn was breaking over the city, Gurmukh fell with a thud on the floor and passed out. Girish, sitting straight as an arrow, glanced at the figure lying prostrate at his feet. His lip curled in a little smile. Draining the rest of his glass to the dregs he let out a thundering belch and called in a booming voice, ‘
Oré
! Pick up the drunken clown and take him home.' Gurmukh's servants hurried in and carried their master out of the theatre.

Gurmukh fell seriously ill after this incident and was confined to bed for ten whole days. During this period the doctors discovered that some of his organs were in a state of decay—a natural consequence of the kind of life he led. Gurmukh's mother, who had no control over her son, sent for her brother from Lahore. The latter, a huge hefty man with a towering personality, took over Gurmukh's life and commenced steering it with an iron hand. He decided that his nephew would, henceforth, have no contact with Binodini or the theatre. Gurmukh, who had no fight left in him, was forced to obey.

One morning, several days later, a pale enfeebled Gurmukh
Rai tottered into his theatre with a proposal for Girish. He would gift half the ownership of Star to Binodini. The rest could either be sold in the open market or bought over by the rest of the troupe. But before anyone could say anything Girish rejected his proposal. Fixing his eyes on Binodini's face he said solemnly, ‘The offer is generous Binod, but don't give way to temptation. You're an artist—a great artist. You must throw everything you have in your acting—your heart, soul, mind and senses. If you start counting rupees, annas and pies it will be the end of your acting career. I wouldn't take on a business if someone gave it to me free. And running a theatre is no different from running any other business.' Turning to Gurmukh he continued, ‘You must reconsider your proposal. If you give half the ownership to Binodini the theatre will be ruined. She's a member of the troupe. The others will refuse to work under her.'

Gurmukh had neither the strength nor the desire to fight Girish. He had to get rid of the theatre, at whatever cost. After a little haggling a deal was struck. It was decided that the troupe would buy it from Gurmukh at the cost of eleven thousand rupees—a mere fraction of what he had spent on it. The money was collected in a few days and the papers signed. Four men, nominated by Girish, were to have the ownership rights and represent the troupe in everything. Thus the STAR passed into the hands of Girish and his cronies and Binodini was reduced to working on a monthly wage. However, her unquestioned obedience to Girish did not go unrewarded. Those of her colleagues who had hated and envied her all these years felt a softening in their hearts. ‘Poor girl!' they whispered to one another, ‘She has given up a king's ranson. Would you or I have done it?'

Binodini was now free of a protector and her house was her own. It was a good place to spend time after performances and Girish and his friends were there most evenings drinking and chatting about this and that. Binodini still held the opinion that her role in
Kamalé Kamini
was not worthy of her. She was also bitterly jealous of Bonobiharini who had left National Theatre for STAR and was playing Srimanta Saudagar. Binodini continued to complain but now Girish could shut her up with a sharp reprimand. One evening, while pouring out his brandy, she
turned a pair of large pleading eyes on Girish and said ‘Everyone says that Bhuni will get more claps than me in
Kamal é Kamini
.'

‘They must be mad,' Girish took the glass from her hand. ‘On your first entry as Chandi the walls of the theatre will burst with applause.'

‘Yes, because of the costume. But Bhuni's role is much better. It has so many beautiful songs. Why didn't you give it to me?'

‘But she's acting a man —'

‘I can too. Don't I have the ability?'

‘Of course you do. But who wants to see you as a man? Bhuni is much older than you and not half as beautiful. That's why I've given her the part of Srimanta. But the spectators want to see Binodini all dressed up in silks and jewels—flashing her eyes, laughing, weeping, singing, dancing. They come in hundreds to see your beautiful face and voluptuous figure. Can we disappoint them? After all they provide us with our living.'

‘Let me play Srimanta for one night,' Binodini begged. ‘I know all the songs and—'

‘Stop nagging, woman,' Girish snapped at her. ‘How can I change parts at this eleventh hour? Besides Bhuni won't agree.' ‘Then leave me out of the play.' Tears glittered in Binodini's eyes and her voice trembled in disappointment. ‘I don't want to act anymore.'

Girish gazed on her face for a long moment. An idea started forming in his head. Suddenly, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm, he said, ‘I've just thought of a subject—a historical drama in which you will play the male lead. It will be a long part and a serious one. No coquetry and tricks. Can you do it?'

‘Why not?'

‘It's settled then. I'll start writing tonight. You'll have to put all you have in it, Binod, because you'll be solely responsible for its success or failure. Another thing. It'll be the most difficult role you've played in your life—a role that will test your acting ability as no other role could ever do.'