First Light (26 page)

‘The Maharaja of Tripura is here in Calcutta. He's very religious and will need a family priest. Why don't you try your luck there?'

‘What kind of maharaja? Where is Tripura?'

‘Tripura is an independent kingdom. Haven't you heard of it? The Maharaja is very generous. If he's pleased with you he'll think nothing of taking off his diamond ring and putting it on your finger.'

‘Really!' Bani Binod said excitedly ‘Where is the house? I'll go tomorrow. Do they speak Bengali?'

‘Yes, of course. The Maharaja is very fond of hearing the
padavalis
of the old Vaishnav
pada kartas.
If you can recite a few—'

‘Wonderful. I know
Chandi Mangal
by heart. Would you like to hear a few lines?'

Bharat took it for granted that Bani Binod would be employed by Maharaja Birchandra Manikya and gain access to his andar mahal. And then—he would surely meet Bhumisuta! Bhumisuta had made all the arrangements for the daily puja in the house of the Singhas. Surely she would be given the same duties in the Maharaja's mansion. Bharat could send her a letter through Bani Binod.

Bharat imagined her standing on the landing outside the puja-room. She wore a white sari and held a basket full of flowers in her hand. Her face was like a flower too—a new-blown lotus. There was a startled expression in her long dark eyes and drops of dew in her hair. ‘Do not misunderstand me Bhumi,' he started
composing the letter in his mind. ‘Don't turn away from me in disgust. I'm helpless. I have to live by the will of others. But, one day, when I'm my own master I shall come to you. I shall stand by your side and . . .'

One Friday morning in early May two carriages set off from Jorasanko towards the river where the
Sarojini
lay anchored in midstream. Jyotirindranath and Gyanadanandini occupied one of them. Robi and Jyotirindranath's friend Akshay Chowdhury sat in the other with Gyanadanandini's children. The ship was to sail that day for the first time and Gyanadanandini had insisted on accompanying her brother-in-law on her maiden voyage. Jyotirindranath had tried to discourage her. He had pointed out that this was a test venture undertaken with the goal of identifying defects in the vessel. It would be risky taking women and children along. But Gyanadanandini had dismissed his feeble protests with her customary force. She had crossed the oceans to England, she reminded him. That too alone, without a male escort. What danger could there possibly be in a mere river journey? If the worst came to the worst they all knew how to swim.

The carriages clattered out of Chitpur Street past the mosque and shops and came to a stop at the ferry in Koilaghat. The passengers had barely descended when several boatmen came running up to Jyotrindranath who, with his gold pince nez, pleated dhuti and silk kameez was immediately identified as the leader of the group. Like
pandas
at a place of pilgrimage they swarmed around him pointing out the merits of their respective crafts and offering to row the party to where their ship was anchored. Pushing their way through the crowds Bibi and Robi walked down to the edge of the river where a number of boats bobbed up and down in the murky water. ‘Just like banana flower husks,' Bibi turned to her uncle eagerly. ‘Isn't that so Robi ka?' Though twelve years old Bibi wore a frock over long stockings. She still hadn't learned to manage a sari.

‘The ones with the
chhois
look like vamped slippers,' Robi answered, ‘Giants like Meghnad could wear a pair of them.'

The two burst out laughing. After a while the others caught up
with them. The crowds at the ferry ghat stared at the sight of so many good-looking men and women together. The men, in particular, couldn't take their eyes off Gyanadanandini. She wore a Benares silk sari of a rich ghee colour which set off her golden skin to perfection. The diamond flower in her enormous
khonpa
glittered like a starry constellation. She looked as beautiful and majestic as a queen.

A boat was finally selected and they all climbed in. The children's faces paled a little as it rocked violently over the great waves that came rolling up with every movement of the large vessels around them. Gyanadanandini laughed their fears away. ‘You know how to swim,' she reminded them, ‘Why are you scared?' They were all good swimmers, Robi and Jyotirindra in particular. All except Akshay Babu. ‘I should have learned to swim,' he muttered clinging to the side of the boat with both hands. Then, suddenly, he gave a cry of alarm. ‘
O ki
!
O ki
!
A ship is coming straight towards us. O Jyoti Babu! We'll all be crushed to death.'

‘Why that's my
Sarojini
!
Jyotirindranath stood up in his excitement. ‘
Oré
! Stop the boat. Stop it!'

‘Don't worry Karta,' the boatman answered coolly. ‘We're taking you to your ship. You'll be there in a few seconds all safe and sound.'

The party looked on in expectation as the
Sarojini
glided towards them. They could see her clearly now. In her gleaming white paint with the two lifeboats by her side, she looked as beautiful and stately as a swan floating over the water with her cygnets. The boatmen maneuvered the craft with their accustomed skill and brought it to a halt alongside the ship. As soon as they did so a rope ladder was unwound from the
Sarojini
and thrown into the boat. The children clambered up easily enough. Now it was Gyanadanandini's turn. The men looked on with worried expressions but Gyanadanandini was unfazed. Tucking the end of her sari firmly into her waist she took off her shoes and placed a foot, as pink and tender as a lotus bud, on the first rung. Robi and Jyotirindra put out their hands to help her but she pushed them away. ‘I used to climb trees as a child,' she said laughing, making her way up on firm and fearless feet. Akshay Babu was a different proposition altogether. ‘
Oré baba
ré
,' he cried out with every step. ‘This rope is swinging like a coconut palm in a storm. I'll fall. I'm falling. O Jyoti Babu!'

The lower deck was for ordinary passengers. Three cabins, lavishly appointed, for the use of the master and his friends, stood on the vast upper deck set out with chairs under gaily striped umbrellas. Here the whole party relaxed after their climb while the servants served them hot tea and freshly made
nimki.
It was a bright morning with a strong wind. Gyanadanandini's hair flew out of its restricting pins and she had difficulty in keeping her sari in place. Akshay Babu's cigar was blown away from his mouth and fell into the water at which everyone laughed gaily. Looking at them no one could have guessed that a violent tragedy had disrupted their lives only a month ago. They were aristocrats and didn't display their emotions like ordinary people. It seemed as though Kadambari's memory had faded from their minds. No one had taken her name even once so far.

Robi stood on the deck clutching his flying hair with one hand and the rail with the other. As his eyes looked out on the vast stretch of water a wave of nostalgia swept over him. He had seen the Ganga in her many moods—dark and sullen before an impending storm; rose-flushed at sunset; and a ribbon of silver under a radiant moon. And always, always, Kadambari had been by his side—her face bright and eager, her eyes entranced. ‘Look at that tree Robi,' she would cry out, ‘Look how the branches are bending over the river, as if they are whispering deep, dark secrets in her ear.' She had loved trees and taught Robi to love them.

A kite, circling above the water, gave a piercing cry startling Robi. And, suddenly, the sky resounded with the call of Robi's own heart, ‘Natun Bouthan! Natun Bouthan.' The hard knot in his throat melted and quick warm tears rose to his eyes.

‘Robi,' Gyanadanandini had come quietly up to him. She caught the expression in his eyes and her face hardened a little. Putting her hand on his arm she said softly. ‘It's beautiful—isn't it?' Robi turned to her, trying to smile.

‘What are those boats?' Gyanadanandini pointed a finger. ‘They all look the same. Where are they going?'

‘Those are passenger boats. They ferry Babus to and from their offices in Calcutta.'

‘You must write a description of this voyage Robi—a
day-to-day account. Like you did on your trip to Europe.'

At this moment Bibi and Suren came running up to their mother clamouring to be allowed to go down and see the rest of the ship. ‘Go,' Gyanadanandini gave her permission. ‘But only with Robi Kaka. Robi!' She threw him a meaningful glance. ‘Take the children with you and show them the ship.' Robi hastened to obey.

Now Gyanadanandini made her way to Jyotirindranath's cabin. She stood for a moment, her hand on the door. Then, making up her mind, she turned the knob and walked in. Jyotirindra lay on his bed but not in sleep. Stretched out on the milk white sheets he looked like a Greek god; a figure of sculpted marble. But the lines of his face were drawn and melancholy and his eyes were dazed and expressionless. He saw his sister-in-law walk in and take her place by his side but he said nothing. Neither did Gyanadanandini. She stood in silence for a few minutes allowing him to imbibe her presence. Then, very gently, she placed her soft moist palm on his forehead.

Her touch had the strangest effect on Jyotirindranath. It seemed as though the marble figure quivered into life. He sat up, his face working, harsh dry sobs racking his chest. ‘Why did she do this to me Mejo Bouthan?' he cried turning to her desperately. ‘Why didn't she tell me how she felt? If she had even hinted I would have . . . I would have. I never knew she was so unhappy. I thought she liked to be by herself; to think her own thoughts. I never dreamed. People look at me . . .' Gyanadanandini allowed him to rave for a few minutes. He needed to unburden himself. And he could only do so before her. They were both the same age and she was his friend and confidante. ‘Don't blame yourself Natun,' she said after a while, her voice soft but firm, ‘It was all her own fault. She could have done worse. She could have ruined our family's reputation. Thank God that was averted. Her death has been a blessing to her and to us all.'

Jyotirindranath stared at her in amazement. Her face, radiant and beautiful as the Goddess Durga's with the same golden complexion, arched eyebrows, red lips and flashing eyes smiled down on him. Taking his face between her hands she pressed it to her breast murmuring sweet endearments in his ears, ‘Natun! Natun!' she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

‘Don't grieve Natun. You have a whole life to live. You have so much to achieve. You must be strong. She's gone but
I
am here with you. Your Bardada lives in his own world. Your Mejdada is busy furthering his career. Baba Moshai depends on you. Besides you have your own work now. You have to compete with the British and beat them at their own game. I'll help you. I'll stay by your side—always.' Jyotirindra's tears fell thick and fast dampening the satin that covered her soft breasts. Taking his chin in her fingers she raised his face and wiped the tears tenderly away. The two gazed deep into one another's eyes.

Suddenly a sound of footsteps running on the deck was heard and Akshay Babu's voice called out ‘O Jyoti Babu Moshai! Do you know that your ship doesn't have a captain? There's no one to guide it. Heaven knows where we are going!' Jyotirindra ran a hand over his face and hair and rose hastily to his feet. Stepping out on to the deck he found Robi and the children. They, too, had discovered that the captain, a Frenchman, was absconding and the ship was now being steered by a couple of common sailors.

Jyotirindranath had employed the Frenchman not merely because he had a preference for the race but because the man was skilled at his work, and knew a great deal about the ship's mechanism. But he had one grave defect. He drank heavily, not everyday, but once in a while and then passed out. Doubtless, that was what had happened. He had been celebrating on the eve of his maiden voyage on the
Sarojini
and had drunk himself into a stupour. Jyotirindra looked on the frightened faces around him and sat down—his head between his hands. It was too late to go back. On the other hand, a ship without a captain was like a boat without oars. Who knew in which direction the ship was heading?

At this time two sailors came up to the deck and assured the master that there was nothing to fear. They had learned the art of steering from the captain and were confident of being able to take the ship, without any hazard, to Barisal. Jyotirindra heard them out. He had no other option but to let them continue. Calling upon the All Merciful Param Brahma to protect them in this fearful hour he said, ‘Let's go on, then.'

The steamer chugged on, cleaving the breast of the Ganga and darkening the sky with the smoke from her chimneys. The
afternoon passed peacefully but towards evening a clamour arose of many frightened voices crying out together, ‘Stop? Stop.' Turn it! Turn it quick!' Jyotirindra and the others ran out to the deck to see a vast iron buoy rushing towards them from the middle of the river. What it meant, of course, was that the ship was racing madly towards it. The sailors tried their best but could not change direction and, even as everyone looked on fearfully, the catastrophe occurred. The ship crashed into the buoy and nearly keeled over. The impact was so strong that Akshay Babu, though clutching the rail with all his might, was thrown to the ground. The children would have fallen too if they hadn't been holding on so tightly to Robi.

Pale faces looked on one another anticipating a watery grave. The vessel was rocking violently and things were crashing to the ground—crockery, cooking vessels and furniture. However, the worst was averted. The ship recovered her balance after a while and Jyotirindranath, who had rushed down to the engine room, was informed that the damage was less than they had expected. The vessel was intact. There were minor breakages in some parts of the machinery which could be repaired. It would be best to cast anchor here and let her rest for the night. Then, tomorrow, they could repair the ship and set sail once more.

Their worst fears over, the party cheered up. Sitting together on the deck they fell to hungrily on the hot luchis,
mohanbhog
and
kheer
that were brought up by the servants. Sipping tea out of elegant porcelain cups they looked out on the river which was so wide here that her banks were barely visible. Gradually, before their admiring eyes the sun, huge and soft with evening, sank in a haze of rose and gold.

‘Robi,' Gyanadanandini called out to her brother-in-law. ‘You seem rapt in your own thoughts. Won't you share them with us?'

Robi stood a little apart, his hand on the rail. He remembered an evening just like this one. He had been sitting with Natun Bouthan on the steps that went down to the river from the garden of Moran's villa. Her eyes on the setting sun, Natun Bouthan had said softly, ‘Sing a song Bhanu! A new one.' And Robi had instantly composed and sung
Marana ré tunhu mama Shyam samaan.
He hummed the sweet, melancholy strains below his
breath and turned to Gyanadanandini.

The sailors kept their word. Repairing the ship the next morning they set sail and reached Barisal by way of Khulna. As the steamer made her way into the harbour a strange sight met their eyes. There were crowds everywhere cheering and waving out to them. People from all walks of life—mukhtiars and lawyers, hakims and zamindars, teachers and students, shopkeepers and customers—pushed and shoved in order to get a better view. The passengers on board were puzzled. What were the people so excited about? Surely they had seen vessels like the
Sarojini
before. The ships of the Flotilla Company had been ferrying passengers between Barisal and Calcutta for quite some time now. Then, suddenly, the truth dawned on them.
Sarojini
was the first native ship to sail on the Ganga. It was a proud moment for all Indians! The crowds at the harbour were expressing their joy and triumph. Gyanadanandini turned a bright, laughing face towards her brother-in-law and said, ‘Your dream has been fulfilled Natun.' Jyotirindra was so overcome with emotion that tears rose to his eyes. In an effort to hide them he lowered his head and started polishing his pince nez.