First Light (36 page)

Mahendralal kept his word. Walking into Jagadish's room that very evening, he saw a young man of about twenty-seven, big and dark with curly hair and a bushy moustache. Jagadish, who had taken a camera apart and was trying to put it together again, looked up to see a tall, portly, middle-aged man in an impeccable three-piece suit and English boots.

‘You're Bhagaban's boy are you not?' The stranger said roughly. ‘Do you know how to tote a gun?' Jagadish stared at him, his eyes wide in surprise. ‘Of course you do,' the strange man went on, ‘I remember now. You went tiger shooting when you were little. But I hope you are not out of practice. You see, I wish to fight a duel, with you. You may choose the day and time—'

‘I beg your pardon, sir. I don't quite understand—' Jagadish replied politely although he had serious doubts about the man's sanity.

‘Don't you? You're marrying Durga's daughter Abala—are you not? The fact is that I wished to marry her myself. I was waiting for her to complete her education when you suddenly
appeared out of the blue and snatched her away from right under my nose. Well, if you wish to marry the girl you'll have to prove you're the better man of the two.' Then, seeing the bewildered look on the boy's face, he burst out laughing. Coming forward he clapped Jagadish heartily on the shoulder and said, ‘Just a joke. I've heard all about you, my dear boy. You've set the sahebs by the ears and the whole country is proud of you. Abala is just the girl you should marry. By the way—you probably don't know me. I'm a doctor. My name is Mahendralal Sarkar.' Jagadish rose hastily and touched the older man's feet. ‘Who doesn't know you sir?' he exclaimed. ‘As a student I often visited your Institute for the Cultivation of Science and listened to the lectures.'

‘Well, you're not a student any more. You're a brilliant scientist. I invite you to address the gatherings from time to time. On a remuneration, of course. No. No. Shaking your head won't do. I insist on paying you what I pay the others.'

Two days later Mahendralal Sarkar received a doctor's call from the house of Janakinath Ghoshal of Kashiabagan. Walking into the drawing room the first person he saw was Janakinath's daughter Sarala. Sarala sat at the piano playing a little tune and singing the words over and over again.
‘Bandé Mataram',
she sang,
‘Sujalang Suphalang, malayaja sheetalang shasya shyamalang . . .'

‘Good! Good!' the doctor cried appreciatively, ‘A very pretty verse! Did you write it yourself?' Sarala bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘You don't know anything Jethamoni!' she cried. ‘This was written by Bankimchandra. Robi Mama set the tune for the first two verses and asked me to do the rest.'

‘Why couldn't Bankim set the tune himself?'

‘He didn't intend it to be a song.'

Seeing Sarala, Mahendralal was struck with an idea. ‘Sarala,' he asked in his sweetest, most persuasive voice. ‘Would you like to study medicine after you pass out?'

‘Why medicine?' Sarala's brows came together.

‘Why not? A doctor's profession is the most noble in the world.'

‘I want to do my graduation first. After that I'll decide what to do.'

Sarala was about to appear for her Entrance examination.

There were several years before she would graduate. Mahendralal decided that he would keep drilling the idea of becoming a doctor into her head for the next four years. He wouldn't give up.

At this moment Janakinath Ghoshal walked into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes bright with fever. ‘You seem to be fine,' Mahendralal began, eyeing him aggressively. ‘Why did you send for me? I don't like wasting my time.'

‘I'm far from fine. The fever refuses to leave me. Come Mahendra, don't scold. Give me some of your excellent medicine and get me back on my feet. I have a lot of work before me.'

‘You
are
on your feet. Unless, of course, I'm seeing a vision.' Then, banging his fist on a table he cried out angrily, ‘Why aren't you in bed? Don't you know that no medicine in the world will work on a person who moves around with fever burning his limbs? Even God can't help you.' His eyes fell on Sarala as he said these words and his mood changed. ‘Aren't you planning to get your daughter married Janaki?' he asked, quite forgetting his indignation of a moment ago. ‘You married your elder daughter off at her age.'

‘Don't talk to me of Sarala! She's taken a vow to work for her country and that's not possible, she says, unless she remains a spinster. Marriage, a husband and children are not for her. The amazing thing is that her mother agrees with her!'

Mahendralal was charmed. A girl like Sarala—young, beautiful, talented and admired by so many young men—had taken a vow never to get married! To devote her life to her country! What could be more moving? His eyes misted over. Sarala was a gem; a pearl among women. She would make a fine doctor. Abala had let him down. And Kadambini! He sighed deeply as he thought of Kadambini.

Kadambini was the most beautiful girl Mahendralal had ever seen. She was also the brightest—the first female graduate of Calcutta University, sharing the distinction with another girl called Bidhumukhi Bosu. That was a few years ago. Mahendralal Sarkar had advised her to study medicine and she had agreed. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, she had decided to marry Dwarkanath Ganguly—a man seventeen years her senior. Dwarkanath, who had been her teacher in school, was a widower
with two children. His daughter Bidhumukhi was of the same age as Kadambini and engaged to be married to a very bright young man called Upendrakishore Roy Choudhury. The other child, a boy, was both spastic and mentally retarded. Dwarkanath was very poor and extremely unattractive in appearance being tall to a fault, gaunt and totally without grace or charm. Everyone had been aghast at Kadambini's choice. She, who could have had her pick of handsome young men from the first families of Calcutta, had chosen to fall in love with a poor widower twice her age. Mahendralal knew that it was neither love nor infatuation that had prompted her. They had a shared ideal. They were both committed, heart and soul, to the education and upliftment of women. Kadambini knew that marriage with anyone else would put an end to her medical career. Dwarkanath would not only allow her to continue, he would support her in every way he could.

Mahendralal liked the couple so much he visited them often. On one occasion he had gone to Dwarkanath's house to find Bidhumukhi rocking Kadambini's baby in her lap and trying to put him to sleep. The baby was screaming lustily and poor Bidhumukhi was having a hard time of it. Dwarkanath, wrapped in an enormous gamchha, was in the kitchen struggling with the evening meal. All this was surprising. But most surprising of all was the sight of Kadambini, poring over her books in a corner of the room, totally oblivious of her surroundings. So great was her concentration that she didn't even raise her head when Mahendralal entered the room with his heavy tread singing one of her husband's songs in a cracked and tuneless voice.

Bharat sleeps . . .

Ah! Bharat sleeps and will sleep on Till her daughters wake and rise.

Ashutosh Chowdhury's ancestral house was in Krishnanagar but he had rented a small house in Scott Lane, near City College, where he lived with his brothers and sisters. A brilliant student, Ashutosh had set a record in Calcutta University by taking his BA and MA degrees in the same year. Immediately afterwards he had left for England where, after obtaining a Tripos in Mathematics from the University of Cambridge, he had studied at the Bar and returned to India a qualified barrister. But though Law and Mathematics were his professional pursuits his first love was literature. He was an avid reader of poetry—Bengali, Sanskrit, English and French—and had excellent discrimination and a fine ear for the nuances. It was this trait that had endeared him to Robi. They had first met on board ship during Robi's second voyage out to England—an abortive attempt that had ended in Madras on the whim of his nephew Satyaprasad. But those few days were enough to establish a friendship that lasted a lifetime. The two were men of the same age and had a great deal in common.

From Ashutosh Robi learned that evaluating poetry was a special skill—one that had to be developed with care. It was not enough to express appreciation or dislike. The serious reader needed to prepare himself for the task of evaluation by acquainting himself with the tradition to which the poem belonged. To take an example, as Ashutosh pointed out, it was imperative to have some knowledge of the work of the Vaishnav
pada kartas
in order to receive the full impact of a modern lyric such as the kind Robi wrote. Ashutosh was a brilliant critic. He could take up a poem, analyse it line by line and point out parallels in ideas, images and forms with other older sources.

Robi liked Ashutosh immensely and was proud to be his friend. Consequently he was a frequent visitor to the house in Scott Lane. Ashu's fifth brother, Pramatha, a boy of seventeen, was his ardent admirer. Not daring to intrude in the
conversations his eldest brother had with his poet friend, he often stationed himself outside the door from where he gazed with admiring eyes at his hero. Robi Babu, Pramatha thought, looked like a Greek god. And, indeed, Robi had grown into an extraordinarily handsome man. He wore his hair long these days. The thick locks that flowed down to his shoulders were a rich glossy black as were the soft masses of hair that covered his cheeks and chin. His skin was burnished gold and his features seemed carved out of marble. His body was tall and well formed and radiated with health and vitality. In the heat of the summer Robi wore no shirt. Above his dhuti he wrapped a fine
uduni
loosely around his back and chest.

After Ashu's return from England an idea started forming in Robi's head. How would it be if Ashu was promoted from a friend to a relative? He was such an eligible young man and there were several unmarried girls in the house in Jorasanko. Robi's third brother's daughter Pratibha was twenty-one—a beautiful girl with many accomplishments. Hemendranath had died a year ago and the responsibility for settling her had fallen on his brothers. Robi considered a match between the two an excellent idea. But he foresaw a couple of obstacles which needed to be overcome. The Thakurs belonged to the Rarhi Sreni of Brahmins and the Chowdhurys to the Barendra. Baba Moshai was bound to object. Again, Ashu's father might demand a large dowry for his son was, indeed, a great catch. But Baba Moshai, though he had retained a number of Hindu customs in his personal life, was dead against dowry. He would be more than generous in what he gave his granddaughter but he would brook no demand from her in-laws.

One evening Robi invited Ashutosh to tea. Mrinalini, who was shy with strangers at the best of times, was more so now for her pregnancy had started to show. Consequently the task of pouring the tea and handing out the cakes and sandwiches fell on Pratibha. Pratibha was as open and friendly as Mrinalini was shy and reticent and soon the three young people found themselves engaged in lively conversation. The talk veering on the possibility of blending Indian and Western tunes in modern compositions, Robi requested Pratibha to demonstrate that it was possible by singing some of his songs. Pratibha rose instantly and, opening
the piano, played and sang with unaffected ease. The beauty of her voice and the grace and charm of her manner affected Ashutosh deeply. Robi caught the glances his guest kept stealing at his beautiful niece and knew that his mission had succeeded. Pratibha, he was certain, would make Ashu an excellent wife. As a brilliant barrister with an increasingly flourishing practice he needed a partner well versed in the social graces.

The first step concluded, the next one was to tackle Baba Moshai. With this end in view Robi proceeded to visit his father in Chinsura. Debendranath heard Robi out patiently though not without some surprise. He kept a close watch on each one of his children and was well aware of their merits and defects. Over the last few years he had come to the conclusion that Robi had shaped up better than his other sons. His skill in the composition of Brahmo Sangeet and his hard work on the estates had won him a grudging respect from the old patriarch. Now Debendranath saw another side to Robi's character—his commitment to the family and his sense of duty. Although the youngest it was he who had taken upon himself the responsibility of finding a husband for his fatherless niece, not the others. Debendranath asked several questions regarding the boy's qualifications and family background. Then, to Robi's surprise, he announced heartily, ‘It seems an excellent match. See that it takes place without delay.' Robi was elated. His father hadn't even touched on the question of Rarhi and Barendra and he had expressed no curiosity about the family's financial position. He knew, though, that dealing with Ashu's family wouldn't be quite so easy.

He was right. As soon as he took the proposal to Ashu's father the latter started asking questions about the extent of the dowry he could expect. In vain did Robi try to assure him that the Maharshi's gifts to his granddaughter would far exceed his expectations. But the old man wanted a clear commitment which Robi was incapable of giving. When Robi had almost given up hope of a satisfactory conclusion to the matter, Ashutosh took it up himself. He came to Jorasanko one evening and said without preamble, ‘Bhai Robi! My brothers and sisters are pestering me to get married. Why don't you set a date? I have one condition, though, I want a simple ceremony. No ostentation. No dowry. I hope you agree.'

The wedding took place, according to the tradition of the Thakur family, in the house of Jorasanko. The groom's father stayed away but his siblings were all there. They were a jolly lot and kept the nuptial chamber enlivened all night with their jokes and laughter. Since there was no question of Ashutosh living in Jorasanko as a resident son-in-law, Pratibha made the move from her father's palatial home to her husband's humble one. And, belying everyone's fears, she quickly adapted herself to her new surroundings. Robi visited her every day.
Balak
had recently been merged with
Bharati
and he had plenty of time.

One day two students of Presidency College came to the house in Scott Lane. One of them, a young man called Jadugopal, was an old acquaintance of Ashu's from his Krishnanagar days. Accompanying him was his friend Bharat. Bharat, Robi observed, was as silent and withdrawn as Jadugopal was loud and garrulous. He sat quietly in one corner, his eyes fixed on Robi's face, while Jadugopal did the talking. Declaring himself to be a great admirer, Jadugopal bombarded Robi with questions. Robi didn't mind. The boys of Presidency College, he had heard, were highly politicized. It amused him to find that they read poetry on the side.

‘Robi Babu,' Bharat took advantage of a lull in the conversation and said softly. ‘I've read your
Rajarshi.
Have you ever been to Tripura?'

‘Not yet,' Robi answered smiling. ‘But I hope to—some time.' ‘You've described the country so well. It's difficult to believe that you've never seen it.'

‘That's the advantage of being a poet,' Ashutosh commented with a laugh. ‘Poets write confidently about all the places they've never seen. Don't forget Dante wrote a whole poem set in Hell.'

‘Bharat comes from Tripura,' Jadugopal offered the information.

‘Is that so?' Robi enquired with interest. ‘May I stay in your house, then, when I visit Tripura?'

A shadow came over Bharat's face. He shook his head sadly and said, ‘I don't have a house in Tripura.' Before Robi could react Jadugopal fired his next question. ‘Achha Robi Babu,' he said with a degree of familiarity unwarranted on such a slight acquaintance. ‘You do so many kinds of work. You work for the
Brahmo Samaj, edit a journal, look after your father's estates and write poetry. Which of your activities gives you the greatest pleasure?' Robi fixed his large, dark eyes on Jadugopal's face. ‘Do you know,' he said with a disarming smile, ‘I've never really thought about it'

But, in his heart, he knew the truth. He did a number of things because he had to do them. But what he liked best was to lie in bed all day and write poetry. Writing a poem was like building a house. Setting word after word, carefully selected, like brick by brick, till an idea took shape and form! What could be more wonderful or more fulfilling!