First Light (51 page)

Macbeth,
though hailed by critics as the best play of the year, was not a box office success. The public didn't take to it and the audience dwindled in number so rapidly that the management was alarmed. Running a theatre was a business after all. What was the point of staging a play, however good it was, if only a handful of intellectuals came to see it? At length, even Girish Ghosh was forced to admit the truth. People didn't want to see a serious play. He felt so frustrated that he was tempted to give it all up and go back to writing his book on Ramkrishna. But he had signed a contract with Minerva and couldn't quit upon a whim. Besides Nagendrabhushan was a perfect gentleman. It was but fair to consider his interest. Abandoning his grand plan of adapting and staging Shakespeare's plays one by one, Girish turned his hand to writing little pieces full of fun and froth with no substance. One by one they emerged from his pen—
Mukul Manjura, Abu Hossain, Baradin ér Baksheesh, Saptami té bisarjan
—farce, not even comedy, full of slapstick humour and laced with erotic songs.

After the box office had revived a little Girish set himself seriously to writing a new play. He had been hurt and offended by some newspaper reviews which had likened his latest work to the
‘dancing of buffoons'. The need of the hour was a play which would have quality as well as general appeal. He decided to fall back on the Mahabharat as he had done so often before. For the new venture he selected the story of Jana. The audience hadn't seen a mythological play for many years now and would welcome the rich sets and gorgeous costumes. Besides
Jana
had a strong story line and a variety of characters. Into this blend Girish mixed a little of his own philosophy. But he took care not to serve it up neat. He coated it in humour, subtle but pungent.

This time Girish decided to stay out of the stage and gave his son Dani the hero's role. Dani had a wonderful voice, even deeper and richer than his father's. In fact many people said that, in a few
years, Dani would outstrip his father as an actor. Teenkari Dasi was Jana and Ardhendushekhar the clown. This last role was really the most important one in terms of the theme. The clown had all the punch lines.

Jana
was a great success and ran to full houses night after night. Then, when its popularity had reached its zenith, the blow fell. Ardhendushekhar came to Girish Ghosh's house one morning and, after a hearty breakfast of kachuris and rosogollas and several cups of tea, he broke the news. ‘You'll have to let go of me,' he announced calmly, ‘The bird is poised for flight.' Girish Ghosh froze at these words. He knew Ardhendushekhar. He was an extremely gifted actor but moody and impulsive. The love of roving was in his blood and he couldn't put down roots. Nothing and no one could pin him down. He was indifferent to wealth and fame and could abandon them on a moment's whim. He had a fascination for the occult and took off from time to time in its quest. He had spent several months in the mountains learning Hatha Yoga from a sadhu and he had taken lessons in hypnotism from Colonel Alcott.

‘Why! Where are you planning to run off this time?' Girish cried, making his voice loud and jocular. ‘Just when we are starting to make waves! Now, listen to me brother. We need you in Minerva. You can't abandon us.'

‘That's exactly what I propose to do.'

‘Are you leaving Calcutta?'

‘No. But I'm leaving Minerva.'

‘Why? Has anyone offended you? Who would have the guts? Besides, everyone loves you.'

‘No one has offended me. And even if they had—I have a thick skin. The truth is —'

‘Has Star recalled you?'

‘No. Besides, I wouldn't go back to Star if they begged me on their knees.'

‘Go home Saheb,' Girish cried in a burst of irritation, ‘and stop bothering me. No one has hurt your feelings! No theatre has offered you a job! Your role in
Jana
is being acclaimed by one and all! Yet you wish to leave. It doesn't make sense.'

Ardhendushekhar took the
albola
from the older man's hand and put the pipe to his lips without troubling to wipe it. ‘Let me be
frank with you then,' he said, ‘I've got a worm stirring in my brain. I keep trying to shake it off but it won't go. I want to be Number One.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You write the plays. You direct the actors and actresses. You even compose the music. I leap and prance upon the stage at your command.'

‘Is that all?' Girish Ghosh sounded relieved. ‘Very well then. I put the next play in your hands. Write, direct—do everything. You be Number One. I'll keep out of the way.'

‘That's easier said than done. Wherever you are you'll predominate. Do you know what decided me? I had a queer dream last night. I dreamt I was a tiger in a jungle roaring at the top of my voice. When I awoke I understood what it meant. I may be a tiger but you are the King Lion. If I mean to be king I must find another jungle.'

‘Indigestion!' Girish gave a great cackle of laughter. ‘You must have stuffed yourself with pulao and mutton curry floating in ghee and spices. That's why you had this silly dream. Go home and drink some lime water, then get back to bed. You've had a disturbed night and —'

‘No, Girish. My mind is made up. Emerald has been lying vacant for several months now. I'm going to rent it and start a company of my own. I've made all the arrangements.'

‘Who is the producer?'

‘No one. I'm putting in my own money. I don't want anyone holding a stick above my head. I'm going to be Number One. Remember?'

Now Girish was truly alarmed. Taking Ardhendu's hands in his he pleaded, ‘Don't do such a thing Saheb. It's a terrible risk to take. We are artistes. What knowledge do we have of financial matters? Look at me. I could have been manager of Star had I wanted to. But I steered clear of all that. I know you. You have the spirit of a true artist. Be Number One if you wish. Go anywhere you like. But don't try to run the business yourself. You'll be ruined.'

‘Un hunh,' Ardhendushekhar shook his head. ‘I've told you the worm in my brain won't let me rest. I'll have to try it out. After all, all I'll lose is a little money.'

‘What about the play?
Jana
will crumble to pieces without you. No one can do your role.'

‘You can.'

‘I'm too old.'

‘Why? You played Macbeth only the other day.'

‘But the part was written for you. The audience adores you. They won't accept a substitute.'

‘They'll accept you alright.'

Ardhendushekhar left Minerva after three days and a number of the company went with him. Just before he left he sent for Nayanmoni. ‘Will you come with me Nayan?' he asked her then went on in the forthright manner that was habitual with him. ‘You'll never play heroine in this theatre. Be sure of that. Teenkari is Girish's favourite and you'll never take her place. I've studied you. You have the potential. All you need is a little spit and polish.' Nayanmoni didn't know what to say. She revered Girish Ghosh like a god and had resolved to learn the art of acting at his feet. But Ardhendushekhar was like her father. It was he who had picked her off the streets and brought her to the theatre. She owed him her very existence. Coming home she consulted Gangamoni. ‘Take his offer. Take it,' Gangamoni was quick to advise. ‘It's a great chance. Don't lose it. One should never stay in one place too long. The more one moves the higher one reaches. Besides,' and here she dropped her voice though no one was listening, ‘Ardhendushekhar is a better trainer than Girish Ghosh. I've spent a lifetime in the theatre. I know what I'm talking about.' Then, raising her voice, she cried, ‘If you refuse this offer I'll drive you out of my house at the end of my broomstick. I swear I will.'

The next day Nayanmoni left Minerva and joined Emerald. The first play Ardhendushekhar chose for performance was Atul Krishna Mitra's
Ma.
Nayanmoni was to play the female lead. She was to get one hundred and fifty rupees a month, free meals during rehearsals and a carriage to fetch her to the theatre and take her back. Ardhendushekhar was a generous man.

But though kind and fun-loving in general, Ardhendu was a hard taskmaster and extremely strict during rehearsals. No one dared utter a sound or move from his place from fear of provoking a sarcastic comment. He also took a lively interest in each one's personal habits and gave good advice. ‘What do you
eat during the day Nayan?' he asked her one day, ‘Begin with breakfast.' On hearing her account he flung his hands in the air with a cry. ‘You mean to tell me you eat no fish or meat? You're not a widow, are you? Even if you are let me tell you something. An actress has no social obligations. Your job is to sing and dance and entertain the public, sometimes for hours at a stretch. How can you hope to do that on a diet of rice and greens? From where will you get the energy? No, no Nayan—this won't do. You must eat some fish or meat everyday to keep up your strength. Do you drink?'

‘No.' Nayanmoni shook her head.

‘Is anyone keeping you? I mean, do you have a Babu?'

‘No.'

‘Do you have a lover then?

‘No.'

‘Are you married? Do you have a husband?'

‘No.'

‘No! No! No!' Ardhendu echoed angrily. ‘Is that all you can say? I hope you are lying because if you aren't it's something to worry about. A woman needs to sleep with a man from time to time. The sap dries up in her body and her face becomes hard and brittle if she's left alone for too long.' Then, winking at her, he whispered, ‘I can help you out you know. But doubtless you think me too old. We must find a young buck for you.'

The play was staged after two months of rigorous rehearsing. The critics were thrilled with it and so was the audience. Nayanmoni's role was praised to the skies and she was referred to in newspaper columns as the ‘rising star in the horizon of the Bengali theatre'. But though playgoers were flocking to Emerald, night after night, it was obvious that the expenses incurred went far beyond what was coming in. Ardhendushekhar's own investment had been swallowed up and he was heavily in debt. It seemed as though Girish Babu's prophecy was coming true. But Ardhendushekhar would not give up his dream. He decided to take on a partner, a businessman called Harishchandra Malakar, and set about signing a contract with him. Harishchandra would not only pay off Ardhendushekhar's debts, he would finance the new play and take charge of the accounts in future.

On the day the contract was to be signed Harishchandra
brought his legal advisor with him—a young barrister, newly returned from England, named Jadugopal Roy. One by one the members of the cast came up to him and signed their names or put their thumb impressions on the papers spread out before him. When Nayanmoni's turn came the barrister looked at her curiously. He had seen the play twice and had been fascinated by her beauty and histrionic ability. Now, in her simple sari of striped cotton with her hair tied carelessly in a knot at the nape of her neck, she looked a different person altogether. Yet, there was something vaguely familiar about her. He was sure he had seen her somewhere; somewhere other than the theatre. The more he looked at her the surer he was. Moved by an impulse he blurted out, ‘Nayanmoni Dasi must be your stage name. What's your real name?'

‘Nayanmoni is my name. I have no other.'

‘You can't fool me. I've seen you before—many years ago. I have a good memory and forget nothing. While in College I had a friend called Bharat. One afternoon some of us were picnicking in the woods in front of his house in Bhabanipur. A young girl came and lit the fire for us. She was a pretty girl, well educated and could sing and dance. As far as I remember the girl's name was Bhumisuta. Am I right?'

Nayanmoni froze where she stood. Her lips went dry and drops of sweat broke out on her forehead. ‘Bharat was my friend,' Jadugopal went on, relentless in his probing. ‘I hear he has disappeared from Calcutta. Do you have news of him?'

‘No,' Nayanmoni's voice was no more than a whisper. Then suddenly she started screaming, ‘No! No! No! I know nothing. Nothing.' Turning, she ran out of the room, out of the theatre and climbed into her carriage. Reaching home she flung herself on her bed in a storm of tears. ‘What's wrong with you child?' Gangamoni asked over and over again. ‘Has any son of a bitch said anything to you?' But Nayanmoni did not answer. She buried her head deep into her pillow and wept as though her heart would break.

It was past midnight and the house was dark and still. All the inmates were asleep barring one. Rabindra stood by the window, his hand gripping a bar. The knuckles were clenched and the veins stood out over the fair skin. A terrible rage had taken possession of him. His eyes burned and the blood thudded against his heart in angry spurts. It was an unusual condition for him. Rabindra was patient and tolerant by nature and rarely allowed himself to lose his cool. A poet couldn't afford to. Anger clouded a man's imagination and blunted his creative powers. He kept telling himself this but it wasn't helping. Not this time.

This trip to Orissa seemed to have been jinxed from the start. He had come, ostensibly, on a tour of his estates but in reality he had wanted a change. He had wanted to get away from the pulls and pressures of Calcutta and to spend a few days relaxing with his friends and enjoying the spectacular beauty of the sea and lush green land. The sea, in particular, drew him like a magnet. He had crossed the Atlantic on his way to England. He had spent several holidays by the Arabian Sea. But he had never seen a more awesome; a more wondrous sight than the sea of Puri. He could stand on the sands for hours on end feasting his eyes on the breakers that swelled so high they seemed to touch the sky before rolling majestically to the shore. The deafening roar threatened to tear his ear drums. The water, warmed by aeons of tropical sun, curled and foamed about his feet. The wind all but knocked him down with every gust. But he never had enough of it. He stood gazing at the great expanse, hour after hour, his heart as light as though transported into another world. Yet it was in this very paradise that Rabindra had had a bitter experience.

His host and hostess Biharilal Gupta and Soudamini were old friends and excellent people, but having brought him to Puri for a holiday, couldn't bear to leave him to his own. His soul cried out for seclusion but he had to endure their company and that of their friends every single minute of the day. Even that wasn't so bad.

Rabindra didn't mind meeting the local people who were simple and unassuming and came in small groups. But he drew the line at meeting the big officials of the town particularly if they were British.

Biharilal didn't know Rabindra's bashful nature and couldn't understand his need for privacy. He thought it was his duty as host to introduce him to important people. Rabindra's presence was a feather in his cap and he liked to show him off. But it wasn't only that. He was thinking of the boy's welfare. Rabindranath was a scion of the noble house of Jorasanko and a poet. But who knew him outside Bengal? It was important that he met people wherever he went and, to this end, Biharilal insisted on taking him to the house of the District Magistrate. Rabindra begged to be let off but Biharilal pointed out that, as a zamindar come to tour his estates in Orissa, it was his duty to call on the DM. Protocol demanded it.

Flushed with his plan Biharilal sent a letter to Mr Walls informing him that he was bringing his distinguished guest to meet him that evening. But when they reached the saheb's bungalow they were surprised to find that there was no sign of a welcome. A chaprasi made them wait on the veranda and went inside to inform his master and mistress. He came out in a few minutes with the message that the saheb and memsaheb were busy and couldn't see them. However, they could come back the next morning. Rabindra's face turned pale with humiliation. Biharilal, though considerably mortified himself, insisted that the saheb and memsaheb were decent people and wouldn't misbehave with him. There must be some communication gap, he assured Rabindra, over and over again.

As indeed there was. An hour or so later a servant came from the District Magistrate's bungalow with a letter from his mistress. Apologizing for what had happened she explained that it was owing to the fact that her bearer had forgotten to give her Biharilal's letter. The District Magistrate was ready to meet the District Judge and would do so gladly. To make up for the faux pas she invited them over for dinner the next day.

The letter failed to assuage the indignation that swelled in Rabindra's breast. He felt extremely slighted. It was clear that the lady had no compunction about turning a zamindar and famous
poet out of her house. It was the affront to the District Judge that she regretted. Rabindra declared he wouldn't go but Biharilal was horrified at the idea. The magistrate's lady had invited them; there was no question of refusing her. She would feel hurt and humiliated. ‘We are natives,' he pointed out. ‘We can swallow our humiliation and keep a straight face. But they belong to the race of rulers. Besides, she has apologized for the misunderstanding. What more can you expect?' It was not in Robi's nature to wave aside other people's wishes and stick stubbornly to his own. He obeyed his host and went but his mood was spoilt and he felt edgy and uncomfortable. Everything his host or hostess said affected him adversely. When Mrs Walls led them to her table saying, ‘You may partake of everything freely, gentlemen. There's no beef in any of the preparations. You are Hindus and may be afraid to lose your caste,' he thought he saw a sneer on her elegantly powdered face. He was convinced that she had not said what she had out of concern for the tastes of her guests. There was a movement going on, in many parts of the country, for the preservation of the cow. Her words, he was sure, was a snide comment on a race so barbaric as to deify an animal and make an issue out of the eating of its flesh.

Rabindra's uneasiness increased after dinner when the insensitive though well-meaning Biharilal informed the company that his guest was a fine singer. Mr Walls was fond of music and instantly requested Rabindra to regale them with a few songs. Rabindra knew that they would neither like his singing nor understand it and he hated himself for getting into such a distasteful situation. He tried to cry off but Biharilal couldn't understand his reluctance and pushed and prodded till he was forced to sing. His audience clapped dutifully at the end of each song much as though they were encouraging a child in his recitation of nursery rhymes.

The dreadful evening was over at last. Once home, Rabindra told Biharilal, very firmly, that he was not meeting any more British officials and made him promise not to force him. He didn't care if he was breaking protocol. He was determined.

But Biharilal and Soudamini couldn't live without company. Back in Cuttack their hospitality increased ten fold and, with the great poet Rabindranath Thakur in the house, a lot of parties
were organized. A large reception had been held, that very evening, to which a number of people had been invited. Among the guests was Mr Hallward, Principal of Ravenshaw College. On Rabindra's reminding him of his promise Biharilal said hastily, ‘You said you didn't want to meet British officials. This man is an intellectual. You're bound to like him.'

But Rabindra didn't like him one bit. He was a monstrous hulk of a man with a face as broad and fiat and red as a slab of beef. Rabindra privately thought he looked more like a policeman than the principal of a college. From the moment Hallward entered the room he dominated the conversation as though by divine right. Rabindra, who was the chief guest and whom he had come to meet, was addressed in a booming, authoritative voice with a ‘You're a poet are you? A Bengali poet! Why don't you write in English?' before being passed over in favour of other more important men of the city. Rabindra gritted his teeth at the sound of that voice. It went droning on and on, not allowing anyone else to put a word in edgeways. It was so harsh and grating and had such a peculiar intonation that Rabindra couldn't understand half of what was being said. Rabindra had met many Englishmen and women on his two trips to England. They were courteous and pleasant and he had felt comfortable with them. What happened to the British when they came out to India? Why did they change so drastically? Or was it that the crudest, the most unpolished of the race was shipped out to the dark continent? He couldn't find the answer.

Two topics of discussion took precedence over all others at the dinner tables of the whites these days. One was the infighting among the natives over the killing of the cow. The other was the Lieutenant Governor's decision to dismiss juries in some districts of Bengal. This last had provoked considerable agitation and burning articles had been published by the native intelligentsia in newspapers and journals. Sipping from his glass of wine Mr Hallward addressed his host in a voice both ponderous and patronizing. ‘You are a judge yourself, Gupta. What is your opinion of the dismissal of juries?'

‘If juries are considered useful in England I see no reason why they shouldn't be so in India. We have the same laws.'

‘Same laws!' Hallward threw back his head in a loud guffaw.

‘Do you mean to tell me that what's good for the English is good for the natives? The English race has a moral standard, a sense of responsibility.'

‘Don't Indians—?'

‘Show me one native who isn't corrupt; who doesn't take bribes?' Then, realizing that he was surrounded by Indians, he added quickly, ‘Present company exempted of course.' Then, warming to his theme, he carried on, ‘I'm the principal of a college. Hundreds of Indian students pass through my hands each year. Don't I know the Indian character? Cheats and rogues—every man jack of them! To think that they aspire to sit in judgment on white men and women. What audacity!'

Rabindra tried to protest a couple of times but his soft, low-pitched voice got totally lost in the torrent of sound that issued from the white man's lips. He looked around for the reaction of the other guests. And, to his horror, he found some of them nodding eagerly, obviously agreeing with everything the man was saying, and the others sitting shamefacedly, their eyes on the ground. The blood rushed to Rabindra's head and pounded in his temples. He felt sick; physically sick. A terrible fury stormed his being. These were his country men. These . . . these animals who sat passively while a foreigner, an interloper, abused and insulted them in their own country! That fury was still with him and wouldn't let him rest. He paced up and down the room, ears tingling, face flaming with shame and rage. Then he made up his mind. Waking up his nephew Balendra, who had accompanied him on this trip, he ordered, ‘Start packing Bolu. We leave for Balia tomorrow. Not another night under this roof.'

Once out of Cuttack Rabindra recovered his composure. It was raining heavily in Balia; had been doing so for several days. The sight of monsoon clouds and pelting rain always did something for Rabindra. The bitterness and frustration he had brought with him were washed away and peace descended on his soul.

From Balia Rabindra went to Bhubaneswar and thence back to Cuttack via Khandagiri and Udaigiri. The sight of the fine old temples and ancient rock edicts soothed his spirit and revived his pride in his heritage. He forgot the unpleasant episode in Cuttack and forgave Biharilal and Soudamini. They were old friends of
the family, he reminded himself, and patriotic at heart. Biharilal's profession required him to interact with the British and pay them lip service and that was all he was doing.

Biharilal had also learned his lesson. This time he didn't organize any parties or receptions. The evenings were now spent in rehearsing
Balmiki Pratibha
and its author was requested to inspect the production and point out its defects. Rabindra was happy to oblige. Needless to say, he had felt a thrill of pleasure when he heard that his play was being staged in Cuttack. It meant that his works were being read and his songs sung even outside Bengal. Could he dare to hope that, some day, his songs would be equated with those of Chandidas, Vidyapati, Ramprasad and Nidhu Babu? The prospect left him tingling with anticipation.

Watching the rehearsal, that first day, Rabindra noticed that Herambachandra, the young man who was playing Balmiki, was rather stiff and awkward in his movements. He had a strong voice but it lacked flow. The others in the cast were just about passable. But the heroine, a spritely young woman called Mohilamoni, was very good indeed. Rabindra was charmed by the grace of her movements and the beauty of her voice. Her intonation was perfect and she sang spontaneously with deep feeling. He noticed another thing. She had not only rehearsed her own part to perfection, she knew everyone else's too. Whenever one of the cast faltered she was quick to prompt.

‘You could play Balmiki if you wished,' Rabindra said to her with a smile. ‘You seem to know all the songs.'

‘That's true,' Soudamini caught the drift of his words and turned upon Herambachandra. ‘What's wrong with you Heramba?' she cried. ‘You usually do better than this!'

‘The presence of the playwright is making me nervous,' the young man answered ruefully. ‘Besides, the knowledge that he has played the role himself is turning my limbs to water. I have a suggestion Rabindra Babu. Why don't you play Balmiki again? In our play, I mean. It will be a thundering success with you in the lead role. I'll step aside gladly. I know I'm no good.'

The others looked on hopefully but Rabindra shook his head. ‘Oh no,' he said firmly.' I haven't committed a crime by writing the play, have I? Why should I be punished by being made to act in it? I wish to sit in the audience and enjoy the performance.

Don't feel discouraged Heramba Babu. You aren't bad at all. You just need a little more practice.'

The rehearsals took place each evening and Rabindra attended them with clockwork regularity. Gradually he came to know all the members of the cast. He was particularly intrigued by Mohilamoni. Soudamini had told him that she was a child widow and had been confined to the women's quarter of her father's house till Soudamini had pulled her out of it. She enjoyed some freedom now because her father had immense respect for Biharilal and Soudamini and didn't go against their wishes. Rabindra caught himself thinking about her a good deal. He wondered what her life would be like once Biharilal was transferred out of Cuttack.