First Light (53 page)

‘Yes! Yes,' Rabindra recognized the name instantly. ‘Dwijendralal Roy is my friend and an excellent poet. He sings very well too.'

‘Why don't we send for him one day?'

‘You send for him if you like,' Birchandra snapped. ‘I'm a one-poet man. For me there's only Robi Babu.'

‘No Maharaj,' Rabindra admonished him gently. ‘You must keep an open mind. Dwijendralal's compositions are of a very high order. You will like them.'

Birchandra was soon well enough to indulge his third passion—the theatre. The city was humming with dramatic activity. Girish Ghosh and Amritalal were churning out play after play in their respective theatres. Ardhendushekhar Mustafi had lost all his money, and the business as well. Emerald had passed into the hands of a wealthy Marwari named Benarasi Das. The latter had retained the old cast, however, and Ardhendushekhar as director. He who had owned the company was now a paid employee.

Birchandra sat in his box watching the play being currently performed in Emerald. It was called
Banga Bijeta
—a historical drama written by Ramesh Datta. He looked up startled the moment the leading lady began to sing. He was sure he had heard
the song before. But where? He racked his brains but couldn't come up with an answer. He searched her face with a scrutinizing glance. But it told him nothing. He didn't have a good memory for faces but once he heard a song he never forgot it. The heroine was quite popular, it seemed. The audience applauded enthusiastically every time she came on stage and at the end of each song. Suddenly he got it. It was not the song that was familiar. It was the voice. He had heard it before.

During the interval he asked Radharaman. ‘Do you recognize the leading lady Ghosh ja?'

‘No. I'm seeing her for the first time.'

‘She was a maid in our house in Circular Road. Can you recall her name?'

Radharaman shook his head. He had never interested himself in the maids and servants of the royal household. Looking down at the handbill on his lap he said, ‘Her name is Nayanmoni.'

‘Un hunh!' the king frowned and shook his head. ‘That's not the name. It's something else. Aa ha ha! Don't you remember the girl Shashi master brought to the house? He ran off with her too.'

‘Do you mean Bhumisuta?' Radharaman remembered the name at last. ‘Shashi didn't run off with her. He's married to someone else and has two children. I went to see him once, not so long ago. He has bought a nice little property overlooking the river in Chandannagar. He has no news of Bhumisuta—so he told me.'

‘Shashi married someone else!' Birchandra looked at Radharaman, his eyes wide with pain and surprise. ‘Why didn't he give her to me then? I wanted her.' He spoke in the bewildered voice of a child who had begged for a toy and been denied it by an adult he loved.

After the play was over Birchandra expressed a desire to meet the actors and actresses and reward them for the pleasure they had given him. The entire cast lined up to receive the honour in a room at the back of the stage. Birchandra greeted Ardhendushekhar first. Putting a diamond ring on his finger he handed him a velvet purse with one thousand silver rupees in it. Then he walked down the line nodding and smiling and murmuring compliments as each member of the cast stooped to touch his feet. When Nayanmoni's turn came he turned to Radharaman.

‘Ghosh ja!' he said pleasantly. ‘Ask this girl if she was once a maid in my household.' Nayanmoni's face turned pale and her heart beat fast with fear. She had recognized the king of Tripura but hadn't dreamed that he would recognize her in her ornate costume and painted face. Before Radharaman could react to the first command Birchandra made another. ‘Ask her why she left without informing me.' Nayanmoni turned and ran out of the room. Birchandra stood looking after her, an enigmatic smile on his lips. Then, addressing Ardhendushekhar, he said carelessly. ‘Do me a favour Mustafi Moshai. Send the girl to my house tomorrow evening. I wish to hear her sing.' He moved towards the door then turned back and added, ‘In the privacy of my apartment.'

After an hour or so Ardhendushekhar sent for Nayanmoni. She entered the office room to see him lounging on an armchair his legs propped up on a small table in front of him. In one hand he held the stem of his
albola.
The other was raised in the air. Nayanmoni saw that his gaze was riveted on the diamond ring that sat on his finger. The velvet purse the king had given him lay on the table. It was nearly empty.

‘Come Nayan,' he invited. Nayanmoni had changed her gorgeous costume for a simple cotton sari and had washed away the paint along with the tears that had poured down her cheeks ever since her encounter with the king. Ardhendushekhar threw a brief glance at her pale face and reddened eyes and murmured, ‘I've given away most of the money. There's hardly anything left for you.'

‘I don't need money. If there's some left over give it to Uddhab. His wife isn't well and—'

‘She's had another child!' Ardhendushekhar exclaimed angrily. ‘This is her seventeenth isn't it? That rascal Uddhab ought to be whipped till the blood runs down his back. Does he want to kill the poor woman? Whatever you may say, Nayan, that bugger won't get another pie out of me. I've already given him five rupees.'

‘It isn't for him. The infant needs to be fed. The mother can't suckle him. She has no milk.'

‘Naturally not. Does he give her enough to eat? He squanders all his money away on ganja. Don't I know it? Why do you always
plead for others Nayan and never for yourself?'

‘My needs are few and my salary generous. I can manage quite well.'

‘I want to give you something Nayan. The success of the play is almost entirely owing to you. Here, take this ring.'

‘Oh no!' Nayanmoni recoiled from it as if from a snake. ‘The Maharaja gave that to you. It's yours.'

‘Hmph!' Ardhendushekhar grunted. ‘Do I belong to the class that wears diamonds? That's Bel Babu for you. You've seen Amritalal Mukherjee, haven't you? He's a great
kaptan
of Calcutta and wears diamonds on all his fingers.' He turned his hand this way and that as he spoke. The stone caught the light of the many lamps in the room and flashed and sparkled wickedly. ‘This is a fine gem Nayan,' he looked down, squinting, at it. ‘A truly flawless diamond. Take it. I want you to have it.'

‘I've said I don't want it.'

‘Why not?'

‘I hate jewels. They poke and prick me.' Ardhendushekhar stared at her in total bewilderment. Then he tapped his forehead and sighed. ‘You're the strangest girl I've ever seen,' he said. ‘A woman who hates jewels! Where in the world will you find another? Who are you? Tell me the truth Nayan. Were you an apsara dancing in heaven before you came to us?'

‘I was a maid. A lowly servant maid in a rich household.'

‘A maid! Hmm. That's what the king said. But hardly lowly—I should have thought. He wants to hear you sing. You know what that means.'

‘May I sit down for a while?'

‘Yes of course. Make yourself quite comfortable. We haven't had a chat in months. And you've forgotten your promise to invite me to a meal. Can you cook vindaloo? No? It's a sort of mutton curry spiced with mustard.'

‘You just said that I always pleaded for others—never for myself. Well, I'm doing so now. I'm not going to the king's house tomorrow. Or ever. Don't make me.'

‘You won't go!' Ardhendushekhar took his feet off the table and sat up in astonishment. ‘Why not? He's a very big man. Monarch of an independent kingdom. It's an honour he's
bestowing on you.'

‘I'm an actress, an artiste—not a singing girl. I don't perform mujras. Nor do I sing for the entertainment of a single man.'

‘But he's no ordinary man. He's a king. Don't behave like a child Nayan. You'll go tomorrow. I'll take you myself.'

‘I'll kill myself first.'

Ardhendushekhar narrowed his eyes and searched Nayanmoni's face for any tell-tale marks. ‘You're from Tripura,' he said severely. ‘You made us believe—'

‘I'm not from Tripura. I've never been there in my life. I was born in Orissa.'

‘How did you come to be in the king's service?'

‘I wasn't in his service. I served one of his officials.'

‘It's the same thing.'

‘It isn't. I've never received a pie from the king as wages. And I wasn't his slave either. He didn't buy me.'

‘He has declared before everyone in the cast that you were his maid. Who will believe your story? If he is frustrated in his desire he might take a terrible revenge. He can accuse you of stealing from the royal household. What will you do then?'

‘I'll go to jail. But I won't go to him.'

‘You're overwrought. Go home now. Think it over and come back to me tomorrow.'

But Nayanmoni didn't go back to Ardhendushekhar. She rose very early the next morning and, hiring a cab, drove to Jadugopal Roy's house. She was met at the gate by a servant who informed her that the barrister was out riding in the maidan but would come in presently. She could wait for him if she so wished. Nayanmoni entered the house and, seating herself on a chair in the veranda, pulled the end of her sari over her head and face down to her breast. Coming in, a few minutes later, Jadugopal looked curiously at the blue-clad figure sitting alone on the veranda. He had many women clients but they always came with male escorts.

‘Who are you?' he asked bluntly.

‘I'm a poor woman in dire need of your help.'

Jadugopal nodded. Instructing his servant to open up his chamber and take the lady there, he went into the house. Flinging off his steaming wet riding clothes he took a shower, changed,
and went to meet his client.

‘Have you come alone?' he asked. ‘Who is with you?'

‘No one.' Nayanmoni lifted her veil and looked into his face for the first time. ‘I'm in grave trouble and need your help. I'll pay whatever fee you ask.'

‘Bhumisuta!' Jadugopal exclaimed. ‘You're as pale as a ghost! What is it? Some trouble at the theatre?'

Nayanmoni shook her head, then told him what had happened. She kept back nothing—not even the fact that she had been a maid in the king's household. Jadugopal gave her a patient hearing. Then, when she had finished, he commented wryly, ‘One thing is not clear. Actors and actresses vie with one another for royal patronage. Why are you resisting it?'

‘I don't need that kind of patronage. And I have no wish to oblige him. He may be a king and I a pauper, but if he insists on gratifying his wish I can do the same.'

‘So it's a battle of egos!' Jadugopal laughed. ‘
Rex versus singing girl.
Sounds like a fairy tale to me. Is it only that or something else? Is your husband against it?'

‘I don't have a husband.'

‘Your protector, then?'

‘There is no such person.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I cannot sell myself for money.' Her voice trailed away. She murmured almost to herself. ‘If I found someone I could love . . .' Stopping short she pulled herself together, then looked full into his face and demanded, ‘Can you help me?' Jadugopal frowned. While in England he had come in close contact with an organization whose members were followers of a German economist and philosopher called Karl Marx. Marx expounded the doctrine of equality and dreamed of a classless society.
Workers of the world unite
was his slogan. Looking on the wan, troubled face before him Jadugopal felt the full force of those arguments for the first time.

‘Of course I can help you,' he said firmly. ‘A king of Tripura! What right has he to throw his weight about here? This is British territory—governed by a rule of law. If he tries to use force on you he'll have to go to jail.'

‘Suppose he abducts me and packs me off to Tripura? Can the
law reach him from so far?'

‘Is there such a possibility?' Jadugopal looked startled.

‘I don't know,' Nayanmoni shuddered at the thought. ‘He has dealt much worse with others.'

‘Leave him to me,' Jadugopal rose to his feet. ‘I'll deal with him. But you must take some precautions. Don't go back either to the theatre or to your house. Stay here with us for the next few days. My wife will look after you.'

‘Stay with you?' Nayanmoni stared at him scarcely believing her ears. ‘I'm an actress; a low woman on whom everyone looks down. Yet you . . . you.' She couldn't complete her sentence. Dropping her face into her hands, she burst into tears.

‘I've just returned from the West where singers and dancers are respected for their art. They occupy the highest rungs of society. Don't worry Bhumisuta. Stay here and forget all the unpleasantness.'

‘Bhumisuta's dead. Call me Nayanmoni.'

That evening the king sat in state over a small durbar consisting of a few distinguished men of the city. He wanted to show off his new acquisition; to apprise the world of the fact that the famous actress Nayanmoni Dasi had been a maid in his house and still enjoyed his patronage. He had, by constant self deluding, managed to persuade himself that he had done it all. That Nayanmoni was his discovery; his creation. He felt a surge of triumph at the thought.

But the hours passed and there was no sign of Nayanmoni. Birchandra sat sweating in his royal robes, his head weighted down by the crown of his ancestors. He kept glancing at his watch. At about seven o'clock a messenger arrived from the theatre with the news that Nayanmoni had disappeared. She was not to be found anywhere—not at home, not at the theatre, not even at the house of the few friends she had. Birchandra's face went white—not with anger but with disappointment and sorrow. He rose to his feet and paced about the room. ‘I only wanted to hear her sing,' he kept saying over and over again. ‘What was wrong with that? She sings for everybody. Why not for me? I would have treated her like a queen. I would have covered her with jewels.' Turning to Mahim, he asked in a forlorn voice, ‘Was she afraid I would hurt her Mahim? Punish her for
running away? But everyone knows my kindness and generosity with erring subjects.'