First Light (68 page)

With the pelting rains of Sravan the Padma and Gorai rivers had swelled to twice their size.
Padma Boat
, the family bajra of the Thakurs of Jorasanko, glided lightly and swiftly over the vast expanse of turbulent water like a wondrous bird, dazzling white and incredibly beautiful. It was so large it could be manned by only half a dozen men. Inside, it was fitted up with every luxury that could be imagined—carpets, curtains, French furniture and chandeliers of Belgian glass. It had been designed and built by Dwarkanath Thakur. Debendranath had lived in it for months together whenever life in the city had palled on him. Now his son Rabindranath occupied it, not for the purpose of touring the family estates, but for enjoying a holiday with his wife and children.

It was a lovely morning, clear and bright, with a slight nip in the air. The bajra had cast anchor in Shilaidaha by the bank of the Padma. Rabindra sat in a patch of sunlight on the deck reading H. Hudson's
Green Mansions
. From time to time he looked up from his book and gazed fondly on the children as they played around him. Madhuri, Rathi, Rani, Meera and Shomi were his own. With them was his nephew Neetindra whom he had brought along. Presently Neetindra came up to him and said, ‘Robi ka! I'm trying to persuade Rathi to go ashore with me in the jolly boat and look for turtle eggs. But he refuses. He's scared of the water.' Rabindra's glance rested on his eldest son. He was a boy of ten with big eyes and a shy smile. His head had been tonsured on the occasion of his
Upanayan
and was now covered with fine, black down.

‘Why Rathi!' The boy's father closed his book and came up to him. ‘Neetu tells me you're afraid of the water. If you know swimming you have nothing to fear. I'll tell Badan Miya to start teaching you from tomorrow.'

‘I won't get into the water,' the child cried out in fear. ‘The crocodiles will eat me up.'

‘Silly boy! There aren't any crocodiles. And, even if there are, they won't come anywhere near you. They're afraid of humans.'

‘No Baba Moshai!'

Now Rabindra did a strange thing. Picking the boy up, he flung him into the water with a swing of his powerful arms. The other children looked on with anxious eyes and little Meera burst into tears. Some of the oarsmen came running up. But Rabindra stopped them from jumping in with a gesture. He stood on the deck, arms crossed over his chest, and watched the little black head bob up and down and the frail arms and legs thresh frantically in the water. Madhurilata clutched at her father's hand. ‘Rathi's drowning Baba Moshai!' she cried. ‘He's going under.' Rabindra placed an affectionate hand on the girl's head. ‘He won't drown,' he said smiling. ‘Just wait and watch.'

‘Let me go after him Robi ka,' Neetindra begged. But Rabindra wouldn't let him. After a few minutes more it seemed to him that the current was bearing Rathi away. In a split second Rabindra tossed off his banian and tucked his dhoti firmly into his waist. Diving in, he swam with powerful strokes up to the boy. He took hold of his shoulders but didn't bring him back. ‘Watch me,' he said releasing his grip and setting him afloat. ‘Move your legs and arms the way I'm doing. Don't be afraid. You won't drown.' Half an hour later father and son returned to the bajra. ‘You've had your first lesson Rathi,' Rabindra said patting his son on the head. ‘The rest will be easy.' It was true. Rathindra learned swimming in the next two days and became so fond of it that it was difficult to get him out of the water.

Rabindra believed in the direct approach—whether it was in communicating a physical skill like swimming or teaching a language or a literature. He had no opinion of the conservative British method of imparting instruction. His own school days had been far from happy and he was determined that his children should not suffer as he had done. He did not send them to school. Instead he employed two tutors—an Englishman called Mr Lawrence to teach them English and a pandit for Sanskrit. And, whenever he found the time, he gathered them around him and told them stories from the Ramayan and Mahabharat. Then, after they had gained a degree of familiarity with the ancient epics, he read out extracts from the writing of Michael
Madhusudan Datta and Bankimchandra. He knew, of course, that much of what he was reading would be quite incomprehensible to them, but he believed that the power and beauty of the language would enter their ears and, at some later date, find its way into their minds.

Rabindra had given this matter of education a great deal of thought. Some alternative method had to be found. How would it be, he thought often, if he started a school of his own? A school in which the ancient system of education, prevalent in Vedic India, could be revived. His nephew Balendra, greatly excited by the idea, was trying to persuade him to open an institution in Shantiniketan. But he wasn't ready for it just yet.

Rabindra had come to Shilaidaha with the express intention of spending time with Mrinalini and the children. But he rarely got the opportunity of being alone with them. As in Jorasanko, there was a constant stream of visitors on
Padma Boat
. Surendra and Balendra came every other week. They were so fond of their Robi ka that they couldn't be separated from him for long. But Bibi, who could easily have come with her brother, stayed away. She didn't write either. That is—not to her Robi ka. Rabindra had heard that there was a new man in her life and that her letters were addressed to him.

Jagadish Bose was another frequent visitor. Whenever he came he demanded to hear a new story. In consequence, Rabindra was writing a lot of short stories these days. The historian Akshay Maitra, the district judge of Rajshahi Loken Palit, and the Deputy Magistrate of Kushthia Dwijendralal Roy, were also to be seen quite often on
Padma Boat
. It was a happy time for Rabindranath and the days passed by as lightly as though they had wings. In the evenings the friends sat together on the deck enjoying the cool breeze that blew up from the river and the delicious snacks Mrinalini prepared in her kitchen. For, here on
Padma Boat
, as in Jorasanko, Mrinalini kept herself occupied with cooking and serving her husband, children and guests.

When alone, Rabindra made up for lost time by writing feverishly. Poems, stories and prose pieces emerged from his pen in an unending stream. The only thing he wasn't writing these days was letters. The epistolary phase with Bibi was over. Now he only answered the odd letter she wrote. Or anyone else wrote.

One day he received a strange communication.

Hé Manavshrestha, it ran, I have received you within my soul as a husband and lover. Yet I shall never expose myself before your eyes or ask anything of you. That was all. Rabindra turned it over in his hand wondering where it had come from. There was no signature and no address. He read the letter again. This time the warm blood rose up in a wave suffusing his face and neck. His lips softened in a smile. It was clear that he had a secret admirer and that it was a woman—a young woman. The thought filled him with elation. He folded the letter and put it carefully away. A similar epistle arrived the next week. And the week after. Gradually they fell into a pattern. Every three or four days a letter arrived conveying the emotions of a young woman who had surrendered her soul to this ‘man among men' but asked for nothing in return.

One day Rabindra received a letter from Gyanadanandini informing him that Bibi was to be wed. The prospective groom was Jogeshchandra Chowdhury. Bibi had given her consent to the match and, if Robi had no objection, she would like to set the date as early as possible. Jogesh? Rabindra was startled. Jogesh and Pramatha Chowdhury were Pratibha's brothers-in-law and Bibi's suitors. But, from what he had heard, Bibi had set her heart on Pramatha. Of course Jogesh was the more eligible of the two. They were both barristers but Pramatha, though sensitive and articulate, was briefless whereas Jogesh had a flourishing practice. But, as he saw it, it was Bibi's choice entirely and he lost no time in conveying his approval.

But, despite prolonged negotiations, the marriage could not take place. Gyanadanandini had several conditions one of which was unacceptable to Jogesh. She wanted him to leave his family and make his home with her. This he refused outright. He had a proud, independent spirit and he would brook no interference in his personal life. With the breaking of the match a bitter feud ensued between the two families. Gyanadanandini had never been so humiliated in her life. She gave vent to her indignation constantly and freely and poor Bibi, overwhelmed with guilt at having brought her mother to this pass, shed many bitter tears in private.

One day Sarala came to see Bibi. ‘What sort of a girl are you?'
she demanded in her forthright way. ‘You love one brother and you agreed to marry the other! How do you think you would have felt living in the same house? Could you have looked upon Pramatha as a brother-in-law? You're lucky the proposal fell through. Now do something and do it quickly. Tell Mejo Mami the truth.'

‘I can't,' Bibi faltered helplessly. ‘Can a girl raise her eyes to her mother's and tell her she is in love? Has anyone ever heard of such a thing in our society?'

‘There's always a first time. And a girl like you should set a precedence. If you can write twenty-page letters to a man addressing him as
Mon Ami
you can surely tell your mother you're in love.' She looked sharply into Bibi's face. The girl's cheeks were stained a rich crimson and there was a glint of tears in her fine dark eyes. ‘Well,' Sarala continued in a softened tone, ‘If you can't—I'll do it for you. I'll tell Mejo Mami you care for Pramatha.'

Sarala was as good as her word. Encountering her aunt she poured out the whole story. She had expected resistance; even angry denial. But, strangely enough, Gyanadanandini's response was entirely favourable. She had no objection, she said, to Bibi's marrying Pramatha. But her condition remained. She wouldn't send her only daughter to live among strangers. Her son-in-law must make his home with her.

Pramatha, whose hopes of marrying the girl of his dreams had been severely dashed by his own brother, lost no time in agreeing to Gyanadanandini's condition. But the Chowdhury family rejected the proposal outright. They had never heard anything so ridiculous in all their lives. Two brothers vying for the same girl! Why? Was there a dearth of girls in the country? Gyanadanandini was in a quandary. She had been told by Sarala that Bibi had set her heart on Pramatha and had vowed to remain a spinster all her life if she couldn't marry him.

One day Jyotirindranath came to Shilaidaha—not for any work of his own but as ambassador for his Mejo Bouthan. He was so changed that, leave alone the subjects, even the officials of the estate could not recognize him. The complexion of beaten gold that could once have invoked the envy of the gods had darkened and dulled to a tarnished copper and the flashing dark
eyes had burned themselves out and were now the colour of ashes. He stooped a little and his voice, when he spoke, quavered a bit like an old man's. ‘We need your help Robi,' he said to his brother. ‘Mejo Bouthan will feel extremely humiliated if this marriage does not take place. Pramatha's eldest brother Ashutosh is a friend of yours. Use your influence with him.' Rabindra sat silent, for a few moments, looking down at his feet. He found it difficult to look into his Natunda's eyes. They brought back memories of Natun Bouthan and the old sense of guilt. Besides, he wasn't sure he wanted a part in what was going on. The whole thing was a mess. Mejo Bouthan was far too arrogant! As for Bibi-she should have expressed her true feelings right from the start. Had Jogesh agreed to live in the house in Baliganj she would have been married to him by now, wouldn't she? It was quite natural for the Chowdhurys to feel resentful.

Rabindra refused to go back to Calcutta and sort the problem out despite Jyotirindra's repeated requests. But he agreed to write to Ashutosh and he did so—a twenty-page letter explaining the circumstances. Jyotirindra carried the letter back with him and showed it to his Mejo Bouthan and her daughter before posting it. But Rabindra's efforts yielded no results. The Chowdhurys were determined to keep the daughter of the high-nosed Gyanada-nandini Devi out of their family. Pramatha, on the other hand, was determined to marry her. He told his prospective mother-in-law that he would do so even at the cost of breaking with them.

Which was what happened. Gyanadanandini emerged from the battle, scathed but triumphant. Her beautiful, brilliant daughter would marry the man she loved. But she wouldn't cover her head and serve her husband's family like an ordinary Hindu wife. She would have a home, near her mother's, where she would live like a queen. She would have every comfort, every luxury she was accustomed to even if her husband earned little or nothing. Her mother would look after them.

The date for the wedding was set in March. Indira would be a spring bride.

The shy wild flower of Nadiya, Bansantamanjari was an accomplished equestrian these days. She could be seen riding side saddle on a white mare, this cool spring morning, beside Dwarika's dappled roan. Her head was bared to the sun and wind and she sat her horse as light as a feather, unlike Dwarika whose horse panted and sweated beneath his weight. From time to time she urged the mare into a gallop and shot ahead of her husband with a laugh: ‘I must have been a Rajputani in my previous birth,' she cried, ‘I feel I've been riding all my life.' This, of course, was not Rajputana but the Punjab. Dwarika and Basantamanjari had come a long way.

From Rawalpindi to Muree and onwards . . . till they reached a village called Baramullah, by the bank of a river. Although Basantamanjari's enthusiasm for riding had not waned Dwarika had had enough of it and he welcomed a rest. From Baramullah they could take the water way to the valley of Kashmir. The boats here were as large as bajras and fitted with every comfort including a kitchen which served excellent food. The river was fast flowing and full of currents and the boat Dwarika had chosen skimmed lightly over the jade green water. The scenery on both sides of the river was breathtaking. They passed mountains, covered with dark virgin forests, rising into the bluest of blue skies over which flocks of white birds flew in graceful formations. There were snow peaks in the distance on which the soft orange and gold of a sunrise or sunset poured itself in a stream of unearthly light. In the deepening shadows of dusk, the sky took on the most delicate hues ranging from the palest mauve to the deepest purple. And when the moon rose in the ink-blue sky, throwing long shafts of silver on the trembling water, Basantamanjari couldn't keep her happiness to herself but had to express it in song. Sitting on the deck, in a shower of moonbeams, she sang one song after another stopping only when the moon had set and the night was over.

One afternoon, as the boat cut its way through the green gold water the oars splashing softly against the silence of sky and mountains, Basantamanjari rose suddenly from her place on the deck and pointed a finger in the direction of the bank. ‘Red hair!'
she cried in a wondering voice.

‘What was that?' Dwarika asked startled. ‘What did you say?' ‘There's a woman there with hair the colour of hibiscus. I've never seen anything like it before.'

Dwarika looked in the direction of the pointing finger. A large boat had cast anchor near the bank and, on its deck, a group of people could be seen sitting around a table sipping tea from porcelain cups. Four of them were women—white women. ‘They're foreigners,' he explained.' ‘They have hair of different colours. Yellow, red, brown—even white as snow.' Then peering closer, he added, ‘There's a man with them too I see. There he is—talking to the boatmen. Do you see him? He's wearing a saffron robe. Since when have sahebs started dressing like sadhus?'

‘Is he a saheb too?'

‘He must be. A native would hardly be travelling with white women. And look . . . he's smoking a pipe. Chha! What an insult to saffron!'

After spending a week in Srinagar, Dwarika took a boat to Anantnag. Kashmir was set high on the mountains but it had innumerable valleys through which rivers and their tributaries ran incessantly turning the kingdom into a web of silver. From one stretch of water to another they floated, without a care, till they reached Pahalgaon—a tiny village by the bank of the Lider. Though small and obscure Pahalgaon was crowded with tourists for it was from here that the trek to Amarnath commenced. Sravani Purnima, the night on which the Shiva linga in the cave at Amarnath would manifest itself in all its glory, was only a few days away. There weren't enough inns and resthouses to accommodate the large number of pilgrims that poured in here from the rest of India during this season, so tent owners did a brisk business. A structure of canvas and bamboo could be hired on a small payment and put up anywhere. By the time Dwarika and Basantamanjari reached Pahalgaon the mountain slopes were already dotted with tents of varying shapes and sizes.

Choosing one for himself Dwarika joined the rest of the throng. Till now he had had no plans of journeying to Amarnath. It was an arduous, dangerous climb and all Dwarika had wanted to do was to indulge his senses and enjoy himself. But the sight of so many men and women, bent on the same mission, fired him with an enthusiasm he had never felt for anything religious before. He decided to join them and see the famed Shiva linga of ice and snow with his own eyes.

As for Basantamanjari—she had never been happier in her life. That night she crept out of her tent and, running down the slope, came and stood by the river. She gazed upon the scene entranced. Never had her eyes beheld such beauty. The waxing moon was pouring a stream of liquid silver over the black water filling every nook and cranny as though the river were a granary. The soft lapping of the water over the smooth cobbles made music in her ears. And, from over the mountains, a wild sweet breeze blew over her caressing her limbs and lifting the strands of her hair. She felt her soul deepen and expand; grow rich . . .

The sound of Dwarika's footsteps walking rapidly towards her brought her back to reality. ‘You must have been worried about me,' he cried then went on to explain. ‘Something rather nasty has happened. A sadhu has appeared from somewhere with four white wenches in tow. He insists on taking them to Amarnath. Do you remember the women we saw on the boat? They are the ones. The man is not only no ascetic—he's a dirty scoundrel. One isn't enough for him. He must have four to warm his bed. The other sadhus here are up in arms. They have declared that they won't allow their shrine to be polluted by the presence of
mlechha
Christians. But the pipe-puffing montebank insists on having his own way.'

‘Have you spoken to him?'

‘No. I heard all this from our group leader Yusuf. The Naga sadhus are threatening to attack the charlatan. You know how murderous they can get. Their trishuls—'

‘
Ogo
! Stop them. Stop them. No one must touch the young sanyasi. He's no charlatan.'

Dwarika stared at her for a few moments then asked softly, ‘Do you know him?'

‘No,' Basantamanjari shook her head slowly from side to side
with a lingering movement. ‘I know nothing of him. But, just for a second, I saw the two of you together. You stood facing each other. The sanyasis's hand was on your shoulder and you were talking . . .'

‘Don't be silly. You didn't see anything. You imagined it. I don't know any sanyasi. Unless, of course, it's Bharat—'

‘It isn't him.' Basantamanjari's voice was strangely insistent. She wasn't looking at Dwarika. Her face was turned away and her eyes were fixed on a spot beyond the hills as though she saw something there. ‘I've seen your friend Bharat. This man is another. I've never seen him in my life.'

‘You've never seen him! Yet you see him!' Dwarika broke out impatiently. ‘Are you in a delirium that you talk such nonsense?'

‘I don't know,' Basantamanjari turned to him waving her white hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I only know that you must go to him. He needs your support. He's waiting for it.
Ogo
! Don't delay. Go quickly.' She clutched his hands as she spoke and shook them with feverish insistence. Some of her urgency communicated itself to Dwarika. He gazed wonderingly at her for a long moment. He couldn't find it in his heart to reject her appeal. Disengaging her hands, hot and dry and light as fallen leaves, he walked back the way he had come.

Pushing his way through the crowd Dwarika reached the spot the new sadhu had chosen for himself. In the light of the two mashals that were planted on the ground Dwarika saw bundles of bamboo, canvas and rope lying unopened on the ground. The men who had come to erect the tents stood helplessly by. From time to time they cast fearful glances at the group of Naga sadhus who stood a few yards away daring them to do their work. These Naga sadhus were terrifying in their nakedness and the malevolence in their fanatical eyes. But the new sanyasi and his followers didn't look perturbed in the least. The women were chatting together in low voices. A little distance away from them the sanyasi walked up and down the bank as calmly as though he was taking his usual after dinner walk. Approaching him Dwarika saw that he was quite young, fair for an Indian, and extremely handsome in his robe of orange silk and black cap. It surprised him, for some reason. He hadn't expected him to look quite like that. And even more surprising was the fact that he was
singing to himself in a low voice. Dwarika recognized the song. It was a composition by the bard of Halisahar, Ram Prasad, addressed to the goddess Kali. The man was a Bengali In a flash Dwarika knew who he Was. ‘Naren Datta!' he exclaimed. The man stopped his singing and turned to look at him. ‘My name is Dwarika Lahiri,' Dwarika said coming forward. ‘You're Naren Datta of Shimlé, aren't you? I've heard you sing at the Brahmo Mandir in Calcutta. I recognized you by your voice. Don't you remember me?' Vivekananda smiled and shook his head regretfully. He didn't remember Dwarika. ‘We were in Presidency College together,' Dwarika tried again, ‘But only for a while. Then you left—' Vivekananda continued to smile and shake his head. ‘I am sorry for what is happening here Naren,' Dwarika continued. ‘But I shouldn't be calling you Naren. You're a great man; a holy man now—' Vivekananda came forward and put a hand on Dwarika's shoulder. ‘Never mind that my friend,' he said. ‘Call me Naren if you wish. I haven't heard anyone utter that name for so long now. It brings back memories; many memories . . .' The voice trailed away. Dwarika trembled—not at the thought that he had received the touch of the great Swami Vivekananda but at the recollection that Basantamanjari had seen this scene in her mind's eye.

Now Vivekananda led Dwarika to the place where the ladies stood together and introduced them one by one. ‘Why do the sanyasis find our presence offensive?' the lady named Jaya asked him. ‘Is it because we are women?'

‘It isn't that,' Dwarika answered her, his face red and embarrassed. Then, leaning over, he whispered in Vivekananda's ear, ‘It's because they are Christians.'

‘But that's absurd!' Vivekananda dismissed his theory with a laugh. ‘This place is crawling with Muslims. If a Hindu shrine isn't defiled by the presence of Muslims why should it be by Christians?'

‘The Muslims are local people they have imbibed a great, deal of the Hindu faith over generations. They believe in Amarnath. The ladies with you are aliens. It's not the same thing.'

‘I've brought them all the way from Calcutta. I can't send them back.'

‘What is the alternative? A confrontation with the other sadhus! Would you really like that Naren?'

‘Hmph!' Vivekananda grunted and fell silent. He took up the subject again after a few moments. ‘I accept the fact that they shouldn't be allowed inside a Hindu temple,' he said, ‘But why are the sadhus objecting to their staying here? This place is no temple. It's an ordinary village. The kingdom of Kashmir has Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists and Zoroastrians. What's wrong with Christians?'

Even as he spoke a violent ululating was heard and a group of Naga sanyasis came striding up to where they stood. At the sight of their naked ash-smeared bodies, wild tangled hair and evil-looking tridents Dwarika's heart missed a beat. He glanced nervously at his companion. Vivekananda's face was calm and unlined. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and waited till the leader of the group stepped forward and stood before him.

‘Pranam Maharaj!' Vivekananda bowed his head over folded hands in humble greeting.

The sadhu's eyes pierced malevolently into the young man's. Then they softened. ‘You're a true yogi,' he said. ‘I can see the holy light shining out of your eyes. You desire to break the old and build anew. That, in itself, is a good, a worthy endeavour. But while pursuing a cause you mustn't lose respect for the sentiments of others. The sadhus here do not wish to stay in close proximity to the
mlechha
women you have brought along. Why not remove them elsewhere? You can easily put up your tents higher on the slope. There's no dearth of space.'

Vivekananda was silent for a while. ‘Very well,' he said at last. ‘I'll pitch my tents on the top of the mountain. But I wish to take my guests with me to Amarnath. You must allow me to do so.'

‘I will. And I'll stay close to you all through the journey. Instruct these women to treat the sadhus with deference and respect. That will ease the situation.'

‘I will Maharaj.'

However, on further consideration, Vivekananda decided to leave the women behind. They were very keen on going but Vivekananda pointed out the difficulties they would have to face—the long hours of rough climbing over rocks and briars, the lack of even the most basic amenities, the inclement weather and
the fear of wild animals. It wasn't like going mountaineering in Switzerland, he explained, where all the comforts they were used to were provided along the way. Hindus believed that the greater one's sufferings on the path to a pilgrim spot, the sweeter the fruits. He was able to convince the other three but Nivedita stood firm. She would go where he was going. She had left her country, she said, to make India her home. Why couldn't she undertake what other Indians did? Vivekananda was in a fix. It was one thing taking four women along with him. The other pilgrims would look on them as a team. But travelling with one woman, and that too a young and beautiful one, was foolish. It would give rise to unnecessary rumour and speculation. Vivekananda knew that the other sadhus had not forgiven him and were waiting to catch him in a misdemeanour. But Nivedita brushed his arguments aside and advanced some of her own. She was here to gather experience; to merge into the mainstream of Indian life. What better opportunity would she get than joining these thousands of men and women, all bent on the same mission? And who cared what people thought anyway? She didn't. Did he? At this point Vivekananda lost his temper. ‘Even if I don't,' he cried irritably, ‘It isn't the only consideration. There's a practical side which you are overlooking. You'll have to climb fourteen to fifteen thousand feet. Have you even seen a mountain that high?'