First Light (71 page)

But on Krishnadhan's death, everything changed. He had made a will in which, after setting aside a sum for the maintenance of his insane wife, he had left his property to his companion and his younger children in her care. But the bigots of the Brahmo Samaj were appalled. Krishnadhan was a member of their clan. He couldn't be allowed to set up a woman of loose morals above his wife and leave his children in her care. It would reflect on them all. One of the bearded worthies of the Samaj came to visit Barin's newly widowed Ranga Ma and condole with her on her loss. Then, in a voice dripping with honey, he said, ‘Can I have a look at the will Ma?' The poor girl, in all innocence, handed it over to him. He was older than her father and she felt no distrust. The old man thrust the document in the pocket of his jobba and rose from his seat. ‘The will is forged,' he declared in a voice that had changed dramatically, ‘And you're no better than a street whore. You have no right to Krishnadhan's property.'

On the pretext that Krishnadhan hadn't married her, the bereaved woman was deprived of everything including the care of the children she loved. Barin was sent to his grandfather's house
in Deoghar. But he hated it there. He yearned for his Ranga Ma and she for him. From time to time she came to Deoghar and stayed in the dharmashala where Barin could visit her.

Aurobindo had only heard of her. He had never seen her. ‘Let me take you to Ranga Ma,' Barin begged his brother. ‘She'll be so happy to see you.' But Aurobindo shook his head. ‘She's your Ranga Ma Barin,' he said patting his little brother on the head. ‘She's nothing to me. I'm my mother's son.' Breaking into a laugh, he added, ‘My lunatic mother's lunatic son.'

It was a cold frosty
morning in early winter.
Maharaja Radhakishor Manikya stood at the window, his eyes resting on the blue waters of the lake in which a pair of snow white swans glided about in loving dalliance. The old palace, in which his father Birchandra Manikya had lived with
his many wives and concubines, had crumbled to its foundations after a severe earthquake had rocked Agartala
several years ago. It had not been rebuilt. Instead, a new palace was rising at Naya Haveli. The room in which Radhakishor stood
was in a much smaller, humbler abode belonging to one of his officials. This was where he resided at present while waiting for the completion of his new home.

Ever since
he came to the throne Radhakishor had been beset with difficulties. There was hardly any money in the treasury. After the earthquake, his financial situation had become more critical than ever. The political front was alive with plots and conspiracies for Bara Thakur Samarendra hadn't given up his claim to the throne. The British were also putting pressure on the young king in several ways.

These nagging worries, however, failed to cast a shadow over Radhakishor's mood this bright winter morning. He had woken up, rested and refreshed, after a good
night's sleep and his usually jaded appetite felt sharp in the clear frosty air. Falling on his breakfast of hot kachuris, fried eggs and halwa, he ate with relish. Then, taking up the latest issue of
Bharati,
he proceeded to go through it with calm enjoyment. As he read, a shadow fell across the door and a servant came in with the news that Mahim Thakur stood outside waiting to see him.

‘Send him in,' Radhakishor commanded. Mahim was a member of the family and the king didn't stand on formality with him. Mahim came into the room in a couple of minutes. He had a large, clumsy packet wrapped in oil paper in his hands and a letter in a long slim envelope. Putting them down on the table he made
his obeseiance and said, ‘These are from the poet Rabindranath Thakur?

‘For me?' Radhakishor asked, his face glowing.

‘Yes.'

‘It's a strange coincidence. I was reading an article of his—' Opening the packet the king found that it contained a length of white silk. He felt the texture with a puzzled frown. It was quite rough and coarse. He wondered why Rabindra Babu had sent him such a present. It was hardly fit for a king. ‘It's not very fine silk,' Mahim explained, ‘but it's valuable, nevertheless. It has been woven by the silk weavers of Rajshashi. The British wield such a tight control over the silk industry that the country's indigenous weavers are left without a means of living. Rabindra Babu feels that we should encourage them and buy their stuff even it it can't compete in texture with Lancashire silk. He has bought up vast quantities of silk and is sending lengths of it to his friends. He says it has the touch of Mother India.'

Radhakishor touched the cloth to his forehead murmuring softly, ‘The more I hear about this young man the more I marvel at his qualities. Poets, I had thought, were self-centred creatures who sat writing all night, crouched over a lamp, with no thought for anyone or anything else. But Robi Babu is the greatest poet this country has ever seen and yet he has such a sweeping range of other interests! He's not only a superb singer, actor, playwright, music composer and administrator—he is also a patriot of the finest order. His love of his country defies description. It knows no borders—physical, religious or cultural. For him, the entire landmass from the towering Himalayas in the north to its southern-most tip is Bharat—the Motherland. I've heard him say so in several speeches. Write him a letter of thanks Mahim. By the way, can't we start a silk weaving industry in Tripura?'

‘We certainly can Maharaj. We need to get an expert to guide us.'

‘Start working on it. And send for the tailor. I wish to get a suit made out of this cloth and wear it to the Governor's durbar . . . Another thing. I'd like to invite Rabindra Babu for a visit to Tripura. What do you think?'

‘It's a good idea. I could go up to Calcutta and—

‘You're ever eager to rush off to Calcutta. I have a better plan.

I'll go to Calcutta myself and invite him personally. These winter months is a good time to be in the metropolis. So much goes on by way of entertainment. Jatra, theatre, circuses and magic shows. And there's something new that is the rage these days, I hear. It's called a moving picture. They say that people can be seen walking, laughing, dancing and riding in pictures—'

‘It's called the bioscope Maharaj. A saheb called Stevenson has set up his instrument in Star theatre. People are flocking to it.'

‘It's the strangest thing I've ever heard. How is it possible to see pictures moving?'

‘It's the age of science, Maharaj. All kinds of queer things are happening. When I was in Calcutta, last August, I saw something called
Electric Light
in some of the mansions of the wealthy. There's neither oil nor gas in the dome. The light comes on at the flick of a switch and burns on and on till the same switch is flicked back. The light, Maharaj, is so bright that it puts gas lamps to shame No sputtering; no flickering. As steady as the sun. And there's no fire in the dome. I touched one and my hand wasn't burned.'

‘Make arrangements for my visit at once Mahim. I wish to see all these things with my own eyes. Rabindra Babu's great friend is the scientist Jagadish Bose Maybe he could explain to me how these things work.'

Mahim nodded, then handed him some letters to sign. Picking up the first one Radhakishor frowned. ‘Who drafted this letter?' he questioned angrily.

‘The secretary did, Maharaj. I've read it through. There are no mistakes.'

‘I'm not talking about mistakes. This letter is addressed to Anandamohan Bosu. Is he a Bengali or isn't he?'

‘He's a Bengali Maharaj.'

‘Then why are we writing to him in English?'

‘Because English is the language of the courts. The barristers speak no other—'

‘They may speak English, Persian or any other language they please. It is of no consequence to me. Our national language is Bengali and all the letters going out from our kingdom will be in it. If the great Babus of Calcutta can't read our letters let them hire people who can. Go, get the letter redrafted in Bengali.' Then just
as Mahim turned to leave the room, he said: ‘Wait, do you remember a man called Shashibushan Singha? He was our tutor during my father's reign. A very learned man with immense knowledge of both languages—English and Bengali. We need people like that in our kingdom.'

‘I remember him Maharaj. I've met him once or twice in Calcutta.

‘Can he be persuaded to return to Tripura?'

‘I doubt it. I asked him several times but he refused. He has developed a great hatred for the royals of Tripura.'

‘Why? There must be some reason. Do you know what it is?' ‘I do . . .' Mahim hesitated. ‘It's a bit . . . a bit awkward.' Radhakishor rose to his feet and walked towards Mahim. Then, putting a hand on his shoulder, he said, ‘Don't be afraid to talk to me. I'm not averse to hearing the truth.' Still Mahim hesitated. ‘Has Master Moshai accused me of anything?' Radhakishor probed gently. ‘I can't think why. I've never opposed him in any matter or shown any discourtesy.'

‘Shashi Babu believes that you had a hand in the killing of Bharat.'

‘Who is Bharat?' The blood drained away from Radhakishor's face.

‘He was a brother of yours. Your father's son by a kachhua. He was a meritorious scholar and a great favourite of Shashi Babu's.'

‘Ah! Yes. I remember now. He used to live in Radharaman Babu's house. Hai! Hai! So Master Moshai believes I ordered the killing! Does he not know my nature? I faint at the sight of blood. I can't even kill a bird. Besides why would I want to kill Bharat? He posed no threat to me.'

‘You may not remember,' Mahim coughed delicately. ‘But, at the time we talk of, His Majesty your father, was about to marry his youngest queen. There was some talk of Bharat's over reaching himself—how I do not know. Anyway, the Maharaja found his presence offensive. It is believed that you engineered the killing to please your father.'

‘That's nonsense. I was against the match myself because it gave more power to the Manipuris. Besides, I knew nothing of Bharat or of his creating difficulties for my father. I was hardly
aware of him. Tell me, Mahim. Is the Shashibushan Singha who writes in
Bangabashi
the same person as our Master Moshai?'

‘I'm quite certain it is. He often writes of Tripura.'

‘A terrible thought has just occurred to me. Suppose he writes of the incident and attributes the blame to me? My reputation will be ruined. I'll have to seek him out and clear my name at once.'

A week later Radhakishor left for Calcutta. The first thing he did upon his arrival, was to send a message to Jorasanko. But the messenger returned with the news that Rabindra Babu was enjoying a holiday with his family in Shilaidaha and no one knew when he would return. Next Radhakishor sought out Shashibushan Singha. Shashibushan had changed a great deal from the slender, handsome young man who had tutored the princes of Tripura. He had put on weight and could almost be called portly. His hair, powdered with silver, had receded from his noble forehead till it assumed the form of a fringe around a shining dome. He had had a nasty fall from a train, in Chandannagar station, a couple of years ago and had injured his knee cap. He had walked with a limp ever since and that too with the help of a shark-headed cane. His personality had changed, too, with the change in his appearance. The fierce idealism and passionate love that had characterized him were spent and there was nothing left of him other than the prosperous gentleman and good husband and father that he was. He thought of Bhumisuta sometimes and was filled with wonder. What was it about her that had driven him, as it had, to the border of insanity? And Bharat—poor Bharat! He pitied the boy. All Bharat had ever had in this world was Bhumisuta's love. And Shashibushan had snatched it away. He hadn't won it for himself but he hadn't let Bharat enjoy it either. If he had only been more patient; more controlled, Bharat wouldn't have been lost to him. And Bhumisuta wouldn't have drifted away; wouldn't have been reduced to earning a living by dancing on a stage. He knew that the actress Nayanmoni was Bhumisuta. He had seen her several times.

When Mahim came to Chandannagar with the message that Radhakishor wished to see him, Shashibhushan laughed and answered, ‘I was Maharaja Birchandra Manikya's servant and would have rushed over at his command. But the present king
was my pupil. It's not possible for me to bow before him and pay homage.'

‘You needn't bow before him,' Mahim said. ‘Maharaja Radhakishor Manikya doesn't care for formal courtesies. He won't expect it of you.'

‘He's the king and there's a certain protocol which should be maintained. In any case, what does he want of me?'

‘You were in the service of the kings of Tripura. He would like to give you a pension.'

‘Pensions are for those who retire from service. I resigned—voluntarily. Tell the king that I don't qualify for a pension. Besides, I'm quite contented with what I have—which isn't too little. I live quite well as you can see.'

When Mahim took this message to the king, the latter said, ‘If Master Moshai won't come to me I'll go to him myself.' And he insisted on having his way despite Mahim's pointing out that kings didn't go to people's houses uninvited. However, the shrewd and intelligent Mahim managed to effect a meeting between the two without compromising the dignity of either. He knew that Shashibushan was in the habit of visiting the offices of
Bangabashi
quite regularly. One evening he accosted him in the street outside and said, ‘The Maharaja is waiting for you in his carriage.' Shashibhushan was taken aback. Before he could react, he had the strange experience of beholding the king of an independent realm step down from his carriage and walk towards him. Folding his hands humbly before his erstwhile mentor Radhakishor greeted him, ‘Namaskar Master Moshai!'

‘Jai to the Maharaj!' Shashibhushan was forced to respond, ‘I hope all goes well with you.' At this point, Mahim, who was standing close to them, suggested, ‘Why don't we sit in the carriage and talk?' Shashibhushan hesitated a little before complying with the request. ‘I have a train to catch,' he muttered. ‘I must get back to Chandanngar.' Leading him to the royal carriage Radhakishor assured him, ‘I'll take you to the station myself. We can talk on the way.'

As soon as the carriage started moving Mahim cleared his throat importantly and said, ‘The Maharaja wishes to ask you a question. May I put it to you on his behalf?'

‘Certainly.'

‘Many years ago, when the old king was alive, you and I had a conversation regarding the disappearance of one of the king's sons—a boy named Bharat. You had said that, in your belief, the crown prince had hired assassins to murder the boy, then bury him in the jungle. What you said was in confidence and I've kept it a secret all these years. But over a week ago I told the Maharaja about it, about your suspicions I mean—'

‘You must believe me Master Moshai,' Radhakishor leaned forward in earnest supplication. ‘I know nothing at all of the matter. You've known me from childhood. Do you really think me capable of such an act?' Shashibhushan frowned. ‘When did we have this conversation?' he asked Mahim.

‘When the old Maharaja had just moved into his house in Circular Road.'

‘There was a reason for what I said.' A smile flickered over Shashibhushan's ageing face. Turning to Radhakishor he said, ‘I never held you guilty of the crime. You are sensitive by nature; incapable of an act of violence. As a matter of fact Bharat was not killed. He was alive and in Calcutta, under my care, when I told Mahim what I did. It was done to protect him. He was still in grave danger.'