First Light (15 page)

Once home, Naren was filled with self loathing. He told himself that he had been conned, hypnotized. That was all there was to it. He had become the victim of a cheap trick that jugglers perform in the streets everyday. He hated himself because he had succumbed. Was he—the strong, brilliant, fiercely independent Naren Datta, that weak and culpable? He decided that he would go back again and expose the man for the low juggler that he was.

And he would go riding in a carriage this time. He had been fatigued by the long walk and become an easy target. This time it would be different.

On that fourth occasion Naren took a hackney cab and, when he dismounted at Dakshineswar, he felt strong and purposeful with his mind firm and his senses alert. As soon as he entered the room Ramkrishna rose from among his disciples and, putting an arm around Naren's shoulder, he said, ‘Let's go for a walk.' Then leading him out of the room, he took him to a garden that stood within a stone's throw of the temple complex. After walking in silence for a few minutes Ramkrishna said suddenly, ‘Do you know what I told Keshab?' Then, looking deep into Naren's eyes, he continued, ‘You must know that the Brahmos believe that God is an abstraction. That we can't see him or feel him. But what I told Keshab was this: “To know God is to enter a sea of bliss. It is like floating on a vast expanse of water with neither beginning nor end. But when true faith is breathed upon these waters they congeal and turn into ice—solid, tangible. And when that happens we see God. Faith is like frosty breath; knowledge like the rising sun. When the sun of knowledge rises the ice melts and—”'

‘Fine words,' Naren interrupted drily, ‘but they mean nothing and prove nothing.'

‘But I've seen—'

‘You were hallucinating.'

‘You may say what you like. But you came to me. You had to come. I haven't waited so long in vain.' His voice trailed away and before Naren's amazed eyes Ramkrishna went into a trance. He stood as motionless as stone, one hand up in the air with the fingers twirled. It lasted only a few seconds, then leaning forward, he touched Naren's brow. In an instant the world went dark and Naren fell down in a dead faint.

‘I don't know how long I lay like that,' Naren concluded his story. ‘But when I came to I found him bending over me. He said he had spoken to me as I lay unconscious. He had asked me a number of questions and I had answered. And for the last month—'

‘Mesmerism!' Brajen cried excitedly. ‘Haven't you heard of Mesmer Saheb? He used to put his patients to sleep and then draw
them out as they slept.'

‘Do you think that I, Narendranath Datta, could be mesmerized or hypnotized by an illiterate Brahmin? Am I sick? Am I a weakling? Besides, this happened a month ago. And I still haven't recovered. I feel different. I am different. There is a fierce throbbing in my head day and night and a flickering light before my eyes. Then, sometimes, a mist rolls over them obscuring my vision. I was knocking my head on the rails this afternoon because I couldn't see them.'

‘You're overwrought,' Brajen said soothingly. ‘Your brain is fevered. Forget about Ramkrishna. Sing a song instead.'

‘I'm in no mood for singing.'

But Brajen would not leave without hearing a song. After a little coaxing Naren plucked his tanpura off the wall and adjusting the strings, commenced singing in his fine strong voice

‘É ki é sundar shobha

Ki mukha héri é

Aaji mor gharé ailo hridaya nath

Prem utsa uthila aaji'
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A faint rustle of garments could be heard as Naren sang. And, though it was quite dark by now, the two boys could discern a woman's shape on the veranda of the house opposite. Naren's nostrils flared in annoyance. Stopping in the middle of his song, he rose and shut the window with a bang. ‘The harlot is upto her tricks again,' he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘She won't leave me alone for a minute.' Then, turning to Brajen, he declared, ‘I'm hungry. I'm going home.'

Over the next few weeks Naren made a desperate effort to forget his recent experiences and go back to his old life. He threw himself heart and soul into his studies poring over his books till late into the night. Then, thoroughly exhausted, he refreshed himself with singing or playing the esraj. He also took to visiting the akhara once again and practising his wrestling. Reports from Dakshineswar reached his ears from time to time. It was said that
Ramkrishna was missing him so much that he wept like a heart broken child day and night. His disciples had seen him wandering about the chatal one night, stark naked, with his dhuti rolled up under one arm, crying ‘Naren! Naren! Oh! Why doesn't he come?' But Naren hardened his heart and would not go to Dakshineswar.

One night a strange thing happened. It was past midnight and, weary with long hours of study, Naren was singing his favourite compositions by the young poet Robi Thakur. He had taken the precaution of shutting the window even though the room was steaming hot and the sweat poured from his limbs. Suddenly the door burst open and the young widow who lived in the house opposite, stood in the room. She looked wild and dishevelled. Her hair streamed down her back and over her heaving bosom and her eyes burned with lust. Naren's eyes blazed with fury. ‘The bitch!' he thought angrily. ‘How dare she take such a liberty with me?' Harsh words rose to his lips. But, looking on her face, as white as jasmine petals and as tender, his anger vanished. She was young; very young. And she was a helpless victim of her natural instincts. Vidyasagar had had a law passed in favour of widow remarriage. But Hindu society hadn't endorsed it. A few widows had been saved. But what about the rest? They continued to live lives of acute deprivation. Scorned and despised for their widowed state, they were, nevertheless, taken advantage of by unscrupulous men from their own kin. The girl before him had evidently had a taste of sex. And now she wanted more. Could she be blamed for seeking fulfillment of a desire that was perfectly natural? Naren left his seat and, kneeling before the girl, placed his hands on her feet. ‘Ma!' he cried, ‘I'm your son. You're my mother.' The girl trembled and looked wildly around her. Then, covering her face with her hands, she fled from the room.

After this incident Naren left his grandmother's house and settled down in the house in Shimle. He started going to the Brahmo prayer meetings once again.

One day, as he sat singing with the others in the prayer hall, Ramkrishna came bustling in. The members looked up amazed at the little man in his soiled dhuti pulled up to his knees and wondered who he was. ‘Who? What?' Voices cried out in alarm. Someone said ‘Why! this is the Kali sadhu from Dakshineswar!

Who has invited him here?' The Acharya frowned and glared at him but Ramkrishna had neither eyes nor ears for any other than the one he sought. ‘Naren! Naren!' he cried and pushed and elbowed his way through the agitated assembly causing a loud uproar. Some of the members rushed forward to grab him and throw him out. They shouted, pushed and jostled and stamped one another's feet. And in the middle of it all Ramkrishna went into a trance. Quick as a flash Naren jumped into the fray. Elbowing everyone aside with crude force, he picked up the slight body and ran out into the street. Putting him down, he asked sternly, ‘Why did you come here? What if they had harmed you?'

‘I miss you too much,' Ramkrishna said simply. ‘My heart twists with pain and I can't bear it.'

‘I'm taking you back to Dakshineswar. You mustn't come here again.'

‘I won't. But I can't let go of you. Now—or ever.'

Jyotirindranath took Gyanadanandini's advice. Leaving Chandannagar, he returned to Calcutta. But he did not go back to Jorasanko. He took up residence in Number 10 Sadar Street in Chowringee and moved in there with Kadambari.

Chowringhee was the most fashionable area in Calcutta. The houses were large and beautiful with neatly laid out gardens and were occupied, almost exclusively, by the British, Parsees and Armenians. It was a quiet locality and very clean. The open drains on either side of the road had been covered over recently with stone footpaths. Now the wide sweep of asphalt under bright gas lamps could match the finest street in London. Jyotirindranath liked to live in style and so vast quantities of furniture were ordered for Kadambari's new establishment. Carved bedsteads, Persian carpets and Belgian mirrors were arranged tastefully in all the bedrooms. There were pottery stands for plants in the verandas and English knick knacks in glass cupboards in the drawing room. Fresh flowers were sent in every morning from Hogg Saheb's market. These Kadambari arranged with her own hands—her floral designs changing with her changing moods.

Jyotirindranath and Kadambari had taken it for granted that Robi would move in with them. But Robi was not sure of what he wanted to do. Gyanadanandini had invited him to stay with her several times. ‘You've spent quite a while with Natun,' she had said in her strident tones. ‘It is time you came to us. Have you forgotten the wonderful times we had in England?' Somewhat intimidated, Robi pondered deeply over the matter and took a decision. He would move into the house at Birji Talao for the present. But he would take Kadambari's permission first.

Entering the house in Sadar Street that morning, he found his sister-in-law putting the last finishing touches to the room she had prepared for his use. It was a charming room, light and airy, with a large balcony opening out of it. And it had been furnished in Kadambari's impeccable taste. A mahogany bedstead with a
high mattress and snowy sheets and pillows stood between the wide windows. On tall whatnots on either side of the bed were vases with masses of white flowers in them. In one corner stood a brand new writing table and a high-backed chair. Curtains of fine white lace hung from the windows. Robi was charmed. The predominance of white in the room lent it a purity and serenity Robi had never seen in any room before.

Kadambari jumped off the stool on which she had been standing hanging up the last curtain. It was a hot airless day of late April and a metallic sun shone out of a colourless sky. Kadambari's brow was beaded over with perspiration. Untucking the end of her sari from her waist she wiped her face.

‘You've made the room really beautiful,' Robi said with a naughty gleam in his eye. ‘Who is to stay here?'

‘Who do you think?'

‘Some special guest, perhaps?'

‘The guest rooms are all downstairs.'

‘What if Biharilal Chakraborty decides to spend a night here? Will you send him downstairs?'

‘Death be on you!' Kadambari rolled her eyes with mock severity at her brother-in-law.

‘Bouthan,' Robi hesitated a little. ‘Mejo Bouthan wishes me to stay with her. I was wondering if I might do so—for a while. I would spend the whole day here with you. Only at night—'

The light went out of Kadambari's eyes. ‘You won't stay here?' She asked in the voice of a hurt child, ‘You will go away to your. Mejo Bouthan?' She gazed into Robi's face for a few moments then added, ‘Very well. If you wish it.' ‘Arré!' Robi changed his decision in an instant. ‘You give your consent without a moment's hesitation. It means you don't care to keep me with you.' Kadambari turned her face away. ‘You must do as you wish,' she said.

The consequence was that Robi moved into the house in Sadar Street. As in Chandannagar, he was very happy here. Wherever Jyotirindranath went, life, light, joy and laughter accompanied him. But whereas in Chandannagar the three had been alone, here they had plenty of society. Akshay Chowdhury, Priyanath Sen and Janakinath Ghoshal came every morning, They were Jyotirindranath's friends and on the editorial board of
Bharati.
Although Debendranath's eldest son Dwijendranath was official editor, the actual work was done by Jyotirindranath and his friends. Robi had joined them recently and was proving to be a good worker. Animated discussions on the quality of the articles, peppered with comments on the weather, the state of the country and innumerable other subjects, were carried on over cups of fragrant, steaming tea of which there was an unending supply from Kadambari's kitchen. She, herself, was rarely to be seen at these meetings. Once in a while she would come in with something in her hands—a basket of lychees from the garden or a silver bowl full of sandesh she had made herself. Then, at some gentleman's request, she would express her opinion on the quality of some entry, startling the group with the sensitivity and sharpness of her literary judgement. But their invitation to join them in their work was invariably rejected. ‘What do I know of such things?' she would say shaking her head shyly, ‘I'm not learned like you.'

Another thing that Kadambari refused to do was write. There were several upcoming women writers in Calcutta now. Robi's second sister Swarnakumari and Akshay Chowdhury's wife Sarat Kumari, whom Robi had nicknamed Lahorini because her childhood had been spent in Lahore, were regular contributors to
Bharati.
Gyanadanandini, too, fancied herself as a writer though her command over the Bengali language was far from satisfactory and Robi had to rewrite her work extensively before sending it to the press. But Kadambari, who had genuine talent, refused to take up a pen.

The editorial sessions took up a good part of the day with a break for a lavish noon meal. But though the mornings and afternoons flew by as if on golden wings, the evenings in the house in Sadar Street were long and desolate for Kadambari. Jyotirindranath was never at home. Robi spent hour after hour lying prone in bed with a pillow under his chest writing incessantly. Prose, poetry, fiction or review—whatever he took up he gave it all he had. But a restlessness he could not understand seized him as he wrote. He lost track of time; of his responsibilities to others; even hunger and thirst. He wrote because he loved to write and had to write. But he was not at peace. The joy of creation eluded him. He was straining himself
beyond endurance; beyond his: capacity even, but he was achieving nothing. A goal, shrouded in mist, glimmered before him. An urge to reach it was driving him relentlessly, cruelly. Only he didn't know what it was or in which direction he had to go.

Dusk was falling, lengthening the shadows in Robi's room. The house was absolutely still. Robi sat poring over his writing (he used a slate these days because too much paper was being wasted on cancellations) when some faint tinkling sounds, soft and melodious, wafted into his ears. He rose and, following the music, climbed the stairs to the upper floor and walked into the hall. Kadambari was seated at the grand piano and was playing with rapt attention. There was a tinge of melancholy in the tune she played, a sweet nostalgia that synchronized, somehow, with her form as it bent over the piano, dim and shadowy, in the fading light. She wore a sari the colour of incense smoke and ropes of jasmine were twined about the long strands of her open hair: A perfume, sweet and elusive, rose from her person enveloping Robi as he came up silently and stood by her. Kadambari turned her head, saw Robi, and taking her hands off the piano said ruefully, ‘I've disturbed you. You had to leave your work—'

‘Why do you stop? It was beautiful. What were you playing?' ‘It was nothing. I thought I was playing softly. I didn't realize
. . . What made you come up?'

‘A flock of birds called out together just outside my window. I thought dawn had broken. I often get confused about the time. Birds call out at dawn when leaving their nests and at dusk when they return. One is a cry of welcome to the new day—the other of farewell.'

‘I hear the farewell call,' Kadambari murmured absently. ‘Natun Bouthan,' Robi said. ‘Tell me about yourself.' ‘About myself! What is there to tell?'

‘Your other life—'

‘You mean before I was wed? But that was so long ago! I was only a child. And I've never gone back. Your family does not approve of mine.'

‘I don't mean that. I mean your earlier incarnation. When you were a goddess in Greece. One beautiful face is enough to conquer the world. And you had three.'

‘Ugh! A three-faced creature! How terrible!'

‘Hecate had one face turned to the world, the second to the sky and the third to the sea. She was an enchantress. When Pluto carried Persephone away to the underworld Hecate lit a flaming torch and searched for her through Heaven, Earth and Hell.'

‘Why do you call me Hecate?'

‘Because you have the same enchantment. Because your face is everywhere. I see it wherever I go.'

‘You see nothing but the paper before you.'

‘Don't I see your face there? All the time?'

‘I'll go and see if the lamps are lit,' Kadambari rose from her seat. ‘Don't go,' Robi took her hand in his. ‘Why are you all dressed up Natun Bouthan? Is Jyotidada taking you out somewhere?'

‘I wouldn't go even if he asked me,' Kadambari tossed her head making the diamonds in her ears burst into flame. ‘Can't I dress up for myself?'

‘Let's go up to the roof and watch the sunset. When the last streak of twilight fades from the horizon one feels one is floating in. the sky—'

Jyotirindra was very busy with his new venture. He had gained quite a reputation as a playwright and people flocked to the public theatre to see his plays. This, of course, was part of a general upsurge of interest in the theatre. Conservatives frowned on this new passion and denounced it in exaggerated terms. Play acting, they declared, was shameless and godless and the antics of drunks and whores. But the public cared not a whit for these pronouncements. The actress Binodini was a prostitute but her name was on everyone's lips. Girish Ghosh was a notorious drunk and a frequenter of brothels but his popularity as an actor and playwright were phenomenal. Jyotirindranath spent all evening and much of the night in their company. And when he didn't, he was with Gyanadanandini. Gyandanandini threw a lot of parties where wine and champagne flowed freely. Entertainment of this kind was not possible in Jyotirindranath's own house. Kadambari was a good hostess but she liked a few guests at a time. Too many people and too much noise were not to her taste. Nor was it to Robi's. Yet Jyotirindranath was Robi's hero. There was not another man among Robi's acquaintance
who had so much talent, such capacity for hard work and so much life force. The best thing about Jyotirindranath was that when a venture failed he could cut his losses and turn all his energies on something else. Robi admired his Jyotidada immensely and tried to model himself on him.

One morning Robi woke up burning with fever. A terrible shivering took hold of him and his limbs felt cold and clammy. Wrapping himself in a thick quilt he lay in bed waiting for the fever to subside. He didn't call anyone because he didn't want to worry Kadambari. She was suffering from malaria herself. Dr Neelmadhav had taken a look at her and prescribed some medicines but she didn't seem to be getting any better.

Through that long steamy afternoon Robi lay wrapped up in his quilt. His head throbbed like a fiery coal but the rest of him was as cold as ice. These were strange sensations but he revelled in them. He felt his body had become light, so light that it could float away out of the window on the hot still air. Thoughts ran round and round his head but they had the quality of dreams. Even in that state Robi tried to compose a song. But as soon as he got to the third line he forgot the first and when, after a desperate effort, he was able to remember the first line, he forgot the rest.

A touch on the brow made Robi open his eyes. Kadambari stood before him. Her hair was dishevelled and a simple sari of yellow cotton was wrapped carelessly around her. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with fever. ‘Natun Bouthan,' Robi took her hand. It felt hot and dry in his own fevered one. ‘You're burning all over,' Kadambari cried, ‘Why didn't you send for me?'

‘You have the fever too. You shouldn't have left your bed.' ‘I'm alright. I'll send Sarkar Moshai for the doctor. And you need a cool compress on your forehead.'

‘So do you.'

‘Women can do without a lot of things. Your life is precious. You need to get well soon.'

‘Don't you?'

‘You have so much to give to the world. What have I?' ‘Everyone has something to give, Natun Bouthan. Tell me, why is it that we are so close yet so far apart? Why is it that I never know what's going on in that mind of yours?'

‘You would if you gave it a little thought,' Kadambari laughed, ‘But you don't have the time.'

Robi's fever left him after two days and Kadambari's the day after. Dr Neelmadhav attended them and left medicines which effected a cure but only temporarily. And so it went on. Gradually, Robi and Kadambari got used to the pattern. Robi would write till he felt the fever coming on, then lie down dragging the quilt over him. When well, Kadambari would bathe twice a day, run up and down with tasty tidbits for Robi and take up her neglected household tasks. Then, with the first shivering, she would creep into bed or sit in a patch of sunshine. Sometimes they sat together, Robi reading out his newest poem and she listening with rapt attention. Her face had become pale and worn and her jacket flapped loosely from her thin arms and chest. But her eyes were jewel bright and her smile as sweet as ever.

Returning from Silaidaha, Jyotirindranath was appalled at what he saw. Placing a hand on his wife's brow he took a decision. Doses of quinine were not enough. Robi and Kadambari needed a change. He would take them to Darjeeling. The cool pure mountain air would do them good. Sending for Sarkar Moshai, he outlined his plans and ordered him to make the arrangements. Then he rushed off again on his innumerable missions.