First Light (2 page)

The Kingdom of Tripura

Maharaja Birchandra Manikya - King of Tripura

Bhanumati - his Queen Consort

Monomohini - Bhanumati's niece

Radhakishor - Birchandra's eldest son

Samarendra - another son

Bharat - Birchandra's illegitimate son

Radharaman Ghosh - the king's secretary

Shashibhushan Singha - tutor to the princes

Mahim Thakur - the king's bodyguard

The Singhas of Bhabanipur

Bimalbhushan Singha - Shashibhushan's eldest brother

Monibhushan Singha - Shashibhushan's second brother

Krishnabhamini - Bimalbhushan's wife

Suhasini - Monibhushan's wife

Bhumisuta - a bondmaid

The Thakurs of Jorasanko

Maharshi Debendranath Thakur - founder of the Adi

Brahmo Samaj

Dwijendranath - his eldest son

Satyendranath - his second son

Jyotirindranath - his fifth son

Rabindranath - his youngest son

Balendranath Satyaprasad - his grandsons

Gaganendranath Abanindranath - his grandnephews

Gyanadanandini - Satyendranath's wife

Kadambari - Jyotirindranath's wife

Mrinalini - Rabindranath's wife

Surendranath - Satyendranath's son

Indira nicknamed Bibi - his daughter

Pramatha Chowdhury - Bibi's husband

Madhurilata nicknamed Beli - Rabindranath's eldest daughter

Renuka - his second daughter

Meera - his youngest daughter

Rathindranath - his elder son

Shomi - his younger son

Swaranakumari - Debendranath's daughter

Janakinath Ghoshal - her husband

Sarala - their daughter

Akshay Chowdhury - Jyotirindranath's friend

Ashutosh Chowdhury - Pramatha's brother and

Rabindranath's friend

The Theatre

Girish Ghosh - an actor, director and playwright

Binodini - a famous actress

Amritalal nicknamed Bhuni Ardhendushekhar - actors

Mustafi nicknamed Saheb Amarendranath Datta nicknamed Kalu - an actor, director and producer

Pratapchand Jahuri Gurumukh Rai Mussadi - wealthy Marwari financiers

Gangamoni nicknamed Hadu - an actress

The Freedom Fighters

Aurobindo Ghosh - a scholar and a poet

Barin - his brother

Satyendranath - his uncle

Rajnarayan Bosu - his maternal grandfather

Hemchandra Kanungo - terrorists, along with Barin Amitbikram and Satyendranath

Jatin Bandopadhyay - leader of the group

Kuhelika - his sister

Balgangadhar Tilak - an eminent freedom fighter

Count Okakura - a Japanese scholar

The Hindu Revivalists

Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansadev - priest of the temple at Dakshineswar

Naren Datta alias Swami Vivekananda, Brahmananda, Saradananda, Balaram Bosu - Ramkrishna's disciples

Margaret Noble alias Sister Nivedita - Vivekananda's disciple

Joe Macleod Ole Bull - Vivekananda's friends

Others

Mahendralal Sarkar - an eminent physician

Jagadish Bose - a scientist

Abala Bose - his wife

Shibnath Shastri - a Brahmo, founder of the Sadharan Brahmo Samaj Dwarika

Jadugopal Irfan - Bharat's friends

Basantamanjari - Dwarika's mistress

Banibinod Bhattacharya - a priest

It was a lovely day. The clouds had parted and the sun's beams fell, soft and silvery, on the mountain peaks that loomed against a sky of flawless blue. Trees, grass and creepers, glistening with last night's rain, tossed joyful heads in the balmy air. It was the day of the festival, and Nature was rejoicing with Man.

From early dawn throngs of tribals could be seen walking out of the forest, down the green slopes, their strong bodies naked in the morning sun. They were dressed, men and women alike, in colourful loincloths but the women had flowers in their hair and garlands of
koonch
berries,
gunja
buds and bone chips hung from their necks. Plumes waved gaily from the heads of a few chosen men. It was as though a river, rainbow hued, was gushing down in full spate. But in reality, they were streams—separate and distinct. Riyangs from Amarpur and Bilonia walked in quiet files behind their Rai whose small, compact body atop a mountain pony, was shaded by an immense umbrella held high above his head. The Rai's eyes were soft and drowsy with last night's liquor, yet a sharp even cruel glint came into them every time he looked around. He was a ruthless chief and would not tolerate the slightest indiscipline within the clan. His second in command, the Raikachak, a fine figure of a man, walked briskly behind him. Though far from young, his chest seemed carved out of black marble and the hand that held a long spear was strong and muscular. Whenever he stopped in his tracks two youths sprang forward and, kneeling on the ground at his feet, massaged his calves and ankles. A drummer and a flautist brought up the rear. Some of the men and women sang with the music—a merry ditty that made the others sway in mirth and laughter rang through the throng like tinkling bells.

From Kailasahar, Sabroom and Udaipur came the Chakmas. They were Buddhists—quiet and sedate. But confusion broke out in their ranks every time they passed a flowering bush or vine. Their women ran eagerly to it and, picking the blooms with quick
fingers, wove them into garlands as they walked. The Lusais and Kukis came from Dharmanagar and Kamalpur. Though many of them had embraced Christianity the Lusais found it hard to understand or practise its doctrine of love. They were warriors and head hunting had been the clan's custom for centuries. Now the priests were telling them to love their neighbours. The Lusais believed themselves to be superior to the naked Kukis. Their women had learned to cover their breasts with
riyas
made out of bits of wool they had knitted together and dyed a fierce coxcomb red. Some of the younger men even wore pantaloons.

Others—Jamaliyas, Halams, Noyatiyas, Mugs, Bhils, Garos, Khasiyas and Orangs—followed, stream after colourful stream. And last of all came the Tripuris, thronging in large numbers from all directions. Some of them were on horseback; others on elephants. The elephants were gifts for his Royal Majesty, the Maharaja of Tripura. The other tribes carried presents too—bags of cotton, baskets of the wild, sweet oranges that grew on the sunny slopes of Jompui, bunches of pineapples, sacks of newly harvested
jum
and a fawn or two.

They had all been walking for days towards a common destination. Today was the tenth day of the Durga festival and they were bound for the king's palace where His Majesty; had arranged a great feast for his subjects.

Surrounded by his courtiers, Maharaja Birchandra Manikya stood on the balcony of the royal palace of Tripura—the only independent kingdom in a country governed by the British. It was rumoured that he was descended from King Yayati, mentioned in the Mahabharat. The dissolute king had ordered his sons to surrender their youth in his favour enabling him, thus, to prolong his life of vice and profligacy. The princes who had declined were banished. One of them, Prince Druhuh, left his father's kingdom of Aryavarta and proceeded to the north east of India where, after vanquishing the king of Kirat in battle, he established the kingdom of Tripura. Maharaja Birchandra was said to be the hundred and seventy-fifth descendent from Druhuh in an unbroken line.

All this may well have been hearsay. The kings of Tripura had no resemblance whatever to their Aryan ancestors. In fact, their features were as Mongoloid as those of the tribals they ruled and
the Manipuri princesses they wed. Birchandra Manikya was not tall but his body was hard and strong and his face keen and intelligent. The most noticeable thing about his physiognomy were the whiskers, thick and luxuriant except for a patch just under the nose that was carefully shaven. Though past middle age, his movements were quick and packed with energy. He had just returned from Udaipur after offering the mandatory worship at the temple of Tripura Sundari on the ninth day of the Durga festival.

Though a hard ride, it had to be undertaken for custom decreed that the king be present for the great feast, the mahabhoj, and sit down to a meal with his subjects. It proved that the king made no distinction between the tribes. They were his subjects, all together here under his roof and he was to all, equally, the gracious host.

On a courtyard facing the balcony was a structure thatched with straw. Here, on ten clay ovens,
payesh
and khichuri were being cooked in enormous pots. It was the king's command that his subjects be served as often and as much as they wanted. And they could eat prodigious amounts. There were many who sat down to the feast at sundown and rose only with the dawn. It seemed as though they were putting away enough to last them a year. Come morning and many were discovered fast asleep, curled up beside their leaves.

The king moved about among his subjects, his face concealed in a black shawl, taking pictures with his new camera. Birchandra hated the British and always endeavoured to keep them at arm's length. He preferred Bengali to English and had retained it as his state language long after other rajas had given up their native languages; He had no use for European merchandise either, except for one exception—the camera. He had an excellent collection of cameras, brought over from France and England. He had even built a dark room in the palace in which he developed negatives.

It was his passion to take photographs—of his queens, princes, friends and even of the hills, trees and streams of his realm. But, much as he wished, he could not capture his subjects on camera except by stealth. For he had had a bad experience once. Hunting in the forest he had come upon a Kuki youth with a
body so perfect—it seemed hewn out of a block of granite and a face flashing with spirit and intelligence. He had decided to immortalize the splendid specimen and, to that intent, had made the boy pose beneath a tree. But focussing takes time. The youth waited, the warnings of the king's attendants ringing incessantly in his ears ‘Be still. Don't move.' Suddenly the magnificent body crumpled in a heap on the ground. The limbs thrashed about painfully. The eyes rolled and foam gathered at the corners of the boy's mouth. He was revived in a few minutes but the damage was done. Rumour, swift and silent, spread from clan to clan that the king had captured the youth's soul and imprisoned it in a little black box.

Keeping close to the king was a man in his prime, a handsome man with a fair complexion, long curling hair and chiselled features. In his dress he was quite a dandy. He wore a finely crinkled dhuti and a silk banian. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on his high, aristocratic nose. His name was Shashibhushan Singha. He was a graduate and a Brahmo and had been a regular contributor to Deben Thakur's
Tatwabodhini Patrika
for many years. He was one of the men the Maharaja had sent for from Calcutta to facilitate his governance and gear it to progressive ideals. Shashibhushan was tutor to the young princes.

Standing by him and talking in a low voice was a famous singer from the Vishnupur gharana. Jadunath Bhatta was court musician; one of the nine gems that graced the royal palace of Tripura. The two were observing the guests through a pair of binoculars and trying to identify the different tribes. ‘They all look the same to me,' Jadunath said. He was a simple man with no pretensions to any knowledge beyond his music. ‘Look carefully,' Shashibhushan urged. ‘Some have skins like polished ebony; others the colour and texture of charcoal. Yet others are dun coloured like earth. The
riyas
of the Orang women are shaped differently from those of the Lusais—'

At this moment a servant approached the king with the message that the Mahadevi awaited him in the palace. Every year, on this day, just before the mahabhoj, the Maharaja put aside his ceremonial robes and donned the apparel of a Vaishnav. And every year, these garments were draped on him—not by servants but by his chief and reigning queen.

This year Mahadevi Bhanumati had spent the whole day in preparation. She had strung the garlands with her own hands and kept the sandal paste, both white and crimson, in readiness. As she fitted the silk garments, one by one, on the royal person the Maharaja hummed a little tune. ‘
Jadi Gokulchandra braje na élo
,' he sang, a little smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. He was not only a connoisseur of music, he also had a fine singing voice.

Birchandra had so many wives and concubines that he had lost count of them. Many of his queens were princesses from the bordering states of Assam and Manipur. The kachhuas or concubines were mostly tribal women—gifts from his subjects. These women were kept in the palace awaiting the king's pleasure. Occasionally one would catch the royal fancy and be the recipient of his attentions but, in the absence of a marriage ceremony, she could never aspire to be a Mahadevi.

Birchandra and Bhanumati were of the same age and had been playmates before they were wed. They still shared the old camaraderie and, though Birchandra had younger and more beautiful queens and his nights were mostly spent in their company, he was in Bhanumati's rooms often during the day teasing and quarrelling with her. Unlike the other queens Bhanumati was not overly respectful of her husband and gave as good as she got. Her voice, raised in sharp reprimand, could often be heard by the maids who attended on the royal pair. Once they had even seen her running around the room weeping passionately while the king followed her, abject and humble, his hands folded in supplication.

Marking her husband's forehead carefully with sandal Bhanumati murmured, ‘Take me with you tonight.'

‘Where?' The king looked up startled.

‘To the mahabhoj.' Bhanumati's voice was young though she was past middle age. Her body was still shapely and her long, slanting eyes glowed with spirit and vivacity.

‘You're mad,' Birchandra smiled benignly at the smooth, brown face just above his own.

‘Why? Can't the Maharaja have his consort by his side on a day of rejoicing?'

‘You'll never grow up Bhanu,' the king chucked his wife
under the chin, ‘Has a Mahadevi of the realm, ever been seen by the common folk? Give me my nimcha. It's getting late.'

‘Sit still.' The command came swift and sharp. ‘I'm not finished yet.' Continuing her careful marking of her husband's forehead Bhanumati went on, ‘The queen walks by her husband's side one day in her life, doesn't she? The king does not see her but thousands of her subjects do.' Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added. ‘If you don't take me with you tonight I shall not burn with you when the time comes.'

‘Bhanu,' Birchandra sighed. ‘You talk of my death on a day such as this?'

‘I only said I wouldn't burn with you. I'll kill myself first.' ‘But why?' Birchandra lifted his brows in mild surprise. ‘Don't you wish to enter the blessed state? A sati is worshipped like a goddess on earth. And eternal heaven is hers hereafter. You're my queen consort—the only one of my queens who will be given the privilege of dying with me.'

‘I don't care for it. Let Rajeshwari—that ugly, flat nosed, low-born slut, that snake, that ghoul—burn with you. Burn to ashes. I'll look down from heaven with pleasure.'

Birchandra Manikya burst out laughing. It was natural for co-wives to be jealous of one another. Only, none of the other queens would dare to express such feelings in the king's presence. With Bhanumati it was different. She had been his playmate and he had no control over her.

‘Low-born slut! Ghoul!' he exclaimed. ‘What sort of language is this? People think we royals are very circumspect in our speech and manners. Really Bhanu! If one of the others had spoken like that I would have cut her head off with a swish of my sword.' Bhanumati walked swiftly to a corner of the room and picking up the king's Nimcha, brought it over to him. It was rumoured that this sword had been presented by Emperor Shah Jehan's son Sultan Shuja to Birchandra's ancestor Gobinda Manikya. Though the king dressed in the robes of a Vaishnav on the occasion of the mahabhoj, custom decreed that he carry this weapon.

Bhanumati pulled the sword out of its jewel-encrusted scabbard and said, ‘Kill me, then, and put an end to my sufferings.' Pausing a moment, she added, ‘You'll be declaring
Radhu as your crown prince and heir this evening, will you not?' A shadow fell on Birchandra's face. His good humour vanished. It was true that he would pronounce the name of his eldest son Radhakishor as successor to the throne of Tripura in the evening when all his subjects were gathered together. But only two persons knew. Even Rajeshwari, the boy's mother, had not been told. How had the news reached Bhanumati's ears? ‘Your son will be elevated too,' he said gravely. ‘I'll be giving him the title of Bara Thakur. I'm doing it for your sake though there's no precedence —'

‘You don't have to. I'll send Samar away from Tripura. I'll send him to Calcutta.'

There was a rustle at the door and the two turned around as a girl came into the room. She was a beautiful girl with an innocent face and a golden body that swayed and rippled with the sap of youth. Each movement was music. A yellow silk pachhara encased her lower limbs and a riya, green as the tenderest leaves of spring, stretched taut and smooth over her newly swelling breasts. Birchandra gazed at her, amazed. ‘Who is she?' he asked his wife. She wasn't a maid—he was sure of that. No attendant would dare walk into a room in which the king and queen were alone together.