First Light (42 page)

Though Rabindra had toured these parts before, it was his first visit to Sajadpur as an adult. He had come here once, many years ago, with his brother Jyotirindranath. Jyoti dada, who did everything in style, had brought a large company of friends and family members, servants and maids and a band of musicians. Jyoti dada had taken him tiger shooting one day and put a gun in his hands. Rabindra had pulled the trigger at his brother's insistence but his hand had trembled so badly that the bullet had flown wide off the mark. Rabindra was thankful for that to this day. No, hunting and shooting were not for him.

‘Huzoor!' The manager came and stood at his elbow. ‘Your subjects are waiting. It's time to go down'. Rabindra sighed and, going indoors, struggled into his official costume of china silk kurta and pyjamas, high turban with jewel and feather and nagras for his feet. As he walked down the steps a guard called out ponderously: ‘
Of the long line of the illustrous Thakurs of
Jorasanko Sreel Srijukta Rabindranath Mahimarnav . . .
' Rabindra felt as though he was acting a part in a play; a part he had performed often on stage and with which he was familiar. His entry into the hall was greeted with a dozen conches being blown together, the piercing sounds drowning the soft crooning of the shahnai. The assembly stood up, their hands folded in humility. As Rabindra took his seat on the false throne all the men fell to their knees and knocked their foreheads on the ground.

Events such as these invariably began with the offering of arati to the zamindar by the priest of the local temple. But this particular zamindar was a Brahmo who believed in inaugurating every auspicious occasion with prayers to the All Merciful Param Brahma. Accordingly, an Acharya came forward, read some prayers, then garlanded the zamindar and anointed his brow with sandal. The manager of the estate now took up his cue. Rising to his feet he read out a long eulogy praising the zamindar in terms that made him appear like a god newly descended from heaven. Rabindra's lips twitched with amusement. The innocent villagers believed every word that was being said. They thought him a real king who sat on a throne and wore silks and jewels and had the power to change their lives. Little did they know that he was as false as false could be: that he hated sitting on this throne and that his costume was hot and uncomfortable and he longed to throw it off. He had written a poem recently which ran
The caged bird sat in her golden cage/the wild bird in the wood.
At this moment he felt like a caged bird.

His thoughts had wandered and he came to with a start. The manager had finished his speech and was garlanding him. It was now his turn to speak; to bless the assembly and begin the
Punyaha.
Every year, on this occasion, one of the tenants received the zamindar's special benediction. The idea behind this practice was to send a signal to the gathering that the zamindar was committed to nurturing and cherishing his tenants; that he took from them but he also gave. It was a symbol of his magnanimity and love. The man selected to receive the
Punyaha
this year was a middle-aged Muslim who appeared from his looks to be well born and wealthy. Rabindra garlanded the man and put the mark of sandal on his brow. Then he handed him his gifts—a gold chain, a new dhuti and
uttariya,
a big fish, a pot of curd, paan,
tobacco and fruits. The man touched each item to his forehead and put it aside. Then, lying prostrate on the ground, he clutched Rabindra's feet with both hands. Rabindra stepped back hastily but this form of salutation was customary and the man was determined to do his duty. He crawled on his chest towards the unwilling feet and placed a pouch full of gold coins on them. After this the other tenants came up with their gifts one by one. This went on for such a long time that Rabindra got quite bored. His eyes wandered away and rested on the gathering in front of him. And it was then that he noticed something odd. There were several distinctly separate groups in the room. The Hindus sat on one side—the Brahmins on spotless white sheets spread on carpets and the lower castes on cotton mats. The Muslims, who were the largest in number, sat on the other side on strips of sacking.

Two days later Rabindra left Sajadpur and sailed towards Shilaidaha. His mission had ended successfully and he felt pleased with himself. The tenants seemed contented; the manager and servants of the estate were working well and enough rents had been collected to satisfy even Baba Moshai.

On the way, in the boat, he wrote two short stories. They were coming as naturally to him these days as poetry. He had been contributing a short story to each of the issues of
Hitabadi
till the editor Krishna Kamal Bhattacharya commented that his stories were too heavy for the ordinary reader. ‘Write something in a lighter vein Robi Babu,' he had advised. That had incensed Rabindranath. Was he to adapt his style to the whims of editors? He stopped contributing to
Hitabadi
giving his stories, instead, to his nephews Sudhindra and Nitindra who were looking after the family journal
Sadhana.
One of the two stories he wrote on this journey was called ‘Kabuliwala'. For some reason he kept remembering his little girl Beli all the way to Shilaidaha. She had just learned to talk and was talking all the time.

Shilaidaha of the Birahimpur pargana was situated at the mouth of the Gorai, one of the tributaries that branched out from the Padma. The name had an interesting history. During Muslim rule this ancient village had been called Khorshedpur after a pir named Khorshed who had appeared from no one knew where and built a hut in the woods. Then, with the coming of the British,
he had suffered the indignity of being forgotten. A fiery indigo planter, who went by the name of Mr Shelley, built a kuthi at the fork of the two rivers. Gradually the village acquired the name Shelleydaha, corrupted in the vernacular to Shilaidaha. Needless to say, the cruel, oppressive Mr Shelley was no kin to the dreamy, romantic, tender-hearted poet of England.

When the fortunes of the planters had dwindled, Rabindra's grandfather Dwarkanath Thakur had bought the enormous kuthi for a song. Ever since then it had served as an office not only for the estate of Shilaidaha but for Kaya, Janipur, Kumarkhali and Punti Mahal. It was also used as a holiday resort by the Thakurs and Rabindra remembered many happy boyhood days spent in it. However, over the years it had fallen into a decline and had to be demolished. A new kuthi had been built in its place and it was there that the
Punyaha
would be conducted. But on reaching Shilaidaha, Rabindra decided not to move into the kuthi. He preferred to stay on the boat in full view of the river which had swelled to twice its size with the monsoon rains and acquired a wild terrifying beauty.

The
Punyaha
took place the next day. The arrangements were somewhat different here. The zamindar was welcomed not with the sweet, throbbing strains of shahnai but with a volley of gunshots. The distance between the river ghat and the kuthi was less than a hundred yards but a palki had been arranged to carry the zamindar. It was not meet that he walk the path like a peasant. But Rabindra waved the palki away and declared that he would walk. The nayeb was dismayed, more so at the fact that Rabindra had discarded his princely costume. He wore a simple dhuti and achkan and carried a shawl over one shoulder.

Inside the hall, Rabindra noticed the same pattern in the sitting arrangements. In addition, there was a row of chairs presumably for the important officials of the estate. He had held his tongue in Sajadpur but here he decided to protest. ‘Why are they sitting in separate groups?' he asked the manager gravely.

‘It's been the custom for years, huzoor,' the man replied. ‘The Hindus pay first. That is why they sit in front.'

‘But the Muslims are greater in number. They should be allowed to take precedence. Besides, why are they sitting on sacking? Why have no sheets been spread for them?'

‘Each man is seated as per his caste. The Brahmins are highest. Then come the Kayasthas. It's the custom—'

‘All customs are not good or just,' Rabindra cut him short. ‘Many need to be changed with the changing times. Please alter the arrangements. Let everyone sit together as friends.'

‘You don't know what you are saying huzoor,' the manager smiled indulgently as if dealing with a recalcitrant child. ‘That will convey a most disastrous message. The lower castes will think they are just as good as their superiors. Come, sit on your throne and start the
Punyaha.
It is getting late.'

‘I don't believe in caste distinctions and I won't accept them. I won't sit on the throne either. Take it away. I'll sit on the floor with the others.'

‘No, huzoor,' the manager shook his head and bit his tongue. ‘We can't change the rules of centuries so easily. Come. let's begin. It will take a long time and—'

Rabindra fixed his large dark eyes on the manager's face hoping to shame him into obedience. But the man was an old hand, hardened and astute. He had ruled the estate with an iron hand for many years and he was not about to lose his authority on the whims of a youngster. He had heard that this youngest son of the Karta's was as unlike a zamindar's son as possible. He didn't ride or shoot or keep company with singing and dancing girls. He didn't even drink. Instead he wrote poetry and sang songs. He was determined not to stand in awe of such a one.

‘I'm sorry,' he said firmly, ‘but I can't alter the arrangements without the zamindar's permission.'

‘I'm the zamindar here,' Rabindra replied equally firmly, ‘and my command is above all others. If you choose not to obey me you'll have to leave.'

‘I'm not the only one. All the officials of the estate will resign if you force the issue.'

‘So be it,' Rabindra replied coolly. ‘Anyone who wishes may leave my service. I've brought my own khazanchi from Calcutta. He'll look after the estate.' With these words Rabindra picked up the heavy throne-like chair and placed it in a corner of the room. Then, turning to his subjects, he said ‘Today is
Punyaha
—a day of rejoicing and union. We will set aside all caste distinctions and sit together like brothers.'

His words created quite a stir in the assembly. It took the members some time to understand the purport behind the zamindar's pronouncement. Then, when light had dawned, the Brahmins started muttering their disapproval and the Muslims looked shamefaced. ‘We are quite comfortable where we are,' they said. But a band of young men had risen on the zamindar's command and they came forward to help him. Together they picked up the chairs and placed them outside the hall. Removing the sacking they spread white sheets all over the floor. When all this was done they turned to the now standing assembly and cried, ‘Huzoor has said all his subjects have the same value in his eyes. All men are equal. You may sit where you like.'

After all the men were seated, Rabindra sat down facing them and the
Punyaha
commenced. The manager and his officials stood standing for a while. The former looked angry and perplexed. He hadn't expected such firmness from one who looked so soft and gentle. It was a highly embarrassing situation, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Matters became worse when a couple of officials looked at one another sheepishly and decided to sit down. But Rabindra put an end to his dilemma by smiling kindly at him and saying, ‘I request Manager Babu to withdraw his resignation. And the others too,' he added.

After this incident other changes were ushered in easily and painlessly. Rabindra went walking by himself, dismissing his guards and attendants. He met the villagers and apprised himself of their problems and needs. Not everyone opened up before him though. Many still stood in awe of the zamindar.

But though Rabindra was busy all day with his estate officials and subjects, the nights were his own and he spent them in the bajra, huddled over a lamp and writing poetry far into the night. When weary he would stroll on the deck and look out on the river, vast as a sea and swelling and foaming with deadly currents. He loved the Padma. She whispered to him at night and many were the thoughts she shared with him.

Looking out over the dark expanse of water, that night, he remembered the mysterious woman he had come across at the river ghat. She had a pleasant face and a tight well-knit body draped in a saffron sari. Her anchal was tucked into her waist and it was full of white flowers. Nayeb Moshai had told him about
her. She lived in a leaf hut under a
tamal
tree by the little green pond that belonged to the Basaks. No one knew where she had come from but many stories were whispered about her. ‘Don't look into her eyes huzoor,' Nayeb Moshai had warned him, ‘She has strange powers.' Rabindra had suppressed his amusement with difficulty and when he saw her at the river ghat, he looked straight into her eyes. Sarbakhepi, for that was the name the woman went by, stopped short and returned stare for stare. Then, taking up a handful of camellias from her anchal, she put it in his hands murmuring softly, ‘Gour. My heart's treasure! The jewel of my eyes! My beautiful, beautiful Gour!' Rabindra felt the soft hand brush against his and a shudder passed through his frame. Sarbakhepi held his eyes with her own dark ones and song in a sweet clear voice:

‘Morè jè bolo sè bolo sakhi

Sè roop nirakhi nari nibaritè

Majilo jugal ankhi

O na tanukhani Keba sirojilo

Ki madbu makhiya tai'
^*

Rabindra wondered if this was Sarbakhepi's own composition or that of some ancient
padakarta's.
He left her and came away but her song wouldn't leave him. He kept humming it all day.

Boats went up and down the river even at night, their lights flickering over the dark water like glow-worms. In the sky the moon played hide and seek with the clouds. A soft breeze, laden with the scent of flowers, blew into his face and lifted his hair. His ears were filled with melody from the voices of the boatmen who sang as they plied their oars: