First Light (5 page)

Bhanumati's wing was not very grand though it was the best in the palace. The large, carved mahogany bedstead on which she sat took up most of the room which was quite small and crammed with furniture and decorative objects. Bhanumati had a fascination for clocks and had a large collection, seven of which could be seen ticking away on the walls. One was a cuckoo clock; another had a blacksmith hammering the minutes on a tiny anvil. The room was poorly ventilated with little windows set high up close to the ceiling. But Mahadevi Bhanumati, herself, looked splendidly regal. The sari she wore was a bright yellow and matched the counterpane of gold and black striped silk. Heavy gold ornaments encircled her shapely arms and the rings on her fingers glittered with their burden of precious stones.

‘Even if the Maharaja has forgotten his promise,' one of the women sitting on the floor around the bed, asked, ‘Can he not be reminded of it?'

‘No one is allowed into the Forbidden Wing,' the queen answered dejectedly. Then, her glance falling on her favourite maid Shyama, her spirits rose. Shyama was a very pretty girl with plenty of intelligence. Besides, she had very winsome ways. The guards at the gate wouldn't be too tough with her. Even if a message could be sent through one of them . . . ‘Go to Chituram Shyama,' she commanded. ‘Tell him to mention my name casually to the king when he takes in the next meal. My husband will be sure to remember his promise, then.' Shyama sped out of the room. In a little while news came that Shyama had managed to gain entrance into the Forbidden Wing and was upstairs in the presence of the king. The information was puzzling but welcome. He would be here any minute now.

But the afternoon wore on and Bhanumati's relief changed to anguish. What was Shyama doing? She had been instructed to remind the king of his promise and return to her mistress. Why hadn't she come back? Had any harm come to her? Surely the Maharaja hadn't taken her life! ‘
Oré
!' she called out to the other women. ‘Go tell the guards that I'll have their houses burned down if they don't give us news. Why is Shyama taking so long? I demand to know the truth.'

When Bhanumati's message reached the guards their spines stiffened with alarm. They knew the queen's power. A couple of houses was nothing, a whole village could burn at her command. But the news they had was so shocking that they dared not disclose it. Shyama was in the king's studio, alive and unhurt. They could hear her gay voice and pert laughter wafting out of the open windows from time to time. But it wasn't only that. One of the guards had peeped through the key hole and seen her standing in front of the king, stark naked—one hand resting on the back of a chair.

After another hour of waiting Bhanumati could bear it no longer. ‘Shyama! Harlot!' she shrieked, though Shyama was far out of the range of her call. ‘I'll have your eyes plucked out for this you bitch. Just you wait!' But no one came. ‘Shyama! Shyama!' Bhanumati kept calling, beside herself with impotent fury. Her
maids went running to the Forbidden Wing but the guards, though trembling in fear of the Queen's wrath, dared not carry her message to the king.

The afternoon passed and dusk set in but Shyama did not return. Bhanumati tossed and turned on the bed as if in a delirium, tore at her ornaments and flung them against the walls. Panting like a tigress she screamed in a voice that was hoarse and broken, ‘Bring the whore to me! Put a rope around her nostrils and drag her into my presence.' Suddenly she jumped off the bed and, pouncing on the maid nearest to her, closed her hands round her throat. ‘I'll choke the life out of you, you lying bitch. You know where she is. You know. You know.'

‘She's with the king,' the girl shrieked out in fear, ‘In the room in which he paints his pictures.'

‘Then why don't you bring her to me?'

‘The door is locked from within Rani Ma. The Maharaja lifted the latch himself.'

At these words Bhanumati's hands slipped from the girl's throat. Her body went limp and the fire died out of her eyes. She looked blankly around her for a few minutes. Then she said in a voice that had suddenly become flat and toneless, ‘I want to sleep. Leave the room—all of you. Even you, Khuman.' Before bolting the door from within she said ‘Don't call me. This door will not open again.'

Bad news travels fast, leaping over high walls and breaking out of locked doors. When the Maharaja came rushing out of the Forbidden Wing, late that night, he found Bhanumati's door had been broken down and the inmates of the palace were gathered around her bed. They had heard the queen's moans, heart broken and anguished, and had called out to her over and over again to open her door. But she had not answered. And then the moaning had ceased . . .

Maharaja Birchandra stood by the bed, his eyes glazed with shock. Bhanumati's hands were clasped over her breast. Her eyes were open. Her limbs were bare of their ornaments which lay scattered all over the floor. There was no sign of injury on the body nor was it discoloured with poison. Kneeling at the foot of the bed he commanded the assembled throng to leave the room. Then, placing a hand on her feet, he burst into tears.

A stunned silence had descended on the palace and the king was sunk in grief. It was not grief alone—a terrible rage swept over him against himself and against all those around him. His subjects had never seen him in such a state before and did not know what to make of it. Bhanumati had been his favourite queen. She had been strong, healthy and beautiful and her sudden death had come as a shock. They could understand that. But the Maharaja's behaviour was inexplicable. He raged violently at someone at one moment and then withdrew completely within himself at another. He had clung to the body for a whole day and night refusing to part with it. It was only when Radhakishor and Samarendra had begged him with tears in their eyes that he had let go of it. A corpse had to be cremated within twenty-four hours of death. If not, the burden of a grevious sin fell on the whole family.

The Maharaja did not accompany Bhanumati on her last journey. He locked himself, instead, in her room and did not leave it for even a minute. No one dared come near him. Memos and despatches awaiting his signature piled up in the secretary's office. Servants knocked timidly at the door with food and drink in their hands but were turned rudely away. His queens called out to him to come out of the room; to bathe and eat, but he turned a deaf ear to their pleas. The only person he dared not disobey was his mother. But she was in Udaipur and knew nothing of what had happened. Ghosh Moshai was at his wit's end. If the king carried on like this what would happen to the state? He gave the matter a great deal of thought and, gradually, a plan formed in his mind.

Three days later the king came out of Bhanumati's room and went straight to his studio in the Forbidden Wing. Taking up a brush, he commenced painting a portrait of the late queen. But his mind was in a whirl and his movements jerky and out of control. Standing before the easel he found he couldn't recall Bhanumati's face. How was that possible? He had seen her face for three whole nights—vibrant and glowing
in the dark. Why couldn't he see it now in the light of the day? Why did it seem blurred and unreal as if submerged in rippling water? Throwing his brush away in frustration Birchandra sat down and wondered what to do. He had taken several pictures of Bhanumati. Should he pick out one and paint from that? A strange lethargy seized him at the thought. What was the use of painting a portrait of a loved one who was lost even in the mind? Why was he losing Bhanumati?

At that moment the Maharaja heard a clear, penetrating voice, raised in recitation. The words were not in Sanskrit but in Bengali. He came to the window and saw Ghosh Moshai pacing up and down the veranda just outside. The voice was his and he was reciting the exquisite lines:

Lady! Little do you know with what invisible strings

You bind my heart as it walks its lonely path
,

Holding it close, with power, if perchance it strays

Keeping the goal in sight
. . .'
‘What are you reciting, Ghosh Moshai?' The Maharaja leaned out of the window. They were the first words he had spoken in a normal voice since the tragedy. ‘Whose poem is it?' Radharaman Ghosh approached the king with folded hands. ‘Namaskar Maharaj!' he said. ‘I read these verses in a book I borrowed from Shashibhushan and found the sentiments original and appealing. Our Vaishnav poets write volumes on the pain of parting with a loved one. But they always attribute it to the female. Radha's suffering! Radha's grief! Do men not feel grief and loss? This poet has written of it—'

‘Who is he? Hembabu? Or Nabin Babu?'

‘Neither, Maharaj. He's a young man who goes by the name of Robi Thakur.'

‘Thakur? Is he one of the Thakurs of Tripura?'

‘No Maharaj. There is no poet in Tripura—barring yourself of course. Robi Thakur lives in Calcutta.'

‘The verse is beautiful! Exquisitely beautiful! Recite some more, Ghosh Moshai.'

Radharaman cleared his throat and recommenced his recitation:

‘
Else my heart falling like a star by night

Wrenched from its axis, would spin in vain

In the dark bosom of the eternal sky'

‘Aa ha ha!' Birchandra cried out with fervour, tears glittering in his eyes. ‘This is just how I feel. Go on.'

‘I don't remember the rest Maharaj,' Ghosh Moshai said with a shade of embarrassment. I've read the poem only twice. Shall I fetch the book from Shashibhushan?'

Shashibhushan was in his pathshala giving a page of English dictation to Bharat. ‘Once upon a time,' he read out from the book in his hands, ‘there lived a . . .' when, glancing out of the window, he saw the king walking rapidly towards them with Ghosh Moshai following close behind. Birchandra was unbathed and unshaved. He wore a soiled dhuti and clattering khadams on his feet. ‘Where is the book you lent me?' Ghosh Moshai said, ‘The one by Robi Thakur?' He was panting with the effort of keeping up with the king who, when he wanted something, could brook no delay. ‘I gave it to Bharat,' Shashibhushan answered surprised, ‘Where is it Bharat?'

Bharat had it in his satchel. Taking it out he handed it over, then stood with his back to the wall, trembling in awe and apprehension.

The Maharaja read a few more lines and cried out ‘My sentiments! My sentiments to the letter! How does this. young poet know my pain? Has he suffered a similar loss? Has his favourite wife left him for ever?'

‘Maharaj,' Shashibhushan coughed delicately. ‘Robi Thakur is very young. Barely twenty. He's not married.'

‘Why not? Don't Calcutta babus marry at twenty?'

‘Many do. But Robi Babu is a, scion of a very high and esteemed family—the Thakurs of Jorasanko. He is Deben Thakur's youngest son. They are Brahmos and—'

‘Ah! Dwarkanath's grandson! We're related to that family, I believe. A marriage was arranged, if I recall rightly, between . . . between . . . But it's of no consequence. I've heard of Dwarkanath and his son but I've never met them.'

‘The Thakurs bring out a monthly journal from their family mansion in Jorasanko. It is called
Bharati
. You may not have seen it, Maharaj, but I subscribe to it regularly. Robi Babu writes extensively for
Bharati
. The name is not printed but I recognize
the style. He's been writing from boyhood upwards in other journals as well and has even published a few books—at his own expense of course. His prose is even better than his poetry.'

‘A mere boy of twenty!' the king wagged his head in awe and admiration. Turning the book over in his hands he caught sight of the title. ‘
Bhagna Hriday
,' he read aloud, ‘Composed by Sri Rabindranath Thakur. Calcutta. Printed by Balmiki Press. Price Re 1.' On the next page was a dedication to Srimati Hé.

‘What does it mean?' he asked surprised. ‘What kind of name is this?'

‘Might be short for Hemangini,' Radharaman suggested. ‘Or Hembala.'

‘But you said he wasn't married.'

‘She might be his mother. Or sister.'

‘Don't be stupid,' the king snapped at him. ‘Would anyone dedicate a book like this to his mother or sister?' The two men had no answer to this and fell silent. ‘What other books has this youth written?' the Maharaja asked Shashibhushan.

‘I've read a play called
Rudrachanda
. It isn't very good. Not like his prose pieces.'

Birchandra read a few more lines of
Bhagna Hriday
. Then, handing the book over to Radharaman Ghosh, he said ‘You have a good voice. You read it out to me.'

The reading of poetry is not without its uses. For the first time since Bhanumati's death Birchandra felt the urge for a strong curl of tobacco smoke in his lungs. He hadn't smoked for days. In fact, he had forgotten all about it. Now a restlessness seized him for this luxury. And with this restlessness, the mist that had clouded his brain and heart for the last few days dissolved and disappeared. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Something was stirring in the pit of his stomach. Was it a pang of hunger? And, for the first time, he remembered that he hadn't eaten for five whole days.

Returning to the palace he allowed the servants to give him a luxurious bath and massage, then sat down to a plentiful meal. Having eaten, he reclined on his bed with his hookah. But he had scarcely drawn the first two puffs when sleep overtook him. It was deep and restful and lasted four hours. His brow was unfurrowed as he slept and his lips were relaxed and smiling.

Birchandra took up his normal duties from the next day. The first task before him was the organizing of the funeral rites. He
had decided to perform the shraddha in Brindavan as well as in Agartala. Both would be on a grand scale as befitted the status of the deceased. Maharaja Birchandra would journey to Brindavan accompanied by his queens and a large number of servants, maids and sepoys. But the treasury was nearly empty. ‘Ghosh Moshai,' he asked his Secretary. ‘Mahadevi Bhanumati's shraddha will cost a lakh of rupees. Where is the money to come from?'

‘This is the month of Kartik, Maharaj, and the harvest is a long way off. This is not a good time to impose fresh taxes. If we put too much pressure the peasants might revolt.'

‘I know that. I do not wish to tax the peasants. Is there no other way?'

Radharaman thought for a few minutes. ‘You may sell some gold,' he said at last. ‘The price of a mohur has risen from eighteen to nineteen rupees.' The king's brows knitted at this suggestion. Shaking his head, he said ‘I can't sell gold here. I'll have to go to Calcutta. And once I'm there the newspapers are bound to scent the truth. You saw how
Amrita Bazar Patrika
hounded me over the matter of the Political Agent. When they find out I'm selling my gold they'll inform the whole world that I'm on my way out As it is, people expect me to abdicate to the British any day now.'

‘Tripura will never go the way of Oudh,' Radharaman said with conviction, ‘But certain reforms will have to be carried out. The Political Agent is putting a lot of pressure.'

‘I'll take up the matter after the funeral,' Birchandra said hastily. ‘You haven't answered my question. Selling gold is out. What else can I do?'

‘Some months ago,' Radharaman said after a few minutes' thought, ‘an Englishman approached you with an offer to lease the Balishira Hills. He was prepared to pay you one lakh, twenty-five thousand rupees. But you didn't agree. Do you remember?'

‘I do. It was a good offer but I didn't accept it because he was an Englishman. I don't want sahebs in my country.'

‘We can't stop them Maharaj. If they wish to come they will. Let us be thankful that the man is not a government official. He's a prospector mining the hills for metal. Our hills are lying idle. We lack the means of mining them ourselves. Besides, the sum he is prepared to pay is generous.'

Birchandra sat in silence pondering the question. The
proposal was not bad. But the man had been turned away. Who knew if he was still interested. Even if he was, it was going to be a difficult task to execute—calling for the utmost secrecy. ‘Ghosh Moshai,' he said with a deep sigh. ‘There was one who could have given me a lakh of rupees for the asking. She has left me forever. And it is for her that I beg from door to door. Is it not ironic?' Then, a practical note creeping into his voice, he continued
‘Anyhow, you had better leave for Calcutta at once and track down the Englishman. Take the agreement with my signature on it. And send the money here as soon as you can. Remember that this affair has to be handled with the greatest discretion. My subjects must be convinced that I bring sahebs into the country for their own good. Prepare the proclamations accordingly.'

‘That would be no lie Maharaj. When the sahebs start their mining they'll need a work force. Your subjects will find employment and a means of living.'

The Maharaja stood up and went to the door. Then, stopping suddenly, he turned back. ‘I have another duty to perform,' he said twirling his moustache in embarrassment. ‘After returning from Brindavan I wish to fulfil the queen's dearest wish. It was her last request to me and I cannot ignore it.' Ghosh Moshai trembled at these words but only in his heart. Outwardly he appeared calm and composed. But his mind was working fast. Radhakishor had been declared heir and had been accepted as such by the subjects. He was immensely popular. If the proclamation was withdrawn there was bound to be trouble. An uprising could not be ruled out. Birchandra read Radharaman's thoughts at a glance. ‘Have no fears Ghosh Moshai,' he said gently. ‘I don't want any disturbance in the realm just now. We'll discuss the matter after you return.'

He left the room but came back once again. Placing a hand on Radharaman's shoulder he said, ‘You have another duty to perform while in Calcutta. Dwarkanath Thakur's grandson is a fine poet. His verses have given me much comfort. He deserves an award of distinction from the Lord of the Realm. But the English bastards will never acknowledge our great men. You must go to Jorasanko as my Viceroy and offer a purse of gold mohurs and a shawl to the young poet.'