First Light (8 page)

‘Our sense of the proprieties is different from theirs.'

‘Are you implying that the Maharaja engineered Bharat's disappearance?'

‘I can't say. It might be the work of the Manipuris, that is Monomohini's brothers and uncles. But they couldn't have done it without the Maharaja's permission. It is, naturally, quite inconceivable that a future Mahadevi's name is linked with that of another man. You don't understand politics Shashi. Mahadevi Bhanumati is dead. Her son Samarendra was not declared heir. The Manipuris are like dry tinder ready to burst into flame. The only way the Maharaja can appease, them is by marrying Monomohini. It is a marriage of convenience.'

‘I'm glad I don't understand such dirty politics.'

‘Even so, you must understand that the Maharaja has driven Bharat out like a dog though he is his own son. We are servants of the state. How can we give him our protection? Leave him to his fate. He will find a way to live if it is so ordained.'

‘I can't abandon the boy Ghosh Moshai! Such an action will go contrary to all my principles. If there is no room for him in your boat I shall take another.'

‘So be it,' Radharaman smiled blandly. ‘I respect your high ideals Shashi. But if you can't part ways with the boy I'm
constrained to part ways with you. Go then. Choose a good boat and instuct the
majhis
to row carefully. I can't wait any longer.'

At a signal from Radharaman the
majhis
lifted the sleeping Bharat and, carrying him out of the boat, laid him on the bank. Then the boat sailed away. Shashibhushan watched it till it faded from sight and became one with the great heaving body of water.

Shashibhushan and Bharat spent the night in a dirty little hotel of the
ganja
. Next morning they travelled by boat to Kushthia and from there by train to Calcutta. Alighting at Sealdah station, Shashibhushan hired a hackney coach to take him to his ancestral home in Bhabanipur.

The mansion in Bhabanipur was a large one. Here his two brothers lived with their families in amity and concord. They had sold their estates some years ago and started a business in jute. Jute was in great demand owing to heavy export and the business had flourished beyond expectation. In addition, the second brother Manibhushan had opened a factory for the manufacture of gunny bags in partnership with the Armenians. With so much money and goodwill in the family it was inconceivable to many why Shashibhushan preferred to live in self-imposed exile in Tripura.

Arriving at mid morning, travel stained and weary, Shashibhushan took a long, cool bath washing away the grime and fatigue of the journey. Then, after a lavish sixteen-course meal served lovingly to him by his sisters-in-law, he made preparations to go out. As he stood before the mirror combing his hair his eldest sister-in-law Krishnabhamini came into the room. She held a silver box in her hand with paan in it. Her mouth was full of paan too and its juices, trickling over her lips stained them a bright, fruity red. She had a plump comfortable body and a homely face with big dabs of sindoor on the brow and in the parting of her thinning hair. ‘Thakurpo,' she said without preamble, ‘Aren't you ever going to marry again? I have to hide my face in shame before our relatives and friends.'

‘
Arré
!' Shashibhushan exclaimed in surprise. ‘Why do
you
have to hide your face? I'm the one who isn't marrying.'

‘
O
Ma
! Just listen to the boy's prattle! Am I not responsible for you? And isn't it natural for people to wonder why a fine, rich, well educated young man like you doesn't have a wife? Unless, of
course, you've kept a mistress in Tripura.'

‘Boudimoni!' Shashibhushan shook his head at her. ‘Do you really believe I would—'

‘No I don't. I tell everybody that my Thakurpo is like a diamond without a flaw. But I've had enough of your nonsense. I've decided to marry you to my Pishi's daughter. She's a lovely girl as sweet and pretty as an image of Lakshmi. You only have to see her once and you'll like her.'

Shashibhushan smiled. Manibhushan's wife Suhasini had made an identical suggestion just before the noon meal. She had arranged a marriage for him with her Mashi's daughter—another girl as pretty as an image of Lakshmi. He wondered wryly how many Lakshmis there were in this country. But it also left him mildly worried. If his sisters-in-law continued to pester him so he would find it difficult to live under their roof. On the other hand, going back to Tripura was ruled out after to his quarrel with Radharaman. He might have to look for some other accommodation.

Next morning, to his utter surprise, Radharaman came to see him. He looked elegant and foppish with his silver-headed cane in one hand and the frill of his exquisitely pleated dhuti in the other. His face was as calm and composed as if there had never been any friction between them. ‘Well, Shashi,' he said in a perfectly natural voice, ‘When did you get here? How's the boy? Has a doctor seen him yet? By the way, have you found out how he managed to reach the
ganja
?'

In answer Shashibhushan led him upstairs to where Bharat was sitting nodding and jabbering to himself. ‘
Ei
Bharat!' Radharaman called out sharply, ‘Look at me. Who took you away that night? And where did they take you? Who shaved off your hair? Do you remember anything?'

‘Bird! Bird! Bird!' Bharat shook his head more vigorously with every question till Radharaman gave up in despair. ‘His brain is still heated,' he said at last. ‘Take him to Doctor Mahendralal Sarkar. People say he's a
dhanwantari
, He'll surely find a cure.' Placing a hand on Bharat's naked skull he said gently, ‘Don't be afraid my boy. Shashi will look after you and all will be well. Won't you offer me paan and a smoke Shashi? After all I'm in your house for the first time.'

Over the hospitality that followed, Radharaman coolly inserted the question, ‘Are you planning to go back to Tripura?' Then, in response to Shashibhushan's look of surprise, he added, ‘It will, naturally, not be possible or expedient for you to take Bharat along. There is a boarding house in Shimle which takes in boys for a fee of eighteen rupees a month. From what I hear the boys are cared for and educated reasonably well. You could send Bharat there. As for the fee we could split it between us. What is your opinion?'

‘It sounds a good idea. Let me think it over.'

‘Do that. The decision rests with you. Remember that if you wish to remain an official of the state of Tripura, I will not stop you. By the way . . . The mission on which I came out here has been successfully concluded. Its success, in fact, has gone beyond my expectations. But I have another task before me. The Maharaja asked me to call on the poet Robi Thakur and offer him some gifts in person. I'm on my way to Jorasanko now. Would you care to come with me?'

‘Why not?' Shashibhushan cried joyfully. ‘I have been curious to see the young poet for a long time now.'

‘Wonderful! Let's go then.'

It was Shashibhushan's first visit to Jorasanko. In comparison with Bhabanipur, which was the village of Rasa Pagla slowly aligning itself to the city, Jorasanko was packed with people and its roads congested with traffic. Handsome buggies and stately landaus rolled regally past streams of hackney cabs and bullock carts. Serpentining their way through the crowds and vehicles, pedlars with baskets on their heads hawked their wares in resonant voices.

Alighting at the
deuri
Radharaman and Shashibhushan gazed at the handsome, imposing mansion with admiring eyes. Superior in size and splendour even to the royal palace of Tripura, it was humming with activity. The space between the gate and the main building was full of people. Officials of the estate, servants and maids, hawkers and hangers-on came and went in endless streams. On one side were the stables where five horses were being rubbed down by energetic grooms. On the other were the servants' quarters. Behind them an ancient banyan tree reared its head to the sky. A little knot of women with
gharas
at their hips
walked slowly towards the tank beyond. No one deigned to cast a glance at the two strangers. Hesitating a little, they crossed the yard and entered the building.

Walking into the first room, they found two men sitting on a
chowki
spread with a white sheet busily writing in long ledgers bound with red cloth. Stacks of papers and official looking documents were ranged around the walls. ‘Namaskar,' Shashibhushan greeted them politely, ‘We have come all the way from Tripura to meet Rabindra Babu. We have a message for him from the Maharaja.'

One of the men looked up. Tripura, obviously, meant nothing to him. ‘Rabindra Babu,' he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Who is Rabindra Babu?'

‘Debendranath Thakur's youngest son. He is the author of
Bhagna Hriday
.'

‘Oh! You mean Rob Babu,' The man understood at last. ‘Is he here? Wait a minute. I'll send for him.' Walking up to a door on the left he shouted into the adjoining room. ‘Haricharan! Go up and see if Rob Babu has returned. Two men have come to see him.' A disembodied voice from the next room took up the job by shouting in a hoarse voice, ‘Raské!
Ei
Raské! Run upstairs and tell Rob Babu Moshai . . .' The message was passed on to another and then another in succession, the voices getting fainter and fainter as they travelled towards the upper regions where, his visitors presumed, Robi Babu dwelt.

Radharaman and Shashibhushan felt very uncomfortable. There were no chairs in the room and, having politely declined to sit on the
chowki
, they had no option but to remain standing. Time passed and neither man nor message came from within. Suddenly, one of the clerks raised a face from his ledger and said inconsequentially, ‘Jyoti Babu Moshai and Natun Bouthan are in Chandannagar.' Radharaman and Shashibhushan couldn't make head or tail of this communication. ‘We have come to see Rabindra Babu,' they repeated politely. The clerk, still writing busily, had no answer to that. After a long time a servant poked his head into the room. ‘Rob Babu's door is locked,' he said casually, ‘He has gone out of Calcutta.' Shashibhushan and Radharaman exchanged glances. But before either could say a word, a young man came bustling in. He was slender and
handsome and had an open, innocent face. ‘Bhujangadhar,' he addressed one of the clerks, ‘Give me twenty rupees from my monthly allowance. I have to buy food for the street dogs.'

‘Pardon me,' the man he addressed as Bhujangadhar answered quietly, ‘You've already drawn your allowance.'

‘So?' The young man said with a touch of asperity. ‘Shall the dogs starve because I've drawn my allowance? You can adjust the amount next month.' Then, turning to Shashibhushan, he asked curiously, ‘Where are you coming from Moshai?'

‘We come as ambassadors from the Maharaja of Tripura.' ‘Tripura! It nestles among the hills and no one can see it. And the kings eat pearl dust and diamond dust. Is all this true? But Baba Moshai is in Almora. You can't see him now.'

‘We have a letter for Rabindra Babu.'

‘Robi! Robi is only a child. What can you want with him? He has run away from England and is hiding in Chandannagar. Didn't you know that?

‘He has written a book of poetry which—'

‘Yes, yes.' The young man cut Shashibhushan short. ‘Robi writes poetry. Good poetry. We get his books printed but no one buys them. Do you know who I am? I'm Robi's brother—Som. Don't you believe me?
Ohé
Bhujangadhar! Am I not Robi's brother—Som?'

‘Yes. You are Som Babu Moshai.'

‘I write poetry too,' the young man smiled sweetly at Shashibhushan. ‘Robi sings well but I can sing even better. Would you like to hear me?' Then, bursting into song, he raised his arms above his head and started twirling round and round, stamping his foot to the beat. Gradually the twirling and stamping turned into a wild dance. Putting out his hands he seized Shashibhushan by the waist. ‘Come, dance with me,' he urged. ‘It will put a smile on your glum face. Dancing improves the temper.'

At this moment another man entered the room. He was portly, fair and good looking with well-cut features. ‘Why Som! What are you doing?' he cried clutching the dancing Som by the shoulders. ‘Don't you see there are strangers present?'

‘I'm not doing anything,' Som whirled around. ‘I was singing
. . . I sing better than Robi, don't I Gunodada? And I asked them to dance because dancing is good for the health.'

‘No Som,' Gunendranath said, gravely. ‘One should not dance in public. Come let's go into the house.' Putting an affectionate arm round Somendranath's shoulders, he guided him gently out of the room.

‘Moran's Garden' in Chandannagar was a stately mansion so close to the Ganga that it created the illusion of having risen from it. A flight of stone steps, ascending from the water, merged into a wide and beautiful veranda and beyond it to an elegantly appointed salon. The rooms of the house were situated on different levels and of varying shapes and sizes. The windows of the salon were of stained glass in rich, dim old colours. Each depicted a separate scene executed by skilled craftsmen. One of them stood out the most from the others in its beauty. On a swing, dangling from the bough of a leafy tree, a pair of lovers sat side by side their faces turned to one another in enrapt empathy. A large garden laid out with flowering vines and bushes surrounded the house on three sides. Beyond it was an orchard with some fine, old fruit trees. Here, duplicating the scene in the salon, a real swing hung from a branch of a spreading mango tree. In front of the house a
bajra
swayed gracefully in the wavelets of the rushing Ganga. This was a private ghat and no other boat could cast anchor in these waters. The indigo trade having fallen on evil days, Moran Saheb was constrained to rent out the villa from time to time. Jyotirindranath Thakur and his wife Kadambari were its present occupants.

It was evening. The Ganga, rippling and shimmering like a sheet of silk, reflected a sky flushed with sunset. Boats, big and small, darted about on the waters, their sails catching the iridescent hues, like thousands of winged moths. On the steps of the ghat a young man with a tall, powerful frame, high nose, large dark eyes and wavy hair stood watching the scene and sipping tea from a porcelain cup with a silver handle. He was Jyotirindranath, sixth in line among Debendranath Thakur's fourteen children. Of all the latter's offspring Jyoti's personality was the brightest and most multifaceted. A keen sportsman, horseman and hunter, he was also an able administrator. In his father's absence it was he who was entrusted with the running of
the estates. With all this he was also a fine litterateur and musician. He could play the violin and piano, write songs and set them to music. He was also a good playwright and his plays were often performed in professional theatres. Famed throughout Bengal he was the pride of the Thakur family and everyone had great hopes of him.

‘Where is Robi? Why hasn't he come down?' Jyotirindranath turned to his wife who sat in one of the chairs scattered about in the garden. Kadambari Devi was a tall striking woman with handsome dark eyes, heavy brows and long lashes. There was something about the planes of her face and the proportions of her body that reminded one of a Greek goddess. In consequence her intimates in the Thakur household had devised the nickname Hecate for her. She had another name and that was Natun Bouthan. Athough many brothers and sisters had followed him, Jyotirindranath was addressed as Natun Babu or Natunda. Hence, his wife was Natun Bouthan. Kadambari Devi's hair was framed around her face in elaborate scallops after the fashion of the times. She wore a white silk sari over a blue velvet jacket with puffed sleeves. She, too, had a teacup in her hand. A book rested on her knees. ‘Robi doesn't drink tea,' she answered in reply to her husband's query.

Robi's favourite haunt was a round room with glass windows that opened out on all sides. It was right on top of the house. Here he stole away whenever he could and wrote his verses. He heard his Jyotidada call out to him now and hastened to put away his papers. Then, skipping nimbly down the stairs, he came to the garden where his brother and sister-in-law awaited him. He was a shy lad of twenty. He wore a pleated dhuti and kurta embroidered in fine silk and vamped slippers on his feet. His hair was parted in the middle and combed neatly down on both sides. He had an open, innocent face with the faintest suggestion of down clinging to his cheeks and chin.

Robi had, recently, abandoned ship on his way to England leaving it even before it entered the territorial waters. Of all Debendranath's children the only one who had succeeded in making a living for himself was his second son Satyendranath. The others used their time and energy in spending their father's money. His sons-in-law were no exception. Unlike other families
the Thakurs did not send their married daughters away. They kept them along with their husbands in the house. Debendranath spent most of his time away from Calcutta in the hills or in boats on the rivers that meandered all over rural Bengal. But with all his travelling he kept himself informed about everyone and everything in Jorasanko, through letters and messengers.

As of now, Robi was the youngest of Debendranath's children. A son, named Budh, had been born after him but had died in infancy. Two of Robi's elder brothers were insane and the others were whimsical and capricious. Disappointed in his older sons, Debendranath had pinned all his hopes on his youngest. He was convinced that, with his exceptional intelligence and robust health, Robi would do well in life. He could qualify as a barrister or pass the ICS examination like his brother Satyendra. That is why Debendranath sent Robi out to England at the age of sixteen, for the first time, sanctioning Rs 150 a month for his expenses. This was later raised to Rs 240—a princely sum even for England.

Robi spent a good part of his first year with Satyendranath's wife Gyanadanandini Devi who was in England at the time with her children Bibi and Suren. Then, after her return to India, he was left to his own devices. Taking up accommodation as a paying guest with an English lady, he enrolled himself in London University College. He was terribly homesick at first and found it hard to adapt to the country and climate. But, little by little he overcame these negative feelings and began concentrating on his studies. But, just as he started picking up the language and adjusting to his new life his father ordered him to return. The reason for the peremptory recall was that rumours had reached Deben Thakur's ears that Robi was getting too friendly with his landlady's daughters; that they sang and danced together, went on picnics and held planchette sessions in darkened rooms. Debendranath was also disturbed by the articles Robi sent regularly for a column entitled ‘Letters from a Bengali youth in England' in
Bharati
. These articles, in Debendranath's opinion, were inflammatory and arrogant and struck at the roots of Bengali society and culture. One letter, in particular, titled ‘Slaves in the Family' incensed Debendranath for in it Robi had lashed out at the insensitivity with which the older members treated their younger counterparts in Indian families.

In consequence Robi had to return. He had spent nearly two years in England, wasted a great deal of money and come back without a degree. But was it his fault? Yet everyone looked askance at him and asked pointed questions. Robi had made up his mind then that he would go out to England once again and study at the Bar. No matter how hard the struggle he would return with a degree, he had promised himself. He applied to his father for permission and it was granted. But this time Debendranath took the precaution of sending his eldest daughter Soudamini's son Satyaprasad with him. Satyaprasad was two years older than Robi and a very poor student having failed his exams several times. But he was a big step ahead of him in one way. He was a husband and father already. Consequently, he treated his young uncle with a mixture of affection and patronizing condescension. Satyaprasad was full of plans about what he would do on his return from England and he shared these generously with Robi during the first few hours of the journey. He would set up a practice in Sahebpara and take Robi on as his junior. He wouldn't work him too hard. He would leave him enough free time to write all the poetry he wanted. He would leave Jorasanko and rent a beautiful house, fit it up with every luxury suited to the status of a famous barrister etcetera etcetera. But, with the first cramp in his stomach, his plans were drastically altered. Moaning and groaning with every lurch of the ship he declared that he wasn't staying on the wretched boat to die of vomiting and purging. He would step ashore in Madras and make his way back to Calcutta and Robi would come with him. In vain did Robi try to make him see reason. Sea sickness, he explained over and over again, was a temporary condition and the nauseous feelings would pass. But Satya was not convinced. He declared he was dying of blood dysentery and he couldn't leave the world without seeing his beloved wife Narendrabala and his infant daughter for the last time.

The moment Satyaprasad stood on dry land and saw the boat sail away his sickness vanished. The truth was that he had realized that he would be miserable in England so far away from his wife and child. And, afraid of facing his grandfather's wrath, he had insisted on Robi's sharing the blame with him. ‘Robi and I decided,' he told everyone coolly on their return to Jorasanko,
‘that there was no point in going on to that
mlechha
country where people live on sandwiches and boiled mutton day after day and year in and year out. Bengalis have to have their hot rice with
musur dal
and
machher jhol
or they sicken and die. Thank God I had the sense to get off the ship in time.' And he had shuddered at the thought of his narrow escape from starving to death on sandwiches and boiled mutton.

Robi, though appalled at this falsehood, could not contradict him. His nature was such that while he was incapable of telling a lie himself, he was equally incapable of pointing it out in others. Besides, his sister Soudamini had been like a second mother to him and he did not have the heart to wound her. The best course of action, he reasoned, would be to lie low for a while. And that is why he had left Jorasanko and come to Chandannagar.

Here in Chandannagar each day floated by as light and airy as a butterfly's wing. No worries or tensions marred the bright beauty of the late autumn days. There was nothing to plan or execute and no one to fear. Robi could live as he wanted. He could wander about in the orchard with his Natun Bouthan and read poetry to her. He could go sailing on the river, pick fruit from the trees or, seating himself in the swing, hum a tune to himself for hours on end. And, if he wished, he could spend the whole day in the Round Room composing his verses.

Jyotirindranath had mastered the art of enjoyment and the three had wonderful times together. But he had to go away on business from time to time and than Robi and his Natun Bouthan were there for each other. Kadambari was only eighteen months older then Robi. She hadn't borne a child yet and because of that, perhaps, there was something youthful and unworldly about her. Her soul seemed untouched by mundane reality. Deeply sensitive to romance and beauty she sought them all the time; her yearning haunting her like a passion. And, strange though it may seem, this passion found a resting place in the person of her young brother-in-law. She reached out to the shy, sensitive boy and nurtured and cherished him as if he was her very own. Robi, on his part, could open up to her as he couldn't to anyone else.

Stepping into the garden, Robi found his Jyotidada giving some instructions to the
majhis
. ‘Come Robi,' he said. ‘I've decided we'll spend the whole night on the Ganga. The sky has
never been so beautiful.'

‘
Ki go
!' Kadambari smiled at her brother-in-law. ‘You were locked up in your room all day! How much poetry have you written?'

‘A little. But I've left a great deal unwritten. And that, I believe, is the real thing. I've been struggling all day to find those lines but someone casts a shadow over them and I can't see beyond it.'

Jyotirindra's boat was a two-roomed
bajra
with a square roof surrounded by a railing. Here he sat, violin in hand, on a Persian carpet his back resting against a velvet cushion. Robi and Kadambari sat facing him. As soon as the boat moved away from the shore Jyotirindranath touched the bow of his violin to the tautened strings making sky and river reverberate to the haunting melody of Raag Puravi. The sun had set but the west was luminous with streaks of gold even as the banks grew dim with twilight. And, as darkness came creeping on, other sounds came floating over the water mingling with the strains of Jyotirindra's music—a tinkling of bells from a faraway temple; the call of a muezzin, eerie and indistinct, from a distant mosque. Jyoti put down his violin and said,'Sing a song Robi.'

‘Sing ‘
É ki é sundar shobha
,' Kadambari prompted.

‘That is not Raag Puravi,' Jyotirindra smiled at his wife. ‘It is Iman Bhupali Qawali and—'

‘Never mind,' Kadambari cut him short. ‘I want to hear it.' Robi commenced singing, his eyes downcast. Jyotirindra poured himself a glassful of expensive French brandy and sipped it slowly. The moment the song came to an end Kadambari said, ‘Sing another.' This time Robi did not wait for a request. Fixing his large, dark eyes on his sister-in-law, he sang a composition in Alaiya Jhanptal—
Tomaréi koriyachhi jeevan ér dhrubata tara, É samudré aar kabhu haba na ko patha haara
. ‘It's barely dusk,' Jyotirindra laughed. ‘The dhruba taara hasn't risen yet.'

The gold of the west was melting away little by little and the dark shadows of night crept slowly up the eastern horizon when, suddenly, a moon danced out from behind some clouds and flooded sky, earth and river in a torrent of molten silver. The boat floated on as if in a dream. Robi's young voice, throbbing with anguish, mingled with the yearning strains of his brother's violin.

Kadambari joined her voice to his from time to time swaying her head to the music. The three, wrapped in a mist of their own creation, had never known such ecstasy.

It was Jyotirindra who broke the spell. ‘
Oré
!' he called out to the
majhis
. ‘We've come a long way. Turn the boat.' Kadambari's head shot up. ‘So soon? But you've only just started on Behaag. I thought we would return with Bhairavi.' Jyotirindra smiled at his wife. ‘What shall I play on our way back then? There is no raag after Bhairavi and I hate sleeping on a boat.'