First Light (59 page)

There was something about him that set her wondering. In all his discourses he never once touched on the negative aspects of the human race. To hear him one would think that his vocabulary did not contain the word
Sin.
He appealed, always, to the highest and noblest in human nature and his confidence in his fellowmen was phenomenal. Of late he had been speaking a great deal on the value of sacrifice. ‘The world needs men and women,' he had said once, ‘who can find the courage to leave their homes and come out into the streets with the slogan, “I know no other than God. And God dwells within my fellowmen.” Who is ready to abandon his own small family and seek a larger one? To nurture and cherish; to serve and to comfort . . .?'

These words fell like blows from a hammer on Margaret's heart. She had wanted a husband and children, a small family of her own, but they had eluded her. She had no desire for them now. She would answer Swamiji's call. She would walk in his footsteps and seek out a larger world.

Ardhendushekhar Mustafi had been removed from the post of director of Emerald and was, in consequence, left without a job. He had sold off all his medals along with his wife's jewellery to pay the creditors, who had hounded him like a pack of wolves, and was now penniless as well. Fortunately, his son was grown up now and in a position to support his parents.

Ardhendushekhar hated sitting at home all day. He found it boring and stifling. Having nothing else to do, he found a novel way of passing his time. He walked aimlessly in the streets from dawn till dusk stopping here and there as the fancy took him. He would sit for hours under a tree on the bank of the Ganga or look on interestedly as a snake charmer played his pipe to the dance of a hooded cobra. Or he would even take sides in a street brawl. But he never went anywhere near a theatre. Ever since he had left Emerald he kept away from everything and everyone connected with the acting profession. But there was one habit, picked up during his heydays of acting and directing, that he couldn't give up. And that was drinking. He had to have at least three bottles of whisky a day. And it had to be a local brew. He wouldn't drink Scotch if it was offered to him on a silver platter. He had told his friends that he had no desire to be cremated with sandalwood and incense and made them promise to pour some bottles of liquor on his corpse before setting it alight. Only then, he declared, would his soul find peace and wing its way straight to heaven.

One morning, Ardhendushekhar sat at a table in Piru's Hotel when a couple of young men sidled up to him with an effusive, ‘Namaskar Guru! What great good fortune is ours that—'

‘I'm no one's guru,' Ardhendushekhar snapped, turning his face away. He recognized the boys. They were Byomkesh and Neeladhwaj—bit actors without looks or talent who spent their time drifting like river moss from one bank to another in search of roles. They had worked for some months in Emerald. Byomkesh, he had heard, had tried to worm his way into Nayanmoni's heart
but she had sent him packing.

Turning his back on the pair Ardhendushekhar fell hungrily on the two boiled eggs a waiter set before him. They were duck's eggs—huge and soft and emitting clouds of fragrant steam. But it took more than a mild snub to subdue the enthusiasm of the two yokels. ‘Do you know what we did the other day Guru?' they continued, unabashed. ‘We went to Girish Babu and said to him, “You must do something about the jumped-up fop that's taken possession of Emerald. He's getting too big for his shoes. Why don't you and Mustafi Moshai get together and kick him out?” “Don't talk to me of Ardhendu,” Girish Babu brushed us away as though we were flies. “He's finished. Even God cannot resurrect him.”' Ardhendu threw a burning glance in the direction of the two boors and attacked his eggs with renewed vigour. ‘Girish Babu is jealous of you,' Byomkesh tried again. ‘He can't bear the thought of your popularity. He's an old horse who can't pull the cart any more. You're young and the public wants you.' Ardhendushekhar finished the eggs and rose to his feet. ‘I pity you two,' he said clicking his tongue sadly at them. ‘You've learned nothing. Nothing at all. Not even the basic courtesy of looking the other way when someone is eating. You think I don't know what you're like? You come toadying up to me trying to set me against Girish. And you do exactly the same with him.
Oré
haramzada! If Girish is jealous of me he's paying me the compliment of my life! He wouldn't stoop to envying you, would he? But let me tell you this. If I die today, he'll weep more than any of you. And if, God forbid, he goes before me I'll be shattered with grief.'

Byomkesh and Neeladhwaj looked at one another then, their faces crumpling with disappointment, they abandoned the game. ‘Save us Guru,' they cried, hurling themselves at Ardhendushekhar's feet. ‘We've been without roles for two months now. Our families are starving. We are the dust of your feet. Take us with you wherever you go. It you're not teaming up with Girish Ghosh you must be joining Classic and—' Ardhendushekhar withdrew his feet in alarm. ‘
Arré arré
! What is this?' he cried. ‘You're in a hotel—not in a playhouse. Who told you I'm joining Classic?'

‘Everyone in the line is saying so. “Do you think Classic will
let Saheb Mustafi fade away into oblivion?” they say. “They'll drag him out of his hideout and reinstate him as director with full honours.”' Ardhendushekhar smiled wryly. Far from reinstating him with full honours, the new proprietor of Emerald, renamed Classic, hadn't even sent a feeler. The young man had dismissed all the old members of the troupe—actors and actresses as well as technicians. Why would he bother with the old director? ‘You may be the dust of my feet,' he said jocularly, ‘But if anyone wants me they'll have to bow their heads humbly before me and wash my feet clean of all impurities before I condescend to go with them. Now stir your behinds and get going. I'm sick of the sight of you.' Ardhendushekhar brushed past them and came and stood on the street. His pretended nonchalance, notwithstanding, their words had set his senses tingling with pain and humiliation. No one had sent for him. No one wanted him. And he had no money with which to start something of his own. He was now numbered among the has-beens.

Once an actor—always an actor! Although he had lost his audience Ardhendushekhar couldn't rid himself of the urge to act. He walked about the city streets singing snatches of song and muttering whole pages of dialogue as he went along. And he always had a bottle with him. From time to time he would take it out of his pocket and, refreshing himself with a swig, start his mutterings all over again.

One night he fell asleep under a tree by the river. He was woken, at crack of dawn, by the loud whistle of a ship casting anchor a few yards away from where he lay. He sat up with a jerk and stretched his cramped limbs till the joints, jammed with hours of inactivity, crackled into life. ‘Aah!' he cried in a tone of mingled pain and pleasure. ‘Aah!' a voice echoed a little distance away. Ardhendushekhar glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a man lying on the ground, further up the bank. He looked at Ardhendushekhar out of beady black eyes and winked knowingly.

‘
Patityodharini Gange Ma go
!' Ardhendu sang.

‘
Ma go Ma go,
' the man took up the refrain in a voice surprisingly deep and musical.

‘Who are you?' Ardhendu asked curiously. ‘Another bit of discarded material from the acting profession?'

‘
Byomkali Kalkatta wali
!'
the man called out in a booming voice. Ardhendu Shekhar had realized, by now, that the man was a lunatic. He had always had a soft corner for those who lived at the periphery and his heart went out to this one. ‘Sing with me,' he commanded. ‘Let me see how good you are.' Then, kneeling on the ground, a hand at one ear like a professional baiji, he burst into song:

‘
Hum bara saab hai duniya mé

None can be compared hamara saat

Mr Mustafi name hamara

Chaatgaon hamara acché Bilaat Rom—ti—tom—ti—tom . . .
'

The lunatic stared at him for a few moments his little eyes winking and blinking, all on their own, like black jewels. Then, without a word, he ran to the river's edge and plunged into the roaring waves. Ardhendu took out a charred stump of a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Taking a puff he gazed out on the river which, though it was so early in the day, was already teeming with bathers. The black head of the madman bobbed up and down, up and down, like a cork. He wondered a bit. He had thought lunatics were afraid of water. Presently the man clambered up the bank and stood before him. ‘Give,' he commanded, putting out a dripping hand.

‘Give what?' Ardhendu asked belligerently.

‘Anything.'

‘I've nothing to give. Get lost.' He added, muttering, to himself, ‘I'm a beggar myself. What can I give another?' The lunatic stood where he was, his neck twisted sideways, holding Ardhendu's eyes with his own tiny, sparkling ones. A wicked smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I've acted a lunatic time after time,' Ardhendu thought suddenly. ‘Why didn't I act like this man? I should study his mannerisms and tuck them away in my head for future use.' It didn't occur to him that there would be no future use. Two pairs of eyes held each other—observing, scrutinizing. Then Ardhendu rose and, putting an arm around the other's shoulder, he said ‘Come,
dost
!. Let's have some hot
jilipi.
I have a couple of annas in my pocket.'

Ardhendu Shekhar returned to the same spot the next day to see the lunatic rolling in the dust, whining and sobbing like a
child. But he hauled himself into a sitting position the moment he beheld his friend of the day before, and reached for the cone of
sal
leaves he held in his hand. Digging into it he brought out a
radha ballavi.
Then, jabbing his forefinger into its crisp, puffed up crust, he blew kisses at it and murmured as coyly as if he was addressing his sweetheart. ‘May I nibble you just a teeny, weeny bit?' Ardhendu Shekhar watched him fascinated. He spent the next four days with the man studying him closely, storing away every detail in his memory—the expression of the eyes, the twist of the limbs. He felt he was learning acting for the first time.

On the fifth day the lunatic was gone. Ardhendu hung about the bank for a few hours waiting for him, then sauntered over to a sadhu's akhara in the burning ghat a few hundred yards away. The man was a dangerous criminal, a drug addict and a fugitive from justice masquerading as a holy man. Ardhendushekhar knew that but he hung around him nevertheless. He had played the role of a charlatan sadhu once or twice and might play it again in future. The world was full of men of different kinds and callings and the theatre reflected them all.

In order to reach the Ganga Ardhendu Shekhar had to cross the red light area of Rambagan. The place slept under the sun all day and came awake at night to the moon and stars, with music, laughter and drunken brawls. One evening, as he shuffled idly along, he was startled by the sound of loud voices flowing out from one of the houses. A male voice, slurred with alcohol, was abusing and threatening while a woman's, shrill and piteous, wept and pleaded. A crowd of onlookers hung outside the door pushing and jostling one another in order to get a better view of whatever was going on within. Ardhendu Shekhar was thoroughly alarmed. Even though a scene of this kind was not uncommon in that particular neighbourhood, he couldn't suppress his agitation. Anything might happen any moment now. The drunken monster might hurl a bottle at the woman's head injuring her badly—even killing her. He made his way to the crowd and, raising himself on tiptoe, peered into the room. O
Hari! It wasn't a real quarrel. It was a scene from a play being rehearsed by a group of amateurs. He listened, ears cocked, for a few moments and recognized it. It was Deenabandhu Mitra's
Neel Darpan.

The scene was being enacted at the centre of a long hall spread with cotton mats. Ten or twelve men and women sat in chairs scattered about the room waiting for their cues. Ardhendu-shekhar identified the director instantly from the open book in his hand as well as the way he fluttered about like a distracted hen and called ‘Silence! Silence!' when the public outside became too noisy. Ardhendushekhar got so caught up by what he was seeing that he abandoned his plan of walking to the river. In fact, it seemed to him, that he had no will or volition of his own in the matter. His feet were rooted to the ground and would not move.

The cast was a half-baked one with no training whatsoever. The director seemed to be little better. The voices were either dim and vapid or unnecessarily loud with no modulations or nuances. One of the actors had a speech defect and he stammered and stuttered all the way through his part. And a number of the cast hadn't memorized their lines. Watching the rehearsal, that jewel in the crown of the Bengali theatre—Ardhendushekhar Mustafi, could hold himself in no longer. ‘
Chup
!' the rich, musical voice, teeming with inflections, hit the ears of everyone present like a roll of thunder, ‘
Tum shala na layak achhé
!'
Every head turned around, the voice still booming in their breasts. Who had spoken those words? They were part of the Englishman's dialogue. But whose voice? The director threw a burning glance at the crowd outside and said threateningly, ‘If there's any more disturbance I'll shut the door.'

The rehearsal recommenced. Ardhendushekhar inched his way to the front, slipping and sliding like a snake through the mass of bodies. His lips moved silently, formulating the words that were being spoken within. He knew
Neel Darpan
by heart—all the lines of all the characters and he murmured them in rapt enjoyment. Suddenly he forgot himself again and roared out the line: ‘
Hami tumar baap keno habo; hami tumar chheliyar baap hoite chai
.' The voice was slurred with liquor yet it conveyed every inflection of the arrogance and contempt with which the British planter habitually addressed his ryots. This time Ardhendushekhar was caught. The man who had been playing the role of the Englishman in a squeaking voice and pidgin English, came rushing up and took him by the throat. ‘
Shala
!' he screamed shaking him violently with both hands, ‘You dare make
fun of me! You'll get such a kick on your behind that—'

‘Forgive me sir,' Ardhendu pleaded meekly. ‘I didn't mean to make fun of you. It was a mistake.'

‘Mistake! What mistake? What club are you from?'

‘I don't belong to any club. I've made a mistake. I'm sorry.' But even such abject humility failed to satisfy the man. He raised his hand to cuff Ardhendu Shekhar on the ear, the others shouting encouragement, ‘Give him a sound beating and throw him out.' But the director had stood still, all this while, staring at Ardhendu Shekhar as if he had seen a ghost. ‘
Ei
!' he roared suddenly at the man who still held Ardhendu by the throat, ‘Don't touch him. Bring him over to me.' As Ardhendu was dragged, protesting, over to the director, the latter fixed his eyes with a penetrating gaze on his face, taking in every detail—the tired eyes, the chin that hadn't seen a razor for five days and the soiled
uduni
. ‘Who are you?' he asked gently, almost humbly.