First Light (83 page)

Dwarika and Jadugopal were very impressed with the play. The stage sets and costumes were brilliant. Girish Ghosh's son Dani, in the role of Siraj, gave a fine performance. But the two truly outstanding ones came from Ardhendushekhar Mustafi as
Danasa Fakir and Girish Ghosh, himself, as Karim Chacha.

At curtain call the two friends decided to go backstage and congratulate the playwright. They found him lying back in an easy chair, looking thoroughly spent. He was, indeed, too old and too afflicted with rheumatism to prance around on the stage. But once on it, he forgot everything—his age, his painful joints, his diseased liver—and internalized the character he was portraying with a rare fidelity. Now he listened, smiling, at Dwarika and Jadugopal's extravagant compliments and remarked, ‘You are educated men. It is to be expected that you understand the subtle nuances of the play. But what about the common man? Do you think he'll be able to appreciate its spirit?'

The talk veered away from the play to politics and from thence to the subject of Nayanmoni's whereabouts. ‘Yes of course I know Nayanmoni,' Girish replied to their question. ‘She's a handsome girl and very talented. But I hear she's left the theatre. As far as I know she's not on any board. As to where she lives—I haven't the slightest idea. You'll agree that I'm too old now to run after pretty women. I sleep best in my own bed and my bolster is all the companion I need.' He laughed at his own joke and added. ‘Perhaps Saheb has some idea. Let me send for him.'

When Ardhendushekhar came into the room, a few minutes later, Girish looked at him with an amused smile. ‘These gentlemen have come here looking for Nayanmoni. You were the one who brought her to the theatre. You must have some idea of where she is.'

‘She used to room with Gangamoni,' Ardhendushekhar said slowly. ‘Gangamoni loved her as her own daughter and left her the house with everything in it when she died. But Nayanmoni didn't stay there after her death. She sold up everything and went to live in a rented house—no one knows where. One of our actresses—a girl called Tagar—claims that she has seen her, several times, bathing in the Ganga at Kashi Mittir's Ghat.'

Around seven o'clock the next morning Dwarika and Jadugopal arrived at Kashi Mittir's Ghat and took up their positions, under a tree, a little distance away from the area demarcated for women. The bathers would have to pass them on their way out and, if Tagar wasn't a lying minx, they would catch Bhumisuta sooner or later. This third attempt proved lucky for
them. After about half an hour's waiting they noticed a ripple of excitement pass over the crowd of beggars hanging about the women's ghat. It was obvious that someone was distributing alms on her way out. In a few minutes the crowd thinned, scattered and disappeared and the woman came up the steps. It was Bhumisuta.

‘Bhumi!' Jadugopal called out excitedly. Bhumisuta looked up. Her face was serene and bore no sign of surprise. ‘What are you doing here Jadugopal Babu?' she asked pleasantly. ‘We've been looking for you for several days now,' Jadugopal replied. Then, pointing to Dwarika, he said, ‘Dwarika has news for you. You remember Dwarika? You saw him once many years ago—' Nayanmoni shook her head. She didn't remember him. Now Dwarika came forward and said, ‘Our friend Bharat is ill; grievously ill—practically swaying between life and death. If you wish to see him for the last time—I mean . . . there's no time to lose. The doctors have given up hope.' Nayanmoni betrayed no agitation at the news. Fixing her beautiful compelling eyes on Dwarika's face she asked quietly. ‘Has he sent for me?'

‘No. Not quite in the way you mean. He is very, very ill! Beyond sending for anyone. He lies in a coma all the time with rare intervals of consciousness. And then he tosses and turns and talks gibberish to himself in a high delirium. Sometimes he mutters “Bird, bird, bird” over and over again. At others—words and phrases that make no sense at all. One day my wife caught him knocking his head on the pillow and murmuring “Bhumi! Bhumi! Bhumi!” and asked me what it meant. I understood at once that it was you he wanted. I went to Jadu and—'

‘I'm an actress,' Bhumisuta said, cutting him short. ‘We're looked down upon by decent people. Will you allow me to enter your house?'

Dwarika smiled ruefully. ‘You don't know to whom you speak. My wife—'Then, leaving his sentence in mid air, he added, ‘Come quickly. There's precious little time to lose . . .'

When they arrived at Dwarika's mansion, Basantamanjari came forward and took Bhumisuta's hand. ‘I have seen you on the stage,' she began with a smile. But, at the sight of the look on the girl's face, her smile froze and her words faded on the air. Bhumisuta's great dark eyes were stark and dry. Her lips were as white as chalk. Her voice, when she spoke, was totally without
expression. ‘Where is he?' she asked.

‘I'll take you to him,' Basantamanjari said softly, ‘but you must prepare yourself for a shock. He looks like a corpse already though he still breathes. The doctors have given up hope. But you can save him. I feel it in my bones. Hold on to the man you love, sister. Bring him back as Behulah brought Lakhindar . . . ‘

Bhumisuta walked with slow, hesitant steps into the room. Basantamanjari hadn't exaggerated. The tall manly figure that Bhumi had loved so dearly had shrunk to the size of a sickly child's. Bharat lay in the middle of a vast bedstead, a small crumpled mass of skin and bones, sunk in the sleep of death. His colour was waxen white; his limbs emaciated and skeletal. He looked, indeed, like a corpse except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Bhumisuta stood gazing at his face. How long was it since she had seen him last? It seemed to her that aeons had passed since the night Shashibhushan Singha had brought her to him and he had spurned her. What if he did the same now? What if he opened his eyes and said, ‘Why are you here Bhumisuta? I have no need of you.' A shudder passed over Bhumisuta's frame. Her heart beat, dull and heavy. Pulling herself together with a tremendous effort, she put out her hand and placed it slowly, gingerly, on Bharat's forehead. It was the first time she had touched a man of her own volition. But though the man was almost dead her pulses leaped up at the touch—as though an electric current had passed from his body into hers . . .

Bhumisuta nursed the patient all day, sponging his limbs, placing cool compresses on his head and feeding him with spoonfuls of thin mutton soup and fruit juice. At night she slept in his room on a mat on the floor. The days passed one by one. Bharat breathed on but his condition remained static. Some days the fever rose from afternoon onwards and he was delirious by the evening. On others he lay in a coma for hours at a stretch, immobile—not uttering a sound. At such times Bhumisuta was filled with dread. Would he slip away as he slept?

On the night of the eleventh day of Bhumisuta's arrival, Bharat turned over on his side and exclaimed, ‘Oof! Ma
go
!' then sighing deeply, he muttered, ‘Water! Water!' The voice was strong and compelling, the words clearly formed. Bhumisuta broke out in a sweat. He was coming around. There was no doubt
of it. But what if he opened his eyes and recognized her? What if he still hated her? Should she call Basantamanjari? Then, dismiss-ing the idea as absurd, she walked with slow, resolute steps to the crystal decanter of water that stood on a table in a corner. Her hands trembled as she filled a glass but she didn't hesitate. Lifting Bharat's head to her breast, she held the glass to his lips. And, for the first time, he drank as though he knew he did, thirstily, in great gulps. Then, turning over on his side, he fell asleep.

Bhumisuta kept vigil beside Bharat's sleeping form all night. Taking the emaciated hand she pressed it to her breast murmuring, ‘I won't let you go. I won't! I won't! You abandoned me once. I won't let you do it again,' with a strange insistence as though by articulating those words she would imbibe the power to hold him. Basantamanjari had told her that true love was like incense smoke that rose from the heart and enveloped the loved one in an invincible cloud. The hours passed slowly. Then, as dawn broke, suffusing the room with the first faint pearly light of day, Bharat opened his eyes and looked straight into hers.

‘Who are you? he asked in a wondering voice.

‘I'm Bhumisuta,' she answered simply.

‘Bhumisuta! You've travelled a great distance to come to me. How battered you must be! How weary!' Then, turning his eyes this way and that, he muttered, ‘What place is this?'

‘This is your friend Dwarika's house. In Calcutta.' ‘Calcutta!' Bharat's brows came together. ‘But I didn't go to Calcutta. Ma
go
! How hot it is!' Bhumisuta saw that his face was beaded over with sweat. It was a good sign. The fever was breaking. She wiped it away with a cool cloth and, picking up a fan, began waving it over him. Bharat drifted away again but woke a few hours later.

‘Who are you?' he asked again.

‘I'm Bhumisuta.'

‘Do you live in this temple Bhumisuta? Kapal Kundala had hair flowing down to her feet just like yours. I didn't touch her. Believe me. She was broken when I found her. Her head had rolled away . . . Will she punish me for what I did ? She tried to kill me many times. Many, many times! I fought her with all my strength. But I have no strength left. She'll kill me!' Suddenly he screamed like a frightened child. Clinging to Bhumisuta he cried, ‘Save me Bhumi. Save me!'

Meera had been a child when her mother, Mrinalini, died. Now she was thirteen and her father was looking for a husband for her. Word had spread among the young men of Calcutta that marrying a daughter of the Thakurs was as good as getting a beautiful princess and half a kingdom. In the present context, of course, the half kingdom was equal to being sent to England to study at the Bar. But his experience with his second son-in-law had left Rabindranath determined not to get into any financial involvement of the sort again. Renuka had died of consumption, after prolonged mental and physical agony, but he was not rid of her husband. Satyendra continued to make demands on him.

One day a young man came to him carrying a letter from his father Bamandas Ganguly of Barisal. Rabindranath looked at him appraisingly. He felt himself drawn to him in a manner he hadn't felt for any of Meera's would-be suitors so far. The boy was seventeen or eighteen years old, tall and fair with well-cut features and a superb physique. His bright dark eyes looked confidently into the older man's. Rabindranath was even more impressed when he heard him speak. Nagen, for that was the boy's name, had a pleasant voice, spoke briefly and to the point articulating his words with ease. Altogether, there was something about him that drew Rabindranath like a magnet. This was the husband for Meera. He felt convinced of it.

In his reply to Bamandas Ganguly's letter Rabindranath added a proposal of marriage between their children. The response, though prompt, was disappointing. An alliance with the great house of Jorasanko would be an honour for him, Bamandas wrote, but, unfortunately, his son was not ready to marry just yet. He was too busy with his work for the Sadharan Brahmo Samaj. Besides, he wished to complete his education. Rabindranath wrote back suggesting that both aspirations, though worthy, were not incompatible with the married state. Immediately on the heels of this missive word came from
Bamandas that Nagen wished to go to America to pursue higher studies. If his prospective father-in-law could make the arrangements the wedding could take place at once. Rabindranath sighed, his eyes thoughtful. The expenses for study in America were higher than those in England. So was the fare. Yet . . . he had set his heart on the boy and was loath to let go of him. He thought for a day or two and made up his mind. Nagen was a different type altogether, he decided. He wouldn't behave like Satyendra. Besides, poor little motherless Meera deserved the best. How could he, her own father, deny it to her?

His reasoning was completely erroneous as subsequent events showed. What he had assumed to be confidence and strength of character was actually an obdurate pride and a complete absence of sensitivity. Nagen was self-centered and self-opinionated with a total lack of consideration for others. He was also aggressively opportunistic and a fanatical Brahmo of the new school. His scorn of the followers of the Adi Brahmo Samaj was practically on par with his hatred of the Hindus.

From the morning of the wedding day itself Nagen started showing his true colours. Word was brought to Rabindranath that the bridegroom had objected to the wearing of sindoor and
alta
by the women and had declared his intention of refusing to participate in the turmeric ceremony—it being a Hindu rite. The poet's lips curled in an amused smile. Brahmo boys were too finicky these days, he thought, too fearful of anything Hindu. He decided to send for Nagen and explain to him that sindoor and
alta
were cosmetics and had nothing to do with any religion. As for the turmeric ceremony—it was part of the
Stree Achar;
one of the many peripherals of a Bengali wedding.

These being minor objections, however, they could be ignored or circumvented. Matters threatened to reach an impasse just before the rites were to start. As per the traditions of the Adi Brahmo Samaj, set by Debendranath Thakur himself, Brahmins were required to wear the sacred thread during the nuptial ceremony. Seeing that the prospective bridegroom wasn't wearing one, the purohit proceeded to hang a length of white thread, wound nine times to the accompaniment of the Gayatri mantra, on his chest, as was the custom in such cases. But Nagen lowered his brows and twisted his neck like an obstinate bull. ‘I
won't wear a
poité
,' he grunted. The purohit found himself in a quandary. He was an old man and had been conducting all the ceremonies in the Thakur household from the Maharshi's time. Never had be been caught in such a situation. ‘Why Babajibon?' he said, forcing a smile on his lips, ‘You're a Brahmin are you not? You must wear a
poité
or the marriage vows will lose their sanctity.' Nagen snatched the thread from the old man's hands and flung it away. Then, rising from the bridal plank, he said in a cold, harsh voice, ‘If there's a way of taking the marriage vows without that garbage—I'm ready. If not . . .' Rabindranath, who stood a few yards away from the scene, froze at these words. It seemed as though he had stopped breathing. The expression on Nagen's face and the roughness of his manner horrified him. He couldn't believe that what he had witnessed just now was real. He glanced towards the boy's father and uncles. But, instead of pulling him up sharply for his indecent behaviour, they were smiling encouragement. What kind of people were these? How would they treat his little girl? His eyes turned to his own relations No one spoke a word. For, like the Hindus, the followers of the Adi Brahmo Samaj believed that the bridegroom's party was sacrosanct. They could misbehave as they pleased in the bride's father's house. They could hector and bully and make crude jokes. No one would dare voice a protest. They were empowered by society. If they left without completing the marriage rites the girl was ruined for life. No one would marry her.

Rabindranath stood undecided. Which was preferable? That his daughter spend a lifetime with the brute he had picked out for her? Or remain a spinster to the end of her days? He yearned to hold on to her, to keep this youngest child of his with him forever. But only for a moment. Meeting the eyes of the purohit who sat helplessly, not knowing what to do, he nodded twice. It was a gesture of affirmation; of allowing Nagen to take the vows without pledging the sacred thread. But, unable to bear the gloating triumph in his son-in-law's face, he walked quietly away from the scene.

The house in Shantiniketan was packed with guests for, this being Rabindranath's daughter's marriage, he had organized a big celebration. But now the lights and the crowds oppressed his
spirit. Leaving them behind he came and stood in the garden at the back of the house. It was a hot moonless night of early June and thousands of stars hung like bright lamps out of a clear cloudless sky. Rabindranath raised his head and gazed upon the firmament. How vast it was! What eternity lay in its depths! Man's little joys and sorrows were so insignificant in the context of this colossal whole. He remained like that for a long time. Lines of poetry flitted and flickered in his brain:

I shall exist in the
Universe in simple faith

I shall take the air from the sky
for my own breath

The earth below my feet
shall rise in love
Sanctifying these limbs . . .

Gradually the cold grey skeins of pain and guilt that had bound his heart so tightly that they seemed to choke the very passage of his lifeblood, broke and fell away leaving it light and free.

‘Baba!' A shriek reached his ears. It was a girl's voice, loud and piercing. Why, that was Meera! Rabindranath stood rooted to the ground for a moment. He felt as though his soul was being shaken to its foundations. Then, wrenching himself free of the paralyzed terror that gripped his limbs, he ran in the direction of the sound thinking furiously all the while. What had happened? Had the poor child in her agony . . .? He remembered how her frail body had trembled under the heavily brocaded sari and bridal veil at the sound of Nagen's loud domineering voice? She was only a child but she had sensed her father's humiliation. Had she done something to herself? Had she, in her desperation, taken her own life?

Entering the house he found a number of men and women crowding at the door of the bathing room. Meera stood just within it shaking from head to foot. At the sight of her, untouched by fire, rope or blade, he felt the relief washing over him in streams of sweat that poured down his trembling limbs. He saw the snake a few moments later. It was a giant cobra and it lay
coiled on the threshold, its fanned out hood swaying a little, its beady black eyes blinking at the terrified girl. Some of the men had sticks in their hands but hung back, hesitating, afraid to strike. It was impossible to kill a cobra at one stroke and the wounded reptile would be sure to lash back in revenge. But the poet, who had never killed a fly in his life, took a stick from one of the men and advanced resolutely. The snake, presumably, was destined to live a few years longer. So were father and daughter. Suddenly it changed its mind. Lowering its head it slithered away, like a streak of lightning, and disappeared into a hole in the ground.

‘Baba!' Meera ran, weeping, to her father and flung herself on his chest. Holding the trembling girl in a fierce embrace Rabindranath took a vow. He would shield this last youngest child of his from all pain and suffering. Ignoring social disapproval, he would protect her from her husband and his people. He would be there for her whenever she wanted him. Nothing would stand in the way of Meera's happiness. No—not as long as he lived.