First Light (17 page)

Suddenly she heard footsteps on the stairs and her blood froze. ‘She came up here. I saw her,' one voice said. ‘I saw her,' the other echoed. It didn't take Ajoy and Bijoy long to find Bhumisuta. They made a rush at her and shouted in unison, ‘I've found her. I've found her.' Bhumisuta slipped past them and ran towards the stairs but the two were strong young men and overtook her easily. Ajoy grasped her arm and said, ‘Why do you run away from us? We won't harm you,' and the other said in exactly the same voice, ‘Why do you run away from us? We won't
harm you.' But Bhumisuta strained and pulled against them trying to free herself. At this the boys lost their temper. One grabbed her by the hair and the other pushed her so hard that she fell to the ground. Picking herself up in a flash she ran as fast as she could, the boys chasing her like two cats after a mouse, cackling with laughter all the while. Sometimes one caught her and tried to pull her towards him but the other pulled in the opposite direction, setting her free. Bhumisuta knew that screaming for help would do her no good. She had matured considerably in the last few years and knew that men were above reproach. Males were likened to gold rings, valuable even when misshapen. No harm could come to them. But if she uttered a word of complaint against the mistress' beloved nephews she would be starved and beaten and pronounced guilty of seducing two innocents. Rushing up to the wall she considered throwing herself down. ‘Let it end,' she thought bitterly, ‘Let this life of misery and humiliation end. What else is left for me?' But, on the point of clambering up the wall, she thought suddenly, ‘If I fall from such a great height my head will be squashed flat against the stone flags below. My legs and arms will crack and break like twigs. It will be terribly painful. Shall I be able to bear it?' She changed her mind and made a dash in the opposite direction. This time she found the stairs. She leaped down half skipping, half sliding till, missing her footing, she rolled down the rest. Amazingly, she was unhurt. Picking herself up she ran into Bharat's room—the only one in which a light burned—and closed the door. But Aju and Biju were right on her heels. The door burst open and the two ogres fell on her. ‘Hé! Hé! Hé!' they cackled, ‘How can you escape us now?'

Bharat had merely turned his head when he heard Bhumisuta come in. Now, seeing what appeared to be a pair of white monkeys jumping about in his room, he pushed back his chair and stood up. His blue blood boiled in his veins. Grabbing one of them by the hair he struck him on the cheek with all the force he could muster. Then, glaring at the other, he thundered, ‘Get out of my room or I'll—' Picking up an iron rod he advanced menacingly. The two bullies ran out of the room like the cowards they were. Bhumisuta stood quaking in a corner, her arms covering her breast.

Bharat went back to his table without bothering to cast a glance at her. Waving a hand in dismissal he bent over his books once again. This was the second time that Bharat had come to Bhumisuta's rescue. But he didn't speak a word to her. Bhumisuta watched him for sometime then, coming up to him timidly, she said, ‘You saved my honour. What can I give you in return?' Her voice was sweet and she spoke in an educated tongue. Bharat's curiosity was aroused and he turned around and looked at her. ‘She can't be a mere slave,' he thought.

‘Who are you?' he asked.

‘I've come from Orissa. I'm an orphan.'

‘You don't have to give me anything. Go to your room and don't come back.'

‘If they catch me again—'

‘Well, I can't protect you every time. Why don't you talk to the masters of the house?'

‘They won't believe me.'

‘Even if they don't—there's nothing I can do for you. I live quietly in one corner of the house. I hardly know the inmates—'
Picking up the lamp from the niche in which it stood he said, a kinder note creeping into his voice, ‘Go to your room. I'll hold a light for you. Don't be afraid. No one will harm you.'

The very next night Bhumisuta was back in Bharat's room. This time she came unpursued—of her own volition. Bharat looked up as she entered and his face hardened. ‘Why are you here again?' he asked severely, ‘What do you want from me?' Bhumisuta fidgeted a little, cleared her throat and said, ‘I have a coral ring set in silver—not in gold. Will you take it?'

‘A ring?' Bharat exclaimed, ‘Why should I take a ring?' ‘Because I have nothing else.' Bharat's puckered brow smoothened and a smile flickered on his lips. The girl was a slave in this house. Yet her sense of self respect was so intense that she would not take anything without giving something in return.

‘I can sing verses from
Geet Govinda
,' she continued. ‘Would you like to hear me?'

‘
Geet Govinda
! Do you know Sanskrit?'

‘Yes. I know English too.
A sly fox met a hen.
It means—' ‘What's English for
Hathi
?'

‘Elephant.'

‘How do you say
Jagannath ér mandir
in English?'

‘Lord Jagannath's Temple.'

‘Who taught you all this?'

‘My father. But he died of cholera. They all died of cholera. And so my lessons stopped. Will you teach me?'

‘I have no time. Besides, I'm a student myself.'

Bhumisuta went and sat in a corner of the room, on the floor. ‘You don't have to waste your time on me,' she said comfortably. ‘I'll sit here and listen to you as you read. But if I don't understand something—' Bharat pushed his chair away and stood up. ‘Please go,' he said sternly,' and don't disturb me again.'

‘Then you must take this.' Putting the ring down on the table Bhumisuta ran out of the room stifling her sobs with difficulty. Bharat looked down at the ring. It was old and bent and the silver had turned black with disuse. But it was the only thing she had and she had insisted on giving it to him because she couldn't accept anything in charity.

The next morning he was awakened by the sound of a sweet voice singing outside his door. Bharat smiled to himself. The girl had evidently thought the coral ring insufficient payment for saving her life and honour. She was singing for him because that was the only other thing she could give him. Opening the door, Bharat walked up to where she sat huddled on the floor. Putting the ring in her hands he said, ‘You have sung for me. That is payment enough. You must keep the ring.'

‘I can dance too,' Bhumisuta rose from the floor, ‘Would you like to see me?' Then, without waiting for an answer, she raised her arms above her head and swayed like a flower to the rhythm of her tapping feet. Bharat was charmed. ‘Very good,' he said encouragingly, ‘you dance well.'

‘Will you help me with my lessons then?'

‘No. I don't have the time.'

A couple of days later Bharat went to the theatre with his friends. They were showing Girish Ghosh's
Pandav ér agyatbas
at the National. It was a popular playhouse but not as popular as Bengal Theatre. The latter used more sophisticated techniques. In one of their plays they had even brought a horse on to the stage. Girish Ghosh played two roles in
Pandav ér agyatbas.
He was Duryodhan and Keechak. Amritalal was Bhim and Binodini was
Draupadi. Bharat wondered who Abhimanyu was till a friend whispered in his ear, ‘That is Bonobiharini.' Bharat was surprised. A woman doing a man's role and that too so well! No wonder the hall resounded with claps every time Abhimanyu came on the stage. Bhushan Kumari was playing Uttara. She had to dance in all her scenes but her dancing, Bharat thought, was atrocious. Her arms and legs were as stiff as sticks. Suddenly he thought of Bhumisuta. She could sing sweetly and dance gracefully. And she was beautiful. She was ideal for the theatre. Why was she wasting her talents living as a slave in a hostile household? What did the future hold for her? Actresses, of course, were looked down upon in society. But they were rich and glamorous and admired. And they lived lives of luxury. It was much better to be an actress than a slave.

Returning home that evening he was pleasantly surprised to see that his room had been swept and dusted; his books arranged in neat piles and his clothes washed, dried and folded. The large blob of ink that had fallen on the table two days ago had been rubbed off. Not a trace remained.

Jyotirindranath's phaeton rolled majestically down the road and stopped at the gate of Number 6 Beadon Street where the National Theatre was housed. As he stepped down from the carriage the men crowding at the paan shop nudged one another and whispered, ‘Jyoti Babu! Jyoti Babu!' Jyotirindranath looked splendidly handsome and elegant. Over his kurta of fine, almost translucent silk, he wore a waistcoat of shimmering blue satin. An
uduni
with a gold border rested lightly on one shoulder and the frill of his fashionably puckered dhuti was held fastidiously in one hand. As he walked through the gate the darwan, Bhujbal Singh, rose hastily from his stool. Hiding the funnel of ganja, from which he had been taking leisurely puffs behind his back, he salaamed with obsequious courtesy. Bhujbal Singh was big and fierce looking with bloodshot eyes. He was kept on purpose to intimidate, even beat up, members of the audience who disrupted performances by unruly or vulgar behaviour. Everyone feared him and he feared no one, except the owner of the theatre Pratap Jahuri and Jyotirindranath. In the latter's case, of course, it was not so much fear as awe and respect. Yet Jyotrindra was never harsh or overbearing. He smiled easily and had a kind word for everybody. Even now, he smiled at Bhujbal Singh and asked pleasantly ‘
Achha hai
?' before walking into the hall.

It was quite dark inside except for one gas lamp that flared and sputtered at the bottom of the stairs that led to the green room. There would be no performance tonight. The players were rehearsing and Jyotirindranath had come to watch it and offer his comments.

Jyotirindranath was accorded the respect due to a successful playwright by both management and cast. Three of his plays
Puru Bikram, Kinchit Jalajog
and
Sarojini
or
The Conquest of Chittor
had been performed several times before appreciative audiences. Of them the last was the most popular. In fact,
Sarojini
was brought back on stage whenever a new venture flopped. Of late,
however, the scene had changed. Girish Ghosh, the company's best actor and Jyotirindranath's friend, had left National following a quarrel with the manager. He had taken Amritalal, Binodini and Kadambini with him. Now they had set up a rival company called Star Theatre, a stone's throw away right on Beadon Street where their play
Daksha Yagna
was being performed before packed houses. The National Theatre was suffering grievously in consequence. With their best actors and actresses gone their performances were losing their public appeal. Even Bankimchandra's
Anandamath
had proved a disaster. Jyotirindra hadn't thought much of
Anandamath.
Of course, he had only seen the play. Robi, who had read the book, hadn't liked it either. The characters, he thought, were flat and wooden and the narrative marred by excessive authorial comment and instruction. It was then that Pratap Jahuri had requested Jyotirindranath to write a new play. Jyotirindra was hesitant at first. Girish Ghosh was his friend and he didn't wish to offend him or enter into any competition with him. On the news reaching the thespian's ears, he had sent word that Jyotirindra was to abandon his scruples and feel free to give his plays to anyone he wished. Consequently, Jyotirindra had given Pratap Jahuri a script that he had written three or four years ago. That play, called
Swapnamayee,
was being rehearsed that evening.

The proprietors of the two theatres, Pratap Jahuri and Gurmukh Rai, were both Marwaris. Being traders by caste and profession, they were quick to grasp the fact that theatre was a flourishing business and could bring in a lot of money—a fact that had not entered the heads of Bengali stage managers so far. The latter were usually scions of wealthy families who indulged in theatre for a sport and, far from making money, blew away a lot of their own. But now the trend was changing. Theatre management was passing into the hands of Marwaris and becoming big business.

Jyotirindranath entered the auditorium on silent feet and stood by the proscenium watching the scene that was being rehearsed. The hall was dark and empty except for a few chairs in the first row where Pratap Jahuri sat with his friends. There were two men and three women on the stage. Of these Jyotirindranath recognized only two—Mahendralal Bosu who was an
accomplished actor and Bonobiharini nicknamed Bhuni. Bhuni had a good singing voice and wouldn't be too bad as Swapnamayee. She was the best actress after Binodini and, in the latter's absence, the National's leading lady. But, looking on the second woman, he got a shock. Who was this fright? She was as tall and thin as a bamboo pole and as black as coal. Jyotirindra had nothing against a dark complexion. But this woman looked hideous with her black face coated with cheap chalk. In fact, she looked like a stick wrapped in a sari with a mask at its tip. The National Theatre, it seemed, was making up its cast from the cheapest whores of Sonagachhi. What would they make of his play?

Jyotirindra's only consolation was that Ardhendushekhar had suddenly resurfaced from one of his long disappearances and was acting in
Swapnamayee.
Though the most whimsical of men, there was not another actor who could match him in a serio-comic role.
Swapnamayee
was a historical play set in the reign of Emperor Aurangzeb. Like in all his other plays, in
Swapnamayee
too, Jyotirindra had idealized the values of patriotism and loyalty to one's country and cause. There was no adequate role in it for Ardhendushekhar but his presence, Jyotirindra thought, was enough.

That evening's rehearsal was not in costume. Mahendralal Bosu, in the male lead, was wearing a
lungi
and vest and held a hookah in one hand from which he took puffs between lines. From time to time he brandished it about as if it were a sword upon which sparks and flecks of burning ash flew about the stage. Bonobiharini had a glass of cheap liquor in her hand. She drank heavily and couldn't speak a line before taking a few sips. She had left her youth far behind her but was reluctant to bid it farewell. In consequence, she tried to highlight what she considered to be her natural assets. She wore neither chemise nor jacket and took care to let her sari slip off her breasts from time to time.

‘Who comes?' Bonobiharini spoke her lines. ‘Whose footsteps do I hear?'

‘Tish a cruel fate!' her companion took up her cue. ‘A vasht army advanshes upon ush. Toushands and toushands of sholdiers!'

‘Death be upon you!' Bonobiharini's plump body rocked with
laughter. ‘
Toushands of sholdiers!
' she mimicked cruelly. ‘What a great actress you are Podi! You should be the heroine.'

‘We'll need another play then,' Ardhendushekhar who was sitting in the front row with Pratapchand commented drily, ‘A play without a single “s”. Pratap Jahuri thumped him on the back and laughed. ‘I'll ask Writer babu to cut out all the words with
“s” in them.'

‘There's Writer babu,' Bonobiharini exclaimed joyfully seeing Jyotjrindranath for the first time. Then, changing her tone to one of childlike petulance, she cried, ‘You haven't written my songs for me yet. We have only a week left and you promised—' Now all the men rose to welcome Jyotirindranath and begged him to sit down. But Jyotirindranath remained standing, silent, as if in deep thought. Fixing his eyes on Pratapchand's face he said gravely, ‘You wish to remove all the words with “s”? I suggest you abandon my play and take up something else.'

‘
Arré! Arré!
Pratapchand hastened to reassure him. ‘That was only a joke. You mustn't take it seriously.'

‘Saheb,' Jyotirindra turned to Ardhendushekhar. ‘Bad diction and mispronounciation are fatal in a play. They offend the ears of the audience.'

‘That's true,' Ardhendushekhar agreed instantly. ‘The wench is atrocious. We'll have to recast the role.'

‘Thakur Babu,' Pratapchand tried to change the subject. Half his rehearsals were over and he was in no mind to recast the role. ‘Why don't you add a few dances? Bhuni dances well.'

‘Swapnamayee is a high-born Hindu woman. Dance will be alien to her character. You may add as many dances as you please. But they must come before and after my play. I'll write some songs for Bonobiharini, though.'

‘They must be really good Thakur Babu,' Bonobiharini pouted her full lips at him and stuck out her bosom provocatively. ‘I'll never forget
Jwala Jwala Chita/ Dwigun Dwigun.
Aa ha ha! What a beautiful song that was.'

The rehearsal recommenced. Bonobiharini wasn't too bad, Jyotirindranath thought, but Binodini would have been much better. She had the ability to throw herself heart and soul into a role. But Binodini would never act in his plays again. Girish Babu was writing so many plays himself that he didn't need the services
of another playwright.

‘What do you think?' Ardhendushekhar asked Jyotirindranath after a scene had ended.

‘Not bad,' Jyotirindra replied cautiously. ‘But something seems to be missing. What the French call
joie de vivre.
The spirit—'

‘That will come on the night of the performance. You'll see—' Jyotirindra pulled a gold watch out of his pocket and pressed a tiny button. The lid flew up. He noted the time and rose to leave. But Pratap Jahuri stopped him. ‘I have a plan Thakur Babu,' he said. Then, turning to Ardhendushekhar, he prompted, ‘Why don't you tell Thakur Babu about Ghosh Moshai's idea? And how his
Daksha Yagna
became such a hit.'

‘Girish the atheist has turned religious—as you know,' Ardhendushekhar explained. ‘He keeps calling out “Ma! Ma!” between swigs of liquor and consorts with priests and devotees. He had the Naat Mandir at Kalighat cleared and conducted his dress rehearsal of
Daksha Yagna
there. Ma Kali was the sole audience. Pratapchand is convinced that that is the reason for the play's success.'

‘The play received Kalimayee's blessings,' Pratapchand said, ‘I've decided to seek the same for
Swapnamayee
.'

Jyotirindranath was appalled at such talk. The theatre, in his opinion, was a most powerful weapon and ought to be used to fight social and political injustice and oppression. Instead, it was being made a mockery of in front of idols of stone and clay. He couldn't, he wouldn't allow it. After all he was a Brahmo and a member of the executive committee of the Adi Brahmo Samaj. ‘I'm sorry Sethji,' he said firmly. ‘I have a contract with you. There is nothing in it about a dress rehearsal in the Naat Mandir of Kalighat. My play shall be staged-here and here alone.'

No other playwright would have dared to speak to the producer in that tone. But Jyotirindranath cared neither for the man nor his money. Pratapchand's fat face collapsed like a balloon. ‘Then, then,' he stammered in a faint voice, ‘I won't go against your wishes. You are a good writer. Your play will go down well—anyway.'

Jyotirindranath was just stepping into his carriage when another phaeton came rolling by and stopped at the gate of the
National. ‘Ah! Jyoti Babu!' a face appeared at the window and a familiar voice called out in greeting. It was Girish Ghosh. There were two others with him—Binodini and a young man. The latter wore a tall turban on his head and a rope of pearls hung from his neck. But his face was so young and childlike that he looked like a child parading in his father's robes. Jyotirindranath was truly startled when Girish Ghosh introduced him as Gurmukh Rai. He had heard that the financier of Star Theatre was a Marwari businessman and that he was keeping Binodini as his mistress.

After the preliminary courtesies had been exchanged Girish Ghosh told Jyotirindra that they were on their way to a pleasure house on the bank of the Ganga where Binodini would sing before a select company. Inviting him to join them Girish, who was obviously inebriated, added in a slurred voice, ‘You've given my rival company a play Jyoti Babu. But that does not mean that our friendship is at an end. Come with us. Sit for a while at least.' Jyotirindra begged to be let off but Girish would not hear of it. He kept on pressing him till Jyotirindra's resolution wore off. As the two carriages set off together Jyotirindra thought of Kadambari. He had promised her that he would come home early tonight. And, as on many other occasions, he was breaking his promise.