First Light (28 page)

Shashibhushan was astonished. What a memory the king had! He had recognized Bhumisuta from a photograph taken over a year ago. But what was Bhumisuta doing in the royal apartments? She had been sent by his sister-in-law to look after him. She wasn't the king's servant.

‘Now tell me frankly what you propose to do with her,' the Maharaja continued. ‘Do you wish to marry her or to keep her as your concubine?' Shashibhushan blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Neither Maharaj,' he answered. ‘She's a servant in my household. That's all.'

‘That's the trouble with you Bengalis. You haven't learned to value women. A girl as pretty as that one and with such a voice, shouldn't be allowed to remain a servant. She's a jewel that a man should wear on his neck. If you wish to marry her I can make all the arrangements.'

‘No Maharaj. I have no wish to marry just now. I'm enjoying my freedom.'

The Maharaja frowned, obviously following a train of thought. Then, shaking his head sadly, he murmured, ‘All my life I've cherished the wish that someone, a woman with a lovely voice, would sing me to sleep with the verses of the ancient
pada
kartas.
But I never found such a woman. My queens know nothing of music. I try to teach them but they are too stupid to learn. Excepting Bhanumati of course. She was a queen among queens. So beautiful and talented! Such a fine singing voice! Many were the Manipuri ballads she sang to me. But alas! She went away leaving me desolate. She thought I had ceased to love her. But that wasn't true. I've cared for her son Samar—have I not?' Birchandra's eyes misted over and he covered his face dramatically with his hands.

This mood, however, did not last long. Like a ripple in a river it disappeared after a few seconds. Uncovering his face he turned eagerly to Shashi. ‘I wish to take Bhumisuta with me to Tripura. She can live in the palace and sing me to sleep every night. Go Shashi. Bring her to me. I am in a fever of impatience to hear that melodious voice again. And Shashi—buy her some colourful saris and a pair of earrings. Take the money from the khazanchi.' Shashibhushan was thoroughly alarmed. The Maharaja had decided to appropriate Bhumisuta; to take her to Tripura and keep her as his concubine. But Bhumisuta did not belong to Shashibhushan. She belonged to Monibhushan. What if he refused to release her? The king, for all his easygoing nature, was very stubborn. If he fancied a thing he wouldn't rest till he had got it. How would Shashi manage to fend him off? Biting his lips worriedly he went in search of Bhumisuta. He found her at the bottom of the stairs lighting the lamps. She wore a faded blue cotton sari torn in places and smudged with lamp black. Her hair was loose and hung untidily down her back.

‘Why is your sari so shabby and dirty?' Shashibhushan snapped at the girl. ‘Change into something else and come at once. The Maharaja wants to hear you sing.' Bhumisuta raised her large dark eyes to his and shook her head. ‘What do you mean?' Shashibhushan cried. ‘The Maharaja commands you. How can you refuse?'

‘I won't go,' Bhumisuta said steadily her dark limpid gaze fixed on Shashibhushan's face. ‘I'm not a baiji that I'll sing before strangers.'

‘Why did you go to his room then?' Shashi gnashed his teeth at her. ‘You went creeping into his rooms like a greedy cat. And now you shake your head with chastity and virtue. That won't
do—you know. It's the Maharaja's command. You'll have to obey.' Shashibhushan caught Bhumisuta's unflinching gaze and lost courage. ‘Please come,' he begged humbly, ‘Just this once.'

Bhumisuta laughed. ‘Tell him I'm not well,' she said softly, feeling sorry him. ‘Tell him I have a headache and am lying in my room.' Then, turning, she walked away her hair swaying, her
alta
-covered feet flashing white and crimson on the marble floor.

Star theatre in Beadon Street was full to overflowing. Girish Ghosh's
Chaitanya Leela
had been running for two months now and was still drawing packed houses. Hindus, riding triumphantly on the crest of a religious revival, were pouring into the theatre every evening from the most obscure lanes and by-lanes of Calcutta as well as from suburbs and villages. It was rumoured that the god of love, Sri Gouranga, had appeared on earth in person and was making himself known to his worshippers.

Sitting in his room in Dakshineswar, Ramkrishna heard his disciples talk animatedly about the new play. Unlike the ashrams of most holy men where only the guru's voice was heard, raised solemnly in prayer or oration, Ramkrishna's room echoed with noise and laughter. The half-crazed priest of Kali encouraged all manner of talk, even going to the extent of exchanging crude jokes with his disciples. And now, after hearing them praise the play to the skies, he declared his intention of going to see it. This put his disciples in a quandary. They stole furtive looks at one another and fell silent. How could they take their guru to a common playhouse? There were rogues, lechers and drunks among the audience. And the actresses were whores. The playwright himself was a notorious alcoholic who got so drunk during the course of the play that he had to be carried home every night. Ramkrishna's disciples hastened to dissuade him pointing out that men of his stature did not visit such dens of iniquity. Even Vidyasagar, who always saw women as victims, had turned away from the theatre when he learned that the actresses led loose, unchaste lives. Keshab Sen and Shibnath Shastri did not step, even by mistake, into a public theatre considering it the deadliest of sins. But all this advice rolled off like raindrops from a yam leaf. Ramkrishna paid no heed to them. ‘I won't see them as whores!' he exclaimed with a radiant smile. ‘In my eyes they'll appear as pure and chaste as my Ma Anandmayee!'

Unable to fend him off the disciples had to agree. It was decided that Mahendra Mukherjee would send his carriage to pick him up from Dakshineswar from where he would journey to Calcutta with some of his followers. He would stop at Mahendra Babu's flour factory at Hathibagan for a brief rest after which they would proceed to Beadon Street.

When the carriage came Ramkrishna clambered in grinning from ear to ear. Then, as the horses clattered out of the temple premises, he sat quietly by the window observing the landscape and humming a little tune. After a couple of hours the followers, who had dozed off with the movement of the carriage, were startled to hear an angry snarl. ‘Hazra says he's going to teach me a lesson.
Sala
!'
They glanced at one another maintaining a studied silence. They knew, from experience, that their guru became a trifle disoriented and spoke out of context just before a
bhav samadhi.
This time, however, Ramkrishna pulled himself out of it with an effort and announced, ‘I'm thirsty.'

‘We should have brought some water,' one of the disciples exclaimed, ‘And some food.' ‘Thakur won't eat anything now—,' another began but Ramkrishna stopped him with a muttered, ‘Yes I will. But I must empty my bowels first. The urge is growing stronger every moment.' The disciples stared at one another in dismay. What would they do now?

Fortunately they were close to their destination and arrived there in a few minutes. As soon as they descended Ramkrishna was bundled off to the lavatory from where he emerged, after a while, smiling broadly. He had had a wash and drops of water still clung to his hair and beard. ‘Ahh!' he sighed in deep satisfaction, then taking the green coconut that was offered, he drank the sweet milky water at one draught.

That evening, the street outside Star theatre was choc-a-bloc with landaus, phaetons and hackney coaches. Pacing up and down at the entrance Girish Ghosh eyed the crowd at the ticket counter with satisfaction. Soon they would put up the HOUSE
FULL sign as they had been doing for the last two months. Girish felt too old and ill to prance around on stage these days. He made it a point, instead, to stand at the gate every evening and welcome all the distinguished personages who came to see his plays. Colonel Alcott, leader of the Theosophical Movement, had
arrived already accompanied by the eminent professor from St Xavier's College—Father Lafon. Bijay Krishna Goswami of the Brahmo Samaj had followed them. Girish had just ushered in Mahendralal Sarkar and Shashibhushan Singha when he saw a carriage roll up and stop at the gate. A couple of men leaped down from the box and, opening the door of the carriage, helped someone to alight. Though it was getting dark Girish recognized the man. It was Ramkrishna of Dakshineswar.

Before Girish could get over his astonishment Mahendra Mukherjee came bustling up to him and announced ponderously, ‘Our revered preceptor Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb has expressed a desire to see your
Chaitanya Leela
and is here tonight. Do we have to buy tickets?' Girish frowned. He had seen Ramakrishna twice and been unimpressed. And, even more than the holy man, he found himself out of sympathy with his band of followers. They buzzed around him like flies and constantly expected favours from others. ‘I'll give him a pass,' Girish said, his jaw hardening, ‘But the rest of you will have to buy tickets.'

Girish was flattered, of course, by Ramkrishna's arrival. Groups of Vaishnav pandits from Nadia Shantipur were coming every day the subject being close to their hearts. But to be able to entice a Kali Sadhak to see
Chaitanya Leela
was a great victory! The fame of his play had clearly spread far beyond Calcutta! His heart swelled with triumph. Greeting Ramkrishna with polite deference he escorted him, personally, to a box upstairs. Ramkrishna looked around with lively interest marvelling at the bright lights, the velvet curtains and the crowds of people. He had never seen anything like this before. The pit downstairs was crammed with spectators—talking, laughing and gesticulating. And, upstairs, in boxes similar to the one in which he sat, were ensconced the wealthy elite of Calcutta. Servants fanned their masters with wide palm leaf fans and held out elegant
albolas
with long silver pipes. In some of the boxes he even saw cases full of bottles, crystal decanters and long-stemmed glasses.

Seeing Ramkrishna sweating profusely on that warm September evening, Girish Ghosh sent for a servant and bid him fan his guest. Then he went away reappearing, a few minutes later, with a dark red rose in his hand. As he handed it to Ramkrishna the latter stared at him in bewilderment ‘
Ogo
!' he
said in his quaint sing song voice, ‘What shall I do with this? Flowers are for gods and rich babus.' Girish Ghosh hurried away without answering. The orchestra had started playing the Overture and the curtain would rise any minute. Besides, he had started to feel the familiar spasms slowly contorting his insides. They would grow in intensity, as he knew from experience, till his abdomen felt as if on fire. The best thing for him would be to go home. Amritalal would take care of any emergency that might arise in his absence. Hurrying across the courtyard and out of the gate he hailed a hackney cab and went home.

Ramkrishna moved excitedly in his chair rolling his eyes and wagging his head in delight. ‘Bah! Bah!' he cried, it's a grand house! What shining furniture! What carpets! What curtains! I'm glad I came.' Then, shutting his eyes, he murmured, ‘People! So many people. When many human beings congregate in one place He manifests himself. I see Him clearly. One becomes All and All become One.' Then, opening his eyes, he turned to one of his followers and asked in an everyday voice, ‘These seats must be expensive. How much will they charge?'

The curtain rose, at this point, to reveal a pastoral scene. Outside a small hut, in the heart of a forest, a group of rishis and prostitutes were celebrating the birth of Nimai, the child who would grow into the legendary Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. Beating their drums and cymbals they began chanting the one hundred and eight names of Krishna whose incarnation had just been born.

Keshava Kuru Karma Deené

Madhava Manamohan, Mohan Muralidhari

Hari bol, Hari bol, Hari bol mana amaar

Sitting in the first row downstairs Mahendralal hissed in Shashibhushan's ear, ‘Girish has stolen this from the Bible. The Bible tells us of three wise men who followed a star to Bethlehem to offer gifts to the newborn Jesus.' The spectators sitting around him threw burning glances in his direction but he ignored them completely and went on in his very audible whisper, ‘No one had the slightest inkling when Nimai was born that he would grow up to be someone special. For many years he was considered to be nothing more than his mother Sachi's spoiled brat.'

But the scene that drew these adverse comments from
Mahendralal had quite the opposite effect on Ramkrishna. He folded his hands in reverence to the bearded rishis and, swaying his head to the music, went into a trance.

A few scenes later, Binodini made her first appearance in the role of the adolescent Nimai. She had wanted to do a man's role wishing to break Bhuni's monopoly. She had thrown the challenge to Girish Ghosh and he had taken it up. He had created a role that was as difficult as it was demanding. And Binodini had risen handsomely to it justifying his choice of her. She had immersed herself so completely in her new character that even those who had been seeing her every evening for over a decade could not recognize her. It seemed as though she had taken a vow to shed her old image of the beautiful coquette who sang and danced with such grace and ease. Sloughing off her old identity she was taking on a new one. She rose at dawn each day and bathed in the Ganga. She spent the whole day in prayer and meditation, ate simple food and spoke as little as possible. And day by day she found herself changing. She was not only acting Nimai. She was becoming Nimai.

The Hindus, whose religion had taken a severe beating at the hands of the Brahmos and Christian missionaries, felt elated. Here under the bright lights of the proscenium Hinduism was manifesting itself—not as a religion of narrow creeds and dark superstitions but as catholic and humane.

Sitting in the first row Colonel Alcott and Father Lafon watched the play entranced, not at the glory of Hinduism, but the acting ability of Binodini. ‘I've seen performances in England by the best of actresses,' Colonel Alcott murmured in his companion's ear. ‘I've seen Ellen Terry in the roles of Portia and Desdemona. But I'll say, without prejudice, that this actress' performance is not a whit inferior. I hadn't expected anything like this. Most amazing!' Father Lafon did not reply but his eyes shone with pride. He loved India and Indians. Triumph surged within him at the thought that the much despised natives had proved themselves equal to the British in one field at least. And, that too, in the highly sensitive, creative field of the theatre.

Upstairs, in his box, Ramkrishna became more and more emotional as the play wore on. And now the curtain rose on the highly acclaimed scene of the Ganga puja at which Nimai, unable
to bear the pangs of hunger, snatches up handfuls of sweets and fruits from the thalas laid out on the river ghat at Nabadweep. The devotees, chanting the mantras with their eyes closed, get a rude shock at this violation of their offerings and stare in astonishment. The irate pandits chase the lad shaking their fists at him and cursing him with death and destruction. But Nimai is not afraid. Wiggling his thumbs mockingly at the outraged Brahmins, he runs away. But the women among the devotees cannot bear to see him go. ‘
Nimai ai, Nimai ai,
' they cry begging him to return. Then one of them rises to her feet. She knows the mantra that will draw Nimai like a moth to a flame. Raising her arms above her head she starts swaying from side to side singing
Hari bol! Hari bol!

At this point the music director Benimadhav Adhikari, who was standing in the wings watching the scene, gestured to the musicians whereupon a flood of music burst forth from pipes and drums and the whole cast started singing
Hari bol! Hari bol!
Nimai stopped in his tracks, undecided, for a few seconds then gradually his feet started tapping the floor. His arms rose above his head and his body started whirling in a slow circular motion.

‘Aaha! Aaha!' Ramkrishna cried wiping his streaming eyes. His followers immediately took up the cue and a torrent of aahas issued from their lips. And, indeed, looking on Binodini, there were many who had tears coursing down their cheeks. Her eyes had the glazed look of one who knew not who or where she was; of one who was floating on a sea of bliss. Her limbs dancing to the beat of drums and cymbals, had lost their languorous grace. It seemed as though, filled with a divine frenzy, she had surrendered body and soul and was dancing her way to God.

The scene was so moving that many among the audience burst out weeping. Some chanted
Hari bol
with the singers on stage; others swayed their heads eyes closed in ecstasy. One man stood up on his chair and started dancing in rhythm to the drumbeats. ‘
A molo ja!
' Mahendralal Sarkar cried out irritably, ‘The man's stone drunk. Why don't they throw him out?'

‘Shh!' A fellow spectator hissed from behind. ‘Mind your language Moshai. He is the revered Sri Bijay Krishna Goswami.'

‘Revered by whom? What does he do?' ‘He's a leader of the Brahmo Samaj.'

‘A Brahmo!' Mahendralal grimaced. ‘All the Brahmos I've met keep running their mouths about the Abstract and the Formless. What's a Brahmo doing here chanting
Hari Bol
and weeping buckets with Nimai?'

‘That's just it Dada,' another spectator put in his bit. ‘The lost sheep are returning to the fold. Those who denied Hinduism and strayed away are coming back.'

‘Nonsense,' Mahendralal cried explosively. ‘What about those who became Christians and Muslims? Are they returning? And if they did would the Hindus take them back?' Then, turning to Shashibhushan, he demanded angrily, ‘What's amusing you, young man? I've been watching you. I just have to open my mouth and you start to snigger.'