First Light (30 page)

Dwarika had recently come into a fortune and had changed a great deal in consequence. He used to be a good student, an enthusiastic litterateur and an ardent patriot. But now, with
the arrival of a thousand rupees a month from the estates he had inherited from his maternal uncle, he started neglecting his studies and everything else connected with it. And, as was to be expected, he started looking for ways of spending his money. Bharat watched him with dismay. He knew that a sudden change in fortune had disastrous effects on some people, but he wished it hadn't happened to Dwarika.

‘Bharat,' Dwarika said, walking into his house one evening, ‘Get ready quickly. I want to take you somewhere.'

‘Where?' Bharat looked up timidly.

‘Don't ask silly questions. Simply follow
me.'

Out in the street, Dwarika hailed a cab and ordered the coachman to drive in the direction of Boubazar. Coming to the end of Hadhkatar Gali he stopped before a house whose front door stood hospitably open. Dwarika paid the fare and taking Bharat by the hand, ran up the stairs, ‘I spend the night here sometimes,' he said by way of explanation. ‘My father used to come here too. I've heard people say that he ran away from home two days before he was to be wed. After a frantic search he was discovered in this house and brought back just in time.'

Reaching the top floor Bharat and Dwarika stood before a dosed door. Dwarika gave it a push and it opened easily, the hinges groaning a little. Inside, the room was flooded with light from the candles burning brightly from the eight brackets set in the walls. A huge bedstead of carved mahogany stood in the middle of the room. And, on its high mattress spread with snowy sheets, a girl, young and slender and of a dazzling beauty lay on her back, her eyes closed and her hands crossed over her breast. Her delicate limbs were draped in a heavy sari of Benares brocade and her arms and neck were weighted down with gold. The door
had creaked with an agonized sound but the girl did not open her eyes. There was something unreal about the scene.
A sleeping princess.
The thought came into Bharat's head as Dwarika, raising his eyebrows in mock dismay, leaned over the girl and sang softly —

‘Kunchita Késhini nirupam béshini

Rasa—abéshinibhangini ré

Adhara surangini anga tarangini

Sangini naba naba rangini ré'

The girl opened her eyes but did not sit up. She let her soft warm gaze rest on Dwarika. ‘She's my friend,' Dwarika explained to Bharat. ‘Her name is Basantamanjari.' Then, turning to the girl he asked, ‘Why were you sleeping at this hour Basi?' Basantamanjari yawned revealing a soft pink mouth. ‘I have a fever,' she said in a complacent voice. ‘No you haven't,' Dwarika placed a hand on her brow, ‘And if you do, Why are you all dressed up? And why is there so much light in your room?'

‘I like dressing up. And I hate sleeping in the dark. I visit so many places in my dreams. I meet so many people—' Waving a dazzling white hand in Bharat's direction, she asked, ‘Who is he?'

‘My friend. His name is Bharat. He's a good boy, wonderfully innocent!'

Basantamanjari fixed her eyes, large, dark and shadowed with long lashes, on Bharat's face. There was a slight quiver in her voice as she asked, ‘Who are you? Have I seen you before?' Bharat shook his head. ‘But I know you,' the strange girl continued. ‘It happens with some people. You recognize them even if you haven't seen them before. I have seen you in my dreams.'

‘What rotten luck!' Dwarika exclaimed rolling his eyes comically. ‘I squander all my money on you; buy you saris and jewels. And my friend becomes your dream companion! Are you tired of me and want a change?'

‘But it's true. I see him in my dreams. I see a falchion hanging over his head. Death is stalking him!' Her eyes fixed his with a compelling gaze, ‘Isn't that true?' she asked.

Bharat felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Who was this girl and why did she look at him so strangely? There was something mysterious about her not only in what she was saying but in her manner. There were two men in her room and she went
on lying on her bed. ‘What nonsense you talk!' Dwarika scolded her tenderly. ‘Don't listen to her Bharat. She says the strangest things at times'

‘It isn't nonsense. Ask him if what I've said isn't true.'

‘I must go,' Bharat
rose to his feet.

‘Why?' Dwarika clutched his shoulder. ‘We've only just arrived. Let's have some brandy. I keep a bottle here—'

‘No. I can't stay. I'm going.' Bharat flung off the restraining hand and rushed out of the room. His face was on fire and his breath came in gasps. The blood pounded in his heart. He ran down the steps and out of the open door into the street ignoring the drizzle that soaked him to the skin. He hated himself. The girl's beauty had drawn him like a magnet and he had nearly succumbed. How could he have forgotten Bhumisuta even momentarily? Wasn't it somewhere here, in Boubazar, that he had promised Bhumisuta he would look after her all his life? He hadn't kept his promise. He had abandoned her. And now she was lost to him. She was in the king's custody and he dared not go near her.

In the paved yard that fronted the mansion of Jorasanko a brand new phaeton stood waiting. Its bright ochre varnish shone like gold in the morning sun. The morocco leather of the upholstery was of a rich plum colour. Two jet black horses snorted and pawed the air nervously as grooms and servants crowded around asking eagerly, ‘Whose carriage is this? Which babu's?'

They were not kept in the dark for long. From the side door of the
khazanchi khana
a young man stepped out and walked briskly towards them. He was tall and well built with a narrow beard and dark hair waving down to his neck. He wore a puckered dhuti and banian and had a shawl on his shoulders. On his feet were English socks and shining pumps. It was Robi. He was twenty-four years old and this carriage was his father's gift to him.

Debendranath spent most of his time in his house in Chinsura. But he kept a stern eye on everything that went on in his family. More and more people were referring to him as Maharshi these days, seeing, in his self-imposed exile from Calcutta, a parallel to the lives of the ancient rishis. Yet Debendranath was an extremely calculating, pragmatic, man of the world. He had taken the deaths of his daughter-in-law, two sons-in-law and son Hemendra with exemplary calm. But, faced with the ignominious failure of Jyotirindranath's shipping venture, he found his patience at an end. It was not only the loss of the money that he regretted. He looked upon it as a blot on his family's honour. People would be laughing at the Thakurs of Jorasanko. And his own son was responsible. He could hardly believe it. Jyoti—his favourite, the boy on whom he had set his highest hopes, had let him down. Not once, but again and again. He wouldn't, he couldn't forgive him. He decided to mete out the severest punishment.

Within days of Jyotirindranath's return to Calcutta Debendranath proceeded to strip him of all his offices. The
charge of the estates was passed on to Dwijendranath and the secretaryship of the Adi Brahmo Samaj was conferred upon Robi. Some of the family's well wishers advised Debendranath against such a course. The boy was shattered in spirit already! He needed support and encouragement from his father—not vindictiveness of this kind. But Debendranath was unmoved by these entreaties and went on calmly with his plans.

He raised Robi's allowance and even arranged for a sum to be paid to his wife each month. He gave orders for the redecoration of their wing. And now he had given Robi this new carriage. The secretary of the Brahmo Samaj had to move around, meet people and organize meetings. He needed a carriage of his own. But, Debendranath's generosity notwithstanding, he was a hard task master. Robi had to visit him every week with a report of all the activities of the Samaj
and its expenses. Though pleased with his youngest son's hard work and dedication he made it a point to chide him from time to time. ‘You did well to purchase a new harmonium,' he had said on one occasion, ‘It was needed. But why did you send the old one for repairs? That is waste.' Robi never answered back. He obeyed his father's commands without question though he felt rebellious at times. He hadn't approved of his father's treatment of his Jyotidada. But he was powerless to protest. In his embarrassment he had stopped going to Gyanada-nandini's house.

Of late Robi was straining every nerve to bring the three groups of Brahmos under one banner. Hinduism, riding on a high new wave, was threatening to crush the Brahmo Samaj whose members were small in number and hopelessly divided. If something was not done to unify the Brahmos, he was never tired of pointing out, the Samaj would disintegrate. But, though everyone agreed with him, each section dictated its own terms and would not be swayed. Thus a consensus eluded them. But Robi did not lose heart. He went on trying.

Now, on his way to Pratapchandra Majumdar's house, he suddenly remembered something his father had said at their last meeting. He had been holding Robi's
Shaishab Sangeet
in his hand when Robi walked into his study. Looking up from the dedication which he had obviously been reading, he had asked sternly, ‘How many books a year do you mean to print from the
Brahmo Press?' Then, without waiting for a reply, he had walked out of the room. Robi had stared at the departing back in bewilderment. He thought his father liked his poetry. He had complimented him often and given him presents. Why, then, did he ask that question? Was he annoyed because the poems in the book were love poems? Or was he hinting that Robi was taking unfair advantage of the press which was public property? Or was it the dedication that had offended him? Robi shivered a little at the thought. He had tried, genuinely tried, to forget Natun Bouthan and get on with his life. He had succeeded too. Except when it came to writing a dedication. Then he could think of no other person. Natun Bouthan's face looked unfailingly out of the innocent white sheet before him. For
Prakritir Pratishod
he had taken care not to put down her name. ‘To you' the dedication had run. Yet he had seen members of his family exchange meaningful glances. Gyanadanandini's face had hardened and Swarnakumari had passed a snide comment. In consequence he had left the dedication page blank for his next volume
Nalini.
And, now, he was about to publish
Bhanu Singhér Padavali.
Bhanu was
her
name for him. But for her the poems would never have been written. Not taking her name he had written: You entreated me often to publish these poems. I have done so. But you are not here to see them in print.'

The horses stumbled over a rut in the road making the carriage rock precariously and startling Robi out of his thoughts. Then, when the vehicle started running smoothly once again, the words he was struggling to shut out clamoured in his brain, ‘How many books a year do you mean to print from the Brahmo Press?' Why had Baba Moshai asked that question? Was it because his books didn't sell? They lay in piles in the shops of the People's Library, Sanskrit Press Depository and Canning Library and didn't bring in a pie. Bankim Babu's books sold like hot cakes and were even pirated. Perhaps Baba Moshai was hinting that there was no point in publishing book after book if no one was interested in buying them! Robi's heart sank at the thought.

Suddenly an idea struck him. A gentleman called Gurudas Chattopadhyay had recently opened a shop called Bengal Medical Library which sold poetry and fiction along with medical books. He would go and see him. Leaning out of the
window he instructed the coachman to drive to College Street where the Bengal Medical Library was housed. Entering the shop Robi inspected the shelves with interest. Bankim Babu's novels took up the maximum space. Michael Madhusudan's and Hem Banerjee's works filled a couple of shelves. There were copies of Tarak Ganguli's
Swarnalata,
Kaliprasanna Singha's
Hutom Pyanchar Naksha
and Nabin Sen's
Palashir Judhha
but not one of his books. Robi sighed. People did not care to read lyrics. They liked narrative and action.

Gurudas Babu greeted Robi with the deference due to him. Though not much of a writer he was, after all, Deben Thakur's son. Leading him into a small anteroom he invited him to sit down and ordered the servant to bring an
albola
and paan for his refreshment. These initial courtesies over, and after some preliminary discussion, he came out with a proposal that startled Robi. He would buy the eight thousand unsold copies of twelve of Robi's books for a fixed sum of money. Thereafter, he would sell them at his own price. Robi would have no claims to royalty or commission. The sum he mentioned was staggering. After some calculation he offered Robi the princely sum of two thousand three hundred and nine rupees.

So much money! From his books? Heaps of paper that would have turned to food for termites in a few months! Robi could hardly believe his ears. The thought of bargaining never even occurred to him. Thanking Gurudas Babu profusely he rose to leave. After many days his heart felt light and free. Yet—not quite. ‘If only
she
were here to share my triumph!' The thought cast a shadow over his happiness.

On his way back home Robi started making plans. He would celebrate this great event in his life by inviting his friends for a feast. He would call Priyanath Sen, Shreesh Majumdar and Akshay Choudhary. His little bride was growing into quite a good cook. She was still attending school though she hadn't gone back to Gyanadanandini. She was taken to Loretto House every morning in the carriage dressed in a frock and long stockings. But back home she was often seen in the kitchen wearing a sari and giving instructions to the cooks in the voice and manner of a middle-aged matron. Then she didn't seem so young anymore.

After dinner that night the discussion veered around the
subject of Bankimchandra's writing. The latter's son-in-law had recently started a newspaper called
Prachaar.
Bankimchandra was writing regularly for it as well as for Akshay Sarkar's
Nabajeeban.
And, lately, both his columns and novels were displaying a Hindu chauvinism that Robi found distasteful.
Anandamath
was bad enough, in his opinion.
Debi Choudhurani,
which followed, was even worse. Hitherto he had restrained himself from expressing any derogatory remarks. But today he felt free to do so. They were both writers and his books were selling too. Why should he continue to stand in awe of Bankimchandra? ‘I consider
Anandamath
a very mediocre work,' he announced gravely. ‘The characters are flat and boring. And it is full of melodrama.' Shreeshchandra, a great admirer of Bankim, took umbrage at this remark and a lively argument ensued lasting far into the night.

After the guests had departed Robi came into his apartment. Despite the long day he felt wide awake and far from weary. He was sleeping less and less these days and he hated lying in bed staring into the dark. He came and stood on the veranda and gazed out into the star filled sky. Suddemy he heard a sigh that seemed wrenched out of a suffering soul: He turned around his heart beating swiftly. ‘Where did that come from?' he thought. ‘It sounded like Natun Bouthan!' And, at that moment, he thought he saw something slip past like a shadow. A tremor of fear passed through him. Was Natun Bouthan's ghost hovering around him? Nonsense! Robi gave himself a little shake and walked purposefully into the bedroom.

On the vast bedstead Mrinalini lay fast asleep curled up in a corner. She looked very young and vulnerable as she lay there. Her pink sari was pulled down to her feet and strands of hair clung to her face. Robi looked down on the little figure with tenderness in his eyes. ‘Poor girl,' he thought. ‘She's worn out with the labours of the day.' And, indeed, Mrinalini had played hostess to her husband's friends like any grown wife. She had cooked some of the dishes and served them with her own hands. Suddenly a realization dawned on Robi. They hardly ever spoke to each other. There was no possibility of doing so during the day and she was, invariably, fast asleep when Robi came in at night. Robi took a decision. He would bury the past once and for all.

Moving swiftly towards the bed he lifted the mosquito net and lay down beside her. On other nights he did so softly, stealthily, so as not to wake her. But, tonight, he took her face in his hands and pushed the clinging strands of hair away from her face. Mrinalini opened her eyes. He saw no awe or fear in them—only an eager longing. Tenderly, with his forefinger, he outlined first her mouth, then her eyes and chin as though he was etching her face on paper. Mrinalini put out a little hand and closed her soft damp palm over those long sensitive fingers. Robi took her in his arms and clasped her to his breast. ‘This is right,' he thought. ‘This is as it should be. It is far better to live with flesh and blood than with shadows.'