First Light (31 page)

Maharaja Birchandra Manikya was returning from a social visit to Sir Rivers Thompson, the Lieutenant Governor of Bengal. Monomohini had been invited too and had clamoured to go but Birchandra had snubbed her into submission. Queens of the Chandravansha dynasty didn't show their faces in public. He had taken Shashibhushan instead. He could converse in English after a fashion but not too well. He could do with Shashibhushan's help.

Now, sitting in the carriage on the way back, Birchandra's face looked grim and sullen and angry tears glistened in his eyes. He felt hurt and humiliated. He hadn't, of course, been mistreated in any way. He had been received with due deference and no political pressure had been inflicted on him. His host had given him tea and enquired politely after his wife and they had chatted briefly on several subjects for about twenty-five minutes. The humiliation lay in the look the white man had given him. Rivers Thompson was a very tall man and erect in his bearing. While shaking hands he had looked down from his great height at the portly little specimen of royalty he was entertaining. The pale blue eyes had looked pointedly at Birchandra's stomach and the lips had twitched a little. So little—it was almost invisible. But Birchandra was no fool. He recognized contempt when he saw it. And he was very, very sensitive. ‘I shouldn't have gone,' he thought bitterly. ‘After all I am king of a realm, however small, and he's only a civil servant.' But in his heart he knew that a refusal was out of the question. An invitation from the Laat Saheb was like a royal command. It was a reminder that the British had it in their power to whisk his crown off his head at any time they chose.

Birchandra had a happy disposition in general. But once thwarted or humiliated he brooded over his wrongs for days. In order to cheer him up Shashibhushan organized a symposium of letters. Well-known poets and prose writers like Sisir Kumar
Ghosh, Rabindranath Thakur and Dineshchandra Sen, were invited to read from their works. The king sat in state amongst them in the durbar hall on the second floor but his face remained drawn and his manner abstracted. After a while he rose and left the room.

The next day Shashibhushan invited a group of kirtaniyas. They were the top performers of Calcutta and were invited often by the Raja of Shobhabazar who was a connoisseur of music. But though Birchandra loved listening to kirtan he didn't seem to think much of them. After sitting quietly for a few minutes he poked Shashibhushan in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Where is that girl?' he asked quite out of context. Shashibhushan was so startled by the question that though he opened his mouth to speak no words came. ‘You know who I mean,' the king persisted. ‘That Suto or Suta—whatever her name is. Send for her. I want to hear her sing tonight in my bedchamber. She has a good voice.' Shashi drew a deep breath and said, ‘She's ill Maharaj.'

‘What!' the Maharaja exclaimed. ‘She's been ill for so long and you've done nothing about it! Do you want to kill her? Send for the doctor at once. What are her symptoms?'

‘Fever Maharaj. It comes and goes.'

‘That's a bad sign. She needs treatment immediately. Come,' he rose to his feet. ‘Take me to her. I wish to see her with my own eyes.'

Now, Shashibhushan's face turned pale. If the king saw Bhumisuta he would know that Shashibhushan had been spinning a web of lies all these days. ‘Why should you go Maharaj?' he cried out in his desperation. ‘I'll bring her to you.' But the king shook his head. ‘There's no need to pull her out of her sickbed,' he said. ‘She needs her rest. I'll look in on her and give her some medicine.'

Shashibhushan hurried after the king as he walked purposefully towards the stairs his shoes clacking loudly on the marble floor. Downstairs all was dark and silent. Birchandra stood for a moment at the head of the stairs a queer smile on his lips. ‘Wait a little Maharaj,' Shashibhushan said. ‘Let me fetch a light.' But the king put out a hand and stopped him. ‘You know Shashi,' he said conversationally, ‘I thought nothing of barging into the servants' rooms when I was young. If I saw a pretty
wench I would carry her upstairs however much she cried and protested. But I'm older and wiser now. I realize that it is not proper for a man in my position to enter a maid's bedchamber. You should have stopped me. I'm your master and your king. How could you forget your duty to me?'

Shashibhushan stood silent, his head bowed. He knew that whatever he said would be misconstrued. To keep mute was best. ‘Get the wench out of her sickbed and send her to me. She's too precious a gem to be thrown carelessly into the ash heap. Send for the best doctors. And don't stint on the expense. I give you three days,' Birchandra wagged his forefinger at Shashibhushan threateningly, turned around and made his way back to the durbar hall. Shashibhushan breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close shave. But the danger hadn't passed. The Maharaja was determined to have Bhumisuta and she was equally determined not to let him. ‘Send me away from here,' she repeated like a parrot every time he told her that the king wanted to see her. But where could he send her? To his ancestral home in Bhabanipur? He could do that but what would he tell the king when he asked for her? What if he came to know that Shashibhushan had removed her to his own house? The king and queen had been invited to Bhabanipur once by his brothers. What if the invitation was repeated?

Bhumisuta! Bhumisuta! A fierce resentment rose in Shashibhushan's breast. He was being forced to think of her day and night. No woman had occupied his thoughts to such an extent after Suhasini's death. He had been married to Suhasini for five years when she died of cholera. She had been a beautiful woman and well educated. He had poured out his soul to her in love. He had given her everything she had ever wanted. Ignoring the frowns of his sisters-in-law he had taken her with him wherever he went. They had enjoyed holidays in Darjeeling and Nepal. And, every night, he had sat with her teaching her Sanskrit and English. He had placed a standing order in Cuthbertson's Perfumery. A bottle of every new perfume that arrived from France was to be sent to his wife. But despite everything he did, he hadn't won Suhasini's heart. That had been given to another. He had come to know, some months before she died, that she was deeply involved with her cousin Anangamohan and had been so
from before her marriage. Shashibhushan hadn't said a word to Suhasini. He had simply withdrawn from her. She hadn't seemed real anymore and when she died he had felt no grief.

Anangamohan couldn't have felt much grief either. Shashi-bhushan knew that he had transferred his affections to Suhasini's sister Tarangini before her ashes had cooled. Yet he was the one Suhasini had loved. The thought was too humiliating; too hard to bear. His brother Monibhushan had suggested that he take Tarangini as his second wife. Horrified by the idea Shashi had escaped to Tripura. He had made up his mind. He wouldn't marry again—ever. He had lost his faith in women.

That night Bhumisuta came into his room as usual with the glass of hot milk he drank just before going to sleep. She placed the silver glass on a little table and was about to leave the room when Shashibhushan stopped her. ‘Wait,' he called out imperiously, ‘I wish to speak with you.' Bhumisuta turned around but stood where she was. She didn't approach him. ‘The Maharaja was enquiring about you this evening,' he said. ‘How much longer can I go on telling him you are ill? What is wrong with singing for him?'

‘I can't do it,' Bhumisuta answered. Her voice was soft but firm.

‘But why?' Shashibhushan persisted. ‘You must give me a reason. The Maharaja is determined to hear you sing. You'll have to satisfy him—'

‘Send me away.'

‘Don't be stupid. The Maharaja has given me three days. At the end of it you'll have to go to him.'

‘No one can force me.' Bhumisuta's eyes flashed. ‘I'll slit my throat first. I've managed to get hold of a knife.'

Shashibhushan stared at her in shock and horror. And suddenly he recognized the alien streak in her. She looked and spoke like an average middle-class Bengali girl. But she wasn't that. What Bengali girl could express herself with so much power and passion? He went on staring at her. For the first time since Suhasini's death he had actually looked at a woman. ‘She can't be what she appears,' he thought. ‘She can't be an ordinary maid.' He put out his hand saying, ‘Let me see it.' Bhumisuta stared back at him. ‘I don't have it with me,' she said. ‘I've hidden it in my
Shashibhushan knew he ought to go down, inspect her room and take the knife away. But he made no effort to do so. ‘I've never heard you sing,' he said instead.

‘I sing only for myself and God.'

‘I won't force you Bhumisuta,' Shashibhushan heard himself saying. He was amazed at the tenderness in his voice. ‘Don't sing for the Maharaja if you don't want to. But will you sing for me? Just one song—?'

room.'

The devout Rani Rasmoni's spirit had left her mortal frame these many years. And her faithful servant and son-in-law Mathur had passed away. The present owners of the estates had neither the time nor the inclination to worry their heads about the temple their ancestress had created and cherished and nurtured with her life blood. Consequently they did not even know that Ramkrishna Thakur was seriously ill.

He had been suffering from a bad throat and violent fits of coughing for a long time now. The disciples had called in several doctors most of whom were of the opinion that the malady was not serious. Clergyman's Sore Throat some of them called it. They recommended a diet of strengthening meat soups and left medicines. But none of it seemed to help. The pain in his throat increased day by day and his limbs felt weaker and weaker. His disciples were growing in number and he had to sit with them and talk to them even when the pain in his throat was excruciating. During one of his
bhav samadhis
he had called out to the Goddess in a sullen voice, ‘Why do you send so many Ma? They crowd around me so—I don't get a moment's peace. It's only a cracked drum as it is. How much longer can it withstand so much battering?'

Though the owners of the temple took no notice of his illness his disciples did all they could to alleviate his sufferings. It was decided that the damp rising from the Ganga was doing him no good. He ought to be shifted to a warmer, drier place. Thus, Ramkrishna was removed from Dakshineswar, where he had lived for thirty years, and brought to Balaram Bosu's house in Ramkanta Bosu Street in Calcutta. Ramkrishna was pleased to be there. Balaram Bosu was one of his favourite disciples. Besides there were many others living close at hand. Vidyasagar's Metropolitan College being only a stone's throw away, Mahendra Mukherjee could visit him several times a day. Girish Ghosh, at Bagbazar, was within walking distance.

After that first visit to the theatre Ramkrishna had gone there often. And he had drawn the blaspheming atheist, Girish, to him like a magnet. Girish, who had rejected the concept of the guru being the medium through which one reached the divine, felt himself drawn into Ramkrishna's web slowly but surely. He tried to disentangle himself from time to time much as a drunk tries to shake off his intoxication. ‘What is a guru?' he had enquired once of Ramkrishna. Ramkrishna's lips had twitched with amusement. ‘You should know,' he had answered, ‘You have one.' Girish was horrified. What was the man saying? Who was his guru? This illiterate yokel in his coarse dhuti and
uduni
? Impossible! In order to shake off Ramkrishna's spell Girish started misbehaving with him. He would walk into his room in Dakshineswar whenever he felt like it, stone drunk, trying to pick up a quarrel. But even though he reviled the priest and his fourteen generations hurling the foulest expletives in his vocabulary, he failed to get a reaction from him. Ramkrishna smiled as if at a little boy's tantrums and looked at him out of loving eyes.

His every move defeated, Girish tried to rationalize the situation. No human being, he reasoned with himself, should be exalted to the level of a spiritual medium between Man and God. Ramkrishna claimed to be such a medium. Girish could not admit his claim. Yet, he couldn't deny his power over him either. There was some force in him that defied definition. Therefore, it was obvious that Ramkrishna was no ordinary man. He was an avatar of the Divine. Ram and Krishna were twin incarnations of that one single Power and they had come together in the person of Ramkrishna. Having admitted this Girish surrendered himself body and soul to the priest of Kali. And thus he found peace.

But Naren and several others could not admit that Ramkrishna was anything other than an ordinary mortal. If he was an avatar of God, they argued, why was he suffering in the flesh? Avatars were untouched by sickness and old age. Who had ever heard of Lord Krishna of Mathura and Lord Ram of Ayodhya suffering from fever or dysentery. Ramkrishna was a victim of both. He had a weak digestion and felt the urge to empty his bowels several times a day. And he caught chills and fevers often. Only the other day he had fallen and broken his arm and
had to have it plastered. And, now, the pain in his throat was so bad that he spent his nights tossing and turning in his bed moaning in agony.

Of late Ramkrishna had started behaving like a child. If the doctor was late by even a few minutes he would sulk pettishly, ‘Oh why doesn't he come? Why doesn't someone go and fetch him?' And every time anyone came near him he asked eagerly, ‘I'll get well, won't I? Do you think this new medicine will cure me?' Allopathic medicines being too strong for him his disciples had called in the renowned homeopath Pratapchandra Majumdar. His pills brought the patient some relief but it was only temporary. The disease that racked him continued to grow insidiously within. He started coughing up bits of blood and found it more and more difficult to swallow. Now the doctors had to admit that what he suffered from was something more serious than Clergyman's Sore Throat.

One day the famous kaviraj Gangaprasad came to see him. After examining the patient's throat, he shook his head. ‘He is suffering from rohini,' he said, ‘We have no cure for it.'

‘What is rohini?' the disciples surrounding him asked.

‘The sahebs call it cancer.'

Those among Ramkrishna's followers who lived by the assumption that faith was superior to logic were convinced that he could shake the disease off his system if he so wished; Pandit Sasadhar Tarka Churhamani accosted him one day with the words, ‘How is it possible that a saint like you suffers thus?'

‘It is not I who suffer,' Ramkrishna replied, it's this wretched body.'

‘But surely you have control over your body. The shastras say that men like you have the power to dismiss the ills of the flesh. If, during a
bhav samadhi,
you concentrate on the organ that is troubling you; if you focus your whole mind and spirit on it you will be enabled to overcome the disease.'

‘What!' Ramkrishna cried passionately, ‘You, a pandit, ask me to do such a thing! My mind and spirit have been consecrated to God. Would you have me turn them away from Him to this broken cage of bones and flesh?'

Sasadhar did not say any more. But he thought Ramkrishna's argument a feeble one. He was convinced that Ramkrishna's
illness had robbed him of some of his powers. If his broken cage of bones and flesh meant nothing to him why was he describing his symptoms to one doctor after another and asking them if he would live? Why was he taking medicine?

A week after this encounter Ramkrishna left Balaram Bosu's house and took up residence in a rented house in Shyampukur Street. Balaram Bosu was a devout and faithful follower of Ramkrishna. But he was somewhat of a miser. He didn't mind spending on his guru. He was prepared to give him all the comforts his house could offer and also pay for his treatment. What he grudged was the expense he had to incur on the crowds who came to see him every day. Ramkrishna had other wealthy followers who were prepared to spend money on him. It was decided to keep him in a rented house.

At dusk, on the ninth day of the waning moon, Ramkrishna stepped over the threshold of the house in Shyampukur Street and looked around him with interest. A neatly made up bed stood ready in one corner. On the walls were several pictures. Ramkrishna examined them by the light of a lamp held up by Ramchandra Datta. There was one of Balgopal with Jashoda Ma and another of Sri Gouranga dancing with his disciples. As Ramkrishna peered up at them one of his followers whispered to another, ‘See! He is looking at himself.' The very next moment the man got a shock. Ramkrishna turned around and asked fretfully, ‘Why have they kept the window open? I feel a draught coming in. I'm chilled to the bone.'

In the house in Shyampukur Street Ramkrishna's condition started deteriorating at an alarming pace and his disciples were at their wits' end. So many doctors had come and gone but not one had been able to alleviate his sufferings let alone effect a cure. The only doctor left was Mahendralal Sarkar. But Ramkrishna cried out fearfully every time his name was mentioned. ‘No. No. Not him,' Ramkrishna found Mahendralal Sarkar an extremely alarming personality. Once, several months ago, he had been taken to the doctor's house in Shankharitola. Mahendralal Sarkar had been very short with the disciples who had brought him. Bundling them out of the room, most unceremoniously, he had fixed a stern eye on the priest and motioned him to a chair. ‘Open your mouth,' he had commanded in the tone he used for all
his patients. On Ramkrishna's doing so he had snapped, ‘Wider! How can I look down your throat if you don't open your mouth properly?' Ramkrishna had tried to tell him that he was doing his best but that had brought on the most shocking response. ‘Quiet!' the doctor had thundered, ‘Don't move your tongue.' And he had held Ramkrishna's tongue firmly in place with a spoon. It had been a painful experience for Ramkrishna both physically and otherwise and he didn't care to repeat it.

Now, of course, the pain was much worse. He felt as if a knife was sticking in his throat cutting into his palate and food pipe every time he swallowed. Of late even his ears had started hurting. And he had started vomiting blood. The disciples couldn't afford to take their guru's terror of the great doctor seriously any more. They sent for Mahendralal Sarkar.

That evening Dr Sarkar came to the house in Shyampukur Street. Entering Ramkrishna's room he looked around for somewhere to sit. The disciples were alarmed at the sight of him striding in arrogantly on leather shod feet into a place consecrated by the presence of their guru. But Ramkrishna merely patted one side of the bed on which he lay and motioned to him to sit down which he did without hesitation.

‘Where does it hurt?' the doctor asked with a rare gentleness. ‘I feel a swelling in my throat the size of a roseapple. The air is pushed back into my mouth whenever I try to swallow.'

‘Do you have a cough?'

‘I cough all night. Then the pus pours out of my mouth as thick as castor oil.'

‘Do you have any pain?'

‘I feel as if a knife is sticking in my throat. I can't sleep for the pain.'

‘Open your mouth. Let me have a look at your throat.' Ramkrishna obeyed, his eyes fixed fearfully on the stern face just above his. Looking down into the torn, bleeding ravaged organ the doctor murmured, ‘Why are you afraid of me? I'm a doctor. I try to cure people—not kill them.'

After a while he stood up, his face grave. ‘I'm leaving medicines,' he said with a return to his habitual curtness. ‘Take them regularly. And talk as little as possible. The world can do without your eloquence—for the present at least.'

On his way out he turned to the men accompanying him and asked, ‘Does this house belong to Rani Rasmoni?' ‘No sir,' one of them hastened to inform him. ‘This is a rented house. Some of Thakur's disciples pay for it.'

‘Disciples!' Mahendralal Sarkar exclaimed, ‘Does this man have disciples? I thought he was being kept by the Madhs of Janbazar. Which ones among you ate his disciples?'

On being told that they were all Ramkrishna's disciples including Naren and the other graduates, the doctor's brows rose in astonishment. He could understand semi-literate men in their prime looking for a prop on which to rest their burden of sins. But that young men like Narendranath Datta—educated, rational and Westernized in their thinking—could be drawn into the web of the rustic he had just left behind was unthinkable! And Girish. That self-proclaimed atheist! Mahendralal was shocked at the transformation in him. The disciples, in their turn, were shocked when he returned the fee they offered.

‘What is this for?' he asked sternly.

‘Your fee, sir' one of them replied. ‘Thakur's disciples are paying for his treatment.'

‘I'm not a disciple,' Mahendralal said shortly, ‘But you may add my name to the list of contributors. I don't need to be paid any fees. Nor anything for the medicines I leave. I warn you though. The patient is in a very serious condition. He needs rest and quiet. Stop outsiders from coming in and disturbing him.'

After the doctor had left the men looked at one another in dismay. How would they fend off the crowds that gathered at the door at all hours of the day? Thakur had been relatively undisturbed in Dakshineswar—it being a good distance away from Calcutta. But, here, word had spread that a fragment of dust from the feet of the Paramhansa would ensure a smooth passage to heaven. After a lot of discussion, it was finally decided that the younger disciples would keep vigil outside Ramkrishna's door and try to prevent people from entering his room.

One day a follower of Ramkrishna's named Kali Ghosh brought a young man with him. He looked like a foreigner in his impeccable Western suit and rimless glasses. Niranjan, at the door, tried to stop them from coming in but Kali Ghosh waved aside his protests. After being locked in an argument for over an
hour Niranjan had to surrender and allow the older man entry. The foreign gentleman took no part in the exchange. His face was serene and unruffled and his gaze elsewhere.

But the moment he stepped into Ramkrishna's room he took off his glasses and his hat. Everyone looked on him, amazed, for out tumbled a cloud of silky black curls. ‘Pardon me, Prabhu,' a woman's voice cried, ‘I wanted to see you once—for the last time.' The stranger sank to the floor and placed her head on Ramkrishna's feet. Ramkrishna recognized the voice instantly. It was Binodini's. Ramkrishna laughed—peal after peal of delighted laughter. ‘This is true love,' he cried out in a hoarse, cracked voice, ‘True yearning!' But, looking on his emaciated faee and body, Binodini wept as if her heart would break. Resisting Ramkrishna's feeble efforts to raise her she pressed her face on his feet and washed them with her tears.

On her way home, in the carriage, Binodini drew out a little mirror from her pocket. Her face was a mess. The paint she had applied for the part was running in streams down her cheeks. Taking a kerchief from her pocket she proceeded to wipe it off when she noticed a spot on
her chin—unnaturally white. She had seen it earlier and ignored it. But now, peering closer, she thought it had grown larger. Something else was growing within her—a conviction that her acting days were coming to an end. She wondered what her affliction was. Was it leucoderma? Or leprosy? ‘Why am I being punished thus?' she thought, fresh tears pouring down her face, ‘What sin have I committed?' And, at that moment, she took a decision. She would give up the stage. Her admirers had idolized her for years. She wouldn't show her cursed face, marked by the hand of God, to them ever again.