First Light (4 page)

Shashibhushan's
pathshala
had all the trappings of a real school. Tables, chairs, pens, paper and inkstands were laid out, every morning, with clockwork regularity and he, himself, was always in readiness. But the school rarely saw a pupil. In consequence, Shashibhushan spent his days in forced idleness in the charming house by the lake that had been allotted to him as tutor to the royal princes. The salary was a generous one for a bachelor who lived alone, and the position prestigious. The king's advisor Radharaman Ghosh had held the same position on first coming out to Tripura. Being a shrewd politician he had risen by degrees and was, now, the most eminent man in the realm. Shashibhushan had no political ambitions and, being a man of conscience, was often consumed with guilt at the thought of taking a salary without doing any work. He had often complained about the non attendance of the king's sons; had pleaded with him for intervention and even offered to resign. But Birchandra had laughed his scruples away.

Looking out from the window of his school room, one morning, Shashibhushan's attention was caught by the sight of a boy standing under a jackfruit tree reading aloud from a book that, even from that distance, appeared to be old and tattered. He had seen the lad once or twice before and presumed that he was the gardener's son. Agreeably surprised to see him with a book in his hand, Shashibhushan beckoned to him to come closer. As the boy approached him Shashibhushan saw that he had a slender, handsome figure and long dark eyes that seemed etched in kohl against a smooth nut brown skin. But his dhuti was coarse and barely covered his knees and his feet were naked and covered with dust.

‘What's your name boy?' Shashibhushan asked, looking on him with interest.

‘I'm Bharat, Master Moshai.'

‘What is that you hold in your hand?'

The boy handed him a sheaf of printed pages that turned out to be old issue of
Bangadarshan
. Charmed and surprised Shashibhushan asked curiously, ‘Can you read what is written here? Have you learned the alphabet?' The boy shut his eyes and recited in one breath: ‘Their wealth is inexhaustible in this land of ours and their power unparalleled in this day and time. Is there one merchant in Bharatvarsha who can, at one word, throw down a crore of rupees in cash against a bill of exchange? When Mir Habib ransacked the city of Murshidabad he could but take away two crores of Arcot rupees from the house of Jagat Seth . . .'

Shashibhushan was amazed. The boy was reciting, word by word, from Bankimchandra's
Chandrashekhar
. It wasn't even poetry, which was easier to remember. He had obviously read this issue over and over again. Shashibhushan decided that he would write to Bankim Babu and apprise him of the fact that he had an ardent admirer even here in this mountain land so far away from Bengal.

‘Who taught you to read?' he asked curiously.

‘No one,' the boy said shyly looking down at his feet. ‘I learned by myself. But I'm not very good. What is an Arcot rupee Master Moshai?'

Shashibhushan made up his mind to take the boy in hand. Not being a prince, he was debarred entry into the school room. But he could surely be taught outside, under the trees. After a few lessons Shashibhushan discovered that his new pupil was not only extremely intelligent but that his thirst for learning was insatiable. He had only two or three books which he had learned by rote but, basing his knowledge on these, he asked innumerable questions about lands and climes outside his known world of Agartala—their history, geography, races and cultures. After every lesson Shashibhushan was left wondering anew at the unpredictability of the human mind. From what hidden source did this orphan boy, living on the king's charity in the servant's wing, derive his scholarly bent of mind; his passionate zeal for the written word? Was it the dark, suffocating aridity of his life that had impelled him to seek light and freedom in the pages of a book? Yet, surely there were others like him—innocent children deprived of love and care and nurture? How many of them were driven to seek knowledge as an escape from sordid, mundane reality?

The lessons continued through the winter, spring and summer. Then the rains came lashing down accompanied by violent winds, thunder and lightning. Sitting out of doors was no longer possible and Shashibhushan was left with no alternative but to bring Bharat into the school room. He could, of course, have discontinued the lessons but he had no wish to do that. Bharat was making rapid progress. He had picked up the English alphabet already and had learned a good deal about the solar system.

One morning, when master and pupil sat poring over a lesson, Kumar Samarendra walked into the school room along with his cousin Sukhchandra. Glaring at Bharat the latter said roughly, ‘
Ei
Bharat! What are you doing here? Get out of this room this minute!' Bharat rose meekly from his seat but Shashibhushan stopped him with a gesture. Turning to the others he said, ‘He isn't doing any harm. Surely you can all learn—' Before he could complete his sentence, Kumar Upendra burst into the room with his own gang of brothers and cousins. Knitting his brows he asked insolently, ‘Who has allowed him to come in here? A kachhua's son! How dare he aspire to sit with princes?' Bharat picked up his books and sped out of the room before Shashibhushan could utter a word. The princes hurried out as unceremoniously as they had come leaving Shashibhushan sitting in the school room deep in thought. A kachhua's son ! That meant Bharat was of royal birth. Though out of wedlock, it was the king's seed that his mother had carried in her womb.

He understood the hatred and rancour of the other princes. Bharat, though illegitimate, was a force to reckon with. He could, at any time, become a pawn in the hands of power brokers and be used against them. Shashibhushan suddenly thought of another Bharat—also a child of love. No rites or ceremonies had sanctified the union of Shakuntala and Dushyanta. Yet no one despised their son for being a bastard. This great land of Bharatvarsha was named after him.

Bharat avoided Shashibhushan for the next three or four days but the latter was on the lookout and caught him one evening. ‘Go to the king,' he advised. ‘Tell him who you are and ask him for a favour. Say you want nothing from him except permission to take lessons from me. If he gives it no one will dare stop you.'

One morning, when the sky was overcast with cloud and rain pelted down in torrents, the Maharaja came into the school room. He could have sent for Shashibhushan but he was an impulsive man and acted upon his whims. He had composed a lyric the night before and he wanted to show it to his resident tutor and seek his opinion on its quality. They conversed for a few minutes, then the king rose to depart. But no sooner had he reached the door than something came hurtling from outside and fell, with a thud, at his feet.

‘Who . . . What's this?' Birchandra cried out, startled.

‘I'm your worthless son,
Deota
!'
Bharat raised pleading eyes to his father's face. ‘My name is Bharat.'

Birchandra had never seen Bharat before but he took the announcement quite calmly. Smiling down at the handsome face at his feet he asked, ‘What is your mother's name boy?' Bharat brought his palms together and touched them to his brow. ‘My mother is in heaven,
Deota
! Her name was Kiron Bala.' Birchandra knitted his brows, thinking. Kiron Bala! She must have Come from Assam. The Assamese call their fathers
Deota
. Yes, now that he thought of it, the name rang a bell. He wondered why. She wasn't even a queen. Kiron Bala! She had been a comely girl and had laughed a lot. He remembered her laughter. Yes, he recollected now, she had died after giving birth to a son. The king looked down at Bharat with affection in his eyes. He had a soft corner for his bastards. They were, after all, living proof of his virility.

‘Get up boy,' he put out a hand and hauled Bharat to his feet. ‘What do you want from me?'

‘He is a very meritorious student Maharaj,' Shashibhushan answered for the boy. ‘He has learned a lot already. He will go far if given the opportunity to study further.'

‘Well! why not? If that is what he wants. Teach him a bit of English. If he learns enough to be able to converse with the Political Agent he can even earn a salary from me.'

Bharat's destiny changed from that day onwards. Not only was he allowed to take lessons without interference, he was moved out of the servants' quarters and given a room in the house of the king's secretary. Radharaman Ghosh ordered two sets of clothes befitting his status and arranged to pay him a stipend of ten rupees a month.

His lessons over, Bharat would spend the rest of the day wandering around the lake. Kamal Dighi was surrounded on all sides by lush greenery which formed an excellent cover for the shy youth who wanted to escape the eyes of the inmates of the palace. Hour after hour he lay among the tall grass and ferns, reading and thinking his own thoughts. Under Shashibhushan's tutelage he was not only gleaning a lot of information about the outside world, he felt his own inner world to be in a state of flux, changing contours and teeming with possibilities. All these years he had believed that heaven lay somewhere beyond the blue sky and that his unhappy mother had found a place in it. But Master Moshai said that heaven and earth did not exist except in the minds of men. ‘Where is my mother then?' he had asked. ‘And where do the gods dwell?' ‘You are receiving an education,' Shashibhushan had answered grimly, ‘Learn to think for yourself. There is one Supreme Being and one alone. It is He who created the universe and all things in it. He is without form and substance. He permeates everything you see from the sky above your head to the earth beneath your feet. Kali, Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati and the entire range of gods and goddesses that we Hindus worship are only clay images made by the hands of men.' A little shiver ran down Bharat's spine. Even the thought of denying Kali was frightening. What if she was watching him and saw what went on in his mind? Would she not mete out a severe punishment?

A little patter of footsteps behind him made Bharat spin around in alarm. Was Ma Kali . . .? A girl was coming towards him—a girl of twelve or thirteen with gleaming eyes and smiling lips so full and sweet that they seemed drenched in honey dew. She wore a sari but it was wrapped so loosely and clumsily around her that it threatened to slip off any moment. Was she . . .? One could never be sure. Gods and goddesses often came down to the earth in human form.

‘
Ei
' the girl called out in a voice of command, ‘Who are you?' Then, receiving no answer, she said ‘I know. You're the servant boy turned kumar.' Giggling and putting out her tongue at him she added, ‘If you're a prince why don't you comb your hair?'

‘Who are you?' Bharat asked in a faint voice.

‘Don't you know me? I'm Khuman. No, no I have another name. I am Monomohini.'

Bharat had never seen Monomohini but he knew that Queen Bhanumati had a neice by that name. The princesses of Tripura were kept in strict purdah but Monomohini came from Manipur where women enjoyed many of the privileges of men and were famous for their wit and repartee. She had romped and played freely with her brothers and cousins in childhood. Here, under her aunt's care, she felt as stifled and confused as a caged bird and slipped out of the palace whenever she could. Pointing to a tree that stood a little distance away she said, her eyes bright with mocking laughter, ‘Young prince, why don't you pluck some fruit for me?' Bharat glanced in the direction of the pointing finger. The tree was laden with clusters of star apples but the fruit was hard and green and inedible. ‘I can't climb trees,' he said shortly. Her presence made him uncomfortable. Talking to a girl in the middle of the day in a secluded spot like this was dangerous. If anyone saw them there would be trouble.

‘Come. I'll teach you,' Monomohini tucked her sari tightly at her waist and proceeded to climb the rough trunk with accustomed ease. The sari rose to her knees revealing her slim, shapely legs. Her golden back was naked to the waist. ‘Come, hold my hand,' she called. Bharat broke out in a sweat. He felt the world dissolve around him. This was not real. This wasn't happening. It was a scene from a book; a romance by Bankim Babu. Was the girl before him Shaibalini? But he was no Pratap. He was Bharat—the king's bastard. He felt his heart thud violently within him. His ears blazed. He turned and started walking away in the opposite direction. ‘
Ei! Ei
!' Monomohini's voice came out to him, clear and intrepid, ‘Where are you going? Come back quickly you dolt or I'll pull the dhuti off your middle.'

Bharat covered his ears with his hands and ran and hid himself among the trees.

The musicians had succumbed to the exhaustions of the day and had fallen asleep beside their instruments. But the listener was wide awake and eager for more. Birchandra's energy was phenomenal. He could keep awake for three nights in succession without feeling a trace of fatigue. He had wanted to hear the raga of the morning, his favourite raga, but there was no hope of it now.

Sighing with disappointment, he walked out of the audience hall and stood on the balcony. Dawn was breaking over the mountains and, before his entranced eyes, a huge hibiscus-coloured sun swam into view. He brought his palms together in reverence but did not utter any mantra. Instead, he started humming a song in the morning raga Bhairavi. Suddenly he stopped singing and a worried look came into his eyes. He had remembered Bhanumati. Leaning over the rail he called out to the guards, ‘Lock the gates and don't open them for anyone. I wish to be alone.'

This set of rooms, situated at a little distance away from the main palace, was Birchandra's favourite haunt. It was called the Forbidden Wing because entry into it was forbidden to all except a few close associates of the king. Birchandra pursued his hobbies here—painting, music, developing photographs and reading poetry. When he was in retreat, as he was now, even the most pressing matters of state could not draw him out.

Birchandra stood gazing for a while at the beauty of the scene before him. Then, raising his arms above his head, he stretched luxuriously. ‘Aaah!' he cried with deep satisfaction. ‘Aaah!' came a voice, prompt as an echo. As Birchandra turned around in the direction of the sound a bundle of clothing gathered itself together from a corner and sat up. It was a man, very tall and thin with a nose like a rapier and long untidy locks tumbling about a pair of hollow cheeks. The Maharaja knew him. He was Panchananda, a notorious drunkard and drug-taker with a saucy
insolent tongue. But Birchandra liked him and let him hang about the Forbidden Wing preferring his rough and ready manners to the oily flatteries of his courtiers.

Panchananda stifled a yawn and said. ‘I almost dropped off in the middle of a song, Maharaj, so I slipped away fearing my snoring would disturb you. Aa haha! What a voice Jadu Bhatta Moshai has!
Phirayé dité élé shéshé shonpilé nijéré
. A brilliant composition! I'm not going home without hearing the rest of it.'

‘Then you'll have to wait till sundown. Darbari Kannada cannot be sung in the glare of the day! You'd better get yourself home. Don't forget that a desolate heart is pining away for a glimpse of you.'

‘It will do the desolate heart good. A woman likes to pine away for the man she loves, Maharaj. It enhances his value in her eyes. If she's denied the opportunity she gets bored and sulky. It's like eating a sauce without salt and spices.'

‘Humph!' the king grunted. ‘You're never at a loss for words. Well! I'm going for my bath Panchananda. If you decide to stay you must make yourself useful. Go to the studio and start mixing the paints. I mean to finish my picture this morning.'

Birchandra stepped into the studio an hour later to find Panchananda standing with a brush in his hand gazing thoughtfully at a painting propped up on an easel. It was a landscape—a view of the forest from the West Wing. Birchandra had started work on it a month ago then, losing interest, had abandoned it. Clearing his throat, he said with mock severity, ‘
Ohé
! Are you trying to improve upon my handiwork?' Panchananda bit his tongue in exaggerated humility. Wagging his head from side to side he exclaimed, ‘Would I dare take such a liberty Maharaj? Would even one of my fourteen generations of ancestors dare? Can I play God? But, forgive me Maharaj, I was sorely tempted.'

‘Tempted to do what?'

‘Forget it. It's of no consequence.'

‘What do you think of this picture?'

‘Shall I express my opinion freely? Or shall I exercise caution?'

‘I've never seen caution within a mile of you.' ‘You ask me to be candid then?'

‘I command you.'

‘The picture is too crowded Maharaj. There are too many trees. This poor little doe in the middle has no room to breathe. A painting should have space.'

‘Take a look at the forest from the West Wing. It looks exactly like this.'

‘That may be true but the painter must see with the eyes of the mind . . . And here, look at this silk cotton tree. The flowers on it are too red, too bright. The onlooker's eyes are irresistibly drawn to this spot and the rest of the picture is lost. Don't you agree?'

‘Hmm,' the Maharaja nodded, considering the point. ‘You're right. But tell me, what were you tempted to do?'

‘Wipe out the scarlet blooms.'

‘Is that possible? Scarlet is too strong a colour to be wiped out.'

‘One can lighten the red with a film of white and blur the effect. That's why I dipped my brush in white.'

Birchandra took the brush from Panchananda and worked on the painting for a while. But his mind was restless and disturbed and he could not concentrate. Standing back he surveyed his handiwork. ‘No,' he shook his head with dissatisfaction. ‘It's no good.' Flinging the brush away he said, ‘I don't like this picture.'

‘I don't like landscapes either,' Panchananda said. ‘Why don't you paint portraits Maharaj? The human body is the most artistic of God's creations.'

Birchandra moved to another part of the room and stood before a piece of canvas which had the figure of a nude woman painted on it. ‘Why is it so difficult to paint the female form Panchananda?' he asked fretfully. ‘The face is easy but the limbs—I never seem to get the proper symmetry, particularly in the standing posture. European painters turn out nudes by the dozen.'

‘They use models Maharaj.'

‘They use—what?'

‘Models are real living women. Or men as the case may be. They stand, sit or lie down for hours at a stretch at the painter's command. He studies their anatomy closely, observing every line and curve, and paints what he sees.'

‘Nonsense,' Birchandra waved a hand in dismissal. ‘What
woman would agree to strip herself naked for the sake of a picture? Europeans cannot be that dissolute! They couldn't have conquered half the world if they were.'

‘They don't consider it immoral Maharaj. They call it Art. Women from good families will never agree to pose nude, of course. Models are generally prostitutes and are paid by the hour.'

‘You mean they are hired. I've never heard of anything so bizarre.'

‘I've lived in Chandannagar for some years Maharaj and I've heard Frenchmen boast about their heritage. There are schools in the city of Paris where young men take lessons in art from renowned masters. A whore or servant maid is hired for each class. The master makes her pose naked by the window or leaning against a wall and the young men observe her contours and paint what they see. There's nothing immoral about it.'

‘Perhaps not. But that kind of thing would be impossible here.'

‘Why?'

‘Am I to go shopping for a whore or maid?'

‘Why should you take the trouble? Are there not hundreds of servants waiting eagerly to do your bidding? Besides, there are pretty wenches by the score in the palace. I've seen one with breasts like newly swelling shaddocks—the bloom still clinging to them like a sprinkling of moon dust. Her hips hang like heavy gourds from an arched waist as slim and taut as that of a lioness. And she moves with the grace and majesty of an elephant. Her name is Shyama.'

‘
Chup
!'
Birchandra thundered. ‘I'll have your head if you dare cast lecherous eyes on a palace maid. You have a chaste and beautiful wife. Yet you lust after another woman. You're disgusting!'

Panchananda trembled in pretended terror and brought his palms together. ‘Maharaj!' he begged. ‘Don't take my head. I wish to keep it on my shoulders for a little longer. If you command me I'll leave Tripura and never show my face here again. But consider my words Maharaj. The artist is no lecher. He sees his model first with the eyes, then with the mind. And what he creates on his canvas is physical reality filtered through the
light of the imagination. Besides,' he added with a grin. ‘Which of our scriptures enjoin us not to feast our eyes on other women even if we have wives at home? And if there is such an injunction does your Majesty follow it?'

Birchandra burst out laughing. ‘You've got a tongue as long as a snake,' he said, wagging his head from side to side. ‘I'll have it pulled out some day.' Then, lifting his voice, he commanded the servants who stood on guard outside the door. ‘
Oré
! Go fetch the queen's handmaid Shyama. I wish to see her at once.'

The servants didn't have to go far to look for Shyama. She was right there at the gate giggling and flirting with the watchmen. The moment the king's command reached their ears the two worthies fell on her and dragged her, protesting, into the king's presence. The door slammed shut . . .

Like her husband, Mahadevi Bhanumati had stayed awake all night. She had been perturbed and angry when news of Radhakishor's elevation was first brought to her. But her spirits rose the moment she heard that the proclamation had been made not by the king but by the Chief Secretary. Ghosh Moshai was her sworn enemy. But his stratagems would avail him nothing. The king could withdraw the proclamation any time he wished. And he would do so. Radhakishor could have the estates of Kumilla. She had no objection to that. But her son Samarendra would be king. Her husband had promised to spend the night with her. He hadn't kept his promise but that didn't disturb her either. He would come in the morning. She was sure of it.

Bhanumati spent the night playing cards with her niece Monomohini. But her mind, was not on the game. Tense with expectation, she waited eagerly for the reports that kept coming to her, by the hour, from the three trusted maids she had posted in different parts of the palace. She loved her husband and trusted him. He wouldn't let her down. He hadn't come to her—it was true. But he hadn't gone to any other woman, not even to Rajeshwari who had dressed herself in her finest clothes and jewels and had waited in her rooms, in vain. At this last bit of news Bhanumati's heart was filled with triumph. ‘Serves the low, conspiring bitch right,' she thought spitefully. ‘Let all her hopes crumble to dust!' When news came that after the mahabhoj, the king had proceeded straight to the Forbidden Wing, Bhanumati
heaved a sigh of relief. No woman was allowed in there.

Even though she had spent a sleepless night Bhanumati rose at dawn, bathed and dressed with special care. Her husband would come in any moment and he didn't care to see her sleepy and dishevelled. Wrapping a new sari about her, she commanded her maids to twine garlands of fresh flowers round her hair and neck and mark her brows with sandal. She was a strong, healthy woman and there was not a trace of fatigue on her face or in her manner. As soon as she was dressed a maid brought in her morning meal. ‘Has the Maharaja eaten?' she asked, ‘What has been sent to the Forbidden Wing?'

‘He has had a pot of bel sherbet,' came the answer, ‘And some tea. He has sent away everything else.'

The king's favourite breakfast was a bowl of rich halwa eaten with piping hot luchis fried in pure ghee. He hated English food and wouldn't touch bread or biscuits out of a misconception that they were made from flour mixed with mucus. On hearing that he had left his
luchi
-halwa uneaten, Bhanumati signalled to her maid to take everything away except the bel sherbet which she drank straight from the pot pouring it down her throat in a steady stream. Then, turning to Monomohini and the maids, she said, ‘You must leave the room as soon as the Maharaja arrives. And you mustn't come back on any pretext. We wish to be alone together. If I need anything I'll come out and ask for it myself. Remember, you're not to come in even if he stays the whole day and the whole night.'

‘The whole day and the whole night?' Monomohini echoed in a wondering voice.

‘You don't know,' Bhanumati smiled at her niece, ‘how much the Maharaja yearns for my company. We have so much to say to one another. Twenty-four hours is nothing.'

The morning passed. The sun rose high and crossed the zenith but there was no sign of Birchandra. News came that he was still in the Forbidden Wing and that he had had nothing to eat since his morning tea and sherbet. Twice his servants had taken food for him only to be sent away. On hearing this Bhanumati waved her noon meal away.

‘I'm not hungry,'she announced.

‘Rani Ma!' her maid Shyama exclaimed. ‘You've been
starving since yesterday. Eat something or your limbs will start burning with bile.'

‘I've had a pot of sherbet. That's enough for me Shyama. Can you find out what the Maharaja is doing? Is he listening to music? Or is he talking to someone?'

‘Those rogues at the gate refuse to tell us anything Rani Ma. He wouldn't be listening to music. I could hear no sounds of sarangi or tabla when I was there a little while ago.'

‘He's probably busy with some affairs of state.'

‘Shall I go and call him Mashi?' Monomohini offered.

‘Silly child! How can you leave the palace? Besides, women are not allowed to even peep into the Forbidden Wing. The Maharaja will cut off your head if he finds you there.'

Monomohini smiled mischieviously. She had seen the inside pf the Forbidden Wing a number of times. In the afternoons, when the inmates of the palace were napping, she slipped away into the forest often meeting the bastard prince Bharat on her rambles. There was a tree just outside the Forbidden Wing from the top of which she could see the inside of one of the rooms. There were many pictures on the walls and a gun in one corner. ‘The Maharaja hasn't forgotten you, has he, Mashi?' she asked suddenly.

‘It's quite possible,' Bhanumati replied with dignity. ‘He has so many things on his mind. Even we who have so few worries are So forgetful. Look at me! I forgot to feed my parrots only last evening.'