First Light (43 page)

‘
Jyobati!

Kyan ba karo man bhari

Pabna thèkè ènè dèbo

taka damèr motri'

Rabindra was charmed. This was a song of love and separation;
emotions as old as the human race itself! The traveller had left his young beloved far away in a distant village and set sail over the Padma on a long uncertain voyage. She had wept and sulked and he had tried to comfort her with the promise of bringing her a
motri
from Pabna. What tender pathos there was in the lines! What nostalgia in the tune! Rabindra wondered what a
motri
was! What was that invaluable something that cost only a rupee but would bring a smile to the face of the beloved?

Rabindra hurried to his room and wrote down the lines in an exercise book he kept for the purpose. He couldn't allow this charming little song to be borne away over the river and be lost to him. It was better than many compositions of so-called poets. He decided to send for the runner Gagan Harkara next morning. Gagan had a fine collection of songs which he sang as he ran with the post, from village to village. Rabindra would copy them in his book. Bengalis were so musical!

His sojourn by the villages of the Padma was coming to an end and he would be leaving for Calcutta in a few days. He had collected a substantial amount of money in taxes and Baba Moshai would be pleased. But his personal collection of experience was his own and he hugged it in secret. So many faces! So many songs! Sights, sounds, scents! He was taking back a treasure trove.

The evening teas at Janakinath Ghoshal's house were famous, practically on par with the Governor's ‘At Homes'. Receiving an invitation to one was considered a status symbol and anybody who was anybody in Calcutta had attended them at some time or the other. The gatherings were presided over, not by the master of the house but by the mistress. It seemed to be an age of women's empowerment. Queen Victoria ruled England, and Swarna-kumari, the Ghoshal family of Kashiabagan.

Swarnakumari took care not to invite more than seven or eight guests at a time but they all had to be distinguished in some field or other. Thus bureaucrats, politicians, poets, playwrights, doctors and journalists rubbed shoulders with one another at the gatherings in her house. Unlike other high-profile parties a fair sprinkling of women could also be seen in Swarnakumari's drawing room. The furniture in the room was Western, the ambience Western but the conversation that went on was strongly national in spirit. The master of the house was an ardent patriot and though he kept a low profile, it was his personality that imbued the assembly. He resented British rule as fiercely as he hated the traditions that created and nurtured disparities between man and man. His crusade against the caste system was far from theoretical. He had brought it right into his own kitchen by employing cooks from the lowest stratum of the caste hierarchy—the untouchables. His passion for the upliftment of Indian women was manifested in the freedom and status enjoyed by his wife and daughter.

Today, of course, the untouchable cooks had been replaced by Brahmins of the highest order as was evident from their thick shikhas and dazzling white
poités
swinging from bare torsos. A special guest was coming this evening from Bombay about whom many stories were circulated. It was rumoured that he was a rabid Hindu who wouldn't deign to wash his feet in a non-Brahmin house.

Swarnakumari cast a final glance at the arrangements before going up to her room to dress for the party. She was satisfied. Everything was in place. The couches had small teapoys in front of them with a glass of water, a silver cigar box and brass ashtray, long and slim and shining like gold, on each. The sixty-four-lamped chandelier was ablaze with its wealth of candles and the grandfather clock was polished to perfection. Little lace fans were scattered about, there being no
punkah
in the room. Swarnakumari put up her hand to straighten a picture on the wall, then turning to her daughter she asked, ‘What songs have you prepared for this evening Sarala?'

‘Two songs of Robi Mama's,' came the reply. ‘Don't ask me to sing any more.'

‘Mr Tilak doesn't know Bengali. Why don't you sing something in Sanskrit?' Sarala had a large repertoire of songs. She could sing in English, Bengali, French, Sanskrit, Hindi—even Karnataki. ‘People from other parts of India think Bengalis have faulty diction when it comes to Sanskrit,' Swarnakumari continued. ‘Show Mr Tilak how good your Sanskrit is.'

‘Why should I? I don't care to put my accomplishments on display for anyone—not even Mr Tilak.'

‘That's a very foolish attitude Sarala,' Swarnakumari said severely. ‘You must sing Bankimbabu's
Bande Mataram
at the very least.'

Sarala and her mother often got into arguments. But they were never loud or aggressive. Their family culture drew a firm line against the rude and the vulgar. Besides, offending your elders was considered the height of bad breeding. ‘I'll sing
Bande Mataram
,'
Sarala conceded sullenly, ‘but if we can learn Hindi, surely they can learn Bengali ?' Sarala was a rebel. She had wanted to take up Physics as her subject in college but Bethune didn't even have a Physics department. The best they could offer by way of a science course was Botany. But Sarala had not want to study Botany. She decided to attend the evening lectures at the Indian Institute of Science and take the exam in private. Her parents and relations advised her against it but Dr Mahendralal Sarkar backed her up. ‘We'll make special arrangements,' he declared joyfully. ‘In any case, the boys are not tigers. They won't eat her up.' The special arrangement was the placing of three chairs in
one corner of the hall. At the commencement of each evening's lectures Sarala was escorted there by her two brothers who sat by her till they were over. ‘Bodyguard! Bodyguard!' the boys whispered loudly enough for her to hear but she didn't condescend to cast a glance in their direction.

Sarala had passed with distinction and been awarded a silver medal. Following that she had completed her graduation and was now studying for her postgraduation in Sanskrit. This shift from Physics to Sanskrit had surprised many. ‘It won't be that easy,' an eminent professor of Sanskrit College had said on hearing that she proposed to take the examination on the strength of instruction from a private tutor, ‘We'll see how she gets through.' Sarala had taken up the challenge and was working day and night. Her pandit was very pleased with her efforts, and had declared that out of all his pupils Sarala and Hirendra Datta of Hathibagan were the most meritorious. Sarala had two other preoccupations these days. One was editing the family journal
Bharati
and the other was keeping her numerous suitors at bay. She was determined not to marry and become a housewife. One had only a single life, which was too precious to waste. Her parents were not putting pressure on her either.

The sound of carriage wheels on the drive made Swarnakumari beat a speedy retreat. She couldn't let anyone see her as she was. She would come down the stairs after all her guests had arrived and taken their seats, and make her entrance into the hall as dramatically as a queen. Sarala, unlike her mother, paid little attention to her dress or to the effect her presence would have on the guests. She wore a white silk sari, this evening, held at the shoulder with a brooch set with a large ruby the colour of pigeon's blood. She wore no other ornament. She hastened to the door, just as she was, to see her father descending from his carriage. ‘There won't be any bachelors this evening Solli,' he smiled at his daughter. ‘No one will pester you to marry him.' Even as he spoke another carriage rolled up the drive and, within a minute, two men entered the hall. One was Motilal Ghosh, brother of Sisir Kumar and editor of
Amrita Bazar Patrika.
His companion was also a journalist. He came from Bombay and was the editor of the famous Marathi journal
Kesri.
He was a fiery pamphleteer and wrote both in English and Marathi. His name
was Balgangadhar Tilak.

Balgangadhar was about thirty-six years old. He had a very fair complexion, a strong muscular body and a face in which pride and arrogance were ill concealed. He belonged to the caste of Chitpavan Brahmins who considered themselves to be the highest in the Brahminical order. Sarala was familiar with the legend associated with the Chitpavans. Centuries ago, after a shipwreck in the Arabian Sea, a number of bodies had come floating over the waves and been cast ashore on the Konkan coast. Presuming that these were dead bodies, the villagers had prepared a giant pyre for their cremation. But the moment the flames touched them the corpses rose and leaped to the ground. That they belonged to some white race was evident from their exceedingly fair complexions and grey-green eyes. They were accepted by the community and given the status of Brahmins for were they not twice born?

Balgangadhar was well educated but his views, on some subjects, were astonishingly traditional—even retrogressive. He advocated Western education but was against widow remarriage. He favoured the caste system and was against a law being passed denying conjugal rights to a husband till such time as his bride reached the age of puberty. Reports were constantly coming in of girls as young as five or six being raped by husbands in their prime and of being badly injured; of even dying from pain and shock. All enlightened, forward-thinking men of the country had welcomed this move of their rulers. But not this lion of Maharashtra. He had protested against the bill with a passion bordering on frenzy.

Balgangadhar took off his shoes on entering the room and expressed a desire to wash his feet. Sarala led him to the courtyard and poured water on them with her own hands. He allowed her to do so but did not condescend to address her with a word. The other guests arrived. Swarnakumari made her appearance and, after exchanging the preliminary courtesies, commenced arranging the refreshments on plates and handing them out one by one. Out of deference to Mr Tilak all the food served was vegetarian. Rosogollas had been ordered specially from Nabin Moira's shop. The Brahmin cooks had prepared luchi, mohanbhog, nimki and sandesh. Motilal Ghosh, in whose house
Mr Tilak was staying, whispered in his hostess' ear, ‘Don't serve him anything.'

‘Why not?' Swarnakumari asked, astonished, ‘Everything has been prepared at home by Brahmin cooks.' But Motilal shook his head. ‘Mr Tilak has no faith in Bengali Brahmins,' he said. ‘I, too, had engaged a Brahmin to prepare his meals but he has brought his own cook from Bombay.' Swarnakumari felt deeply offended. Tilak noticed her expression and said, ‘I'll have some tea. But please tell your servants to bring the liquor, sugar and milk in separate vessels. I'll mix them myself.' Motilal stared at him in surprise. ‘I'm amazed that you've consented to drink tea here,' he said. Then, taking his guest's permission, proceeded to tell the gathering of an incident that had taken place some years ago in Poona. A Christian missionary and his sister had invited Tilak, Ranade and Gokhale to address a meeting. After the speeches were over he had taken them home and served them tea and biscuits. Next day their host had leaked the story to the press and it had appeared in the local newspaper. The Shankaracharya, incensed by the fact that these distinguished Brahmins had not only drunk the alien concoction but that too in the house of a
mlechha
foreigner, had delivered an edict ostracizing them from the Hindu community. Tilak had appealed to him to withdraw his edict promising to pay a fine and to perform whatever penitential rites were asked of him. He had kept his word and been forgiven. At this point in the story the barrister Ashutosh Chowdhury fixed his eyes on the Maratha's face and asked gravely, ‘Why did you agree to pay the fine Mr Tilak? Do you really believe that drinking tea in an Englishman's house is a sinful act?' Tilak wagged his head from side to side. ‘No,' he said solemnly.

‘Then why—?'

‘You won't understand. You, in Bengal, have changed many of your social laws. That's because your social discipline is not very tight. You have no moral leader of the stature of Shankaracharya. It's different in Maharashtra. Besides, the common folk believe that one loses caste by eating in a foreign household. Had I not performed penance they would have rejected me. I couldn't risk that. You believe in social reform first and political change afterwards. I believe in working in the
opposite order.'

‘I've heard you're against widow remarriage,' Sarala said somewhat edgily.

‘Yes.'

‘Why? Widows in this country suffer such pain and deprivation. Are you not aware of it?'

‘I am. But I believe they should continue to do so. They should give up all the pleasures of the world and spend their lives in selfless service to the members of the family in which they live. By doing so they'll be setting a great example. If they stray, rot and decay will set in—not only in their families but in our entire society.'

‘Wonderful Mr Tilak!' Sarala laughed. ‘Women must suffer and set examples. But a man may marry one woman after another and—'

‘You seem to have only a partial knowledge of my views daughter,' Tilak interrupted. ‘I oppose the remarriage of widowers just as I do that of widows.'

At this the whole gathering started twittering with suppressed laughter. Janakinath felt uncomfortable. The man was a guest in his house. It was in bad taste to needle him or laugh at him. He thanked his stars he hadn't invited Dr Mahendralal Sarkar.

‘Mr Tilak,' Anandamohan Basu took him up next. ‘I've heard you're against the Conjugal Rights Bill but I don't understand why. Do you really condone the cruelty that goes on in the name of conjugal rights?' At this Sarala rose and left the room. It wasn't proper for a young unmarried girl to hear such talk. ‘If I catch one such beast of a husband,' Tilak muttered between clenched teeth, ‘I'll give him such a shoe beating that he'll remember it all his life.' Anandamohan was surprised. ‘But I've heard just the opposite!' he exclaimed. ‘I'm told that you've written burning articles against the bill. You've collected signatures. I've even heard that you and your supporters disrupted a public meeting in Poona called in favour of the bill.' But Tilak was unfazed. ‘All this is true,' he announced calmly. ‘I
am
opposed to the bill. It should never have been passed.' Then, looking straight into Anandamohan's eyes, he said tersely, ‘I wish to make my views clear before you gentlemen this evening. I am totally opposed to child marriage. I believe that girls should reach the age of sixteen
and boys the age of twenty before they are wed. I also believe that there is a good deal wrong with our society and many of our laws need to be changed. But why should we allow the British government to interfere? It is our problem and we will solve it whenever we can. You Bengalis are incapable of doing anything yourselves. All you do is draw the attention of your foreign rulers to your weaknesses. They mock and revile us and pass laws. We in Maharashtra are trying to take-away their powers while you are putting more and more power in their hands.'

‘There are several Bengalis who share your views,' Anandamohan replied. ‘But have you considered the fact that social evils are perpetuated unless a law is passed against them? Could we have prevented the burning of widows without a law? Or the selling and buying of human beings as slaves? We are a dependent nation. What power do we have to bring reform from within? Going by what you said just now you would have preferred to wait till these heinous customs changed by themselves. In the meantime thousands of women would be burned alive and thousands of men, women and children would be bought and sold like sheep and goats in the marketplace.'