First Light (55 page)

The friends turned out to be only two in number—his fiancée and her sister. But the evening was a great success. The wall of reserve broke down on both sides. Joe and Bessy chatted animatedly and Vivekananda proved himself as charming and witty a dinner companion as he was a powerful speaker.

After a week or so Leggett invited Vivekananda to spend a few days in his country house in New Hampshire. It went by the modest name of Fishing Tent but was, in reality, a large, two-storeyed wooden bungalow overlooking a beautiful blue lake and surrounded by acres of woods and meadows. Vivekananda was charmed with the place. He spent hours swimming in the crystal waters of the lake and rowing to and fro in a small boat. Occasionally he took long walks in the woods with Bessy and Joe.

The evenings were spent in reading portions of his Sanskrit texts aloud to his friends. Joe loved the sound of the words though their meanings eluded her. Something deep down in her responded to this ancient language, the sounds plucking at her heart as though it were a stringed instrument.

One morning Vivekananda had a strange experience. It happened just before breakfast. ‘Joe,' he had said to her, ‘I'm sitting out in the garden under the pine tree. Call me as soon as breakfast is ready.' Then, shaking his head at her in mock severity, he had added, ‘It had better be a good one.' Then, leaning against the trunk of a giant pine that grew in a sunny corner of the garden, he had read the Gita for a while. Suddenly something came upon him. He shut his eyes and started murmuring to himself. ‘What am I doing in this country? I've come all the way from my native land; crossing seas and rivers and mountain ranges. But for what? I'm telling the people of America about our religion and philosophy. But do my words mean anything to anyone? Are they making a dent anywhere? I wanted to help my countrymen; to find a way of removing their miseries. But what have I done about it? Do I even remember them? I'm on the wrong path. Yes, without a doubt, I'm on the wrong path. My place is with my own people; in my own country. I've a new mission before me. It is not enough to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. The fetters that bind their souls are sharper, more cruel than hunger. I must teach my people to rise; burst their bonds and demand their right to live . . .'

A few minutes later Joe came out into the garden to call Vivekananda. But reaching the pine tree she got a shock. He sat, still as a figure of stone, eyes closed, not a muscle twitching in his face or form. The book he had been reading lay on the ground, open and awry, as though it had fallen from his hands. Terrified, Joe ran back to the house crying distractedly, ‘Francis! Bessy! Swamiji's dead. He's gone from us. Gone!' The three ran back to where Vivekananda sat. ‘Shall I shake him to see if there is any sign of life?' Francis asked. Suddenly Joe remembered something Vivekananda had told her—about a state called
bhav samadhi
that holy men experienced from time to time. It was a state in which the motions of the body, even the circulation, were temporarily suspended and the yogi became a living soul. ‘No,'
she cried. ‘No. Don't touch him. He's in
bhav samadhi
.'

She was right. After a few minutes Vivekananda's eyelids fluttered. His lips parted. ‘Who am I?' he murmured, ‘Where am I?' Then, opening his eyes, he saw the three anxious faces bending over his. ‘Why do you look at me like that?' he asked, ‘What has happened?'

‘Swamiji! Swamiji!' Joe burst out weeping. ‘You frightened us so. We thought . . . we thought—'

‘I'm sorry Joe,' Vivekananda rose to his feet. ‘I didn't mean to frighten you.' Then resuming his usual, teasing manner with her, he added smiling, ‘Be assured of one thing. I shan't go away leaving this body in your country. What about breakfast? Isn't it ready yet? I'm starving.'

Maharaja Birchandra Manikya was gravely ill. Following Mahendralal Sarkar's advice he had journeyed to Kurseong with a small retinue which included the poet Rabindranath Thakur and his eldest son Rathi. Though winter was quite a long way off it was very, very cold. Rain and hail fell incessantly and a dense fog shut out the sun for the better part of the day. It was impossible to step out. But, inside, the house was made warm and cozy with log fires blazing in every room exuding the fresh sweet smell of resin and pine cones. The Maharaja had never been happier in his life. He spent his mornings and evenings in the company of the young poet, listening to him reciting his verses and singing his songs. From time to time they discussed the details of the volume of Vaishnav
padavalis
they planned to bring out together. Rabindra, on his part, had found in the king his most ardent and intelligent admirer and was thrilled to spend time in his company. But, unfortunately, the good time didn't last very long. The king's health started deteriorating in the damp mountain air and clammy fogs of Kurseong. He caught a severe chill which spread to his lungs and, one afternoon, in the middle of an animated discussion on the machinery which would be required for the new printing press, he fainted.

A local doctor was called in who revived him somewhat but he was so weakened by the infection that it was no longer expedient to keep him in Kurseong. The group returned to Calcutta. The best doctors were sent for and with their combined efforts, together with his tremendous life force and will to survive, the sick king gradually came out of the valley of death. Kumar Radhakishor begged him to return to Tripura but Birchandra was not ready to do that. Instead, he sent for Kumar Samarendra.

While in Kurseong Rabindra had recited portions of his novel
Rajarshi
and his play
Bisarjan.
The king, deeply moved by this story set in his kingdom, had begged the poet to put up a
performance. ‘You stage so many plays in the mansion of Jorasanko. Can you not do
Bisarjan
?' he had asked wistfully. Looking on the pale, puffy countenance and dark ringed eyes Rabindra made up his mind.
Bisarjan
had been performed once and could easily be revived. There was a permanent stage in the courtyard of the house. His nephews Aban and Gagan were good painters and could take care of the backdrop. Bibi would play the harmonium. There was no one to touch Bibi with a harmonium. She had magic in her fingers. Rabindra set a date and rehearsals began in right earnest.

But while the players were rehearsing, Birchandra, who was the chief guest, was also getting ready to play his part. He wanted to make on impressive entry into the famed house of the Thakurs, and to that intent, was determined not to lean on the shoulders of his bodyguards or display any sign of weakness—physical or mental. He sent for an elegant walking stick of finely carved rosewood with an ivory handle and started practising walking without help. On the evening of the performance he arrived at Jorasanko well before the prescribed time and, instead of taking his place with the audience, walked into the green room where he commenced an inspection of the costumes. He had sent Mahim over, a few days ago, to apprise Rabindra of the kind of dresses worn by Tripura royals during the period in which the play was set. Now, even at the last moment, he made minor changes in the costumes of Nakshatra Rai and Gobinda Manikya. Authenticity had to be maintained at all cost for the audience would be a distinguished one. And for some reason, unknown even to him, he felt responsible for the success of the play. ‘Where is Robi Babu?' he asked after a while.

‘Why!' A member of the cast exclaimed. ‘Here he is—standing right beside you.'

Birchandra turned his head and got the surprise of his life. Rabindra, as Raghupati, was unrecognizable in his dark red dhuti and wig of tangled locks. His eyebrows had been darkened heavily with kajal and met, fierce and strong, above a pair of blood flecked eyes. Under the
namabali,
flung carelessly across his shoulders, his broad, bare chest gleamed as though carved from a block of white marble. Rabindra smiled and his eyes twinkled. He had been standing by the king all this while but the
latter hadn't even glanced at him.

The play caught the imagination of the audience right from the first scene. They looked on, amazed, at the transformation of the sensitive poet with his liquid eyes and gentle voice into the ruthless, scheming Raghupati. And, indeed, it was a fact that Rabindra underwent a metamorphosis every time he stood on a stage. He forgot himself and took on the persona of the character he was enacting, be it fictitious or historical.

In the third scene, in which Raghupati is alone in the forest addressing the idol of Kali, Rabindra got so carried away that he lost all sense of time and place. According to the story Raghupati, incensed with the goddess for her demand and acceptance of human sacrifice, lifts the idol in his hands and flings it into the waters of the Gomati. But, since it was not possible to show that on stage, a rope was tied to the base of the statue the end of which was in Aban's hands. As per the stage directions Rabindra would pretend to lift the image; the lights would go out and the statue would be pulled into the wings. But Rabindra got so excited while shouting his lines:

‘
Bloodthirsty demoness

Return thy prey

Dost thou have ears to hear
?'

that he actually picked up the heavy block of stone in his hands and was about to hurl it into the wings when the sight of Bibi sitting there with her harmonium, brought him to his senses. Another moment and she would have been crushed to death. Rabindra trembled from head to foot. Sweat ran down his limbs. Finally, with a tremendous effort, he put down the stone image. The audience shouted ‘Bravo! Bravo! A superb performance,' and the entire auditorium rang with applause.

At the end of the play Maharaja Birchandra Manikya presented a gold mohur apiece to each of the players. Then, without lingering any further, he hurried to his carriage and seated himself. Mahim ran after him and peered curiously into his face. It looked sullen and angry. Back home, Mahim's enthusiastic appreciation of the play was cut short by a imperious wave of the royal hand. ‘Shut up!' The king snapped, then giving full vent to his ill humour, he shouted, ‘Why is everything so much better in Calcutta? Why can't we do what they do? What's
wrong with us?'

Taken aback by this attack, Mahim stuttered, ‘But . . . there's no tradition of theatre in Tripura. Calcutta—'

‘Why didn't you start a tradition you fool?' Birchandra thundered. ‘Haven't you received an education? Can't you see what's lacking in your country's culture? Get out of my sight. I can't bear to breathe the same air as you.' But, though ordered to get out, Mahim couldn't. It would be unseemly. He stood quietly, his head bowed in humility, ready to receive whatever further chastisement the king thought fit to mete out to him. Insult after insult was hurled at the bowed head, then, his anger spent, Birchandra muttered moodily, ‘Make all the arrangements for going back to Tripura. I wish to leave in a day or two. We'll start a theatre in Agartala, in my palace courtyard, and put up one play after another. We'll begin with
Bisarjan.
Now, who do you think should act in it?'

‘We must look for an actor,' Mahim answered, his face brightening visibly. ‘I'm sure we'll find—'

‘Don't be stupid! Where do you mean to look? It's not a lost cow that you'll make discreet enquiries at the abattoir. We have actors right in the palace. You can be Jai Singh and Radharaman—Gobinda Manikya. No, that won't do. He's too thin. He can be the minister. We could try out Naradhwaj. And I'll be Raghupati.' He drew himself to his full height as he said this and stroking his moustaches, added, ‘I'll act even better than Rabindra Babu. You'll see.' Birchandra walked up and down the room excitedly, stroking his chest from time to time. Turning, he ordered sharply, ‘Bring the book!' Mahim ran out of the room and reappeared after a few moments, a copy of
Bisarjan
in his hands. Birchandra opened it at random and began declaiming:

‘The truth?

Why shall I not speak it?

Am I afraid?

A craven coward?

The demon goddess . . .'

Suddenly the book slipped from his hands and Birchandra Manikya fell, face foremost, in a crumpled heap on the floor. Mahim ran to him and, kneeling on the ground, turned him over. Blood was flowing from his nostrils in a thin stream and the
corners of his mouth were laced with foam. But his senses were intact. ‘Take me home Mahim,' he whispered. ‘Back to Tripura. My chest hurts so . . . it's about to burst . . . Take me . . . before it's too late.'

It
was
too late. With these words the king fell into a stupour from which he came out, from time to time, after long intervals. And then he would call out to his first queen Bhanumati. But the moments of consciousness were few and far between. Five distinguished physicians took turns in watching over him day and night. But no one could hold out any hope.

Seventeen days after his fall Birchandra opened his eyes and spoke for the first time. Seeing Samarendra leaning anxiously over him, he placed a trembling hand on his head and whispered, I promised your mother you would be king. Take the throne and don't let go at any cost.' Then, smiling wanly at the worried faces around him, he asked, ‘Am I well enough to go back to Tripura?' The members of the king's household were delighted at his recovery but the English doctor looked grave. ‘This is a precarious time,' he warned Mahim. ‘He may slip away any moment. Exercise the utmost caution and care.'

Next day Birchandra felt well enough to sit up for a while leaning against masses of cushions. He even took a few sips from the cup of fruit juice offered to him. Then, addressing Mahim, he said, ‘I've lived a good life and kept the throne of my ancestors with strength and policy. I've subjugated rebellions and kept peace in my country. And though I've indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, I haven't neglected the spiritual side. I've been to Brindaban on a pilgrimage.' He sighed contentedly then, as if suddenly remembering, he commanded, ‘Take care of my photographs. They mustn't get lost. And look after my youngest queen. She's still a child. She mustn't suffer in my absence.' Dim, ageing eyes held Mahim's for a long moment. Then he said almost shyly, ‘Only two of my desires will remain unfulfilled. One is to draw my last breath in the air of Tripura. The other . . . the other
. . . is to hear that maid . . . Nayanmoni . . . sing to me while I'm dying. I've longed to hear her sweet voice sing
padavalis
at my bedside for so long—I can't even remember. I want to hear that voice . . . the last thing . . . before I die.'

Mahim rose and, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, ran out of the
room straight to Ardhendushekhar's house. Nayanmoni had left the theatre, he was told, but she had come back home. Together they went to Gangamoni's house and sought audience with her lodger. This time Nayanmoni did not refuse. Changing into a garad sari, and covering her shoulders with a shawl, she accompanied the two to the king's mansion—the house she had lived in and left so suddenly so many years ago. Entering the royal chamber, she seated herself at the king's bedside. Birchandra was breathing with difficulty. But the moment he saw her a smile of triumph lifted the blueing lips. He was a king, used to getting what he wanted. He had wanted her and here she was. Even while passing into death his heart swelled with a sense of victory. ‘Why did you go away?' he whispered, ‘I might have lived a few more years if you had . . . if you had . . .' His voice trailed away.

‘What shall I sing?' Nayanmoni asked softly.

‘Anything you like.' Then, gasping for air, he continued, ‘Live Bhumisuta. Live long and be happy. My time is over. I'm going . . .'

Nayanmoni began her song but before she could complete a full verse, Mahim burst out weeping . . .

In a few hours Birchandra's house was filled with mourners. With one notable exception. Rabindranath Thakur could not come. While the king had been ill Rabindra had been confined to bed. He had strained his back muscles, while lifting the heavy statue, so badly that he found it difficult to stand—leave alone walk. And when news came that Birchandra Manikya of Tripura was dying, his wife Mrinalini started her labour pains. She was giving birth to Rabindra's fifth child. Next morning, after seeing his newborn son, he hurried to the burning ghat at Keoratala and laid a bunch of flowers at the dead man's feet.