First Light (80 page)

After half an hour or so the man returned and ushered them into the doctor's chamber. Walking in first, with Hem hobbling behind, Bharat got a shock. A life-sized portrait of Dr Mahendralal Sarkar hung on the wall facing the door and in the vast leather chair, on whose seat Mahendralal's enormous bulk had rested in the past, a stranger sat—a small midget of a man with a weaselly face, a toothbrush moustache and a pair of hornrimmed spectacles.

‘D-doctor Mahendralal Sarkar!' Bharat stammered. ‘Is he . . .is he . . .?'

‘You must be new to the city.' The man took off his spectacles and started polishing them with a handkerchief. ‘Dr Sarkar died several years ago. I was his assistant.'

‘But your man said—'

‘I'm Dr Sarkar too. Come, let me have a look at the foot. Tck! Tck! It's a bad sprain but nothing that a week's rest will not cure.'

Applying some ointment he bandaged it neatly and said, ‘No moving about. And no climbing stairs. Stay indoors as far as possible.'

Leaving the doctor's chamber Bharat took the same cab and drove down to his old lodgings. By a stroke of good luck he was able to secure a room on the ground floor. Forcing Hem to lie down he sat in a chair beside him and ordered some tea. The mess lounge, in which the inmates relaxed in the evenings, was also on the ground floor and snatches of their conversation came floating in through the open door. Although Bharat had never associated with them, in the past, he knew the kind of talk the Babus indulged in. It was office talk mostly, spiced with juicy gossip about sexual exploits in the brothels of Rambagan and Hadh Katar Gali. But, this evening, he was surprised to hear them discussing the impending partition in voices seething with resentment and making plans to join the procession that would march to Town Hall. From their excited, agitated voices it was obvious that they were all raring to go.

Bharat wondered how the change had come about. Bengalis were a peaceloving people, lazy and tolerant, and they loved status quo. They respected the British for bringing law and order to the country and upheld their right to rule. Many had wept inconsolably at Queen Victoria's passing away. What had happened to them now? Why did the partition of their province, designed by their masters in the interest of better administration, incense them so?

Next morning, to everyone's surprise, news came that all the shops of the city were closed for the day. No call had been given for a hartal. The shopkeepers had taken their own decision. As the morning wore on the streets started filling with people and cries of
Bande Mataram
could be heard. Bharat was familiar with the song. The words had been penned by Bankimchandra and set to music by Rabindranath Thakur. But the crowds in the streets were not singing. They were repeating the first two words in a kind of shout. Bharat had never heard slogan-shouting in his life and he listened to it with wonder and a strange sense of exhilaration. ‘Send for a carriage Bharat,' Hem ordered, ‘We must go to College Square and join the procession marching to Town Hall.'

‘But the doctor has forbidden you to move!'

Hem dismissed the doctor's orders with an impatient gesture. Looking grimly into Bharat's face he said, ‘If you don't do as I tell you I shall hobble out of that door and join the crowds. No one can stop me.' Bharat sighed and went out into the street. Dodging the masses that kept pouring in from all sides he secured a carriage with great difficulty. The two friends got in and the horses inched their way slowly towards their destination.

‘Who got all these people here Hem?' Bharat broke a long silence. ‘Someone must have organized all this.'

‘No one organized anything. The National Congress could have given a call but it didn't. People are coming on their own.'

‘Most of them seem to be students. And see—they are the ones who are trying to maintain order.'

‘Students are the lifeblood of a nation; its real strength. Do you know why, Bharat? The ordinary adult has responsibilities and they weaken his resolve. It is not so with the young. Youth is indomitable.' Looking sadly down at his bandaged foot Hem sighed and continued, ‘To my dying day I shan't cease to regret the fact that I couldn't participate in this historic procession in the true sense of the word; that I couldn't march shoulder to shoulder with thousands of my countrymen. Couldn't I have chosen another time to take a toss from my bicycle?' Bharat burst out laughing at this infusion of the comic in Hem's lament. But Hem didn't laugh. ‘Your legs are whole brother,' he said to Bharat. ‘Why are you sitting in the carriage? Get down and walk with the rest. You can brag about it to your grandchildren in the years to come.'

Bharat sprang out of the carriage. He was glad of it because now he got a better view of what was going on; There were people from every walk of life. Students and teachers, clerks and barristers, rich Babus and middle-class householders, Hindus and Muslims were walking side by side with not a thought for caste and class. The last were few in number but a tall, bearded Muslim cleric dominated the scene. Standing in the centre of the procession he was shouting
Bande Mataram
with great force and energy. On enquiring about the man's identity from the people around him Bharat was told that he was the famous Maulvi Liaquat Hossain.

As the procession approached Town Hall several others, longer and weightier, began converging from the lanes and bylanes and, within seconds, the place turned into a sea of people. The elders put their heads together and decided that, in view of the unprecedented numbers, three meetings with a common agenda would be held instead of one. A resolution would be passed and sent to the Viceroy demanding withdrawal of the irrational and infamous Partition of Bengal. And the populace would take a pledge to boycott all British goods till their demand was met. The crowds cheered and clapped at this announcement. Take off your shoes brother,' Hem hissed in Bharat's ear. ‘Spark off the boycott.' Bharat leaped to the roof of the carriage at these words. ‘Friends!' he shouted in a voice that sounded strange even to his own ears. ‘From this moment onwards I boycott everything British. I begin with my shoes.' Stooping, he pulled off his leather pumps and swung them in the air. Then he flung them upwards as high as he could. This set off a frenzied flinging about of boots and pumps. Some took off their coats; some even their shirts Some dashed into the godown opposite and, carrying back armfuls of straw and jute stalks, proceeded to build an enormous effigy of Lord Curzon and set fire to it. And all the while cries of
Bande Mataram
filled the air as deep and terrifying as the roar of ocean waves.

Sitting in the Viceroy's office Lord Curzon heard the shouts. But his face was calm and placid without a trace of fear or anxiety. He knew what was going on. Every ten minutes his private sleuths were reporting developments. Now his lip curved in a smile as an adult's does at a child's threat. He knew the Bengali race. They were lazy and weak and incapable of sustaining any effort for long. This was a temporary excitement and would fizzle out in a few hours. Turning to the Police Commissioner Andrew Frazer, Lord Curzon said, ‘Conceive the howls! They will almost slay me in Bengal.'

Contrary to everyone's expectations Rabindranath Thakur displayed no reaction whatsoever to the proposed Partition of Bengal. He neither lent his voice at the rallies and meetings, nor did he take up his pen in protest. People were surprised at his attitude and speculations were rife. Was he under the impression that it was an empty threat? A bogey to frighten the natives with? Or was his faith in British justice and fair rule so great that it swamped his patriotic considerations? In all probability, his indifference stemmed from the fact that he was overwhelmed, at the time, by domestic upheavals. The grand patriarch of Jorasanko, Debendranath Thakur, had passed away peacefully in his bed at the ripe old age of eighty-seven leaving the whole of Bengal mourning as at the loss of a father. Passing over his elder sons he had appointed his youngest as chief trustee and executor of his last will and testament. In consequence Rabindranath found himself so deeply embroiled in mundane tasks that he rarely found the time to even pick up a pen. Besides, his own health was troubling him. He was suffering from piles and the pain was so excruciating that, stoic though he was, he found it unendurable at times.

But the moment he realized that the British had every intention of implementing their plan and that it was soon to become a reality, he shook himself out of his personal troubles. His faith in their governance suffered a rude shock. They claimed that, the Bengal, Presidency being too large and unwieldy, they were dividing it in two in the interest of better administration. Their argument was tenable but only up to a point. Rabindranath could see the sense of carving a separate state out of Bihar and Orissa. But why divide up the Bengali-speaking zillas and graft some of them on to Assam? The reason was obvious. The Bengalis were slowly awakening to a sense of nation and country. And this was being achieved through their language. The intention behind the partition of the province was to strike a blow
which would stem the spread and development of the Bengali language. This was gross injustice Even Sir Henry Cotton, erstwhile administrator or British India, had admitted the fact.

Rabindranath was primarily a poet and composer and his protest came in the form of songs.
Amaar sonaar bangla ami tomai bhalobashi
he wrote on a still, lonely night in Shantiniketan and set it to the tune of a song he had heard the runner Gagan Harkara sing in Shilaidaha many years ago—A
mi kothai pabo taaré amaar monér manush jé ré.
This song caught the public fancy to such an extent that it was now being sung at all the meetings. This was followed by a host of songs in praise of the motherland—
O amaar déshér mati
;
Jadi tor daak shuné keu na aashé Saarthak janam amaar; Ami bhay karbo na bhay karbo na,
among others, Apart from writing songs Rabindranath was attending meetings these days and speaking at them. He had also
lent open support to the boycott movement.

Tossing aside the resolution passed at the meeting in the Town Hall as carelessly as though it was a scrap of waste paper, Lord Curzon set a date for the dreaded event. On the sixteenth of October 1905 Bengal would be split in two! The nation was appalled. How could the rulers be so insensitive; so indifferent to the wishes of the people? Sitting in the train on his way to Calcutta from Giridi on the night of the ninth, a week before the impending disaster, Rabindranath composed a song that reflected his shock and anger:

The tighter they tie our limbs,

The sooner our bonds will break.

The harsher the glare of their bloodshot eyes

The better our eyes shall see.

Now is the hour for ceaseless work;

no time for empty dreams.

The louder they roar, the sooner oh! Brothers

our slumber shall shattered be

The harder they try to break with force

The stronger shall they build.

The more they strike with frenzied hate,

wave upon wave will spring.

Lose not hope you suffering souls.

The Lord of the Earth still wakes.

If they trample the truth beneath their heels

Their flag will be dragged in the dust;

Their proud flag will be dragged in the dust.

A call for total hartal was issued by the leaders. On the sixteenth of October Bengalis from all sections of society, high and low, rich and poor, Hindu and Muslim would tie rakhis on each other's wrists and take the pledge of brotherhood. On that day, a day of national mourning, all hearths would be cold. No fires would be lit and no food cooked. The British wanted to divide Bengal. But they would do so only on their maps. In their hearts the Bengalis would remain undivided.

The historic day dawned. The sky was a clear, flawless blue with soft, white clouds massing near the horizon. The air had a nip in it as though it held the promise of approaching winter. Rabindra loved this season and had expressed this love in many of his songs. But, perfect autumn day though it was, Rabindra's heart did not lift up in ecstasy. It beat, slow and heavy, with fear. Would the masses respond to the call? Would Hindus and Muslims come together in a spirit of brotherhood? What if a clash took place and riots followed?

But if Rabindra had any fears about the success of the call, the other members of the Thakur family didn't. Preparations had started weeks ago. Thousands of rakhis had been bought and were being sent out by post to friends and relatives living outside the city. The western veranda of the mansion of Joransanko had been transformed into a centre of frenzied activity. Mounds of rakhis lay on one side beside piles of envelopes. The members of the family, men and women alike, were working furiously—writing addresses, pasting stamps, sealing envelopes and carrying them to the post office. Some of the women were even engaged in making rakhis. Only one member of the family took no part in all this. And that was Jyotirindranath. News of the boycott had reached his ears but it failed to enthuse his spirit. He spent his day, as usual, reading and staring out of the window. But a slow anger burned in his breast. His had been the first attempt to strike a blow at British industry. But his countrymen hadn't lent him their support. They were boycotting British goods
now and making a great virtue of it. Why hadn't they thought of it a decade and a half ago? Why hadn't they boycotted British ships and saved his company? The country's history would have been quite different if they had. But they had abandoned him. They had ignored his pleas and sold their souls to the ruling race.

That day Rabindra rose at dawn and shook the sleepers awake. They were to go first to the Ganga and bathe and purify themselves before joining the pledge-taking utsav. Rabindra wore a simple dhuti with no shirt. A muga shawl was flung carelessly around his shoulders and his feet were bare. Looking up and down at Abanindranath he said pleasantly, ‘Take off your shoes Aban. We shall walk barefoot to the river.' Walk! Abanindranath was alarmed. He was a fastidious young man and a dandy. He seldom walked anywhere and wore slippers even within the house.

‘But . . .but,' he stammered. ‘The road to the river is full of stones and nails and pieces of glass!'

‘We shall walk barefoot nevertheless,' his uncle announced inexorably, ‘like the rest of our countrymen.' Leaving the great gates of his ancestral mansion behind, he walked rapidly to the waiting crowds and became one with them.
Banglar mati banglar jal, banglar bayu banglar phal
he sang as he walked and thousands of voices took up the refrain. And thus they came to the river.

At first Rabindranath couldn't see the water for the sea of human heads that bobbed up and down. There were thousands of people on the bank too—laughing, singing, shouting
Bhai bhai ek thain, bhed nai bhed nai
before tying rakhis on one another's wrists. Rabindranath took a few dips then, changing into a dry dhuti, joined the utsav. Abanindranath stared at his uncle in bewilderment. Robi ka seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis. He, who was so aloof and withdrawn by nature, so polished in his manners that they bordered on the artificial, was tying rakhis and embracing everyone, indiscriminately, not caring if the man was a Brahmin or an untouchable. Aban even heard him saying to a sepoy, ‘Come brother. You're Bengali too.' But the man put his hands behind his back and said ruefully, ‘Forgive me huzoor. I'm a Muslim.' Rabindra's face fell. He had heard that a large section of Muslims favoured partition and had
welcomed the move of the rulers. Reports were coming in of communal tension in several zillas of East Bengal. ‘As you wish,' he said gently and turned away. But another man come forward his arm outstretched. ‘I'm a Muslim too,' he said, ‘and I would be proud to wear your rakhi.' After that it seemed to Aban that his Robi ka was in imminent danger of being suffocafed to death by the press of people who wanted to wear his rakhi. Brahmins with poités gleaming against bare brown chests, firinghee priests in robes and rosaries, Muslim clerics with hennaed beards, aristocrats and scavengers, clerks and barristers, watchmen and watermen clamoured and pushed one another to get close to him.

On the way back to Jorasanko Aban declared, ‘You're twice your weight Robi ka.' Rabindra laughed, looking down at his arms. They were covered with rakhis, one on top of another, from the wrists up to the shoulders. ‘Let's go to Nakhuda Masjid Aban,' he said, and' tie rakhis on our Muslim brothers.' Abanindra was terrified at the suggestion. ‘Don't attempt anything so dangerous Robi ka,' said. ‘Do you want to start a riot?'

‘Why do you say that?' Rabindra asked surprised. ‘We'll go to the mosque and take permission from the Iman. It he refuses we'll come back home.'

‘Do as you wish, ‘Aban replied. ‘Count me out.' Abanindranath walked rapidly away. Rabindra stood watching his retreating back for a while. His lips curled in a smile. Then, turning to the others, he said, ‘Les's go.'

A few minutes after his arrival at the mosque Rabindra was ushered into a small room where the Iman sat talking to some of the maulvis. He was very fair with hawk-like features and looked quite regal in his velvet robe with his snowy hair and beard. His eyes were bright and surprisingly young in a face as old and wrinkled as a piece of parchment. He looked up as Rabindra walked in through the door and a look of respect came into his eyes. It was obvious that he who stood before him was no ordinary man. ‘As you know,' Rabindra began, after touching his rigth hand to his forehead in the customary Muslim greeting, ‘our rulers have passed a bill dividing our province. But we Bengalis must remain undivided in spirit. We must remain brothers as we have for centuries—Hindus and Muslims together. In this dark
hour, when we are being tested, let us take a pledge of everlasting brotherhood. Let me tie a rakhi on your wrist as a token of that pledge'

The Imam turned his eyes on the faces of his companions, turn by turn, as if seeking support. But no one spoke. A grim silence prevailed. The Imam smiled—a wide beautiful smile that lit up his
‘eyes and filled every nook and cranny of that ancient, noble face. Come my son,' he said, stretching out his arm.