First Light (81 page)

On her way to the theatre Nayanmoni often took a detour. ‘Go through Chitpur Road Rahmat Miyan,' she would call out to the coachman. But in what hope? Did she really believe that Rabindranath would come walking out of Jarasanko Gali, one day, and she would see him in person? She was spending all her free evenings in Sarala Ghoshal's house these days learning his songs. They, of course, were not meant for the theatre. She sang them to herself at home, her eyes closing in ecstasy. Then the face she thought of during all her waking hours came before her eyes. Had the memory of Bharat dimmed with the passing years? No. Bharat was vivid and alive in her heart and there was no place for another. Why this yearning for Rabindranath then? Nayanmoni thought about it a great deal and came to a certain conclusion. Bharat was the man in her life. He was the only husband she would have—if any. But a woman needed a god, Sri Krishna had been her god once. She had offered him her devotion in song and dance and shared all her joys and sorrows with him. But the image had changed. It was Rabindra's face and form that came before her eyes now—not Krishna's.

Her life at the theatre had also undergone a change. Classic had fallen into a decline and the blame for it was Amar Datta's—entirely. Puffed up with the successes of the past few years he had bought up the crumbling Minerva and, having renovated it at great expense, had proceeded to run the two theatres together. Since he could be physically present in only one place he left the running of the latter to his employees whereupon Minerva suffered loss upon loss—the men in charge bleeding her systematically. Amar Datta was forced to plough in some of his profits from Classic into the sick Minerva but still the theatre wouldn't pick up. Any other man in his place would have written it off as a bad investment but not Amar Datta. His ego couldn't allow him to accept defeat. But all his efforts notwithstanding, Minerva crashed threatening to bring down Classic along with it
as well. Now he, who had had so much money only a few years ago that he didn't know what to do with it, was reduced to borrowing from friends, relatives and even moneylenders. His stars were against him perhaps. For, added to his money troubles, came another blow. His audience started dwindling—why no one could tell. His plays lost their appeal and no matter what he tried to do; wherever he tried to turn, he met with loss and failure. In his frustration he took to drinking and, doing so, he lost whatever little grip he had on himself and on his cast.

Around this time, when Amar Datta was changing plays every other night in an effort to woo back his fast disappearing audience, Nayanmoni suggested that they put up a dramatized version of
Chokhér Bali.
It was her favourite novel and she empathized with the situation in a strange kind of way. In Bihari and Mahendra she caught glimpses of Bharat and Shashibushan. Did she see herself as Binodini then? No. She had never met anyone like Binodini in her life.

‘
Chokhér Bali
!' Amar repeated thoughtfully after her. ‘Well—if you say so. But it had better perk up the box office. We're in a bad way.' He threw her an affectionate glance as he spoke. He hadn't paid her salary for four months now but she hadn't complained even once. And she hadn't responded to overtures from other companies.

But even
Chokhér Bali
failed to revive the declining fortunes of Classic. One night, immediately after a performance, Amar Datta sent for Nayanmoni. Walking into his office she saw him sitting at his ease, his feet propped up on the table. He had already drunk more than was good for him and he was pouring yet another glassful from the whisky decanter by his side. Nayanmoni stood waiting for him to speak. She hadn't had time to remove her make-up and she was still wearing the white
than
which was her costume. ‘You've failed me Nayan,' his mouth twisted bitterly. ‘I staged
Chokhér Bali
on your recommendation. But it's faring even worse than the others. Do you know what our earnings are for today? One hundred and eighty-seven rupees.'

‘You can't blame the play for that.' Nayanmoni said quietly. ‘The fault lies in our acting. We're not good enough.'

‘Nonsense!' Amar Datta banged his fist on the table. Then, bringing his face close to hers in a drunker leer, he said, ‘The
play's as dull as ditch water. We need to pack in some explosive stuff. Start preparing two dance sequences and—'

‘You're drunk,' Nayanmoni said coolly. ‘You wouldn't be making such an absurd suggestion otherwise. Binodini is a high-caste Hindu widow. And you want to make her dance! The audience will throw rotten eggs at you.'

‘
Chup
!' Amar Datta roared like a bull. ‘How dare you use that
‘tone of voice with me? I am drunk and I intend to get drunker. But I'm the master here and you're only a paid employee. You'll do as you're told.'

‘I can't obey you this.' Nayanmoni looked straight into his eyes as she said so. Her checks were flushed and her nostrils flared with distaste. Inflexibility and determination were stamped on every line of her face and form. Amar Datta couldn't bear her insolence. Springing from his chair he made a lunge at her and slapped her full on the cheek. ‘Get out of my theatre,' he shouted, the words slurred and indistinct. ‘Get out this very minute.' Nayanmoni's face turned white. Her eyes blazed and her cheek stung what he had hit her. But she said nothing. Pulling the edge of her
than
around her shoulder she said softly, ‘I'll be glad to do so. In fact I've wanted to leave for quite some time now. But I didn't. Do you know why? Because I didn't want to be the rat that deserts a sinking ship. But, by dismissing me yourself, you've set me free. I'm going. You'll never see me again.'

Amar Datta was too outraged to speak. He opened his mouth but no words came. He kept sitting, sunk in his chair, and watched her slender form walk out of his door and out of his life.

In the theatre world nothing remains hidden for long. World spread, within a few hours, that Nayanmoni had left Classic, and messengers from other companies started coming to her door with offers. But Nayanmoni had the same answer for everyone. Folding her hands humble before them she said, ‘I have no desire to act anymore. In Classic—or any other board.' She did not move a hair's breadth from her stance despite all the pleas, argument, flattery promises of excellent terms and emotional blackmail that were showered on her. But, in her heart, she knew that if one person came to her she couldn't refuse him. Rumours were floating about that Ardhendu shekhar was trying to get a cast together. But, fortunately for Nayanmoni, it didn't
materialize and she was not called upon to redeem her promise.

Nayanmoni felt wonderfully relaxed and happy these days. For the first time in her life she could live exactly as she pleased. The days passed one by one, long and languorous and she savoured every moment of her new-found freedom. One day she suddenly thought of Sarala Ghoshal. She hadn't been to see Sarala for a long time and, now that she thought of it,she hadn't even heard of her lately. The city was agog with excitement over the Partition of Bengal and processions and meetings were being held at every street corner. Why was Sarala's name never being taken? She was hardly the type to sit quietly at home when so much was going on. Nayanmoni decided to go that very evening and find out.

Standing outside the door of Sarala's house m Baliganj Nayanmoni looked around in surprise. The house and grounds had always been full of people at this hour. But now they were deserted. Not a soul could be seen. After knocking for a long time a maid opened the door and asked her to come in. Then she gave her some news that stunned Nayanmoni. Sarala was not in Calcutta. She was nowhere in Bengal. Where was she then? In Punjab with her husband. Husband! Nayanmoni stared at the woman as though she had gone mad Sarala had gone to Mayawati—an ashram in the mounains. That much she knew. Bust what was this talk of a husband in Punjab?

The truth of the matter was that, while in Mayawati, Sarala had received an urgent summons from her parents in Deoghar and had hurried there to be confronted with strange tidings. Her marriage had been fixed and the arrangements made, down to the last detail. There was no way she could get out of it now. Sarala stared in dismay, first at one face then the other. Janakinath did not speak a word but his eyes were grim and his jaw firm with determination. It was Swarnakumari who spoke. ‘Sarala,' she began in her strident tones. ‘Upto this day we have allowed you the kind of freedom that girls of your age and status can only dream of. But you've proved yourself unworthy of it. I pass over your activities, which though difficult to reconcile to at times, may be deemed worthy as service to the country. I speak of something far more serious. You told your father and me that you wished to remain a spinster. That you weren't interested in any
man. Yet you allow your name to be linked with some man's or another's every single day! Gossip and slander follow you wherever you go. How do you think we feel? Is there no limit to our endurance? It is time you thought of your family—' Then, in short, cryptic sentences, she told Sarala that a husband had been chosen for her. He was a Punjabi landowner, a wealthy widower named Chaudhary Rambhaj Datta. Their choice had fallen on him out of a special consideration. Swarnakumari and Janakinath wanted their daughter out of Bengal so that her innumerable suitors would cease to pester her. Out of sight; out of mind. Sarala would go away with her husband and make her home in a haveli in distant Punjab. And, in due course of time, her disgrace would be forgotten.

Brave Sarala! Bold, rebellious Sarala! She who had broken so many conventions and lived life on her own terms, stood before her parents her eyes downcast not daring to object. She, who could have chosen a husband from dozens of handsome young bucks from the first families of Calcutta, was forced into marrying a man she had never seen in her life—a man much older than herself and one whose language and culture were totally alien to hers . . .

Nayanmoni returned home with a heavy heart. She had welcomed her freedom from the theatre in the hope that she could work with Sarala; could help her in her innumerable causes and learn her uncle's songs. But that hope was gone. Nayanmoni sighed. Destiny was never tired of playing tricks with her. But she wouldn't give up. She would find her own way out of the mess her life had become. She would find her own self. And. . .and she wouldn't call herself Nayanmoni anymore. As of today she was Bhumisuta.

Following the Partition of Bengal a struggle ensued, between ruler and ruled, the like of which had not been seen in anyone's living memory. The Boycott Movement, launched in a spirit of idealism and sacrifice, took an ugly turn. Students abandoned their education in vast numbers and streamed into the political arena. Picketing, looting and burning became the order of the day. Now the British government was forced to sit up and take notice. Arresting a couple of leaders, from time to time, was easy. But what control could possibly be exercised on a whole generation of youth ready to embrace death in a bid to free their country from foreign domination? How many could be arrested? How many hanged? Retaliation was swift and brutal but the stream did not recede. It grew fuller and more turbulent with each passing day.

With the Boycott Movement in full swing some members of Jatin Banerjee's aakhra got together once again and started a newspaper called
Jugantar.
It was openly anti-establishment and contained scathing criticism of the British and their policies in its columns. Being able to hit out at the rulers with impunity was a heady experience for the young men and they savoured the feeling for a while. But soon they got restive. The rulers didn't seem to be taking any notice of what was being printed. What was the use of lashing out at them when they shrugged it off as the feeble kicking of infants? Action was the need of the hour, they decided. Planned action.

One evening Barin called the members to a secret meeting. ‘You all know what's happening in East Bengal,' he said. ‘The police have let loose a reign of terror and our boys are dying in hundreds. The man behind these killings is the Governor of the new province—the infamous Bamfield Fuller. He is not only killing Bengalis, he is dividing the Hindus and Muslims. “Divide and rule” is his policy. He must be punished for his crimes. Today, at this meeting, we must pronounce him guilty of
genocide and pass the order of his execution.'

‘We may pass the order,' Satyen murmured thoughtfully. ‘But who will carry it out?

‘One of us,' Barin replied coldly. ‘We'll identify the executioner through a draw of lots.'

But the draw of lots turned out to be unnecessary. Hem offered to take on the task and, after a little hesitation, the others agreed. The deed, it was decided, would be carried out in Shillong where Bamfield Fuller was taking a holiday. Barin would go there first and, keeping himself in the shadows, observe the Governor's habitas and movements. Some days later, Hem would proceed to Shillong and get a proper briefing. Then, carefully choosing the time and place, he would swing into action. For this purpose he would be given two pistols and a couple of crude country-made bombs. But Hem, for all his insistence, could not undertake the hazardous enterprise alone. Bharat insisted on accompanying him

The tracking down of Fuller turned out to be a wild goose chase. As soon as Hem and Bharat reached Shillong they got the news that the Governor's holiday was ober and that he was now in Gauhati. The three friends followed him to Gauhati to be informed that he had left for Barisal that very day and no one knew when he would return. Onward them to Barisal! But even here disappointment awaited them. On their arrival at Barisal they discovered that the bird had flown—back to Gauhati. Having come this far no one was in the mood for giving up. But destiny had decided to play a cruel trick on them over and over again Back in Gauhati they were told that Fuller was in Rangpur.

Chalo Rangpur! The indefatigable Barin raised the slogan and the two others followed. But, arriving at Rangpur, the three boys found themselves in dire straits. The money they had brought along was almost gone. In addition. by a group of would-be looked upon with great Suspicion by a group of woul-de revolutionaries of the town. These young men did not belong to any structred group Nor did they have a leader. They were keen to participate in the struggle they had heard of but didn't know how. They had offered to strat a society in Rangpur and had asked for financial support from some reputed leaders of Calcutta. But their appeal hadn't even been considered. Stung
and humiliated at this treament they were in no mood to befriend the three strangers from the capital city. They submitted Barin and the others to a stiff cross examination and demanded to see their weapons. This Barin refused to do. He would show what he had he said, but not publicly. They could select one from amongst themselves who world visit him in secret and see what he had in his possession.

That evening Barin's group waited in a little clearing in the woods at the edge of the town when a man came striding up to them swinging a lathi. His appearance was far from prepossessing. He had a short, squat body, packed with power like a goonda's and his hair was cropped close to à round hard skull. But his eyes were merry and his voice pleasant. ‘My name is Jogendramohan Das,' he said introducing himself. ‘I've been sent by the boys to inspect your weapons.' Then, picking up a bomb from inside the cloth bundle that rested at their feet, he asked, ‘Have you tested this? Will it work?'

‘It will,' Barin replied curtly.

‘I doubt it. What will you do if it fails? In my opinion this is not a bomb at all. It is an ordinary cracker.'

‘We have a second line of action ready,' Barin told him. ‘If the bombs fail we'll fire revolvers at point blank range.'

‘You'll have to get very close to the Governor to do that. He keeps several bodyguards around him. They'll blow the skull off your shoulders.'

‘We're prepared for that. My friends here have dedicated their lives for the cause.'

Jogendra looked Hem and Bharat up and down. ‘Ready to die even before the event!' he exclaimed. ‘What kind of revolutionaries are you? And why do you propose to sacrifice two lives for one?'

‘Their deaths will inspire other and—'

‘But isn't it far better to devise a plan of action that is fool proof? Have you gentlemen heard of the dynamite bomb? It is the invention of a famous scientist of Sweden—Sir Alfred Nobel. Dynamite can be sparked off from a considerable distance. And it is so powerful that a mountain can be reduced to rubble in a single blast. If you can get hold of such a bomb you will achieve your end and save your lives at the same time.'

‘From where can we get such a bomb?'

‘We can make it ourselves if the materials are available. But we'll need money. A great deal of money.'

Barin left for Calcutta the very next day to raise money for the new action plan. Hem and Bharat stayed on in Rangpur in a tumbledown house at the edge of the town which Jogendramohan had procured for them. A week went by, slow and monotonous, the boys passing their time in cooking, eating and reading novels of which they found a goodly store in one of the cupboards. There was no sign of Barin and not even a message. Hem and Bharat's finances had sunk so low that they were eating boiled rice and
jhingé
curry every day.
Jhingé
grew wild in the jungles and Bharat picked a basketful, every morning, choosing the greenest and the tenderest. Then the day came when the last handful of rice had been eaten and starvation stared them in the face. The boys bathed as usual and lay down, with a book each, prepared to fast till Barin returned. Around eleven o'clock Jogendra came to see them. ‘You haven't lit a fire today!' he observed, poking his head into the kitchen. ‘Aren't you going to cook?'

‘No,' Bharat replied promptly. ‘There were a lot of leftovers from last night's dinner. We had a late breakfast—a very heavy one.'

‘What leftovers?'

‘Well,' Bharat enumerated slowly. ‘Pulao and mutton curry. Mutton tastes even better when left overnight. We had lobsters in coconut cream too and a sweet and tart sauce made with sorrel and raisins.'

‘Why didn't you buy some sweet curd?' Jogendra's eyes crinkled in a benevolent smile. ‘And some of Rangpur's famous
Pat kheer
?' Then, still smiling, he continued. ‘I came to take you to my house for a midday meal. Of course I can't offer you the delicacies you seem to have eaten already. Only
dal bhaat
—'

The two friends looked at one another and burst out laughing. Jogendra joined in. ‘I saw you cooking a mess of
jhingé
last night,' he told Bharat. ‘I was amazed to hear it had turned to lobster and mutton curry by the morning.'

‘Give me a bidi Jaguda,' Hem begged. ‘And a cup of tea as soon as we reach your house.'

Barin returned the next day. His mission had been unsuccessful. He had managed to collect only twenty-five rupees. But he had brought a message from his brother. ‘Rob the rich,'
Aurobindo had commanded as in the past. ‘Use arms if necessary.' But, though Hem and Barin were ready to obey, Bharat was not. He couldn't rob and kill his own countrymen. It was immoral, for one thing. For another—it would tarnish their image. ‘We won't kill anyone,' Barin said hastily. ‘We'll only scare them by firing in the air. And if they press too close we'll maim them by firing at their ankles. We're not doing this for ourselves Bharat da. We're doing it for our country. Why do you forget that?'

After some persuasion Bharat was won over. Two other young men of Rangpur were also drawn into the plot and a house identified with their help. It belonged to a Brahmin moneylender of Nabagram—a mean, miserly old man who drove his creditors hard and had amassed a great deal of wealth in consequence. It was no crime, the boys told Bharat, to take the man's ill-gotten gains away from him. And the job would be easy. The Brahmin kept all his money and gold in a pillow and slept with his head on it at night. A namasudra servant slept outside the door but all he had was a lathi. Entry into the house wouldn't be difficult. There was a
chalta
tree, growing by the cowshed that adjoined the house—it's branches almost grazing the roof. One of them (here Hem offered himself) would clamber up the tree, crawl down the roof and jump into the courtyard. He would open the front door for his accomplices who would spring on the sleeping guard and overcome him. Then they would break down the door of the room in which the Brahmin lay sleeping and snatch the pillow away from him.

But the plan, laid down so carefully, misfired even before it was put into action. On the night of the proposed robbery Barin, Hem and Bharat waited in the shadows of the trees surrounding the Brahmin's house, with one of the Rangpur boys. It was past midnight but there was no sign of the other one. The night was hot and close and the neighbourhood dark and silent. Not a sound could be heard except the drone of the mosquitoes that swarmed around them and bit viciously into their arms and necks. The minutes passed slowly; wearily. Then a full moon rose
in the sky illuminating every line of the house and trees and flooding all the dark corners with a haze of silver light. The boys stared at one another in dismay. They had set the date and time without casing to ensure that it was a moonless night! How could they have been so foolish? And why was the second boy so late in coming? Had he lost his nerve at the last moment? Or had some harm come to him? The boys had a quick consultation. Should they abandon their mission for now and come back another day? Or should they go ahead? Bharat was in favour of the former but Barin, with his accustomed bullishness, managed to persuade the others to leap into action without further delay.

The boys watched with baited breath as Hem inched his way up a swaying branch of the
chalta
tree. They could see his figure clearly in the moonlight as, reaching the roof of the cowshed, he gave a spring then slid rapidly down it clutching at the straw with both hands as he went. The instant he disappeared from sight the boys stood up gripping their weapons, ready to rush forward. But the minutes passed and Hem didn't open the door. Suddenly a clamour, as of many voices shouting together, came to their ears. The words were muffled and indistinct and seemed to come from a great way off. Then, as they stood staring in horror, they understood what was happening. A great band of men were coming towards them. The mashals in their hands looked like points of flickering light from the distance and the words they were shouting, though, still blurred and faint, could be identified
‘Dacoits! Dacoits! Grab the
salas
! Kill them!'

‘Run!' Barin yelled, taking his heels. ‘We've been betrayed by that son of a bitch,' the Rangpur boy shouted as he followed. ‘What about Hem?' Bharat cried after them. ‘He's still in the house.' Not caring to answer the two ran into the belt of trees in front of them and, were out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. Bharat rushed towards the door and banged on it shouting, ‘Come out Hem. We've been caught.' There was no reply. But Bharat would not give up. He continued battering at the door screaming out Hem's name, over and over again. till he was hoarse.

‘Here's one, of the rascals,' a voice came to his ears startling him and he whirled around. As he did so, a spear came hurtling through the air and pierced him in the lower abdomen. A runnel
of fire shot through his frame but he didn't even cry out. Whipping out his revolver he fired two shots in the air. His assailant, though unhurt, fell to the ground in fear and rolled away from him. Now Bharat ran as fast as he could in the direction Barin had taken, the spear sticking out of his belly. He tried to pull it out as he ran but it snapped in two. Bharat stared at the butt in his hands in horror. And then his eyes fell on the blade planted in his stomach. After that first fiery rip he had felt nothing. He still felt nothing. Only a strange emptiness as he saw the bloody pool around his crotch grow larger and larger . . .

Hem! He tried to think of Hem. What had happened to him? If he had had the sense to run back to the tree and hide in its spreading branches no one would find him. But what about himself? Would he be saved? The crowd was pursuing him. He could hear their cries in the distance. His heart thumped as loud and violent as a drum. His limbs shook with exhaustion. He could feel the warm blood ooze out of his belly and run down his thighs and legs in sticky streams. The stench was overpowering. Bharat retched violently and vomited but didn't dare stop running. Coming to a river meandering between the trees he plunged in. The water came up to his knees and he splashed his way across it quite easily. Then, clambering over the other bank, he came to a clearing in the forest. A tiny temple, abandoned years ago, stood within it—its mossed walls glimmering eerily in the moonlight. He could hear his pursuers baying after him. Was it real? Or was he imagining it? He ran towards the temple. His foot struck a stone step and he fell. Picking himself up in a flash he darted up the steps and through the door. He looked wildly around for a place in which to hide. But the place was flooded with moonlight and every corner was visible. He tried to close the door but it swung back on its hinges groaning noisily. Suddenly Bharat fell—his head hitting the stone floor. After that—oblivion.