First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  From Kailasahar, Sabroom and Udaipur came the Chakmas. They were Buddhists—quiet and sedate. But confusion broke out in their ranks every time they passed a flowering bush or vine. Their women ran eagerly to it and, picking the blooms with quick fingers, wove them into garlands as they walked. The Lusais and Kukis came from Dharmanagar and Kamalpur. Though many of them had embraced Christianity the Lusais found it hard to understand or practise its doctrine of love. They were warriors and head hunting had been the clan’s custom for centuries. Now the priests were telling them to love their neighbours. The Lusais believed themselves to be superior to the naked Kukis. Their women had learned to cover their breasts with riyas made out of bits of wool they had knitted together and dyed a fierce coxcomb red. Some of the younger men even wore pantaloons.

  Others—Jamaliyas, Halams, Noyatiyas, Mugs, Bhils, Garos, Khasiyas and Orangs—followed, stream after colourful stream. And last of all came the Tripuris, thronging in large numbers from all directions. Some of them were on horseback; others on elephants. The elephants were gifts for his Royal Majesty, the Maharaja of Tripura. The other tribes carried presents too—bags of cotton, baskets of the wild, sweet oranges that grew on the sunny slopes of Jompui, bunches of pineapples, sacks of newly harvested jum and a fawn or two.

  They had all been walking for days towards a common destination. Today was the tenth day of the Durga festival and they were bound for the king’s palace where His Majesty; had arranged a great feast for his subjects.

  Surrounded by his courtiers, Maharaja Birchandra Manikya stood on the balcony of the royal palace of Tripura—the only independent kingdom in a country governed by the British. It was rumoured that he was descended from King Yayati, mentioned in the Mahabharat. The dissolute king had ordered his sons to surrender their youth in his favour enabling him, thus, to prolong his life of vice and profligacy. The princes who had declined were banished. One of them, Prince Druhuh, left his father’s kingdom of Aryavarta and proceeded to the north east of India where, after vanquishing the king of Kirat in battle, he established the kingdom of Tripura. Maharaja Birchandra was said to be the hundred and seventy-fifth descendent from Druhuh in an unbroken line.

  All this may well have been hearsay. The kings of Tripura had no resemblance whatever to their Aryan ancestors. In fact, their features were as Mongoloid as those of the tribals they ruled and the Manipuri princesses they wed. Birchandra Manikya was not tall but his body was hard and strong and his face keen and intelligent. The most noticeable thing about his physiognomy were the whiskers, thick and luxuriant except for a patch just under the nose that was carefully shaven. Though past middle age, his movements were quick and packed with energy. He had just returned from Udaipur after offering the mandatory worship at the temple of Tripura Sundari on the ninth day of the Durga festival.

  Though a hard ride, it had to be undertaken for custom decreed that the king be present for the great feast, the mahabhoj, and sit down to a meal with his subjects. It proved that the king made no distinction between the tribes. They were his subjects, all together here under his roof and he was to all, equally, the gracious host.

  On a courtyard facing the balcony was a structure thatched with straw. Here, on ten clay ovens, payesh and khichuri were being cooked in enormous pots. It was the king’s command that his subjects be served as often and as much as they wanted. And they could eat prodigious amounts. There were many who sat down to the feast at sundown and rose only with the dawn. It seemed as though they were putting away enough to last them a year. Come morning and many were discovered fast asleep, curled up beside their leaves.

  The king moved about among his subjects, his face concealed in a black shawl, taking pictures with his new camera. Birchandra hated the British and always endeavoured to keep them at arm’s length. He preferred Bengali to English and had retained it as his state language long after other rajas had given up their native languages; He had no use for European merchandise either, except for one exception—the camera. He had an excellent collection of cameras, brought over from France and England. He had even built a dark room in the palace in which he developed negatives.

  It was his passion to take photographs—of his queens, princes, friends and even of the hills, trees and streams of his realm. But, much as he wished, he could not capture his subjects on camera except by stealth. For he had had a bad experience once. Hunting in the forest he had come upon a Kuki youth with a body so perfect—it seemed hewn out of a block of granite and a face flashing with spirit and intelligence. He had decided to immortalize the splendid specimen and, to that intent, had made the boy pose beneath a tree. But focussing takes time. The youth waited, the warnings of the king’s attendants ringing incessantly in his ears ‘Be still. Don’t move.’ Suddenly the magnificent body crumpled in a heap on the ground. The limbs thrashed about painfully. The eyes rolled and foam gathered at the corners of the boy’s mouth. He was revived in a few minutes but the damage was done. Rumour, swift and silent, spread from clan to clan that the king had captured the youth’s soul and imprisoned it in a little black box.

  Keeping close to the king was a man in his prime, a handsome man with a fair complexion, long curling hair and chiselled features. In his dress he was quite a dandy. He wore a finely crinkled dhuti and a silk banian. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on his high, aristocratic nose. His name was Shashibhushan Singha. He was a graduate and a Brahmo and had been a regular contributor to Deben Thakur’s Tatwabodhini Patrika for many years. He was one of the men the Maharaja had sent for from Calcutta to facilitate his governance and gear it to progressive ideals. Shashibhushan was tutor to the young princes.

  Standing by him and talking in a low voice was a famous singer from the Vishnupur gharana. Jadunath Bhatta was court musician; one of the nine gems that graced the royal palace of Tripura. The two were observing the guests through a pair of binoculars and trying to identify the different tribes. ‘They all look the same to me,’ Jadunath said. He was a simple man with no pretensions to any knowledge beyond his music. ‘Look carefully,’ Shashibhushan urged. ‘Some have skins like polished ebony; others the colour and texture of charcoal. Yet others are dun coloured like earth. The riyas of the Orang women are shaped differently from those of the Lusais—’

  At this moment a servant approached the king with the message that the Mahadevi awaited him in the palace. Every year, on this day, just before the mahabhoj, the Maharaja put aside his ceremonial robes and donned the apparel of a Vaishnav. And every year, these garments were draped on him—not by servants but by his chief and reigning queen.

  This year Mahadevi Bhanumati had spent the whole day in preparation. She had strung the garlands with her own hands and kept the sandal paste, both white and crimson, in readiness. As she fitted the silk garments, one by one, on the royal person the Maharaja hummed a little tune. ‘Jadi Gokulchandra braje na élo,’ he sang, a little smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. He was not only a connoisseur of music, he also had a fine singing voice.

  Birchandra had so many wives and concubines that he had lost count of them. Many of his queens were princesses from the bordering states of Assam and Manipur. The kachhuas or concubines were mostly tribal women—gifts from his subjects. These women were kept in the palace awaiting the king’s pleasure. Occasionally one would catch the royal fancy and be the recipient of his attentions but, in the absence of a marriage ceremony, she could never aspire to be a Mahadevi.

  Birchandra and Bhanumati were of the same age and had been playmates before they were wed. They still shared the old camaraderie and, though Birchandra had younger and more beautiful queens and his nights were mostly spent in their company, he was in Bhanumati’s rooms often during the day teasing and quarrelling with her. Unlike the other queens Bhanumati was not overly respectful of her husband and gave as good as she got. Her voice, raised in sharp reprimand, could often be heard by the maids who attended on the royal pair. Once they had even seen her running around the room weeping passion
ately while the king followed her, abject and humble, his hands folded in supplication.

  Marking her husband’s forehead carefully with sandal Bhanumati murmured, ‘Take me with you tonight.’

  ‘Where?’ The king looked up startled.

  ‘To the mahabhoj.’ Bhanumati’s voice was young though she was past middle age. Her body was still shapely and her long, slanting eyes glowed with spirit and vivacity.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Birchandra smiled benignly at the smooth, brown face just above his own.

  ‘Why? Can’t the Maharaja have his consort by his side on a day of rejoicing?’

  ‘You’ll never grow up Bhanu,’ the king chucked his wife under the chin, ‘Has a Mahadevi of the realm, ever been seen by the common folk? Give me my nimcha. It’s getting late.’

  ‘Sit still.’ The command came swift and sharp. ‘I’m not finished yet.’ Continuing her careful marking of her husband’s forehead Bhanumati went on, ‘The queen walks by her husband’s side one day in her life, doesn’t she? The king does not see her but thousands of her subjects do.’ Dropping her voice to a whisper, she added. ‘If you don’t take me with you tonight I shall not burn with you when the time comes.’

  ‘Bhanu,’ Birchandra sighed. ‘You talk of my death on a day such as this?’

  ‘I only said I wouldn’t burn with you. I’ll kill myself first.’ ‘But why?’ Birchandra lifted his brows in mild surprise. ‘Don’t you wish to enter the blessed state? A sati is worshipped like a goddess on earth. And eternal heaven is hers hereafter. You’re my queen consort—the only one of my queens who will be given the privilege of dying with me.’

  ‘I don’t care for it. Let Rajeshwari—that ugly, flat nosed, low-born slut, that snake, that ghoul—burn with you. Burn to ashes. I’ll look down from heaven with pleasure.’

  Birchandra Manikya burst out laughing. It was natural for co-wives to be jealous of one another. Only, none of the other queens would dare to express such feelings in the king’s presence. With Bhanumati it was different. She had been his playmate and he had no control over her.

  ‘Low-born slut! Ghoul!’ he exclaimed. ‘What sort of language is this? People think we royals are very circumspect in our speech and manners. Really Bhanu! If one of the others had spoken like that I would have cut her head off with a swish of my sword.’ Bhanumati walked swiftly to a corner of the room and picking up the king’s Nimcha, brought it over to him. It was rumoured that this sword had been presented by Emperor Shah Jehan’s son Sultan Shuja to Birchandra’s ancestor Gobinda Manikya. Though the king dressed in the robes of a Vaishnav on the occasion of the mahabhoj, custom decreed that he carry this weapon.

  Bhanumati pulled the sword out of its jewel-encrusted scabbard and said, ‘Kill me, then, and put an end to my sufferings.’ Pausing a moment, she added, ‘You’ll be declaring Radhu as your crown prince and heir this evening, will you not?’ A shadow fell on Birchandra’s face. His good humour vanished. It was true that he would pronounce the name of his eldest son Radhakishor as successor to the throne of Tripura in the evening when all his subjects were gathered together. But only two persons knew. Even Rajeshwari, the boy’s mother, had not been told. How had the news reached Bhanumati’s ears? ‘Your son will be elevated too,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ll be giving him the title of Bara Thakur. I’m doing it for your sake though there’s no precedence —’

  ‘You don’t have to. I’ll send Samar away from Tripura. I’ll send him to Calcutta.’

  There was a rustle at the door and the two turned around as a girl came into the room. She was a beautiful girl with an innocent face and a golden body that swayed and rippled with the sap of youth. Each movement was music. A yellow silk pachhara encased her lower limbs and a riya, green as the tenderest leaves of spring, stretched taut and smooth over her newly swelling breasts. Birchandra gazed at her, amazed. ‘Who is she?’ he asked his wife. She wasn’t a maid—he was sure of that. No attendant would dare walk into a room in which the king and queen were alone together.

  Bhanumati forced the tears back from her eyes. ‘What is it Khuman?’ she asked with an indulgent smile. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the king, not in fear but in awe—the kind of awe with which one looks upon a snow capped mountain peak. Turning to the queen she said, ‘Biloni and Phullen want me to go up to the roof with them. But Mejo Ranima says I mustn’t. What shall I do?’ Bhanumati cleared her throat and signalled with her eyes. ‘Make your obeisance to the king first,’ she commanded. The girl obeyed instantly. Lying prostrate on the floor she touched her hands and forehead to the king’s feet. ‘Who is this wench?’ Birchandra couldn’t keep a note of impatience out of his voice though he raised a hand in blessing. ‘I’m Khuman Thorolaima,’ the girl answered. ‘She’s my sister’s daughter,’ Bhanumati explained, ‘You’ve seen her as an infant. Don’t you remember? She’s been with me here at the palace for about a year now.’ Birchandra gazed in wonder at the girl’s loveliness. She was young, very young, but she had promise. There was no doubt that, in a year or two, she would grow to be a woman of surpassing beauty. She would be the brightest jewel of the court and men would swarm around her like flies.

  ‘I’ve given her a Bengali name,’ Bhanumati went on, ‘I call her Monomohini.’

  ‘You’ve given her a Bengali name but you haven’t taught her to wear a sari?’

  ‘I will in a year or two. She’s playful still and the sari keeps slipping from her shoulder.’

  ‘Go to the roof and watch the scene,’ the Maharaja smiled kindly at the girl. ‘If anyone stops you, tell them you have my permission.’

  ‘Go child,’ Bhanumati urged as the girl hesitated. ‘Being a woman you can’t go out of the palace, so see whatever you can from the roof. After you’re wed even that freedom will be taken from you.’ Monomohini brought her palms together in reverence to her royal uncle and sped out of the room with the grace and swiftness of a doe.

  ‘Why is she with you?’ Birchandra asked his wife. ‘Where is her mother?’

  ‘You don’t remember a thing. Didn’t my sister burn to death two years ago?’

  ‘Did she burn as a sati?’

  ‘It’s one and the same. Burning to death is burning to death.’ ‘The girl’s ripe for marriage. It’s time you found a husband for her.’

  ‘I have found one already. Her future husband is the most eligible man in Tripura.’

  ‘Really! Who is he?’

  ‘Maharaja Birchandra Manikya.’

  ‘What an outlandish idea!’ The Maharaja tweaked his wife’s nose affectionately. ‘Do I have the time to get married?’

  ‘You must find the time. Tell me truly, did you not like her? She’s a lovely girl and good and sweet. I’ll give her to you. Enjoy yourself with her. You needn’t go to that sour faced bitch Rajeshwari ever again.’

  Birchandra embraced his wife tenderly and said, ‘Leave all that for now Bhanu. You know I love you the best.’ Bhanumati resisted an overwhelming urge to lay her head on her husband’s breast. Instead she said sharply, ‘That’s a lie. I’m old and ugly and you don’t love me anymore. If you do, take me to the mahabhoj.’

  ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘The subjects don’t even know I’m the queen consort. Radhu is your heir and Rajeshwari will be queen mother. I’ll be treated as her handmaid. They may even drive me away from the palace.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. Everyone knows that though there are dozens of queens in the palace there is only one Mahadevi. And her name is Bhanumati. Even the king is in her debt. By the way, the treasury is nearly empty. You’ll have to lend me a lakh of rupees. I must go now. I’ll come back to you tonight after the mahabhoj.’

  ‘Will you really?’ Bhanumati’s voice softened and her eyes grew moist with love.

  ‘Of course I will. We’ll sleep together in your bed tonight and I’ll sing my new song for you.’

  Birchandra walked out of the queen’s wing and, crossing the gallery with its floor of chequered marble, entered a room whe
re servants waited with his shoes. His brow was furrowed in thought. Bhanumati was his first wife and the daughter of a powerful king. She was wealthy, too, in her own right having inherited the taluk of Agartala with its vast fort from her father. There were many in the palace who would take her side. What if they conspired to kill Radhakishor? But in a moment he rejected the idea. Bhanumati wouldn’t do anything so drastic—not during his lifetime at least. They were held together in a bond, if not of love at least of friendship and affection. He shook his head sadly. Bhanumati had all the qualities required of the first lady of the realm. She was a princess of Manipur. She was beautiful and stately and commanded respect from all her subjects. However, the second queen Rajeshwari took precedence over her in one thing. It was she who had borne the king’s sons. Bhanumati had lost face. For what was the worth of a woman who could not give her husband a son? How was she superior to the concubines the king kept for his pleasure? Eventually, of course, she had redeemed herself. A son had been born to her but only after Rajeshwari had presented the king with three princes.