First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Now that the time had come to choose an heir Birchandra found himself in a delicate situation. Should he nominate the son of his queen consort or should the privilege go to his first born son? Much as he cared for Bhanu’s happiness, he knew it had to be the latter. For even the British upheld the law of primogeniture. He had dispensed with precedence in elevating Samar to the position of Bara Thakur. By right it belonged to Rajeshwari’s second son, Debendra. But Bhanu was hard to please. He sighed and, waving away the other shoes, let the servants fit a pair of simple wooden khadam on his feet. Then, rising, he walked down the gallery. Passing Rajeshwari’s wing he stopped for a moment. Should he meet her once before going down to the mahabhoj? Then he thought better of it. He would not go to Bhanumati that night either. He had made a solemn promise, it was true, but promises to women meant nothing. He was tired of Bhanu’s nagging and tears. It would give him far greater pleasure to hear the music that would come after the feast. Nisar Hussain would play the veena and Kasem Ali Khan the rubab. And the brilliant drummer Panchanan Mitra would tap his pakhawaj to Jadu Bhatta’s singing. He would avoid Bhanu for the next three or four days then, comforting her with a few more lies and get the one lakh of rupees out of her. There was nothing wrong with lying to a woman. It was policy. Humming a little tune the Maharaja walked down the stairs to the great hall where his courtiers were waiting.

  Chapter II

  Maharaja Birchandra Manikya sat in state, nine courtiers standing behind him in a row. His hookah bearer waited on his left and on his right stood his chief counsellor and bodyguard Colonel Sukhdev Thakur. The handsome colonel in his impeccable uniform was the king’s constant companion as was Radharaman Ghosh, his private secretary. Radharaman was a plain, middle-aged man of medium height. He was always very simply dressed and kept his feet bare. Looking at him no one would dream that he held such a high position in the realm. Birchandra took a few puffs from his hookah. ‘Ghosh Moshai!’ he said, ‘Every year, on this occasion, I make some announcement pertaining to the welfare of my subjects. What is it to be this year?’

  ‘I’ve given it considerable thought Maharaj. The announcement you will make will cover you with glory not only here in Tripura but throughout the country. I’ve discussed it with Colonel Thakur and he is in total agreement.’

  ‘What is it?’ Birchandra asked curiously.

  ‘You will issue a decree against satidaha. The burning of widows is a savage custom and a blot on our old and venerated culture.’ Birchandra sat silent, his eyes downcast as he listened. ‘Your subjects hailed you as their deliverer when you abolished slavery,’ Radharaman continued. ‘Your fame reached —’

  ‘No,’ the king interrupted. ‘The time is not yet ripe for issuing such a decree. Satidaha is an ancient practice rooted in the history and religion of our land. No woman of this realm has ever been forced to become a sati. Our women burn with their husbands voluntarily and joyfully and are rewarded with eternal bliss hereafter. I cannot and will not strike a blow against the faith of so many of my subjects.’

  ‘Maharaj,’ Radharaman replied, ‘You may not know it but Lord William Bentinck has put an end to this practice with an act of law and the rest of the country has accepted it. Shall Tripura lag behind?’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Birchandra said gravely, ‘that Tripura is not governed by the British. They are foreigners and do not understand our ancient traditions. I’m not obliged to obey their laws.’

  ‘Maharaj,’ Radharaman pleaded, ‘The practice of satidaha is not an integral part of our Dharma. If anything, it’s a perversion of the Hindu religion.’

  ‘Let the argument rest for now,’ Birchandra lifted a hand in command. ‘It is an ancient rite—one that cannot be put aside upon a whim. I’ll have to obtain the views of my subjects before I form an opinion. But have you not thought of anything else?’

  ‘There is the matter of your successor. Kumar Radhakishor will be nominated by you today. That will be a welcome announcement.’

  Birchandra’s face, which had been flushed and ponderous with self esteem till now, crumpled like that of a child’s. Signalling to the courtiers and his hookah bearer to withdraw, he leaned over to Radharaman and whispered, ‘I want to postpone the announcement. We can see about it next year.’ Colonel Thakur almost recoiled with shock but Radharaman’s face did not register even the mildest surprise. ‘That will have disastrous consequences,’ he said quietly. ‘Why?’ the Maharaja’s voice had a pleading note in it. ‘Why should one year’s delay make a difference? I’m strong and healthy. I’m not likely to die in a —’

  ‘May you live to be a hundred Maharaj. All your subjects hope and pray for it. But consider the kumar’s age. He has left his youth far behind and is now a man, strong and sensible and mature enough to shoulder the responsibilities of state. If he is given charge of some of your affairs you could devote more time to your music, painting and photography.’

  ‘Then give him some responsibility. Let him collect the rents. And open a few schools.’

  ‘It is imperative that he gets his rightful title first. Are you reconsidering the matter Maharaj?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I do not question his right or ability. I only wish to postpone the announcement.’

  ‘That will come as a blow—not only to him but to many others.’

  ‘You’ve been talking about it then!’

  ‘I’ve only told one or two people. But these things can’t be kept secret.’

  ‘What is likely to happen if I withhold the announcement? Do you fear that the prince will revolt against me?’

  ‘He won’t. He is gentle and unassuming. And he respects you. But I cannot vouch for his followers. They may flare up. The prince is extremely popular.’

  ‘But you must know that Mahadevi Bhanumati wields a lot of power in the palace. And she hasn’t withdrawn her claim on behalf of her son. What if she incites the Manipuris against me?’

  Colonel Sukhdev cleared his throat and said, ‘We’ve considered that already Maharaj. Our spies are in their camp. According to reports received, Kumar Samarendra’s followers, though disturbed and angry, are not yet ready for action. They are voicing the opinion that the queen consort’s son should be king but that’s all. They lack the power to revolt.’

  ‘Kumar Radhakishor must be given control over the police force before his nomination,’ Radharaman said, ‘Then no one will dare oppose him.’

  ‘Kumar Samarendra’s ambition must be nipped in the bud,’ Colonel Sukhdev Thakur added, ‘Or else there’ll be trouble —’

  Suddenly the king flew into a temper. Grimacing horribly he glared at his bodyguard. ‘How much money has Radhakishor bribed you with, you rogue,’ he shouted, ‘that you pimp for him so shamelessly? Am I dead already?’ Then, rising, he rushed out of the room down the gallery and out of the lion gates. His chest heaved with indignation and helplessness at the situation in which he had been caught. But peace descended on his soul the moment he stepped out into the open. A soft breeze floated about him cooling his fevered brain and his eyes beheld the autumn sky, clear as glass and spangled over with tiny stars. A moon, lustrous with ten days of waxing, rained its beams on him, soft and white like the powdery pollen of flowers. It seemed to him that the moon was a woman, a beautiful woman, and that she was smiling at him.

  Torches flared at his entry and a thousand voices rose in welcome. But he heard nothing; saw nothing. He walked towards the brilliantly lit dais as if in a trance and sat down to receive his subjects. One by one, the tribal chiefs up with their gifts. He spoke a courteous word to one; nodded affably to another but all could see that his mind was elsewhere. From time to time he glanced up at the sky. It seemed to him that the moon had left her place in the heavens and was coming down to him. Closer she came and closer, swaying a little as she moved. ‘Ghosh Moshai,’ he turned to Radharaman. ‘Do you know who wrote the verse O hé binod rai kotha jao hé?

  ‘It was Bharatchandra Maharaj.’

  ‘I wonder wh
y I thought of it just now. Do you remember the rest?’ Radharaman nodded his head and recited softly

  O hé binod rai kotha jao hé

  Adharé madhur hashi banshité bajao hé

  Naba jaladhara tanu shikipuchha shatrudhunu

  Pita dharha bijulité mayuré nachao hé

  Nayana chakor mor dekhiya hoyechhé bhor

  Mukha sudhakar hashi sudhai bajao hé

  ‘That’s it,’ Birchandra’s face brightened in a flash. ‘Mukha sudhakar—a face like a moon. Look! Just look at the sky! Shikhipuchha is a peacock’s feather, isn’t it? What is a chakor?’

  ‘It’s a night bird. The gifts have been received Maharaj. It’s time for your announcement.’

  ‘I’ve told you I’m postponing it.’

  ‘Your subjects are waiting in eager expectation. Even the Political Agent has expressed his wish —’

  For the first time that evening Birchandra looked at the crowd in front of him. As he did so his eyes fell on his eldest son. Radhakishor stood a little apart from the rest, his two brothers by his side. A little knot of men from the powerful Thakur clan stood with him. Samarendra could be seen too, surrounded by the Manipuris. Taking a deep breath, just as if he was about to plunge himself into the icy waters of a mountain stream, he said, ‘Very well Ghosh Moshai. You read it out.’

  ‘It’s a very important announcement Maharaj!’ Radharaman exclaimed, ‘Your subjects would like to hear it from your own lips.’

  ‘They can hear it from yours. It’s the same thing.’

  ‘It isn’t proper that I, your secretary, be given the onerous task. Shall I request the Honourable Dewan?’

  ‘You do it—or leave it alone. I’m hungry. I’m going for my Left with no option, Radharaman cleared his throat and began ponderously:

  ‘In accordance with the command of the Lord of Tripura Sri Sri Sri Sri Sri Birchandra Manikya Bahadur Maharaj of the Dynasty of Chandra …’ Birchandra’s heart beat fast. The news would reach the palace in a few minutes. It would devastate Bhanumati. She had taken it for granted that the king was still considering the matter and hadn’t made up his mind. That was why she had wanted to be by his side this evening. Had he done right in nominating Radhakishor? It was true that Radhu was his eldest son. But age had nothing to do with the ability to govern. Had he not wrested the throne, himself, from his elder brothers Chakradhwaj and Nilkanta? What consolation could he offer Bhanumati? She would never trust him again and he needed her help and trust. However, the die was cast and there was nothing he could do now. He rose from the dais, his brows lowered in distaste, even as the exultant cries of his subjects tore at his ear drums.

  ‘Ghosh Moshai!’ he cried impulsively. ‘I’m dying of hunger. How much longer do I have to wait?’ Suddenly the air felt chill on his body and he shivered involuntarily. He felt himself standing on the brink of a newly created world, dark and cold and he was alone—utterly alone.

  As he lowered his bulk to the ground before one of the leaves spread out in a ring he felt a sharp pain at his side. The butt of his Nimcha was pressing against his ribs. His face contorted with pain but he didn’t utter a sound. Yet, when a servant placed an immense silver plate, the thala, before him he turned on him, eyes blazing with fury. ‘What is this?’ he shouted hoarsely, ‘Take it away.’ This was, in fact, part of a tradition. Each year a silver thala was placed before the king and each year he waved it away with feigned anger and ate from a leaf like the rest of the company. The scene was enacted with the purpose of impressing upon his subjects the extent of his simplicity and humility. But this time his anger was real and, in waving away the thala, he gave it such a hard shove that it went spinning off in the opposite direction.

  His bad temper notwithstanding, Birchandra was the perfect host. He touched his leaf only after all the tribal chiefs had been meal.’ served. But after first two or three mouthfuls he could not eat. He liked khichuri and this was hot and spicy. But it tasted like sawdust in his mouth and he felt his appetite gone. He was about to rise when he remembered that, if he did so, the others would have to rise too. Crooking a finger at his hookah bearer he ordered the hookah to be brought to him. Then, smoking, he called out from time to time, ‘Eat well, my guests! Do justice to the food which is excellent!’ And all the while he was thinking furiously, ‘Where do I go now? To Bhanumati or Rajeshwari?’ The thought of going to Bhanumati sent shivers down his spine. And he couldn’t go to Rajeshwari either. Turning to Radharaman he said, ‘I shall be spending the night in the Forbidden Wing. Send for Kasem Ali, Jadu Bhatta and Nisar Hussain. They shall play and sing all night. And see that no one else comes near me.’

  Chapter III

  Shashibhushan’s pathshala had all the trappings of a real school. Tables, chairs, pens, paper and inkstands were laid out, every morning, with clockwork regularity and he, himself, was always in readiness. But the school rarely saw a pupil. In consequence, Shashibhushan spent his days in forced idleness in the charming house by the lake that had been allotted to him as tutor to the royal princes. The salary was a generous one for a bachelor who lived alone, and the position prestigious. The king’s advisor Radharaman Ghosh had held the same position on first coming out to Tripura. Being a shrewd politician he had risen by degrees and was, now, the most eminent man in the realm. Shashibhushan had no political ambitions and, being a man of conscience, was often consumed with guilt at the thought of taking a salary without doing any work. He had often complained about the non attendance of the king’s sons; had pleaded with him for intervention and even offered to resign. But Birchandra had laughed his scruples away.

  Looking out from the window of his school room, one morning, Shashibhushan’s attention was caught by the sight of a boy standing under a jackfruit tree reading aloud from a book that, even from that distance, appeared to be old and tattered. He had seen the lad once or twice before and presumed that he was the gardener’s son. Agreeably surprised to see him with a book in his hand, Shashibhushan beckoned to him to come closer. As the boy approached him Shashibhushan saw that he had a slender, handsome figure and long dark eyes that seemed etched in kohl against a smooth nut brown skin. But his dhuti was coarse and barely covered his knees and his feet were naked and covered with dust.

  ‘What’s your name boy?’ Shashibhushan asked, looking on him with interest.

  ‘I’m Bharat, Master Moshai.’

  ‘What is that you hold in your hand?’

  The boy handed him a sheaf of printed pages that turned out to be old issue of Bangadarshan. Charmed and surprised Shashibhushan asked curiously, ‘Can you read what is written here? Have you learned the alphabet?’ The boy shut his eyes and recited in one breath: ‘Their wealth is inexhaustible in this land of ours and their power unparalleled in this day and time. Is there one merchant in Bharatvarsha who can, at one word, throw down a crore of rupees in cash against a bill of exchange? When Mir Habib ransacked the city of Murshidabad he could but take away two crores of Arcot rupees from the house of Jagat Seth …’

  Shashibhushan was amazed. The boy was reciting, word by word, from Bankimchandra’s Chandrashekhar. It wasn’t even poetry, which was easier to remember. He had obviously read this issue over and over again. Shashibhushan decided that he would write to Bankim Babu and apprise him of the fact that he had an ardent admirer even here in this mountain land so far away from Bengal.

  ‘Who taught you to read?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘No one,’ the boy said shyly looking down at his feet. ‘I learned by myself. But I’m not very good. What is an Arcot rupee Master Moshai?’

  Shashibhushan made up his mind to take the boy in hand. Not being a prince, he was debarred entry into the school room. But he could surely be taught outside, under the trees. After a few lessons Shashibhushan discovered that his new pupil was not only extremely intelligent but that his thirst for learning was insatiable. He had only two or three books which he had learned by rote but, basing his knowledge on these, he asked innumerable questions ab
out lands and climes outside his known world of Agartala—their history, geography, races and cultures. After every lesson Shashibhushan was left wondering anew at the unpredictability of the human mind. From what hidden source did this orphan boy, living on the king’s charity in the servant’s wing, derive his scholarly bent of mind; his passionate zeal for the written word? Was it the dark, suffocating aridity of his life that had impelled him to seek light and freedom in the pages of a book? Yet, surely there were others like him—innocent children deprived of love and care and nurture? How many of them were driven to seek knowledge as an escape from sordid, mundane reality?

  The lessons continued through the winter, spring and summer. Then the rains came lashing down accompanied by violent winds, thunder and lightning. Sitting out of doors was no longer possible and Shashibhushan was left with no alternative but to bring Bharat into the school room. He could, of course, have discontinued the lessons but he had no wish to do that. Bharat was making rapid progress. He had picked up the English alphabet already and had learned a good deal about the solar system.

  One morning, when master and pupil sat poring over a lesson, Kumar Samarendra walked into the school room along with his cousin Sukhchandra. Glaring at Bharat the latter said roughly, ‘Ei Bharat! What are you doing here? Get out of this room this minute!’ Bharat rose meekly from his seat but Shashibhushan stopped him with a gesture. Turning to the others he said, ‘He isn’t doing any harm. Surely you can all learn—’ Before he could complete his sentence, Kumar Upendra burst into the room with his own gang of brothers and cousins. Knitting his brows he asked insolently, ‘Who has allowed him to come in here? A kachhua’s son! How dare he aspire to sit with princes?’ Bharat picked up his books and sped out of the room before Shashibhushan could utter a word. The princes hurried out as unceremoniously as they had come leaving Shashibhushan sitting in the school room deep in thought. A kachhua’s son ! That meant Bharat was of royal birth. Though out of wedlock, it was the king’s seed that his mother had carried in her womb.