First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I won’t. But I can’t let go of you. Now—or ever.’

  Chapter XV

  Jyotirindranath took Gyanadanandini’s advice. Leaving Chandannagar, he returned to Calcutta. But he did not go back to Jorasanko. He took up residence in Number 10 Sadar Street in Chowringee and moved in there with Kadambari.

  Chowringhee was the most fashionable area in Calcutta. The houses were large and beautiful with neatly laid out gardens and were occupied, almost exclusively, by the British, Parsees and Armenians. It was a quiet locality and very clean. The open drains on either side of the road had been covered over recently with stone footpaths. Now the wide sweep of asphalt under bright gas lamps could match the finest street in London. Jyotirindranath liked to live in style and so vast quantities of furniture were ordered for Kadambari’s new establishment. Carved bedsteads, Persian carpets and Belgian mirrors were arranged tastefully in all the bedrooms. There were pottery stands for plants in the verandas and English knick knacks in glass cupboards in the drawing room. Fresh flowers were sent in every morning from Hogg Saheb’s market. These Kadambari arranged with her own hands—her floral designs changing with her changing moods.

  Jyotirindranath and Kadambari had taken it for granted that Robi would move in with them. But Robi was not sure of what he wanted to do. Gyanadanandini had invited him to stay with her several times. ‘You’ve spent quite a while with Natun,’ she had said in her strident tones. ‘It is time you came to us. Have you forgotten the wonderful times we had in England?’ Somewhat intimidated, Robi pondered deeply over the matter and took a decision. He would move into the house at Birji Talao for the present. But he would take Kadambari’s permission first.

  Entering the house in Sadar Street that morning, he found his sister-in-law putting the last finishing touches to the room she had prepared for his use. It was a charming room, light and airy, with a large balcony opening out of it. And it had been furnished in Kadambari’s impeccable taste. A mahogany bedstead with a high mattress and snowy sheets and pillows stood between the wide windows. On tall whatnots on either side of the bed were vases with masses of white flowers in them. In one corner stood a brand new writing table and a high-backed chair. Curtains of fine white lace hung from the windows. Robi was charmed. The predominance of white in the room lent it a purity and serenity Robi had never seen in any room before.

  Kadambari jumped off the stool on which she had been standing hanging up the last curtain. It was a hot airless day of late April and a metallic sun shone out of a colourless sky. Kadambari’s brow was beaded over with perspiration. Untucking the end of her sari from her waist she wiped her face.

  ‘You’ve made the room really beautiful,’ Robi said with a naughty gleam in his eye. ‘Who is to stay here?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Some special guest, perhaps?’

  ‘The guest rooms are all downstairs.’

  ‘What if Biharilal Chakraborty decides to spend a night here? Will you send him downstairs?’

  ‘Death be on you!’ Kadambari rolled her eyes with mock severity at her brother-in-law.

  ‘Bouthan,’ Robi hesitated a little. ‘Mejo Bouthan wishes me to stay with her. I was wondering if I might do so—for a while. I would spend the whole day here with you. Only at night—’

  The light went out of Kadambari’s eyes. ‘You won’t stay here?’ She asked in the voice of a hurt child, ‘You will go away to your. Mejo Bouthan?’ She gazed into Robi’s face for a few moments then added, ‘Very well. If you wish it.’ ‘Arré!’ Robi changed his decision in an instant. ‘You give your consent without a moment’s hesitation. It means you don’t care to keep me with you.’ Kadambari turned her face away. ‘You must do as you wish,’ she said.

  The consequence was that Robi moved into the house in Sadar Street. As in Chandannagar, he was very happy here. Wherever Jyotirindranath went, life, light, joy and laughter accompanied him. But whereas in Chandannagar the three had been alone, here they had plenty of society. Akshay Chowdhury, Priyanath Sen and Janakinath Ghoshal came every morning, They were Jyotirindranath’s friends and on the editorial board of Bharati. Although Debendranath’s eldest son Dwijendranath was official editor, the actual work was done by Jyotirindranath and his friends. Robi had joined them recently and was proving to be a good worker. Animated discussions on the quality of the articles, peppered with comments on the weather, the state of the country and innumerable other subjects, were carried on over cups of fragrant, steaming tea of which there was an unending supply from Kadambari’s kitchen. She, herself, was rarely to be seen at these meetings. Once in a while she would come in with something in her hands—a basket of lychees from the garden or a silver bowl full of sandesh she had made herself. Then, at some gentleman’s request, she would express her opinion on the quality of some entry, startling the group with the sensitivity and sharpness of her literary judgement. But their invitation to join them in their work was invariably rejected. ‘What do I know of such things?’ she would say shaking her head shyly, ‘I’m not learned like you.’

  Another thing that Kadambari refused to do was write. There were several upcoming women writers in Calcutta now. Robi’s second sister Swarnakumari and Akshay Chowdhury’s wife Sarat Kumari, whom Robi had nicknamed Lahorini because her childhood had been spent in Lahore, were regular contributors to Bharati. Gyanadanandini, too, fancied herself as a writer though her command over the Bengali language was far from satisfactory and Robi had to rewrite her work extensively before sending it to the press. But Kadambari, who had genuine talent, refused to take up a pen.

  The editorial sessions took up a good part of the day with a break for a lavish noon meal. But though the mornings and afternoons flew by as if on golden wings, the evenings in the house in Sadar Street were long and desolate for Kadambari. Jyotirindranath was never at home. Robi spent hour after hour lying prone in bed with a pillow under his chest writing incessantly. Prose, poetry, fiction or review—whatever he took up he gave it all he had. But a restlessness he could not understand seized him as he wrote. He lost track of time; of his responsibilities to others; even hunger and thirst. He wrote because he loved to write and had to write. But he was not at peace. The joy of creation eluded him. He was straining himself beyond endurance; beyond his: capacity even, but he was achieving nothing. A goal, shrouded in mist, glimmered before him. An urge to reach it was driving him relentlessly, cruelly. Only he didn’t know what it was or in which direction he had to go.

  Dusk was falling, lengthening the shadows in Robi’s room. The house was absolutely still. Robi sat poring over his writing (he used a slate these days because too much paper was being wasted on cancellations) when some faint tinkling sounds, soft and melodious, wafted into his ears. He rose and, following the music, climbed the stairs to the upper floor and walked into the hall. Kadambari was seated at the grand piano and was playing with rapt attention. There was a tinge of melancholy in the tune she played, a sweet nostalgia that synchronized, somehow, with her form as it bent over the piano, dim and shadowy, in the fading light. She wore a sari the colour of incense smoke and ropes of jasmine were twined about the long strands of her open hair: A perfume, sweet and elusive, rose from her person enveloping Robi as he came up silently and stood by her. Kadambari turned her head, saw Robi, and taking her hands off the piano said ruefully, ‘I’ve disturbed you. You had to leave your work—’

  ‘Why do you stop? It was beautiful. What were you playing?’ ‘It was nothing. I thought I was playing softly. I didn’t realize … What made you come up?’

  ‘A flock of birds called out together just outside my window. I thought dawn had broken. I often get confused about the time. Birds call out at dawn when leaving their nests and at dusk when they return. One is a cry of welcome to the new day—the other of farewell.’

  ‘I hear the farewell call,’ Kadambari murmured absently. ‘Natun Bouthan,’ Robi said. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ ‘About myself! What is there to tell?’

&
nbsp; ‘Your other life—’

  ‘You mean before I was wed? But that was so long ago! I was only a child. And I’ve never gone back. Your family does not approve of mine.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean your earlier incarnation. When you were a goddess in Greece. One beautiful face is enough to conquer the world. And you had three.’

  ‘Ugh! A three-faced creature! How terrible!’

  ‘Hecate had one face turned to the world, the second to the sky and the third to the sea. She was an enchantress. When Pluto carried Persephone away to the underworld Hecate lit a flaming torch and searched for her through Heaven, Earth and Hell.’

  ‘Why do you call me Hecate?’

  ‘Because you have the same enchantment. Because your face is everywhere. I see it wherever I go.’

  ‘You see nothing but the paper before you.’

  ‘Don’t I see your face there? All the time?’

  ‘I’ll go and see if the lamps are lit,’ Kadambari rose from her seat. ‘Don’t go,’ Robi took her hand in his. ‘Why are you all dressed up Natun Bouthan? Is Jyotidada taking you out somewhere?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go even if he asked me,’ Kadambari tossed her head making the diamonds in her ears burst into flame. ‘Can’t I dress up for myself?’

  ‘Let’s go up to the roof and watch the sunset. When the last streak of twilight fades from the horizon one feels one is floating in. the sky—’

  Jyotirindra was very busy with his new venture. He had gained quite a reputation as a playwright and people flocked to the public theatre to see his plays. This, of course, was part of a general upsurge of interest in the theatre. Conservatives frowned on this new passion and denounced it in exaggerated terms. Play acting, they declared, was shameless and godless and the antics of drunks and whores. But the public cared not a whit for these pronouncements. The actress Binodini was a prostitute but her name was on everyone’s lips. Girish Ghosh was a notorious drunk and a frequenter of brothels but his popularity as an actor and playwright were phenomenal. Jyotirindranath spent all evening and much of the night in their company. And when he didn’t, he was with Gyanadanandini. Gyandanandini threw a lot of parties where wine and champagne flowed freely. Entertainment of this kind was not possible in Jyotirindranath’s own house. Kadambari was a good hostess but she liked a few guests at a time. Too many people and too much noise were not to her taste. Nor was it to Robi’s. Yet Jyotirindranath was Robi’s hero. There was not another man among Robi’s acquaintance who had so much talent, such capacity for hard work and so much life force. The best thing about Jyotirindranath was that when a venture failed he could cut his losses and turn all his energies on something else. Robi admired his Jyotidada immensely and tried to model himself on him.

  One morning Robi woke up burning with fever. A terrible shivering took hold of him and his limbs felt cold and clammy. Wrapping himself in a thick quilt he lay in bed waiting for the fever to subside. He didn’t call anyone because he didn’t want to worry Kadambari. She was suffering from malaria herself. Dr Neelmadhav had taken a look at her and prescribed some medicines but she didn’t seem to be getting any better.

  Through that long steamy afternoon Robi lay wrapped up in his quilt. His head throbbed like a fiery coal but the rest of him was as cold as ice. These were strange sensations but he revelled in them. He felt his body had become light, so light that it could float away out of the window on the hot still air. Thoughts ran round and round his head but they had the quality of dreams. Even in that state Robi tried to compose a song. But as soon as he got to the third line he forgot the first and when, after a desperate effort, he was able to remember the first line, he forgot the rest.

  A touch on the brow made Robi open his eyes. Kadambari stood before him. Her hair was dishevelled and a simple sari of yellow cotton was wrapped carelessly around her. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with fever. ‘Natun Bouthan,’ Robi took her hand. It felt hot and dry in his own fevered one. ‘You’re burning all over,’ Kadambari cried, ‘Why didn’t you send for me?’

  ‘You have the fever too. You shouldn’t have left your bed.’ ‘I’m alright. I’ll send Sarkar Moshai for the doctor. And you need a cool compress on your forehead.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘Women can do without a lot of things. Your life is precious. You need to get well soon.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘You have so much to give to the world. What have I?’ ‘Everyone has something to give, Natun Bouthan. Tell me, why is it that we are so close yet so far apart? Why is it that I never know what’s going on in that mind of yours?’

  ‘You would if you gave it a little thought,’ Kadambari laughed, ‘But you don’t have the time.’

  Robi’s fever left him after two days and Kadambari’s the day after. Dr Neelmadhav attended them and left medicines which effected a cure but only temporarily. And so it went on. Gradually, Robi and Kadambari got used to the pattern. Robi would write till he felt the fever coming on, then lie down dragging the quilt over him. When well, Kadambari would bathe twice a day, run up and down with tasty tidbits for Robi and take up her neglected household tasks. Then, with the first shivering, she would creep into bed or sit in a patch of sunshine. Sometimes they sat together, Robi reading out his newest poem and she listening with rapt attention. Her face had become pale and worn and her jacket flapped loosely from her thin arms and chest. But her eyes were jewel bright and her smile as sweet as ever.

  Returning from Silaidaha, Jyotirindranath was appalled at what he saw. Placing a hand on his wife’s brow he took a decision. Doses of quinine were not enough. Robi and Kadambari needed a change. He would take them to Darjeeling. The cool pure mountain air would do them good. Sending for Sarkar Moshai, he outlined his plans and ordered him to make the arrangements. Then he rushed off again on his innumerable missions.

  That evening Robi and Kadambari sat on the roof waiting for Jyotirindranath. He had said that he would return before dusk but the hours passed and they went on waiting. And, then, before their entranced eyes, a moon huge, soft and full, rose over the horizon and turned the maidan into a sea of silver. The young pair moved closer. Their hands, hot and fevered, clasped one another’s. Not a word was spoken. For the first time in their lives they had heard and spoken the language of silence.

  A loud volley of shots followed by the shrill whistle of a ship leaving harbour crashed into that silence. They knew what it was. Ashley Eden, Governor of Bengal, was leaving for England. There was bound to be rejoicing in many homes tonight. Eden was hated by the natives for having foisted the infamous Vernacular Act on them. And, almost at the same time as the shots, Jyotirindra’s phaeton rolled up and stopped at the door.

  Robi woke before dawn the next morning. His body felt light and airy. A sweet somnolence misted his eyes and rested lightly on his spirit. He wandered out into the balcony and looked up at the sky. There was a pale grey, glimmer in the east against which the trees of the maidan stood etched with kohl. As he stood watching, faint streaks of mauve and pink appeared, spread over the grey, changing tints till the sky became a riot of gold, rose and pearl. Then the sun came up, a great ball of flame, and first light fell on the earth and seeped into Robi’s soul. Robi gazed in wonder at the scene. A mist rolled away from his eyes and he felt as though he was seeing the world for the first time. It was bathed in light. His limbs trembled with an ecstasy he had never known before. Light—pure, clear, blinding light—was entering the innermost recesses of his being, searching out dark corners, flushing out doubts and fears. His ears were filled with the sound of rushing water as great waves of light crashed over the rocks that wombed his soul, scattering them far and wide and setting it free. Free to flow like a joyous stream towards a destination unknown …

  Robi went into his room and started writing. His pen raced over the paper as if with a life and will of its own. Words and phrases poured out of him filling sheet after sheet without effort. It seemed to him that the muse was speaking fo
r herself and he was only the humble medium whose hand held the pen.

  He wrote all morning and all afternoon without a break, even leaving the plate of food Kadambari had sent up to his room untouched. In the evening Kadambari came. ‘What is the matter?’ she cried. ‘You haven’t washed or bathed. And you’ve eaten nothing. You’ll make yourself ill.’ Robi muttered something absently and went on writing. ‘Stop it Robi,’ Kadambari ordered imperiously, ‘or I’ll snatch your papers away.’ Robi neither looked up nor answered. Kadambari took up a pencil and made a little squiggle along the margin of Robi’s poem. ‘What are you doing?’ Robi cried out indignantly. Kadambari leaned over and ruffled his hair. Robi jerked his head away, sat up and said, ‘I have written a new poem Natun Bouthan. It is called Nirijhar ér swapno bhanga. Shall I read it out to you?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, he started reciting the lines.

  ‘On this new morn the bird of dawn

  Sings a wondrous song

  From the distant sky it comes floating by …’

  Looking up he asked eagerly, ‘Do you like it?’ Kadambari frowned and shook her head. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘I find nothing original or striking in the lines.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Robi cried out, deeply wounded. ‘There was no effort on my part. The lines poured out of me as though of their own volition.’ Kadambari averted her eyes as though embarrassed at what she was about to say. ‘Even if they did,’ she murmured gently, ‘that alone is not enough. Poetry has to be worked at like any other art form. Of course I understand very little—’ Then, seeing the hurt expression in Robi’s eyes, she added quickly, ‘Read some more.’ Robi read a few more lines and looked up hopefully. Kadambari shifted her feet guiltily. ‘No Robi,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I think you can do better. I may be wrong of course.’ At this the blood rushed to Robi’s face and he glared at Kadambari in real anger. ‘The woman understands nothing of poetry,’ he thought indignantly. ‘I’ll never read my poems out to her again.’ Turning his back on her he bent over his papers. ‘Don’t be offended Robi,’ Kadambari pleaded placing a gentle hand on his back. ‘Read a little more.’ Robi turned over a whole page and commenced reading once again.