The theatre being the latest craze by way of entertainment, Gurmukh spent most of his evenings watching one play or another with his friends. He bought fifty tickets when he needed only ten or twelve reserving the first two rows for himself and his party for the premiere shows in all the theatres of the city. Gurmukh and his friends would sit at their ease, legs stretched out luxuriously on the seats before them, drinking whisky and, cracking crude jokes to the accompaniment of loud, raucuous laughter. It was on one of these occasions that he first saw Binodini.
Girish Ghosh’s Sitaharan was being performed before packed audiences at the National Theatre with Binodini as Sita. It had become immensely popular. One scene in particular, the abduction of Sita, took the audience completely by storm, the hall resounding with claps and cries of Encore! Encore! at the drop of the curtain. And, indeed, the stage decor expert Dharmadas Sur had surpassed himself in the scene. He had managed to create the illusion of a flying chariot bearing Sita away with Ravan by her side. As the chariot started winging upwards Sita flung off her floral ornaments, one by one, till, by an effect of the lighting, she appeared completely nude in the eyes of the astonished spectators. It was at that moment that Gurmukh, sodden with liquor, let out a drunken yell, ‘How much is that woman worth? I want her.’
The very next evening Gurmukh Rai saw Binodini again, playing Draupadi in Pandav ér Agyatbas. And once again he felt overwhelmed by a passion for her. What range there was in her beauty! What variety! The gentle doe-eyed girl of Sitaharan in her costume of leaves and flowers was transformed into a queen, stately and majestic and glittering in brocade and jewels. He understood nothing of what was going on. The sentiments of the play were lost on him. He didn’t even follow the story except in fits and starts. He simply gazed, enthralled, at Binodini. He came to see her evening after evening. And, like a child, he cried out every time, ‘I want that woman. I want her!’ His friends told him, over and over again, that she enjoyed the protection of an immensely wealthy and powerful man and that no amount of money could woo her away from him. But Gurmukh would not give up.
One night he walked into the theatre to find it fully booked. But Gurmukh, who had drunk a lot more than was good for him, was not ready to go back without seeing Binodini. ‘No tickets?’ he shouted. ‘I’m not used to hearing the word “no”. Bring me fifty tickets this instant.’ Then, digging his hands into the pockets of his kurta, he took out handfuls of currency notes and sent them flying about laughing and cursing all the while. The manager Pratapchand Jahuri could not stand the shameless disruption and, afraid for his theatre’s reputation, ordered the darwans to throw him out. Gurmukh’s face blazed with fury. How dare an insect like Pratapchand even dream of humiliating him so? Was he not Gurmukh Rai Mussadi the famous Kaptan of Barhtala? How much was the theatre worth? He would buy it, that very day—right under Pratapchand’s nose. He left the theatre yelling and shouting abuse.
But even after he had sobered down the next morning he didn’t forget his resolve. He would build a theatre, much larger and grander than the National, which was a clumsy structure of wood and tin. He would build a fine mansion of marble and concrete. He would procure the finest equipment, the best technicians and the most famous actors and actresses. And he would have Binodini.
By a strange coincidence he was able to achieve his ambition. Pratapchand, like the mean businessman he was, decided to deduct a month’s salary from Binodini’s account when she went on a pleasure trip to Kashi with her Babu. He believed in the motto no work; no pay for all his employees from the highest to the lowest. When the news reached her, Binodini was wild with fury. She who was such a fine actress, so hard working and committed, to be treated so shabbily! It was not the loss of the money that infuriated her so. It was the blow to her prestige. ‘Find yourself another heroine,’ she told Pratapchand arrogantly, ‘ I leave your service this minute.’ She then proceeded to take off the costume she had donned for her performance. But the second bell had sounded and there was exactly one minute left for the rise of the curtain. Girish Ghosh hurried up to her and, placing a hand on her head, said gently, ‘The right is on your side Binod. I don’t deny it. But reflect. Your audience has not harmed you. People have travelled long distances and spent a lot of money in the hope of seeing you. Will you disappoint them?’ Binodini could not disregard her guru’s counsel. She acted her part and, after curtain call, she got her reward. ‘Oré Binod!’ Girish Ghosh cried out to her, ‘You’ve surpassed yourself tonight. Your acting has never been so impassioned. You reminded me of a wounded snake.’
But Girish was not happy with Pratapchand either. The theatre was bringing in a lot of money but the players were being doled out the same old miserly allowances. Girish expressed his resentment several times but was ignored. Finally, after a bitter quarrel, Girish Ghosh left the National taking some of the best players with him. He had heard that Gurmukh Rai was planning to build a new theatre. When Girish approached him, he was pleased to find Gurmukh amenable to all his conditions. But he had one of his own—only one. Binodini had to become his mistress.
Girish and Amritalal exchanged glances. How would they manage that? It was true, of course, that most actresses came from brothels and prostituted themselves for a living—their theatre allowances being far from adequate. Some were kept by men for several years at a stretch; some even for a life time. The arrangement, however, was flexible. A man could change mistresses as often as he wished. The woman, too, was free to drop her old protector in favour of a new one with more money to spend on her. And most of them did so—quite frequently. But not Binodini. She received offers wherever she went but spurned them every time. She was content with her present protector—a man of immense wealth and noble lineage. He was extremely generous to her, not only with his money but also with his love and attention. Cultured and well mannered, he kept his affair with Binodini strictly away from the limelight. Everyone in the theatre world respected him and, out of deference for his reputation, did not refer to him by name. In Binodini’s circle he was known as A Babu.
Girish and Amritalal decided to work on Binodini. Their lifelong dream of a theatre of their own was about to be realized. The lease papers for Kashi Mitra’s land on Beadon Street were ready and awaiting Gurmukh’s signature. The plans had been drawn. The only snag was Binodini. Their destiny was hanging on the whim of a common whore. It was unthinkable! They realized hectoring and bullying would get them nowhere. They would have to employ guile.
One night the whole troupe came to Binodini’s house and broke the news to her. ‘Binod,’ Girish said in his most persuasive voice. ‘I speak not for my own but our common good. Just think. A theatre of our own. Our very own. And only you can make it possible. At some sacrifice. I understand that. But it is such a small sacrifice for such a great cause! After all, who are we outside the theatre? Who cares for us? Who knows us? The theatre is our world Binod. Our life.’ Now Kadambini took up her cue. ‘A Babu isn’t all you think he is,’ she said. ‘Do you know why he isn’t here in Calcutta? He’s to be married! He has slipped away to his ancestral village without a word to you. Could he do that if he really cared for you?’
Binodini looked from one face to another, her eyes glazed with pain and disbelief. All the people she loved—from her revered guru to her best friend Kadambini-were bent on pushing her into Gurmukh Rai’s bed only to acquire a theatre of their own! Gurmukh—who was years younger than her and a drunk and a pervert. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t agree. Binodini held out for a long time. Then, swamped by the collective pressure of the troupe and worn out by their emotional blackmail, she gave in.
When the news reaching A Babu he came rushing down to Calcutta with a band of lathyals. He wouldn’t let that young braggart Gurmukh Rai get hold of his keep. He would kill him first. But Gurmukh had his own gang of goons. A terrible clash took place between the two in which several men were injured before the police arrived. Like Cleopatra of Egypt and Helen of Troy before her, Binodini had set off
a trail of bloodshed.
Afraid of her being caught up in the fight and being nabbed by the police Girish Ghosh spirited her away and kept her in hiding for several months during which time the papers were signed and the land acquired. Girish had written a new play called Daksha Yagna and had started rehearsing it. He was Daksha and Binodini was Sati. The rehearsals were conducted in secret in the house in which Binodini was hidden. Except for the cast, no one knew where she was.
Yet, one morning at crack of dawn, Binodini was rudely awakened by a loud hammering at the door. But before she could reach it, it crashed open and A Babu stood in the room. ‘You sleep too much Meni,’ he remarked gravely. Then, taking a wad of notes from his pocket, he held it out to her with the words, ‘You shan’t go to that baboon Meni. I won’t allow it. You’ll cut yourself off from the theatre, too, from this day onwards. There are ten thousand rupees here. Buy your freedom with it.’ But Binodini shook her head. ‘That’s not possible,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve given my word. Besides, I can’t leave the theatre.’
‘Not even for ten thousand rupees?’
Binodini was cut to the quick. Men thought they could buy and sell a woman as if she was merchandize. As if she had no will or soul or aspirations of her own. ‘You can keep your money,’ she said, her face flaming. ‘I can earn all the money I need. Ten thousand rupees is nothing to me.’ A Babu could bear it no longer. ‘Harlot!’ he screamed, his limbs burning with anger and humiliation. ‘You dare raise your voice in my presence! I’ll cut you to bits with my—’ Whipping a sword out of his cummerband he brought it down heavily on her. But Binodini skipped nimbly aside and saved herself by a hair. The sword fell on a harmonium and got wedged in it two inches deep. While he struggled to get it free, Binodini ran to his side and gripped his hand. ‘Ogo!’ she cried, ‘Kill me if you wish. I’m a despised woman, a whore! Who cares if I live or die? Think of yourself. You’ll be sent to prison. They might even hang you. Think of the disgrace to your family. Am I worth so much?’ Now A Babu flung the sword away and collapsed on the bed. Burying his face in his hands, he burst into a loud fit of weeping. Binodini stood at a distance shaking from head to foot. She was tempted to go up to him, place a hand on his head and say, ‘Ogo! Forgive me. Take me away with you. I won’t go against your wishes ever again.’ But, even as she moved to do so, a vision came before her, dazzling her eyes. She saw herself on a stage, resplendent in velvet and gold, surrounded by throngs of people. She heard frenzied clapping and strains of gay music. She knew she could not give up the theatre. She couldn’t go away with A Babu. She turned her face aside to hide her tears. A Babu caught the expression in her eyes and rose to his feet. ‘I release you Meni,’ he said gently, ‘I shan’t trouble you again.’
But Binodini’s dearly bought peace was shortlived. Gurmukh was extremely moody and whimsical. Within a few days he decided that he had had enough of Girish Ghosh and company. One afternoon he came huffing and puffing into Binodini’s room. ‘Look here Binod,’ he said in his rough way. ‘I want you. Only you. Why should I get caught up in this theatre nonsense? I understand nothing of it and care nothing. I’ll give you fifty thousand rupees—flat. And you become mine. What do you say?’
Fifty thousand rupees! Binodini couldn’t believe her ears. Her aunt, who was visiting her, stared at Gurmukh as if he had gone mad. Fifty thousand rupees! Half a lakh! For a common whore? Who had ever heard of such a thing? With a sum like that one could buy five or six large houses in the city. A prostitute’s youth and beauty were her only capital. And they were lost so easily. Once they went she was worth nothing. The men wouldn’t touch her with their feet. She gripped Binodini’s hand. Binodini opened her mouth to speak but under the pressure of that restraining hand, she could say nothing.
When the news reached Girish Ghosh he was horrified. What would happen now? Would the boat he had steered so gently and carefully almost to the shore be swept away on the tide of a mad man’s passion? If Binodini accepted Gurmukh’s offer they would not only lose her for ever, they would also lose the theatre of their dreams and have to bid farewell to their hopes of independence.
Once again the whole troupe clamoured around Binodini urging her to reject Gurmukh’s proposal. Amritalal took Binodini’s hands in his and said with tears in his eyes, ‘Will you think only of yourself Binod? Won’t you think of us? Of our future?’ Girish Ghosh who had stood silent all this while, watching the colour come and go in Binodini’s cheeks, said in a voice as cutting as the lash of a whip. ‘Stop begging Amritalal. If we don’t get a theatre—we don’t. That’s all. If she prefers the life of a common whore; to spend her declining years as the madam of a brothel—it’s her choice. People have short memories. She who is the brightest star of the theatre world and enjoys the applause of thousands will be forgotten in a few months.’
At this Binodini burst into tears. Flinging herself at her guru’s feet she sobbed, ‘I’ll never leave the theatre! Call the Babu here. I’ll tell him myself.’ When Gurmukh stood before her she said plainly, ‘Understand one thing clearly Babu. I’m an actress first and last. I’ll come to your bed on one condition: that you build me a theatre and allow me to act. I’ll leave the theatre only when I choose. Not at your command.’
Needless to say these words, though they left Gurmukh speechless, were greeted with tremendous applause by Binodini’s friends. Each one vied with the other to lavish compliments and extravagant flattery on her. The only exception was Girish Ghosh. He stood a little apart, his mouth twisted in a bitter Smile. ‘When a bridge is built over a river,’ he murmured to himself, ‘a child is slaughtered and buried beneath the foundations. We’ve done just that tonight. We’ve assured the future of the theatre in Bengal. But we’ve sacrificed you Binod.’
The next step was the naming of the theatre. Binodini wanted it to be named after her. Her earthly form, one that had delighted so many viewers, would be burned to ashes some day and merged with the elements. But her name would live on. Binodini Natyashala. How well that sounded! Everyone agreed at first. Then the whispers started. Other theatres had such grand resounding names: Bengal, National, Great National. And theirs was to be named after Binodini! It was humiliating. Besides the public would be offended at this pampering of a common prostitute. It was tantamount to striking a blow at social norms.
Binodini ran out to meet the men when they returned from the registry office. But they had bad news for her. The theatre had been registered in the name of Star. The decision had been taken after some last minute consultations. Girish Ghosh saw her pale face and trembling lips and hastened to reassure her. ‘Silly girl,’ he stroked her back lovingly, ‘Don’t you know what that means?
Who is the star of this company? You, of course. Everyone knows that. Star means Binodini.’
Thus the Star theatre was born, famed to this day through the length and breadth of Bengal. Its founder Girish Ghosh had little idea of the revolution he was sparking off, not only in the theatre world but in the lives of the people. Play after play emerged from his fiery pen—Daksha Yagna, Dhruba Charitra, Nal Damayanti—each brighter and more beautiful than the last. The quality of the audience changed. The theatre ceased to be the haunt of the idle rich and their toadies; of drunks and drug eaters. The themes being culled mainly from Hindu epics, people streamed into the auditorium from all walks of life. Intellectuals from the highest rungs of the aristocracy rubbed shoulders with uneducated men from the lower middle class. People came from the furthest ends of the city and even beyond it, from suburbs and villages. And slowly, they started bringing their womenfolk with them.
Girish Ghosh was born in Bose Para of Bagbazar and was orphaned at the age of fourteen. With no one to guide or discipline him, he spent his early youth sowing his wild oats with the most depraved elements of Bose Para. Liquor, ganja and women—he had a taste for them all. Tall and powerful in frame with a magnetic personality, he was the leader of the band. Yet he differed from his compatriots in one thing. Though he had abandoned
a formal education; he had retained a genuine passion for the written word. He read whatever he could find. He had even taught himself English, slowly and painfully, and had read the works of Shakespeare and Milton. And, as he grew older, his love of literature grew deeper and more intense.
At one time, in his wild indisciplined youth, he had organized a jatra party and staged the play Sadhabar Ekadasi. He had met Deenabandhu Mitra and Michael Madhusudan Datta. And under their influence, he had given himself over to the theatre. Drama became his burning passion eclipsing everything else. In time he rose to the position of the greatest hero of the Bengali theatre, earning for himself the sobriquet Garrick of Bengal. He was also a playwright of surpassing brilliance. He still drank heavily and surrounded himself with low women. But, mentally, he was miles above the company he kept. He was an intellectual and a rationalist. Having studied the works of Western scientists and thinkers Girish dismissed the concept of a Supreme Being standing guard over his creation. He believed that the universe moved in accordance with a set of natural laws and that religion was a manmade prop. He had no use for it.
Then, one day, he met Ramkrishna of Dakshineswar quite accidentally in the house of Balaram Bosu of Bagbazar. He was not impressed. The man looked so ordinary—no one would look at him twice. And he seemed half crazed. When the room grew dark that evening and a lamp was brought in, he kept looking from one face to another and asking the same question over and over again, ‘Is this the hour of dusk? Ogo! Do tell me. Is this the hour of dusk?’ Girish suppressed his laughter with difficulty. Was the man a lunatic? Could he not distinguish day from night? And when Ramkrishna knocked his head on Bidhu Kirtaniya’s feet (Bidhumukhi had been engaged by the master of the house to sing before his guests) Girish almost cried out in disgust. They said the man was Paramhansa. Crass nonsense! He was mad; stark raving mad! Even when conversing with Keshab Sen he was giggling to himself and singing snatches of a song. Girish felt he had had enough and rose to his feet. As he reached the door he was joined by Sisir Kumar Ghosh, editor of Amrita Bazaar Patrika. Sisir Kumar was a Vaishnav and had no use for the Kali sadhak from Dakshineswar. He had come only because he did not wish to offend Balaram Bosu who had invited him. Girish saw the smile of contempt on Sisir Kumar’s face and it had the strangest effect on him. He turned to go back.
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