First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  A few days after Robi and Mrinalini left Jorasanko, preparations commenced for another wedding in the family. Swarnakumari’s eldest daughter Hiranmayee was to be married to a young man called Phanibhushan Mukhopadhyay. Unlike other mothers Swarnakumari took no interest in getting a trousseau ready for her daughter or of preparing a guest list. She turned all her energies in trying to make the occasion as unique and memorable as possible. At one of the evening gatherings in her house she suggested putting up a play on the wedding night. The suggestion met with everyone’s approval but some practical difficulties were pointed out. The date set for the wedding was not too far off. There wasn’t enough time for rehearsing a full length play. Then someone suggested putting up a musical drama on the lines of Balmiki Pratibha—an operatic piece that had been presented by the young Thakurs in Jorasanko some years ago. Songs were easier to learn than dialogue. And they could be sung from within the wings if the need arose. The next point to be considered was the composer. Who could do it best? Several names were put forward and rejected. Then Swarnakumari had an idea. How would it be if they all did it together? Songs could be composed by all those who had a flair for it. Akshay Chowdhury was a good composer. Jyotirindranath had a fine ear and could improvize tunes on the piano to which Robi could set the words in no time at all. Swarnakumari, herself, was no mean composer. Once the songs were ready they could be linked together by a slender thread of narrative and presented as an opera.

  After this decision was taken the evenings became livelier than ever and stretched till late into the night with breaks for snacks and drinks and winding up with a lavish meal. All the mundane arrangements for the wedding were left to the master of the house. The mistress concerned herself only with the cultural side and every evening saw her sitting in state in her beautifully appointed salon with her brothers, sister-in-law and friends. Some of the younger members of the Thakur family were also admitted into these gatherings because they would be the ones to come on stage in action or dance.

  Till lately Robi had been a frequent visitor at Swarnakumari’s house. But he was rarely there these days being totally preoccupied by his newest venture Chhabi o Gaan. The publication process was over. All that was left now was the dedication about which he couldn’t make up his mind. Should he dedicate it to his wife? A shadow fell on his face at the thought. She wouldn’t read the poems. And, even if she did, she wouldn’t understand them. There was one, only one, who read his work from cover to cover and understood it; who praised and criticized with honesty and true knowledge. She was the source of all his joys. She was the source, too, of his most exquisite pains, touching the deepest chords within him with a gentle and unerring hand. She was his sole inspiration! Delving into his memories he found that each of the poems in Chhabi o Gaan had its genesis in some moment or other with her—sad, joyous, thoughtful or romantic. He had dedicated many of his books to her. He would like to dedicate them all. Frowning and biting his pen for a few moments he wrote: This garland of songs is woven from the blossoms of last year’s spring. I place it at the feet of her in the light of whose eyes, the flowers opened, each dawn, one by one.

  Leaving the Brahmo Samaj Press Robi came straight to Jorasanko and, stepping through the open door, entered Kadambari’s room. She sat at a window with her back to the door through which Robi had entered. She didn’t rise at his entrance or even turn her head. She went on sitting, a listless immobile figure, her eyes fixed on the evening sky over which a stream of white cranes were gliding past. Dusk was falling outside and shadows were lengthening in the room. Just outside the window a bakul tree, dark and gnarled with age, was swaying gently in the breeze sending showers of blossoms into the room which danced about the air like tiny white stars before falling into Kadambari’s lap.

  ‘Nathun Bouthan,’ Robi called softly.

  Kadambari turned her head and looked at him. But her eyes conveyed nothing—not joy on seeing him nor pain at his prolonged absence. Her lip quivered a little but she didn’t speak. Not knowing what to say next Robi asked awkwardly, ‘Are you well?’ Kadambari swayed her head gently and said, ‘Yes!’ Robi tried again. ‘Why is it so dark in your room?’ he asked,’Why don’t you light the lamp?’ Kadambari did not answer. She turned her face again to the window and gazed out at the darkening sky.

  ‘Here is my new book Chhabi o Gaan,’ Robi said after a while. Kadambari put out a hand and, taking the book, glanced briefly at the dedication. Then, ruffling the pages absentmindedly she placed it on a small table beside her. Robi thought he heard her murmur ‘last year’s,’ before she put it aside. The complete absence of interest in his book shocked Robi and wounded him deeply. Tears pricked his eyelids. Mixed with the pain of his rejection was a touch of guilt. He knew that Kadambari had been deeply hurt the day he had gone away with Gyanadanandini. A wave of anger and frustration rose within him. Mejo Bouthan had forced him to go with her! Not content with taking Natun Bouthan’s husband away from her she was doing the same with Robi. She seemed to enjoy pushing Natun Bouthan deeper and deeper into her dark, lonely world. And Kadambari! Robi sighed. Why didn’t she fight for her rights? Why didn’t she go with her husband wherever he went? Instead she sat hour after hour, day after day, night after night, waiting for him to return.

  Looking on that still, sad figure sitting at the window in the twilight Robi’s heart twisted within him. He longed to return to Jorasanko and spend all his time with her. But he knew that the moment he did so tongues would start wagging. The house would echo with whispers some of which might even reach his father’s ears. Besides he was very busy now and had little leisure. The long golden days and starry nights at Moran’s villa were like a dimly remembered dream!

  ‘Why don’t you go with Jyotidada to Swarnadidi’s house Bouthan?’ Robi said at last, ‘We have such fun every evening. There’s singing and—’

  ‘I can’t go there,’ Kadambari answered in a stifled voice. ‘I’m an accursed creature with an evil eye—’

  ‘What nonsense!’ Robi cried. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Thakurjhi’s daughter Urmilla used to come to me. I would wash and feed her and put her to bed. Everyone says she died because of me. They say such things because I’m a sterile woman—incapable of bearing a child in my womb.’

  ‘Chhi! Chhi! Don’t ever utter those words again. That was an accident. It could have happened anywhere. Besides no one says such things about you.’

  ‘Don’t they? But I seem to hear them all the time. The air is thick with whispers —’

  ‘You’re imagining things. You sit locked up in this room day and night. You don’t go out anywhere. You don’t talk to anyone. If you did you would know how much everyone loves you. Come with me to Swarnadidi’s house tonight. You’ll feel much better.’

  Kadambari hesitated a little then said softly,’No Robi. They may not … The truth is I don’t like going anywhere. I don’t belong—’ she turned her face away fixing her gaze, once more, on a sky now black with night and sprinkled all over with stars. Robi decided to be firm. Taking her by the shoulders he turned her around. ‘Come with me Bouthan,’ he said with a desperate edge to his voice. ‘You must. They’ll all be so happy—’ Kadambari shook her head. Putting his hand gently away she said evenly, ‘You’re getting late. Go Robi.’

  Robi stood uncertainly for a few moments. He realized that pleading with her was useless. She had made up her mind. Besides he was getting late. The group in Kashiabagan would have assembled by now and must be waiting for him. He had promised to write two songs and bring them along but he hadn’t even thought of a line. Stifling a sigh he walked quietly out of the room.

  The moment he entered Swarnakumari’s house he was greeted by a chorus of voices. ‘Robi!’ ‘Why are you so late?’ ‘We’ve been waiting and waiting.’ Robi removed his shoes and socks and took his place on the carpet along with the others.

  ‘Explain the situation to Robi,’ Swarnakumari prompted Akshay Chowdhury who hurried to do so. ‘It’s like this,’ he explai
ned, ‘The hero sees the heroine for the first time and is enchanted by her. We need a song to convey his feelings.’ Jyotirindranath rose from his seat at the piano and picked up his esraj. ‘I’ve set the tune,’ he said. ‘What do you think of this Misra Khambaj Robi?’ Robi sat in dazed silence. An image rose before his eyes—the same image that had haunted him all the way to Kashiabagan—of a slender figure sitting in a room full of shadows … her hair lifted softly in the breeze … flowers falling into her lap. He murmured as if in a dream,

  ‘She sits silent by that window

  Cheek resting on one hand

  Her lap is strewn with flowers

  Her garland lies unwoven …’

  Then, as the soft nostalgic strains of Jyotirindra’s esraj floated into his ears he lifted his voice and sang

  ‘Clouds glide before her eyes

  Birds go winging past

  All day long the falling blooms …’

  The hot tears welled into Robi’s eyes and his voice was charged with emotion as he sang. Why had everything changed so? Natun Bouthan was desperately unhappy and he could do nothing about it. He felt powerless; trapped. Till the other day he had spent all his time with her without experiencing a twinge of guilt. Why was he being assailed by such feelings now? Why was he considering what other people would think and say? Nobody loved her. No one cared for her. There was not one person in this room who ever asked Jyotidada, ‘Why don’t you bring Kadambari?’ And Robi! He too had deserted her. Here he was sitting and singing with this lively group while Natun Bouthan—

  ‘She sits silent by that window Cheek resting on one hand …’

  Chapter XXII

  Working with Binodini was getting more and more difficult day by day. She was invariably late for rehearsals and Girish and his cast had to sit idle for hours waiting for her. On a couple of occasions he had sent a servant to call her but she had expressed her resentment so openly that he dared not repeat the attempt. When she did come, she expected the entire cast to fawn over her, fussing and pampering. And she was very autocratic in her manner. ‘That light is bothering my eyes,’ she might say sharply in the middle of someone’s lines. ‘Will someone take it away?’ She thought nothing of humiliating her co-actresses. ‘You smell so foul Jadukali,’ she said once to a young actress, ‘that I’m about to vomit. Go take a bath and change your clothes before coming near me.’ Such comments were not only extremely offensive—they ruined the tempo of the rehearsal. She even took on Girish Ghosh from time to time, something she had never dared to before. ‘This speech has too many difficult words in it,’ she said on one or two occasions, ‘Can’t you make it simpler?’ Though couched in the form of a request it sounded like a command. Her behaviour set Girish’s blood on fire but all he would do to assuage his feelings was to open a brandy bottle and pour the contents, neat, down his throat. Never had he felt so helpless.

  In his long career as director and playwright Girish Ghosh had trained many women picking them up from among the lowest of the low if they so much as had a presentable face. These girls, when they first came to him, had neither grace nor poise and spoke in atrocious accents. But Girish worked so hard over them that many were metamorphosed from cocoons to butterflies. Some, of course, couldn’t make the grade and fell by the wayside. Binodini, who had won acclaim early in her life becoming a star before she was twenty, was a supreme example of his skill as a trainer. But now he had lost his power over her. She was the proprietor’s mistress and he ate out of her hand. If Girish attempted to discipline her as he had done in the past he might lose his job. He knew the reason for the change in her. She hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the fact that he had played on her emotions and pushed her into Gurmukh’s bed. This was her revenge. She was sending a clear signal to him and to the others that the theatre had been bought with her blood and tears and that she wouldn’t let them forget it.

  The play that was being currently performed was Nal Damayanti with Binodini playing Damayanti. It had proved vastly popular and sales were soaring every day. The acting was brilliant, Binodini playing her part with a sensitivity unusual even for her. The stage effects were spectacular. There was a scene in which a bird flew away with Nal’s garment in its beak. In another, dancing apsaras emerged from an unfolding lotus.

  Yet, even though Nal Damayanti was running to packed houses, Gurmukh Rai wanted a new play. He cared little for the money that was coming in—he had so much. His burning ambition to cripple the National Theatre and bring Pratapchand Jahuri to his feet was well on its way to realization. The reputation of the National Theatre was declining everyday. Soon it would have to wind up.

  Goaded by Gurmukh, Girish Ghosh put together a new play called Kamalé Kamini and commenced taking the rehearsals. But Binodini, flushed with the success of her Damayanti, turned up her nose at the part assigned to her. It was, she complained, unworthy of her talent at an actress. She wanted a role equal in passion and power to Damayanti. Girish tried to reason with her. Could two plays be identical? But she continued to sulk till Girish was driven to a fury he could barely conceal. He wanted to shut her up with a sharp rebuke but he dared not. He was afraid of Gurmukh. In an effort to hide his anger and frustration he would walk away from the stage and, sitting in a dark corner of the wings, take a long draught from the brandy bottle. He also took to reciting stotras in praise of Kali, his voice growing louder and more sonorous with every line. At such times no one dared go near him—not even Binodini.

  One day Mahendralal Sarkar caught him in this mood. Although a very busy doctor Mahendralal was a great theatre lover and was often seen among the spectators at the Star. That evening, after watching a performance of Nal Damayanti, he hurried backstage to congratulate Girish whom he had known for several years. ‘Girish! Ohé Girish!’ he called out in his booming voice as, crossing the stage, he stepped into the wings. Then he got a shock. Girish was sitting crosslegged in a dark corner. His eyes were closed and tears streamed down his face as he rocked to and fro reciting verses in praise of Kali.

  Girish was particularly upset that day. Binodini had gone to the green room to change her costume, and had taken up her cue seven minutes after the due time. The other actors and actresses had covered up for her and the spectators had not sensed anything out of the ordinary. But Girish was furious. He felt like slapping her across the face but he didn’t dare even rebuke her. Gurmukh was waiting in the wings watching over her. Girish felt his heart thumping so hard with agitation that it threatened to burst out of his rib cage. But all he could do was drink and sing stotras to Kali.

  ‘Oré baap ré!’ Mahendralal Sarkar exclaimed on seeing him there. ‘Here is another one devoured by Kali.’ At the sound of his voice Girish opened his eyes. ‘Daktar Moshai!’ he said. ‘Come in and sit down.’

  ‘Is this a joke? Or have you really turned religious?’

  ‘I’m trying hard to. But it’s difficult—’

  ‘I thought you had a scientific bent of mind.’ Mahendralal said staring at him in dismay. ‘You said you believed in Kant’s doctrines. What has happened to you? Since when have you become a devotee of Kali?’

  ‘What did you think of the play?’ Girish tried to evade the question.

  ‘The play was excellent. Not a dull moment. But to go back to my point. I had an idea that there were two aspects to your personality. The real you—I mean the man—is an atheist; an unbeliever. But the artist in you brims Over with religious feelings. Something like your heroines. The actress is a goddess—the real woman a whore. The playwright is also an actor. Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  ‘You are right Daktar Moshai!’ Girish said softly. ‘I was an atheist not so long ago. Then something happened. Ever since then—’

  ‘What was it? Tell me.’

  At that moment Binodini and Gurmukh came in. Girish sighed and said, ‘Some other time Daktar Moshai. I’ll come’to you myself.’ Mahendralal Sarkar rose to his feet. He realized that this was neither the time nor the place for the kind of confession Girish w
ished to make. Besides, a performance had just been concluded. The producer and director, quite naturally, had important matters to discuss. His curiosity unsatisfied, he walked down the hall out into the street where his carriage stood waiting.

  Mahendralal was wrong. Gurmukh had not come to discuss anything but to have a few drinks with Girish. He kept a bottle with him all the time and took swigs from it from early afternoon onwards. His eyes were red and slightly unfocussed already, although the night was still young. Suddenly a whim seized Girish. He would drink this arrogant brat out of his senses. A boy, barely out of his teens, pretending to be a man! He would show him what a man was truly like. He would show him what Girish Ghosh was!

  Brandy bottles were brought in, one after another, and emptied with astonishing rapidity. As the night progressed Gurmukh got so drunk that he could barely keep his eyes open. But he wouldn’t give up. He was determined to outdrink the old rascal who had so much power over Binodini. Then, just as dawn was breaking over the city, Gurmukh fell with a thud on the floor and passed out. Girish, sitting straight as an arrow, glanced at the figure lying prostrate at his feet. His lip curled in a little smile. Draining the rest of his glass to the dregs he let out a thundering belch and called in a booming voice, ‘Oré! Pick up the drunken clown and take him home.’ Gurmukh’s servants hurried in and carried their master out of the theatre.

  Gurmukh fell seriously ill after this incident and was confined to bed for ten whole days. During this period the doctors discovered that some of his organs were in a state of decay—a natural consequence of the kind of life he led. Gurmukh’s mother, who had no control over her son, sent for her brother from Lahore. The latter, a huge hefty man with a towering personality, took over Gurmukh’s life and commenced steering it with an iron hand. He decided that his nephew would, henceforth, have no contact with Binodini or the theatre. Gurmukh, who had no fight left in him, was forced to obey.