First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Depart from hence—the old

  For the new hath begun her game …

  How true it was! Women grew old and were discarded. But men! Why did they never grow old and useless? Was it because they lived in a larger, more expansive world and could constantly renew themselves? She shrugged off the thought and turned to the more urgent matter at hand. She would write a note—not to Robi but to her husband. How would she address him? More precious to me than my life itself? She giggled at the thought wondering what such words really meant. Her head was growing lighter and she had difficulty in keeping her eyes open. She realized that she would have to hurry for soon darkness would engulf her. Beloved, she began then, hastily, she scribbled a few lines ending From one who has yearned for you all her life. The pen slipped from her fingers that felt, by now, as though weighted down with lead. ‘Robi! she cried aloud, frightened. ‘I’m going! Your Natun Bouthan …’ Suddenly, without any warning, her body twisted sideways and, slipping from the chair, fell in a huddled heap on the floor.

  The thirty lamps in the chandelier burned on, the candles sinking slowly in their sockets. The diligent cuckoo kept vigil breaking the silence of the night, hour after hour, with her ecstatic cry. And from the open window a wild sweet wind blew in and danced around the motionless form sprawled on the white marble …

  Kadambari was, by habit, an early riser. She left her bed, each day, with the first glimmer of dawn and watered her plants with her sprinkler. That morning Halor Ma waited till the sun was up then knocked on the door. But it did not open. Thinking her mistress to be still asleep she went away and came back some time later. She came and went thrice and though her gentle knock changed, with the passing of the hours, into a furious rapping all Was silent within. Frightened, Halor Ma alerted the women of the house. Now everyone came crowding to Kadambari’s apartment. Her sisters-in-law called out to her. The servants banged on the door rill their arms ached but there was no response.

  Of the two mansions that stood side by side in Jorasanko one belonged to the Brahmo and the other to the Hindu branch of the Thakur family. From one of the wings of this Hindu house a portion of Kadambari’s apartment could be seen. Now everyone came crowding here pushing and jostling. But though the window was open wide all that was visible was Kadambari’s bed—the sheets and pillows smooth and unslept in. She, herself, was nowhere to be seen. Then one of the women had an idea. Pulling a high stool as close to the window as possible she propped Gunendranath’s youngest daughter Sunayani on it and bade her look inside. ‘What do you see Sunayani?’ the women urged. ‘Tell us—tell us quick.’ But the little girl said nothing. Her face grew pale and his lips trembled. For child though she was, she knew instinctively that what she had seen was death. That twisted unnatural form that was her Natun Kakima’s lay on the floor—not in sleep but in death.

  The next thing to be done was to inform the menfolk and get the door broken. But who would take the responsibility? The dead woman’s husband was away. Suddenly the women remembered that their father-in-law was in the house. He had arrived suddenly last night on one of his brief unannounced visits.

  Debendranath was in the middle of his morning meditation when two of his sons came into the room and broke the news. Debendranath heard their account in silence. His eyes were closed; his lips kept moving with the mantra he was repeating but his ears took in each minute detail of what was being said to him. Not a muscle twitched in the smooth white marble of his face and form.

  After a while he sighed and rose to his feet. Motioning to the boys to leave the room he sent for his intrepid and trusty attendant Kishori. ‘You must have heard the news,’ he said with his habitual directness, as soon as Kishori had shut the door behind him. ‘My sons tell me that Natun Badhu Mata has taken her own life. Act quickly and with discretion. Get the door broken down but let no one enter the room—not even my sons. You alone should go in. Keep a sharp look out and remove all traces of anything suspicious that may be lurking there.’

  Frowning in thought for a few moments he went on, ‘It is not seemly that the remains of a daughter-in-law of this house be sent for a post mortem. Have a coroner’s court set up in this house and see that a verdict of natural death is given.’ He shut his eyes as if in weariness, then opening them again he went on, ‘No newspaper, Indian or English, national or international, must be allowed to carry the news. Call a meeting of all the editors and make my wishes known to them. All this will cost money but that is of no consideration. Take a thousand rupees from the khazanchi khana for the present. You may submit the accounts later. May the blessings of the All Merciful Param Brahma be with you! Go!’

  It took four sturdy men servants over an hour to break open the door which was of solid mahogany. When it gave way, at last, Kishori asked everyone who stood about it to leave for such was the Maharshi’s command. Then, stepping into the room, he got a shock. The floor was littered with fragments of glass, overturned furniture and splotches of blood. Kadambari lay in the middle of the wreckage. Her body clad only in a silk chemise and jacket, lay on the floor twisted unnaturally, one arm sprawled out, the other resting on her breast. The soles of her long slim feet were coated with clotted blood. But her face was as luminous and tender as though bathed in moonlight and her lips were parted in a smile.

  The first thing Kishori did was to pick up a sheet from the bed and cover the body. Then, casting his sharp eyes around the apartment, he noticed that the floor of the adjoining room was strewn with shreds of paper. He swept them up in his hands. He knew what they were instinctively, even without glancing at the writing. Stuffing them into his pocket he turned to the cupboard which stood wide open, the key still hanging from the keyhole. A sandalwood box with jewels spilling out of it and stared him in the face. But he felt not even a prick of temptation. Sweeping its contents back into the box he closed it and locked the cupboard. Then, he came back to the room in which the dead woman lay. There was a letter on the table. He picked it up and read it. Then, tearing it across, he shoved the pieces into his pocket with the other fragments. The room was in a mess. He would have to sweep up the glass and wipe away the bloodstains.

  Looking around for a broom he nearly jumped out of his skin. He had heard a sigh, clear and audible, and it seemed to come from the dead woman. The thought made his heart beat so fast that he thought it would burst. He didn’t want to look in her direction but something, he didn’t know what, impelled him from within. Kadambari lay in the same position but now her eyes were open. Hard and glittering like jewels they stared steadfastly into his. It was only for a few seconds, then the lids fell over her eyes once more. Sweat streamed down Kishori’s face and neck. Trembling like a leaf he sank to his knees on the floor. Picking up her hand he examined her pulse. It was feeble, very feeble, but not gone. She was alive.

  Now everything changed swiftly. Kadambari was lifted from the floor and laid on the bed. Her sisters-in-law washed and tended her. And the best doctors of the city were sent for—Indian as well as English. A messenger was despatched with the utmost haste to the Sarojini and Jyotirindranath and his entourage came rushing back to Jorasanko.

  Kadambari lay in a deep coma, the doctors battling for her life. She never knew that her two dearest ones were by her side through day and night. And then, two days later, she drew her last breath.

  Kishori had made all the arrangements with his habitual sagacity. A coroner’s court had been set up in the house with the magistrate, a chemical examiner and a couple of clerks in attendance. They were treated to excellent food ordered from an English hotel and the finest of wines and liquors. Satisfied, they went away certifying her death as owing to natural causes.

  The cremation was to be performed according to Brahmo rites by Hemchandra Vidyaratna. Vast quantities of sandalwood, incense and pure ghee were sent for in conformity with the status of the deceased. But who would light the pyre? Kadambari was childless and her husband was prostrated with shock. He hadn’t been able to come for her because the t
ide had run out. Some of his guests had suggested that she be brought by road but it had become too late for that. Had he known that she would take his breach of promise so much to heart he would have surely come for her. Resolving to bring her the very next day he had flung himself into the celebrations. He felt overwhelmed with guilt every time he remembered that he had been singing and laughing and enjoying himself the very moment that his wife was taking her own life. He was so distraught that Gyanadanandini, fearing for his mental and physical health, took him away from Jorasanko to her own house even before the cremation.

  As for Robi—he was too dazed by what had happened to feel sorrow or pain. He saw Kadambari’s body being laid out on the bier. He watched his nephew Dipu light the pyre. The smoke from the leaping flames stung his eyes and the combined odours of burning wood, incense and ghee assailed his nostrils but he felt nothing. After the cremation, through the days of mandatory mourning, he sat on a reed mat, hour after hour, his back resting against a wall, his eyes hard and dry. And all the while he thought of the days he had spent with his Natun Bouthan in Moran’s villa in Chandannagar. A series of images flashed before his eyes—picking flowers with Natun Bouthan on bright autumn mornings; swinging together on long shadowy afternoons under a sky dark with monsoon cloud; gazing out on the river sitting side by side in the twilight; Natun Bouthan holding his hand and gazing deep into his eyes. There had been silence between them—a silence that spoke more than words. His new book Prakritir Pratishodh was coming out in a few days. Would he have time to add a new lyric? Mori lo mori amai banshi té dékéchhé ké. He might have to alter the text a little. But would he have the time?

  Robi sat up with a jerk. His limbs quivered with shock at the realization that he had started thinking of other things. And that before Kadambari’s ashes had barely cooled. He was already planning his new book. How could he have done that?

  And now, the hot tears, so long unshed, coursed down Robi’s cheeks.

  Chapter XXV

  That night Bharat brought Bhumisuta back to Bhabanipur. They had left the house at dusk and returned after midnight. Bharat had anticipated a lot of trouble. They would be denied entrance—he was sure of that. But he was determined to stand his ground. He was Shashibhushan’s guest and he would leave the house only on Shashibhushan’s command. If Bhumisuta was thrown out he would keep her with him in his own room. But, by a strange coincidence, his fears turned out to be without foundation. Shashibhushan had arrived suddenly that very night and all the members of the household were so busy buzzing around him that they failed to note their absence. Bhumisuta slipped quietly into her own room and so did Bharat. Without knowing it, Shashibhushan had saved Bharat once again.

  It had suddenly dawned on Birchandra Manikya that many of the native rajas, Raja of Mysore, Jaipur and Patiala among them, had their own mansions in Calcutta. It was but right that the Maharaja of Tripura have one too. His young queen was bored in the palace of Agartala and was clamouring to see the sights of the premier city of which she had heard so much. Besides, the monsoon months were hot and sticky in Tripura and brought on various disorders of the spleen and stomach. The Maharaja had suffered several bouts of sickness and had been advised by his physicians to try a change of scene and climate. The English doctors of Calcutta, he had heard, had eradicated malaria and controlled cholera and other enteric fevers. If he had a place of his own in the city he could spend the monsoon months, each year, away from Tripura. So Shashibhushan was despatched post haste to look for a suitable house and have it fitted up with furniture and servants in preparation for the royal visit.

  From the next day onwards Shashibhushan spent his mornings looking for a house, Bharat accompanying him everywhere he went. Returning home they had their noon meal together in Krishnabhamini’s apartment—the two being served side by side as if they were brothers. Bharat was surprised at this elevation in his status. He did not know that Manibhushan was planning to touch his brother for a loan and couldn’t afford to displease him by treating Bharat in a cavalier fashion. Now that he had easy access to the inner apartments he came across Bhumisuta often. Though he rarely spoke to her he never failed to note the pallor of her cheeks and the sadness in her eyes. And his determination to look after her grew in intensity.

  After several days of search a house was eventually found—a large mansion standing on one and a half acres of ground in Circular Road. It had a well laid out garden with some fine old trees and was surrounded by high stone walls. The house had two storeys with two separate wings. This was as it should be for the Maharaja was coming with his wife and would need an andar mahal for his privacy. The front wing had six rooms. Here Shashibhushan would take up residence, permanently, for such was the king’s command. One of the rooms would be fitted up as an office. The inner wing was much grander. It had verandas on all three sides, floors of Italian marble and glass windows with wooden shutters.

  Shashibhushan and Bharat went from room to room then came up to the roof. On one side lay a vast track of marshy land with stretches of water gleaming between clumps of reeds and mangroves. Some fishermen could be seen dragging a heavy net out of the still brown waters. On the other side were rice fields emerald green in the morning sun. Facing them were the dwellings of the fashionable rich—tall three-storeyed mansions set in landscaped gardens.

  ‘Bharat,’ Shashibhushan put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Now we need to look for a place for you.’

  ‘For me! Shan’t I be staying here with you?’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? I don’t want you within miles of anyone from Tripura. Someone might recognize you and inform the Maharaja. And then—’ Shashibhushan laughed ruefully and continued, ‘I mean to get you out of the house in Bhabanipur. You won’t be safe there. One can never tell with the Maharaja. He might walk in, without prior notice, upon a whim.’

  ‘When he does that I’ll hide—’

  ‘That may not be possible every time. He may catch you unawares. Why don’t you rent a room in Shyambazar? He’ll never get that far.’ Then, seeing the stricken look on Bharat’s face, he added hastily, ‘You needn’t worry about the expense. I’ll look after all that. Concentrate on your studies and leave everything else to me.’

  The proposal was excellent. Bharat would have a place of his own for the first time in his life. He would be independent. His friends could visit him freely. And he could live as he pleased. Yet Bharat’s heart sank at the thought. If he left Bhabanipur what would become of Bhumisuta?

  After some search a place was found. Two small rooms with an adjoining terrace over a godown stocked with spices was rented for him in Hari Ghosh Lane—one of the smaller lanes that meandered out of Beadon Street. The area was respectable and the rent only eight rupees. Shashibhushan even found a servant for him—a young man named Mahim who had worked for the previous tenants. Everything was arranged quickly and efficiently and Bharat was instructed to pack his things and leave in a couple of days.

  Bharat obeyed but with a heavy heart. He had promised Bhumisuta that he would look after her and he was abandoning her. What was worse, he hadn’t even told her he was leaving. She would think him a liar and a cheat and she would be justified in doing so.

  Bharat hung about Krishnabhamini’s apartment hoping to get a few moments alone with Bhumisuta. He paced up and down the veranda outside his room in order to catch her on her way up to the roof. But Shashibhushan’s presence in the house had added to her duties and she had no time for herself. And, then, on the day of his departure he got his chance. Returning from college that evening he saw a palki waiting at the gate. It being the night of a lunar eclipse one of the mistresses was going for her ritual dip in the Ganga. Presently three women, heavily veiled, came walking out of the house. He couldn’t see their faces but he could swear that one of them was Bhumisuta. ‘Bhumi!’ he called out in his desperation. Startled, she turned her head towards him but only for a few seconds. Then, hurrying, she stepped into the palki. But in that brief
instant Bharat raised his hand as if to say, ‘I am with you Bhumi. However far I may go I shall always be there for you.’ But he couldn’t tell if Bhumisuta understood.

  Bharat left the next day his heart heavy with guilt. How could he have done this to Bhumisuta? He was a fraud and a coward. He should have made his feelings public. He should have taken Bhumisuta away by force if necessary. He should have kept her with him; looked after her. But how? Shashibhushan would never allow it. And he was dependent on Shashibhushan.

  It took Bharat about a month to settle down in his new lodgings, Shyambazar lay to the north, in a much older part of the city. In comparison with Bhabanipur the streets here were narrow and heavily congested with pedestrians and traffic and the houses stood packed together in close proximity. The atmosphere was informal and congenial. The men called out to their neighbours in greeting and stopped to spend the time of day while passing one another in the street. Women leaned out of their windows and exchanged gossip and news. Everyone knew what was being cooked in their neighbours’ kitchens, the maladies their babies were suffering from and the problems they had with their maids and servants. Bharat looked on interestedly from his veranda each morning on the streams of people who passed up and down—pedlars hawking milk, fish, fruit and vegetables in strange sing-song voices; women with head loads knocking on doors, offering alta, sindoor, bangles, saris and ribbons.