First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Keshava Kuru Karma Deené

  Madhava Manamohan, Mohan Muralidhari

  Hari bol, Hari bol, Hari bol mana amaar

  Sitting in the first row downstairs Mahendralal hissed in Shashibhushan’s ear, ‘Girish has stolen this from the Bible. The Bible tells us of three wise men who followed a star to Bethlehem to offer gifts to the newborn Jesus.’ The spectators sitting around him threw burning glances in his direction but he ignored them completely and went on in his very audible whisper, ‘No one had the slightest inkling when Nimai was born that he would grow up to be someone special. For many years he was considered to be nothing more than his mother Sachi’s spoiled brat.’

  But the scene that drew these adverse comments from Mahendralal had quite the opposite effect on Ramkrishna. He folded his hands in reverence to the bearded rishis and, swaying his head to the music, went into a trance.

  A few scenes later, Binodini made her first appearance in the role of the adolescent Nimai. She had wanted to do a man’s role wishing to break Bhuni’s monopoly. She had thrown the challenge to Girish Ghosh and he had taken it up. He had created a role that was as difficult as it was demanding. And Binodini had risen handsomely to it justifying his choice of her. She had immersed herself so completely in her new character that even those who had been seeing her every evening for over a decade could not recognize her. It seemed as though she had taken a vow to shed her old image of the beautiful coquette who sang and danced with such grace and ease. Sloughing off her old identity she was taking on a new one. She rose at dawn each day and bathed in the Ganga. She spent the whole day in prayer and meditation, ate simple food and spoke as little as possible. And day by day she found herself changing. She was not only acting Nimai. She was becoming Nimai.

  The Hindus, whose religion had taken a severe beating at the hands of the Brahmos and Christian missionaries, felt elated. Here under the bright lights of the proscenium Hinduism was manifesting itself—not as a religion of narrow creeds and dark superstitions but as catholic and humane.

  Sitting in the first row Colonel Alcott and Father Lafon watched the play entranced, not at the glory of Hinduism, but the acting ability of Binodini. ‘I’ve seen performances in England by the best of actresses,’ Colonel Alcott murmured in his companion’s ear. ‘I’ve seen Ellen Terry in the roles of Portia and Desdemona. But I’ll say, without prejudice, that this actress’ performance is not a whit inferior. I hadn’t expected anything like this. Most amazing!’ Father Lafon did not reply but his eyes shone with pride. He loved India and Indians. Triumph surged within him at the thought that the much despised natives had proved themselves equal to the British in one field at least. And, that too, in the highly sensitive, creative field of the theatre.

  Upstairs, in his box, Ramkrishna became more and more emotional as the play wore on. And now the curtain rose on the highly acclaimed scene of the Ganga puja at which Nimai, unable to bear the pangs of hunger, snatches up handfuls of sweets and fruits from the thalas laid out on the river ghat at Nabadweep. The devotees, chanting the mantras with their eyes closed, get a rude shock at this violation of their offerings and stare in astonishment. The irate pandits chase the lad shaking their fists at him and cursing him with death and destruction. But Nimai is not afraid. Wiggling his thumbs mockingly at the outraged Brahmins, he runs away. But the women among the devotees cannot bear to see him go. ‘Nimai ai, Nimai ai,’ they cry begging him to return. Then one of them rises to her feet. She knows the mantra that will draw Nimai like a moth to a flame. Raising her arms above her head she starts swaying from side to side singing Hari bol! Hari bol!

  At this point the music director Benimadhav Adhikari, who was standing in the wings watching the scene, gestured to the musicians whereupon a flood of music burst forth from pipes and drums and the whole cast started singing Hari bol! Hari bol! Nimai stopped in his tracks, undecided, for a few seconds then gradually his feet started tapping the floor. His arms rose above his head and his body started whirling in a slow circular motion.

  ‘Aaha! Aaha!’ Ramkrishna cried wiping his streaming eyes. His followers immediately took up the cue and a torrent of aahas issued from their lips. And, indeed, looking on Binodini, there were many who had tears coursing down their cheeks. Her eyes had the glazed look of one who knew not who or where she was; of one who was floating on a sea of bliss. Her limbs dancing to the beat of drums and cymbals, had lost their languorous grace. It seemed as though, filled with a divine frenzy, she had surrendered body and soul and was dancing her way to God.

  The scene was so moving that many among the audience burst out weeping. Some chanted Hari bol with the singers on stage; others swayed their heads eyes closed in ecstasy. One man stood up on his chair and started dancing in rhythm to the drumbeats. ‘A molo ja!’ Mahendralal Sarkar cried out irritably, ‘The man’s stone drunk. Why don’t they throw him out?’

  ‘Shh!’ A fellow spectator hissed from behind. ‘Mind your language Moshai. He is the revered Sri Bijay Krishna Goswami.’

  ‘Revered by whom? What does he do?’ ‘He’s a leader of the Brahmo Samaj.’

  ‘A Brahmo!’ Mahendralal grimaced. ‘All the Brahmos I’ve met keep running their mouths about the Abstract and the Formless. What’s a Brahmo doing here chanting Hari Bol and weeping buckets with Nimai?’

  ‘That’s just it Dada,’ another spectator put in his bit. ‘The lost sheep are returning to the fold. Those who denied Hinduism and strayed away are coming back.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mahendralal cried explosively. ‘What about those who became Christians and Muslims? Are they returning? And if they did would the Hindus take them back?’ Then, turning to Shashibhushan, he demanded angrily, ‘What’s amusing you, young man? I’ve been watching you. I just have to open my mouth and you start to snigger.’

  ‘I’m being doubly entertained Moshai! By Girish Ghosh and by you. Can you blame me if I’m unable to hide my delight?’

  At the end of the first act, when the curtain had descended for a brief interval, a man came huffing and puffing up to Mahendralal. ‘Would you come to the green room for a moment Daktar Babu,’ he whispered urgently. Mahendralal rose to his feet instantly and followed him. As soon as they were out of earshot the man hissed in his ear, ‘Binod has fainted Daktar Babu. She came tottering out of the stage after the Hari Bol sequence and fell down in a heap. We’ll have to stop the play if you can’t revive her in a few minutes.’

  ‘But I haven’t brought my box of medicines,’ Mahendralal exclaimed. ‘And the shops must have shut by now. It’s past eleven o’ clock.’ Then, seeing the stricken look on the man’s face, he added quickly, ‘Take me to her, anyway, and let me see what I can do.’

  Binodini lay in a dark passage behind the stage her head cradled in the lap of a white man in a cassock whom Mahendralal recognized instantly as Father Lafon. Binodini’s cheeks were pale and marked with tears. Her hair spilled out of the priest’s lap and fell to the floor in rich curls as he massaged her head vigorously with long white fingers. Lying like that she looked young and vulnerable and every inch a woman. Even as the eyes of the two men met Binodini’s lips trembled into life. ‘Ha Krishna! Ha Krishna!’ she muttered. Mahendralal smiled wryly. The crisis was over. Father Lafon had done whatever there was to be done and his presence was not required. He knew what had gone wrong of course. The girl had pitched her emotions too high and had cracked under the strain. Anyway, she would recover very soon now and the play could go on.

  ‘What happened? Was someone taken ill?’ Shashibhushan enquired as soon as he had returned to his seat.

  ‘If every little whore from the back alleys forgets she is Khendi or Penchi and starts believing she’s truly the queen or goddess she’s enacting—it poses a problem, does it not? The theatre is an artificial world, all glitter and no gold, and actors and actresses cannot afford to forget the fact.’ Taking a breath he continued with his characteristic forcefulness, ‘Tell me. Why are all these people weeping and beating their breasts f
or a glimpse of Krishna? What can he do for them even if he does appear in their midst? Can he cure their illnesses? Or feed their wives and children?’

  ‘You’re a practical man and you talk of worldly things. But in this play Girish Ghosh has tried to instill other feelings—’

  ‘What other feelings?’

  ‘Well! Detachment from worldly desire and … and a passion for realizing God. And he has succeeded as you can see.’

  Mahendralal craned his neck to get a better view of the audience, then snorted his disgust and disbelief. ‘Detachment from worldly desire indeed! The people you see here wouldn’t give a copper coin to a beggar if he saw him starving in the streets. They are the ones who kick their servants about and treat them like slaves and come to blows with their neighbours over an inch of land. And look at them now—sighing and snivelling. The hypocrites!’

  ‘Don’t you like the play at all sir?’

  Mahendralal seemed taken aback by the question. He rubbed his nose and said almost shyly, ‘The songs are truly melodious. And I must admit, the girl, Binodini I mean, is a great artist. She has kept the audience in thrall ever since she stepped on the stage. Do you know Shashi? I’m not religious in the least. I don’t believe in gods and goddesses and I despise those who do. In fact, they make me vomit! Yet, whenever I hear good music, religious or otherwise, I feel my heart twisting with the strangest sensations. There’s a sort of pain and also … also … a wild ecstasy. I can’t explain it. All I can say is that Girish is wonderful. Oof!’

  The playgoers refused to leave even after the play was over. ‘Encore! Encore!’ they shouted clamouring to see Binodini. She had appeared before them twice already but they kept calling. To prevent the frenzied men from mobbing her, the guards formed a ring around the stage that left the rabble out but not the wealthy and the powerful—rajas, zamindars and rich babus on whose patronship the company depended. These men insisted on seeing Binodini and showing themselves to her and had to be allowed entrance. Strangest of all, the shaven-headed, shikha-waving pandits from Nabadweep too expressed a desire to see Binodini and give her their blessings.

  Up in his box Ramkrishna sat as still as a statue even after the play was over. His eyes were shut as if in a trance. ‘Thakur!’ his followers prompted softly. ‘The play is over. It’s time to go home.’

  ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!’ Ramkrishna opened his eyes. They were glistening with tears. Suddenly he stood up ‘Sri Gouranga!’ he cried, ‘Take me to Sri Gouranga! Ogo. I want to go to Him.’

  He hurried out of the door, his disciples running after him trying to stop him. Ignoring them he ran down the steps weaving his way in and out of the press of people till he came to the stage, crying, ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!’ all the while. The guards did not know him but, for some reason, they allowed him to pass.

  Inside, Binodini sat on a stool surrounded by her admirers. She was weary to the bone and her limbs trembled from exhaustion. A little distance away Amritalal Bosu sat drinking brandy and snapping every time someone came to inform him about the presence of some great man in the theatre ‘Ja! Ja!’ he cried dismissively. ‘Actors are drunks and actresses are whores! Haven’t they being saying that all these years? What’s happened to them now? Now they are crying all over us. But they won’t be the only ones. We’ll take the play to the suburbs and villages through the length and breadth of Bengal. We’ll make all the bastards cry—’

  ‘Ramkrishna Thakur is here,’ a man said, ‘The priest from Dakshineswar. Won’t you go to him?’

  ‘What do I care for priests? Or for gods or goddesses? I’m no devotee. If he’s here, he’s here. It has nothing to me. I’m a lecher and a drunk. And an outcaste from society. All decent people look down their noses at me—

  Even as he spoke Ramkrishna came hurrying on to the stage crying ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!’ Binodini saw him and rose to her feet. She was a prostitute, unchaste and impure. Touching the feet of a sadhak was a privilege denied to her. She folded her hands and lowered her head over them in reverence. But Ramkrishna ran towards her. His eyes were glazed and his voice cracked with emotion, as calling out ‘Gour Hari! Gour Hari!’ he flung himself at her feet. The disciples, who were out of patience with their guru already, couldn’t bear this last, monstrous aberration; He who was Paramhansa; he who never touched his own father’s feet had prostrated himself before a depraved creature—a loose, immoral woman, a whore! Hauling him roughly to his feet they cried out, ‘What are you doing Thakur?’

  That brought him to his senses. Looking into Binodini’s face he realized that he had made a mistake. The one at whose feet he had knocked his head was not Sri Chaitanya. It was a woman. The knot of hair on the top of her head had come loose and rich dark tendrils crept down her neck and shoulders. Her painted cheeks were streaked with black from the eyebrows which had been darkened with kajal and were now beaded over with sweat. She was weeping as if her heart would break.

  ‘Prabhu,’ she cried as she wept. ‘Will you not give me your blessing?’ Ramkrishna smiled. Placing both his hands on her head he said softly, ‘May Chaitanya be yours.’ Then, as he prepared to depart, someone asked, ‘What was the play like Thakur?’

  Ramkrishna laughed. It was his normal high-pitched laugh, ‘I saw the true and the false as one and the same,’ he answered.

  Mahendralal and Shashibhushan stepped aside to let him pass. As he did so Shashibhushan whispered in his companion’s ear. ‘That was Ramkrishna—the Kali sadhak from Dakshineswar.’

  ‘Hunh!’ Mahendralal grunted indifferently.

  ‘I’ve never seen him before. People say he is an avatar.’ ‘That’s nonsense! How can a man be an avatar? He was born from a woman’s womb, was he not? He feels hunger and thirst and the pains of the flesh, does he not? And I’m sure he yearns for sexual gratification as we all do—’ Frowning a little, he added after a few moments, ‘Yet, there’s something in his face that is different. I can’t put my finger on it but he’s not tike other men. I’m sure of it.’ Walking up to Binodini he said to her, ‘You performed very well tonight. Girish should be proud of his training. But there’s one thing you should remember. You’re an actress acting a part. You’re Binodini Dasi—not Nimai of Nadiya.’

  Binodini, who was still in a daze after her encounter with Ramkrishna, was brought sharply down to earth. The doctor’s words, though kind, hurt her deeply. She turned her face away to hide her tears.

  Chapter XXIX

  It was a cold windy morning in early winter. Jyotirindranath stood on the deck of his ship Banga Lakshmi gazing out on the Kirtan Khola river. The sky was blue and cloudless but a thin mist, rising from the water, obscured the horizon, clinging to it like a glimmering web. Jyotirindra’s eyes were still heavy with sleep and he shivered a little under his expensive jamawar. The river was dotted with boats of different shapes and sizes most of them laden with grain. The land was fertile in these parts and this year the harvest had been even more bountiful than usual.

  As he stood surveying the scene a boat moved rapidly over the water and stopped alongside the Banga Lakshmi. A man stepped out and, climbing the ship’s ladder, came up on deck. He wore a dhuti of fine Farashdanga cotton with the kachha tucked securely in the small of his back. Over it went a coat of black china silk. ‘Good morning!’ he called out heartily in English. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ Puzzled though he was at this intrusion, so early in the day, Jyotirindra was his usual courteous self. Leading the man towards a chair, he enquired if he would like some tea.

  ‘Frankly I would be glad of a cup,’ the man answered, seating himself. ‘I drink a lot of tea—up to twenty cups a day. But let me introduce myself first. I’m a lawyer and I go by the name of Abhaycharan Ghosh. My name, of course, will mean nothing to you. But you must have heard of my senior partner Pyarimohan Mukhopadhyay.’ Jyotirindra’s brow, till now furrowed in thought, smoothened. So that was who the man was. A lawyer. He should have guessed it from the way he was dressed. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ he a
nswered. ‘He’s the son of Raja Jaikrishna Mukhopadhyay of Uttarpara is he not? He’s a brilliant lawyer and very famous. But what can he want of me?’ The man coughed delicately and averted his eyes. ‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said avoiding a direct answer. ‘Your skin had the colour and radiance of beaten gold. Now it is burned to copper. You spend all your time on your ships. It’s a hard life—one to which men from families such as yours are not accustomed. Your health is breaking—’ Then, his glance falling on Jyotirindra’s face, he added quickly, ‘How much longer do you wish to run this business?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jyotirindra felt himself reddening with anger at this invasion of his privacy. ‘I’ll run it as long as I like.’

  ‘Can you do it? The shipping business is not a soft game. You’re a zamindar. Collecting rents will be more in your line.’ Jyotirindranath opened his month in indignant protest but the man stopped him with a gesture. ‘Just hear me out Jyoti Babu,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve come here on behalf of the Flotilla Company—a client of our law firm. I have a proposal which I’ve been instructed to place before you. The company is willing to buy you out—your ships and everything in them, tools, furniture, equipment—at a fair price. The matter can be settled in a day or two, as soon as you are ready.’

  Jyotirindra’s face flamed with indignation. He felt like ordering the guards to throw the man out. The dirty rascal with his glib, oily tongue had come pimping for the British! How low could his countrymen stoop? But men of his breeding did not display their feelings. He controlled himself with an effort and said quietly, ‘If a dwarf has a fancy to pluck the moon from the sky that’s his problem. One cannot put a rein on fancies. But the owner of the moon may have a different idea. Kindly tell your client that I didn’t buy my ships to sell them. This conversation need not go on any longer. Namaskar!’