First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Bharat said in a relieved voice. ‘The fact is that the thought of being treated as a royal guest gives me the shivers.’

  All this was a joke as Bharat realized the moment he stepped out of the carriage which had been sent to the station. Looking up he saw a huge mansion, somewhat old and decayed, but still grand enough to compel respect. The two friends looked at each other and laughed as they were ushered in by the servants of which there seemed to be plenty.

  After a wash the boys settled down to eat their breakfast which was not gram and ginger by any means. Two huge thalas piled with hot luchis, fried vegetables and a variety of sweetmeats were set before them together with tall glasses of milk—thick and sweet as kheer.

  ‘Let’s go see my grandmother,’ Jadugopal said when the meal was over. ‘She’s a tough old lady and sharper even than her lawyer husband was. Don’t get into an argument with her. You’ll be sure to lose.’ The two friends walked up the wide staircase and crossing innumerable wings and galleries, came to the old mistress’ apartment. Walking in they found a tiny, dainty looking old lady sitting very upright on a red velvet chair shaped like a throne. Her hair was snow white and so was her sari. Her skin was the colour of old ivory. But despite her fragility there was something imperious and indomitable about her bearing. ‘Who’s that?’ she called in a voice of command the moment the boys stepped into her room. ‘It’s I—Jadu,’ Jadugopal answered coming forward, ‘Didn’t Nayeb Moshai tell you I was coming?’

  ‘Leave us Saro,’ the old lady ordered the maid who sat on the floor pressing her feet. Then, without moving her head, she said, ‘Come child,’ and clasped Jadugopal to her breast. Bharat, who stood at the door watching the scene, realized with a shock that she was blind. ‘I’ve brought a friend with me Dimma,’ Jadugopal said after his grandmother had covered his face with kisses; ‘We have come here to study. The exams are drawing near and we need peace and quiet. Calcutta life is too hectic. Come Bharat;’ Bharat advanced and stooped to touch her feet. But she withdrew them hastily saying, ‘I’ve just had my bath. I don’t care to be touched by a non-Brahmin. What caste are you?’

  ‘Dimma!’ Jadugopal exclaimed. ‘You can’t talk to my friend like that!’

  ‘Mind your tongue,’ the old lady said sharply. ‘Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do ? You live the way you like. Do I interfere? Why should you interfere with me?’ Then, addressing Bharat, she repeated her question, ‘What caste are you?’

  Bharat didn’t know what to say. If he went by the caste of his natural father he was a Kshatriya. There was no such caste in the Bengali order. Besides, he did not wish to carry the burden of his relationship with the Maharaja of Tripura any longer. ‘I have no caste,’ he answered firmly. ‘I’m a human being.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ the old lady chuckled. ‘You were born of human parents, weren’t you? Or did you drop from the sky?’

  ‘Dimma!’ Jadugopal broke in impatiently.

  ‘Quiet,’ the old lady said sharply then addressing Bharat she continued, ‘Come forward Bharat. You say you’re human. Let me check if that is true. For all I know you may be a monkey.’ Though thoroughly startled Bharat obeyed. The old lady put out her hand and drew him to her. Stroking his face and head lovingly she murmured, ‘Listen son. All men are not human beings. Not even all Brahmins. You claim that you are. May you succeed in asserting this claim all your life. My blessings are with you.’ Then, addressing her grandson, she said sternly though not without an undertone of indulgence, ‘As for you and your big talk! If you’re against caste distinctions why are you marrying a Brahmin girl? If you practised what you preach you would have brought home an untouchable. Then I would have been truly impressed.’ Suddenly, before Jadugopal could react, she waved a tiny hand in dismissal. ‘Go now,’ she said imperiously, ‘and send Saro to me. I feel a little tired.’

  On their way out of the room Jadugopal glanced at Bharat’s bewildered face and laughed, ‘My grandmother enjoyed a little joke at your expense. She’s like that.’ Then, sobering down, he continued, ‘She’s wonderful! Do you know that her only son was Vidyasagar’s follower and was one of the first to marry a widow? My grandmother accepted her daughter-in-law without the slightest fuss and stood firm when her action was criticized and she was ostracized by her family and friends. She’s a tower of strength. Do you know that she runs three estates singlehanded? Even after she lost both eyes after an attack of small pox? Nothing can break her. She’s invincible!’

  That evening the two friends went for a walk. ‘Look Bharat,’ Jadugopal said. ‘There was an intention behind my bringing you here. Of all our classmates I fear you most as competitor. I want to come out of this examination right on top. Ramkamal is not a threat anymore. He keeps thinking of his new bride and sneaks off to Bardhaman whenever he gets a chance. Neither is Dwarika. He is too busy looking for ways to spend his new-found wealth to attend to his studies. Bimalendu is a slogger but he lacks imagination. The only one left is you—’

  ‘Why do you have to come out on top?’ Bharat smiled at his friend. ‘Not that you need fear any competition from me.’

  ‘I wish to go to England to study at the bar. I have to return a barrister.’

  ‘You don’t need to be first for that. All you need is money of which you have plenty. And why do you have to be barrister anyway?’

  ‘Hmph!’ Jadugopal cleared his throat embarrassedly. ‘The truth is—I’m getting married as you probably know.’

  ‘Yes. A Thakur girl I believe.’

  ‘It has been one of my cherished dreams to marry a girl from the house of Jorasanko. You haven’t seen them. They are as talented as they are beautiful. It’s the most wonderful luck that the matchmaker brought the proposal. Baba has agreed and—’

  ‘I understand. The Thakurs look for barristers and ICS officers for their girls. That is why you have to go to England to study at the Bar. Was it one of their conditions?’

  ‘Oh no. They’re quite happy with me as I am. I shall soon be a graduate from Presidency College and I shall inherit all my grandfather’s property. In fact they are pressing me for an early marriage. But I’ve said I shall marry only on returning from England. All my other brothers-in-law are high officials. I shall not be content to remain a mere country gentleman.’

  ‘Have you seen the girl?’

  ‘Only once. She acted in a play they performed at Swarnakumari Devi’s daughter’s wedding. I have a photograph though.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you have to top in the examination.’

  ‘I want to carry the insignia all my life. Another one of my cherished dreams is to step off the ship at the port of London to the cries of ‘He’s here! He’s here! The first class first from Presidency College, Calcutta. Welcome! Welcome!” The two friends laughed gaily. By this time they had reached the river. Jadugopal made his way to a boat tied to a tree and loosened the rope.

  ‘Let’s go for a ride—shall we?’ he said.

  ‘Whose boat is this?’

  ‘It belongs to the estate. The boatman should be around somewhere. But we don’t need him. I’ll take you myself.’

  It was the month of Asadh and the sky was dark with monsoon cloud. A sweet wind blew and the boat skimmed smoothly over the water which was much clearer here than in Calcutta. Handling the oars lightly and easily Jadugopal sang:

  ‘Dil dariyar majhé dekhlam aajab karkhana

  Déhér majhé barhi aachhé

  Sei barhi te chor legechhe

  Chhoi jana té sindh kétechhé

  Churi karé ek jana’*

  ‘Did you make this up?’ Bharat asked curiously. He knew Jadugopal wrote poetry from time to time and composed songs extempore.

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ Jadugopal exclaimed. ‘This is a song by Lalan Fakir. I’ll take you to his aakhra one day. He has many followers both Hindu and Muslim. Lalan doesn’t preach or dole out instruction. He just sings one song after another. And though he doesn’
t know one letter from another his songs are brilliant compositions. The man is truly gifted.’

  Chattering of this and that the two friends reached the ghat at Nabadweep. Looking around him Bharat felt overwhelmed with the realization that he had come to the spot where Chaitanya Mahaprabhu was born. It was here, perhaps at this very ghat, that he had romped and played with boys of his own age, teased the maidens and thumbed his nose at the curses of the old crones. Tying the boat to a banyan tree so ancient that the aerial roots hanging, from it shrouded it like a curtain, the two friends walked up a little knoll on top of which stood a thatched hut with a cow tethered to a tamarind tree by its side. Outside the hut a man sat oiling himself in the sun.

  ‘Horu Jetha!’ Jadugopal called out, ‘How have you been?’ ‘Who is it?’ The man crinkled his eyes against the sun, then recognizing Jadu, smiled a welcome. ‘Oh! It’s you—Jadu. When did you come from Calcutta? Is Ma Thakrun well?’

  They spoke for some minutes and then Jadugopal led his friend back to the boat. Glancing at his companion’s face Bharat was surprised to see his brow furrowed as if in thought and his nose wrinkled in distaste. Then, before he could ask him the reason, Jadugopal supplied it. ‘The man’s a scoundrel,’ he cried angrily. ‘Worse than a murderer. He deserves death by hanging.’

  ‘Why?’ Bharat was startled by the passion in Jadu’s voice, ‘What has he done?’

  There was no answer. Jadu seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts. ‘Haramohan was the performing priest in my grandmother’s house,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘He had a daughter of about seven or eight whom he would bring with him quite often. She was a beautiful girl and to hear her talk was like listening to music. But she had strange spells from time to time. She would stop still wherever she was and, fixing her eyes on a tree or a stretch of water, she would mutter to herself. Many of the things she said at those times actually came to pass. People said she wasn’t quite right in the head. But that wasn’t true—as I realize now. The truth is that she had a lot more imagination and insight than ordinary people. My grandmother recognized this quality in her. She wanted to keep her in the house and give her an education. But Haramohan would not allow it. He believed his daughter to be abnormal and was anxious to give her away in marriage before people found out. Dwarika used to come up here with me on holidays the way you’ve come this time. On one of his visits he saw the girl. She was eleven years old at the time and a radiant beauty. Dwarika was so charmed he wanted to marry her but Haramohan rejected his offer.’

  ‘Dwarika wanted to marry her!’ Bharat exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t her father agree?’

  ‘He had promised her to an old man who held a mortgage on some of his property. Dwarika was a poor boy then. Haramohan turned down his request on the pretext that he was a Bhanga Kulin and therefore unfit to wed his daughter.’ Jadugopal shook his head sadly and went on, ‘The girl’s name was Basanti. “Basi,” I said to her one day, “You can look into the future. You’ve said so many things that have actually come to pass. Can you see what’s before you? Do you think you’ll be happy?” Basanti stood still at my words. Her eyes, fixed on a clump of marigolds, glazed over. “I shall float away over the river,” she murmured. “I shall be carried from this Ganga to another Ganga—wider, fuller and more turbulent …” And that is exactly what happened. The old man died within two years of the marriage. You know how widows are treated in this country. Particularly when they are young and beautiful. They are banished to Kashi or they fall victim to human predators who use them for a time then abandon them when the charm wears off. Basi passed through several hands before she ended up in the red light area of Calcutta—a city by the bank of a wider, fuller, more turbulent Ganga!’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop the marriage?’

  ‘How could I? There’s no law in the country that punishes a father for victimizing his daughter. You know why I went there today? I wanted to tell him that his daughter is a prostitute in Hadhkatar Gali. I wanted to see the look on his face. But, somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’ Bharat had been staring at Jadugopal all this while. Now he asked in a wondering voice, is her real name Basantamanjari?’ Then, when Jadugopal nodded in affirmation, he murmured. ‘Dwarika keeps her—in a house in Hadhkatar Gali. Did you know that Jadu?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jadugopal murmured. ‘He took you with him one night. I know that too. Isn’t it a pity, Bharat, that they’ve come together at last but only in sin?’

  ‘Can’t they marry? Even now?’

  ‘How can they?’

  That evening Bharat took a decision. He would return to Calcutta as soon as he could. He had to get back to Bhumisuta. She would suffer the same fate as Basantamanjari if he didn’t save her from the king’s clutches. Dwarika had failed Basantamanjari. But Bharat wouldn’t fail Bhumisuta.

  Chapter XXXV

  Swarnakumari Devi had taken charge of Bharati and changed its entire character. She had a strong personality and acted on her own inclinations dismissing the advice of others. The immediate effect of the journal passing from Jyotirindra’s hands to hers was a marked decline in Robi’s contributions. Robi sensed, instinctively, that his sister did not think much of his creative abilities. At the literary meetings held in her house, which Robi attended from time to time, he found himself at the periphery. Swarnakumari dominated the scene and occupied the position of honour.

  Swarnakumari’s house was permeated with the breath not only of literature but of politics. Her husband Janakinath Ghoshal was an enthusiastic supporter of all his wife’s cultural endeavours but his own inclination was towards politics. The term Indian National Congress was being bandied about more and more but few knew precisely what it was or how it had come into being. Janakinath hadn’t enrolled himself as member but he had attended its first meeting in Bombay quite recently.

  The unrest following Surendranath Bandopadhyay’s arrest hadn’t quite died down and the student community was straining at the leash to become part of a larger movement. Their heroes, Surendranath and Anandamohan Bosu, were travelling extensively all over India trying to bring the people together. Meeting leaders of various parties in the different provinces they endeavoured to integrate them into a homogeneous whole. The Indian Association, whose members came from the upper middle class and from the intellectual community of Calcutta, was drawn in. There were two other associations—the British Indian Association of the industrialists and zamindars of Calcutta and the Central Muhammedan Association of the Muslims. Surendranath realized that a sense of nationalization could be aroused in his countrymen only if all these groups could be merged and given a common identity. It was thus that the Indian National Congress was formed and two meetings had already been held—one in Bombay and the other in Poona.

  Robi gathered all this information from his brother-in-law but it left him unimpressed. It seemed to him that the leaders of the Congress were only interested in displaying their superior English education in fiery speeches. They were not addressing themselves to the real problems of the country. The pleas of the Congress leaders for an extension of the age limit for the Civil Service Examination and their insistence that a centre be opened in India seemed, to Robi, to be ridiculously out of context. These advantages, if acquired would benefit only the tiniest fraction of the nation. What use were they to the common man? He hated the way his countrymen were always begging the rulers for something or the other. When would they acquire some self respect?

  The great educationist and reformer of yesteryears Ishwafchandra Vidyasagar was of the same opinion. Soon after the party was founded some Congress leaders had requested him to join them. He had given them a patient hearing then asked with his usual candour, ‘Bapu hé! Are you prepared to cross swords with the British for the independence of your country?’ The men had glanced at one another in dismay. What kind of traitorous talk was this? Who had said anything about independence and crossing swords? Smiling at their discomfiture Vidyasagar had said, ‘Leave me out of it then and do what yo
u have to do.’ When the men had left he had muttered to himself disdainfully, ‘Congress! Leaders of the nation! Will big talk and fiery gestures save the country? What good is politics in a land where thousands starve to death every day?’

  Robi, of course, was not in favour of taking up arms against the British. He knew that Indians could never do what the Irish were doing. Aggression, of any kind, went against the grain of the Indian people. What they needed was a sense of self respect and that could only be obtained through the achievements of some of their own people. Robi was a writer. It was his duty to address himself to his writing with all the devotion he was capable of. And, if in the process, it became good enough to instil a sense of pride in his countrymen it would be a job well done.

  But, travelling through the small towns and villages of Bengal as he was doing quite extensively as secretary of the Brahmo Samaj, Robi’s views were changing. Everywhere he went he found his countrymen reeling under the pressure of poverty and ignorance. Famines were endemic in the country. Only a short while ago the districts of Birbhum and Bankura were devastated by a terrible famine. Passing through these areas Robi’s heart was wrenched with pain. He realized, as never before, that it was not enough to write about the sufferings of the poor. Action was necessary. And he tried to do all he could. He offered to settle the famine ridden in the newly-acquired estate of the Thakurs in Sunderban. Each family would be given a plot of land and farming implements free of cost. Their housing would also be taken care of. But the Bengalis are a peculiar race. They would rather bite the dust of their ancestral villages and stare death in the face than move out and start a new and better life. Rani Swarnamayee Devi had the same experience as Robi. Moved by the sufferings of the peasants of Birbhum she opened public kitchens in her state of Kasimbazar and kept them in readiness to feed up to two thousand people a day. But hardly anyone came. And this was after travelling expenses had been offered them by the Rani. Looking on their starved, pinched faces and hearing their repeated pleas for ‘a little rice water’ Robi understood, as never before, what a terrible opponent hunger was. Unlike other forms of suffering which rendered a man finer and stronger, hunger devastated him, robbing him of his humanity and bringing him down to the level of an insect. He saw another thing for the first time—the amount of food that was wasted in households such as his. The sight of mounds of rice and vegetables and baskets full of luchi being thrown out on the streets after a wedding or thread ceremony was so common in Calcutta that it made not even a dent on anyone’s consciences. It appalled Robi to think that the same people who lived lives of such opulence and indulgence were the ones who were weeping copious tears on the fate of the poor and deprived. Politics was such a dirty game and bred hypocrites so easily!