First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I don’t need any saris and I’m not going to Tripura.’ Shashibhushan’s heart gave a bound of relief but he knitted his brows and said in a stern voice, ‘The queen knows there is nothing wrong with you. What excuse can you give now? Don’t you realize that I’ll have to answer to the king for the lies I’ve been telling?’

  ‘I won’t go to Tripura. The Maharaja needs someone to sing Vaishnav padavalis to him every night. I’m teaching the queen a few songs. That will serve the purpose.’

  Shashibhushan burst out laughing. What a silly girl she was! Didn’t she realize that the king wanted her? He wanted her sweet voice to put him to sleep—not Monomohini’s. Besides, Monomohini couldn’t sing to save her life. She had no interest in learning either. He remembered how Monomohini had sat licking at her tamarind pulp with noises of relish all the time Bhumisuta was trying to teach her. Sobering down in a few moments he said gently, ‘The king wants you and no one’s word is above the king’s. He can take you away by force and no one can stop him. Even if he doesn’t, what will became of you? You can’t stay here after flouting his orders and I can’t give you my protection. Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bhumisuta sighed and left the room. Watching her slender form move away Shashibhushan suddenly remembered the time he had fallen down the stairs. It was her face his eyes had beheld before darkness had overtaken them. And then, that night when in the throes of a deadly disease, he had whispered through his cracked lips, ‘Water! Water!’ it was she who had heard. It was she who had come to him. The scene swam before his eyes. A face, lovelier than a flower, had hung above his. He had seen tender concern in the long dark eyes and a gentle hand had held the water to his lips. He sat up with a start. What had he been about to do? He had been about to give away a jewel like Bhumisuta to a lecher and a tyrant who would have his fill of her, than toss her away like a soiled rag, without a moment’s hesitation. No, never! He wouldn’t, he couldn’t allow it—he would rather change the course of his own life. And, then, an idea struck him so suddenly that his head started reeling. He would marry Bhumisuta.

  There would be an uproar. He knew that his family would oppose it and so would his friends. But, after listening to the conversation in the lawyer’s chamber that morning, he didn’t care. He would have the support of men far superior to the carpers. He would resign from the king’s service. He didn’t need the money. He wouldn’t stay with his brothers either. He would take up a house somewhere and give Bhumisuta the full status of a wife. He felt so elated with his new idea that he had to share it with Bhumisuta that instant. Rushing out of the room he accosted her on the stairs, ‘You don’t have to go to Tripura Bhumisuta,’ he burst out, ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t like. I’ll make you mine. I’ll leave my job here and we’ll go away together—’ Bhumisuta’s face grew pale and her eyes widened in fear. She didn’t know what to make of this sudden change in Shashibhushan. But Shashibhushan noticed nothing. Bursting with excitement he went on outlining his plans to her, ‘We’ll have a registered marriage which is perfectly legal and then we’ll move to our own house. We could stay in Chandannagar. Or, if you prefer it, we could move to Cuttack or Puri.’ Still Bhumisuta did not speak. Carried along on the tide of his own elation Shashibhushan took no notice. ‘Ahh!’ he breathed deeply. ‘Freedom! Freedom at last! I’ve been only half a man Bhumi. My life has been arid, barren—without the love of a good woman. But now everything will change. You’ll be my queen; my only love. Flowers will bloom on these dead branches. Why don’t you speak Bhumi?’

  Bhumisuta sat down on the steps and covered her face with her hands. Tears trickled through her fingers and fell to the floor.

  The next morning Shashibhushan woke up earlier than usual. A strange restlessness seized him. He had to see Bhumisuta at once. There was so much to do and so little time. Walking over to the stair landing he called out her name and waited, in a fever of impatience, till she came. He noted, with surprise, that she did not look her usual self. She hadn’t bathed and her uncombed hair hung in tangled strands over her back. Her sari was crumpled and the end of it was pulled carelessly over her shoulders. He had never seen her like this. Looking down on the pale unhappy face raised to his, Shashibhushan felt overwhelmed with regret. She had done so much for him but he had given her nothing in return. He had never even said a kind word. All he had done was try to push her into the arms of a man she loathed. Vowing that he would make up to her for all his sins of omission and commission he said gently, ‘Bring in the tea. I have something to say to you.’

  His tea arrived shortly afterwards but it was brought in by a middle-aged serving maid called Sushila. Shashibhushan detested her. Her teeth were black from the mishi she rubbed into them all the time and her hair crawled with lice. ‘Why? Where is Bhumisuta?’ he asked sharply resisting the impulse to dash the tray to the ground. He wondered what had happened. Why had Bhumisuta ignored his call? ‘She’s just gone for her bath,’ the woman replied and went on with her usual garrulity, ‘There’s something wrong with her, Babu. She didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. Everytime I opened my eyes I saw her sitting with her back to the wall crying as if her heart would break. I asked her if she had a stomach ache but she didn’t reply.’ A cloud came over Shashibhushan’s face. Was Bhumisuta ill? She certainly hadn’t looked her usual neat, serene self. Or could it be that she was offended by what he had proposed? Why should she be offended? He had offered her marriage. She, who was a slave, would be elevated to the status of a daughter-in-law of the Singhas. Her children would carry the family name. Was he too old? Shashibhushan rose and walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall. The face that looked back was rugged but not unpleasant.

  There was a little grey at the temples but the hair was still strong and thick. And, though considerably older than Bhumisuta, he was not too old. Men, much older than him, took second or third wives.

  An hour or so later Bhumisuta came into the room with his breakfast. She was freshly bathed and her long hair, dripping water, hung down her back. She looked stark and ascetic in a plain white sari. Shashibhushan saw that her feet had no vermilion and the sandalpaste was missing from her forehead. Her eyes had the resigned melancholy look of a girl widow. ‘I hear you’ve been crying all night,’ Shashibhushan said tenderly, ‘Is anything wrong? Do you feel unwell?’ Bhumisuta shook her head. ‘Why were you crying then?’ Shashibhushan persisted, ‘Has anyone said anything to hurt you?’ Bhumisuta shook her head again and said, ‘I’ll fetch you some water.’ But Shashibhushan stopped her with a gesture. ‘I don’t need water,’ he said, ‘Sit down. I need to talk to you.’ Bhumisuta moved some distance away and sat on the floor. ‘No. Not on the floor,’ Shashibhushan commanded. ‘Come and sit here in this chair.’ Bhumisuta rose and came to the chair but did not sit down. She stood behind it, her eyes on the ground. ‘I don’t understand you,’ Shashibhushan said, ‘I wish to give you my name and status. But the prospect seems to make you unhappy. Why? No, silence will not do. You’ll have to answer me.’

  ‘I’m not worthy of your offer.’

  ‘Who says so? You’re more than worthy. You’re peerless among women. Tell me Bhumisuta, don’t you trust me? Do you think I’m trying to deceive you? That I have some evil intention?’

  ‘No. You’re great and noble—’

  ‘Then why do you not respond to my call?’ The words burst from Shashibhushan like a cry of agony. ‘Why? Why? I love you and desire you as I’ve never desired a woman. I want you for my life companion. These bonds of slavery are not for you.’

  Bhumisuta trembled but did not speak. Throwing all caution to the winds Shashibhushan rushed forward and grasped her hand, Bhumisuta gave a little cry and shook it off. Then, running to the other end of the room, she cowered against the wall, crying, ‘Forgive me. Please forgive me.’ Shashibhushan stared at her in wonder. Why was she asking for forgiveness? She had done no wrong? ‘Don’t you understand?’ In his desperation he almost shouted the words. ‘Th
ere’s no other way before you. It is only as your husband that I can protect you from the king. He is wayward and dissolute but he will not touch another man’s wife. That much I know.’ Then, in a gentler tone, he added, ‘This is no time for tears, Bhumi. We must make our plans quickly. I’ve found a place in Taltala where we can go tonight. We’ll get married tomorrow then move to Chandannagar. It is a very pretty place right on the river. You’ll love it there.’

  Before Bhumisuta could respond the maid named Sushila walked in. She had a sealed envelope in her hand. ‘You’re here Bhumi!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over the house. Purohit Moshai has brought a letter for you.’ A letter for Bhumisuta! Shashibhushan’s brows came together. ‘Who is this Purohit?’ he asked sternly. ‘Why would he bring her a letter?’ ‘That’s just what I’ve been wondering,’ Sushila cried, ‘We’re maids of the house—unlettered and ignorant. Who would write to us? Perhaps it is for you Babu. Perhaps he was looking for Bhumi so that she could give it to you.’

  Shashibhushan took the envelope from her and turned it over in his hands. There was no address. Motioning to the woman to leave he tore it open and drew out a sheet of notepaper which he proceeded to unfold. His eyes fell first on the name of the sender. A tremor ran through his body and he sat down heavily on the bed. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle came together and, in a startling moment of clarity, he knew the truth. He knew why Bhumisuta was eluding him. ‘Bharat!’ The name came through his clenched teeth in a harsh whisper. Controlling himself, he read the letter, line by torturing line:

  Hé Bhumisuta,

  I gave you my word that I would release you from your life of humiliation. I have not kept it. Doubtless you think me a coward and deceiver. You have a right to think so.

  But the truth is I am powerless to do anything for you at present. You are in the service of the Maharaja of Tripura. And, for a reason that I cannot disclose just now, I dare not go anywhere near him. But I think of you day and night. I keep seeing you everywhere—in whatever I do during the day and in my dreams at night.

  I’ve heard that the Maharaja is leaving for Tripura in a few days. He will want to take you with him. Don’t go Bhumisuta. Don’t ever, ever, go. If you do you’ll never see me again. Purohit Moshai is a friend of mine. Send me a reply through him. I’m in a fever of anxiety to hear from you.

  Yours for ever

  Bharat Kumar

  Shashibhushan crushed the letter in his hands. A fire, such as he had never known before, rose in his limbs. His dream, his beautiful dream had been burned to ashes. And by whom? By that worm Bharat! That half crazed, emaciated spawn of a king that had sat among the beggars muttering gibberish to himself. Where would he have been if Shashibhushan hadn’t rescued him; hadn’t fed him and clothed him and given him his protection? He had quarrelled with Radharaman Ghosh over him and brought him to Calcutta. Even now the boy lived on Shashibhushan’s charity. To think that he had to give up Bhumisuta to such a one! It was like hanging a string of pearls on a monkey’s neck. ‘Bharat!’ he said again. His eyes burned into Bhumisuta’s. ‘It was for him that you wept all night. It was for him that you denied yourself to the king.’ Bhumisuta did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on the letter in his hand. ‘Are you mad Bhumi?’ Shashibhushan continued, ‘You’re relying on Bharat to save you? He has nothing—nothing. He lives on my charity. He’ll starve in the streets if I withdraw my protection.’

  Tearing his eyes away from Bhumisuta’s serene, unyielding ones he looked around him wildly. He had to cling to his hopes. He couldn’t give up his cherished dream. He couldn’t give up Bhumisuta. He had believed the king to be his rival and had made preparations to snatch her away from his grasp. Who had ever thought that an insect like Bharat would stake a claim to the lovely creature he desired with all his heart and soul? Who was Bharat? A lowly ant that Shashibhushan could crush under his foot if he so desired.

  He glanced at Bhumisuta’s face and was surprised to see the change that had come over it. She hadn’t read the letter but the very knowledge that Bharat had written to her had, obviously, imbued her with hope and strength. The frightened doe eyes of a few moments ago now looked straight, unflinching and unafraid, into Shashibhushan’s. There was determination in every line of her lovely face and form. Tossing the letter angrily to the ground Shashibhushan muttered through his clenched teeth, ‘Bharat will never disobey me. He’ll wash your feet and knock his head on them if I command him.’ Bhumisuta did not reply. Swift as an arrow she sprang on the piece of paper and, picking it up, held it to her breast.

  Chapter XXXVII

  Dr Mahendralal Sarkar was in a foul mood. He scolded the servants, snapped at his wife and strode from room to room on heavily shod feet. It was morning and he was preparing to leave for his chamber in Bhabanipur. But everything in his household appeared ugly and shoddy in his eyes and he took care to express his disgust with all the viciousness of which he was capable.

  Sitting down to breakfast he eyed his toast and omelette scornfully, and announced to the world at large that the first was scorched and the second had the look and texture of a piece of shoe leather. Then, very grudgingly, he put a spoonful of fried liver into his mouth. Next moment he spat it out venomously nearly exploding with fury. The fool cook, he shouted, had drowned it in chilli paste. He gave his plate such a hard shove that it went spinning to the other end of the table. Not deigning to cast a glance at it he rose and marched out of the house. His wife ran after him begging him to eat something before he left. She could, she said, tell the cook to make some luchi and mohanbhog if he preferred it. But he answered rudely. ‘Eat it yourself. Stuff the luchi and mohanbhog down your own throat like the glutton you are. Don’t bother about me.’ Then, getting into his carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive to Sukia Street.

  The carriage clattered down the road and stopped outside the house of the famous lawyer Durgamohan Das. Mahendralal, his face as dark and ominous as the Shravan sky above his head, strode into the house with the air of one marching into battle. ‘Durga! Durga!’ he called in a voice of thunder. Durgamohan, who was sitting with his clients in the front room, rose hastily, ‘Mahendrada!’ he exclaimed in hearty greeting. ‘What brings you here?’ Mahendralal eyed the men in the room as if they were insects. ‘Get rid of these fellows,’ he said, ‘I have something very important to discuss with you.’

  ‘Come this way,’ Durgamohan took him by the elbow and guided him into another room. Then, smiling at his visitor, though, inwardly apprehensive, he said, ‘What brings the great Dhanwantari to my door? No one is sick in my house.’

  ‘Who says no one is sick?’ Mahendralal stood with his arms akimbo and glared at Durgamohan. ‘You’re sick. You have a fever in the brain.’

  Durgamohan burst out laughing. And that enraged the good doctor more than ever. ‘You laugh at me!’ Mahendralal thundered. ‘You’re more shameless than I thought. Anandamohan informed me last evening that you’ve decided not to send Abala back to Madras. Is that true?’

  ‘It is true. But why do you remain standing? Sit down. Sit down. I’m not sending my daughter back because she is to be wed.’

  ‘To be wed! Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Why do you lose your temper Dada?’ Durgamohan cried good humouredly, ‘Don’t fathers find husbands for their daughters?’

  ‘Let the whole world run around looking for sons-in-law. Why should you?’

  ‘What sort of talk is this Dada?’ Durgamohan was dying to laugh but he managed to control himself, ‘My daughter is sixteen. I’m not violating the Marriage Act. What’s wrong with getting her married?’

  ‘There’s everything wrong with it. Is your daughter an ordinary girl who has nothing to look forward to but a husband and brats? She’s one in a million with a brilliant career ahead of her. I felt as if the sky had fallen on my head when I heard the news. Have you forgotten with what difficulty we managed to send her to Madras? How proud we were when she set off to study medicine? If you had
allowed her just two more years she would have been the first lady doctor of India.’

  ‘Dada,’ Durgamohan said gently. ‘It was on your advice and that of Shibnath Shastri Moshai that I sent my daughter. But she isn’t keeping well in Madras. The climate doesn’t suit her and she doesn’t like the food. She misses the machher jhol bhaat she’s eaten all her life—’

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ Mahendralal spluttered with rage. ‘Machher jhol bhaat indeed! People don’t die of eating the food they don’t relish. How do Indians manage to survive in England?

  Let her get her degree, then she can eat all the machher jhol she wants.’

  ‘But Abala doesn’t wish to go back.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. It is you who is putting all these ideas in her head. You’re like all fathers. You can’t rest in peace till you’ve pushed your daughters into other men’s kitchens. I won’t hear another word. I’ll break your head if you try to contradict me.’

  ‘We are of the Brahmo Samaj. We don’t marry off our daughters without their consent. Abala has met the boy and approves of him. If you don’t believe me let me send for her. You can talk to her and find out the truth for yourself.’

  Abala came in a few minutes later. Touching Mahendralal’s feet she asked softly, ‘How are you Jethamoni?’ Mahendralal’s anger had spent itself by now and a great sadness had taken its place. His eyes clouded over as he looked at the girl. He had cherished such great hopes of her. Whenever he met young girls, in the houses of his friends and relatives, he had one mantra for them, ‘Work hard my dears,’ he said over and over again. ‘Do well in school and then study for a medical degree. Our mothers, sisters and daughters die everyday for want of medical attention because male doctors are not allowed inside the zenana. So many children are stillborn and so many women die at childbirth. Don’t you see? Only women can save women.’ Most girls were frightened by such talk but not Abala. She had agreed enthusiastically and even after being denied admission to the Medical College of Calcutta, she had not given up. She had prevailed upon her father to send her to Madras. Placing a hand on her head in blessing, Mahendralal said sadly, ‘I’m as well as I can expect to be at my age, Ma. What about you? I hear you’ve decided not to go back to Madras.’