First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  After Ashu’s return from England an idea started forming in Robi’s head. How would it be if Ashu was promoted from a friend to a relative? He was such an eligible young man and there were several unmarried girls in the house in Jorasanko. Robi’s third brother’s daughter Pratibha was twenty-one—a beautiful girl with many accomplishments. Hemendranath had died a year ago and the responsibility for settling her had fallen on his brothers. Robi considered a match between the two an excellent idea. But he foresaw a couple of obstacles which needed to be overcome. The Thakurs belonged to the Rarhi Sreni of Brahmins and the Chowdhurys to the Barendra. Baba Moshai was bound to object. Again, Ashu’s father might demand a large dowry for his son was, indeed, a great catch. But Baba Moshai, though he had retained a number of Hindu customs in his personal life, was dead against dowry. He would be more than generous in what he gave his granddaughter but he would brook no demand from her in-laws.

  One evening Robi invited Ashutosh to tea. Mrinalini, who was shy with strangers at the best of times, was more so now for her pregnancy had started to show. Consequently the task of pouring the tea and handing out the cakes and sandwiches fell on Pratibha. Pratibha was as open and friendly as Mrinalini was shy and reticent and soon the three young people found themselves engaged in lively conversation. The talk veering on the possibility of blending Indian and Western tunes in modern compositions, Robi requested Pratibha to demonstrate that it was possible by singing some of his songs. Pratibha rose instantly and, opening the piano, played and sang with unaffected ease. The beauty of her voice and the grace and charm of her manner affected Ashutosh deeply. Robi caught the glances his guest kept stealing at his beautiful niece and knew that his mission had succeeded. Pratibha, he was certain, would make Ashu an excellent wife. As a brilliant barrister with an increasingly flourishing practice he needed a partner well versed in the social graces.

  The first step concluded, the next one was to tackle Baba Moshai. With this end in view Robi proceeded to visit his father in Chinsura. Debendranath heard Robi out patiently though not without some surprise. He kept a close watch on each one of his children and was well aware of their merits and defects. Over the last few years he had come to the conclusion that Robi had shaped up better than his other sons. His skill in the composition of Brahmo Sangeet and his hard work on the estates had won him a grudging respect from the old patriarch. Now Debendranath saw another side to Robi’s character—his commitment to the family and his sense of duty. Although the youngest it was he who had taken upon himself the responsibility of finding a husband for his fatherless niece, not the others. Debendranath asked several questions regarding the boy’s qualifications and family background. Then, to Robi’s surprise, he announced heartily, ‘It seems an excellent match. See that it takes place without delay.’ Robi was elated. His father hadn’t even touched on the question of Rarhi and Barendra and he had expressed no curiosity about the family’s financial position. He knew, though, that dealing with Ashu’s family wouldn’t be quite so easy.

  He was right. As soon as he took the proposal to Ashu’s father the latter started asking questions about the extent of the dowry he could expect. In vain did Robi try to assure him that the Maharshi’s gifts to his granddaughter would far exceed his expectations. But the old man wanted a clear commitment which Robi was incapable of giving. When Robi had almost given up hope of a satisfactory conclusion to the matter, Ashutosh took it up himself. He came to Jorasanko one evening and said without preamble, ‘Bhai Robi! My brothers and sisters are pestering me to get married. Why don’t you set a date? I have one condition, though, I want a simple ceremony. No ostentation. No dowry. I hope you agree.’

  The wedding took place, according to the tradition of the Thakur family, in the house of Jorasanko. The groom’s father stayed away but his siblings were all there. They were a jolly lot and kept the nuptial chamber enlivened all night with their jokes and laughter. Since there was no question of Ashutosh living in Jorasanko as a resident son-in-law, Pratibha made the move from her father’s palatial home to her husband’s humble one. And, belying everyone’s fears, she quickly adapted herself to her new surroundings. Robi visited her every day. Balak had recently been merged with Bharati and he had plenty of time.

  One day two students of Presidency College came to the house in Scott Lane. One of them, a young man called Jadugopal, was an old acquaintance of Ashu’s from his Krishnanagar days. Accompanying him was his friend Bharat. Bharat, Robi observed, was as silent and withdrawn as Jadugopal was loud and garrulous. He sat quietly in one corner, his eyes fixed on Robi’s face, while Jadugopal did the talking. Declaring himself to be a great admirer, Jadugopal bombarded Robi with questions. Robi didn’t mind. The boys of Presidency College, he had heard, were highly politicized. It amused him to find that they read poetry on the side.

  ‘Robi Babu,’ Bharat took advantage of a lull in the conversation and said softly. ‘I’ve read your Rajarshi. Have you ever been to Tripura?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Robi answered smiling. ‘But I hope to—some time.’ ‘You’ve described the country so well. It’s difficult to believe that you’ve never seen it.’

  ‘That’s the advantage of being a poet,’ Ashutosh commented with a laugh. ‘Poets write confidently about all the places they’ve never seen. Don’t forget Dante wrote a whole poem set in Hell.’

  ‘Bharat comes from Tripura,’ Jadugopal offered the information.

  ‘Is that so?’ Robi enquired with interest. ‘May I stay in your house, then, when I visit Tripura?’

  A shadow came over Bharat’s face. He shook his head sadly and said, ‘I don’t have a house in Tripura.’ Before Robi could react Jadugopal fired his next question. ‘Achha Robi Babu,’ he said with a degree of familiarity unwarranted on such a slight acquaintance. ‘You do so many kinds of work. You work for the Brahmo Samaj, edit a journal, look after your father’s estates and write poetry. Which of your activities gives you the greatest pleasure?’ Robi fixed his large, dark eyes on Jadugopal’s face. ‘Do you know,’ he said with a disarming smile, ‘I’ve never really thought about it’

  But, in his heart, he knew the truth. He did a number of things because he had to do them. But what he liked best was to lie in bed all day and write poetry. Writing a poem was like building a house. Setting word after word, carefully selected, like brick by brick, till an idea took shape and form! What could be more wonderful or more fulfilling!

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chaitanya Leela was followed by a series of religious plays—Prahlad Charitra, Nimai Sanyas, Prabhas Yagna and Buddhadev Charit—but none of them did well at the box office. The spectators dwindled in number so alarmingly that the manager and cast were forced to admit that Girish Ghosh had lost his touch. After his involvement with Ramkrishna he refused to write on subjects other than the religious. Chaitanya Leela had entertained while evoking religious sentiments. But the ones that followed, they admitted among themselves, were as dry as dust.

  At length even Girish Ghosh had to sit up and take notice. He had hoped that his Buddhadev Charit, based on Edwin Arnold’s Light of Asia, would bring in the audience. But though the songs gained popularity, the play didn’t. Girish was very disappointed. He had taken great pains with it and Sir Edwin Arnold, while on a visit to Calcutta, had seen it and praised it. Yet it failed to enthuse the general public.

  One day Girish Ghosh entered Ramkrishna’s room to find him telling his disciples a story. It was about a religious charlatan and he was enacting the character with such vitality and humour that his audience was convulsed with laughter. At that moment an idea came to Girish. He would write a story based on the life of Bilwamangal. It would have a moral ending but the focus of the play would be on the love between Bilwamangal and Chintamoni. The play was written and staged within a few days with Amritalal playing Bilwamangal and Binodini Chintamoni. It became extremely popular. The HOUSE FULL sign, which had been collecting dust for so many months, was hung up every evening. The Star had come into its
own again.

  But Binodini was not happy. The press was enthusiastic but not about her. The columns were full of praise for Gangamoni who played a madwoman and sang her way n to people’s hearts. Binodini got only two rounds of applause whereas Gangamoni got eleven. Binodini’s disappointment gradually worked itself up into a terrible fury. She couldn’t bear the thought that Gangamoni, a plain, middle-aged strumpet who played maids and aunts in other plays, was outstripping her, Binodini, the acknowledged queen of the theatre world! It was insupportable. She was convinced that Girish Ghosh had deliberately given Gangamoni the better part to spite her.

  One evening, after the first bell had sounded, one of the actresses tiptoed up to Amritalal and told him in a whisper that Binodini hadn’t donned her costume or put on her make-up. Amritalal came rushing into the green room to find her sitting on a stool in front of her mirror in an attitude of complete lethargy. Shocked and anxious he cried, ‘Why aren’t you getting ready, Binod? Do you feel unwell?’ Binodini looked up. Her eyes held his, unwavering, for a few moments. Then, turning away, she said, ‘Stop the show. I’m not appearing tonight.’ Amritalal was not unprepared for a scene of this kind. Binodini had been acting very oddly of late. But he felt uneasy. Girish Ghosh had left and he would have to deal with her all by himself. He would have to get her back to the stage by a combination of flattery, persuasion and threats. He wondered if he would succeed. Sidling up close to her he placed a hand on her back. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Binod,’ he said making his voice as sweet as honey. ‘How can we stop the show? The hall is so packed—there’s no room for a pin. Take a peek if you don’t believe me. People have come from far and near to see you. They’ve spent a lot of money.’

  ‘Return their money. I’m going home.’

  ‘We’ll have to give them a reason.’

  ‘I don’t wish to appear tonight.’ Binodini stood up and flashed her eyes arrogantly at Amritalal. ‘That’s reason enough. Don’t my wishes count for anything? Who created Star? It was I, Binodini Dasi, who procured the money. I sold my body to do it. Have you forgotten that already?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Amritalal replied humbly. He had heard these words so often in the last few months that he was sick of them. But, making a prodigious effort, he bared his teeth in a smile and said ingratiatingly, ‘How can I forget what you’ve done for us all? You’re Star and Star is you. But surely that doesn’t mean that we can let down our spectators upon a whim. They are our gods. We are pledged to serve them and not to serve is to sin.’

  ‘You keep saying the same thing over and over again. But my mind is made up. I’m not acting tonight. In fact I’m not acting in Bilwamangal any more. The shows must stop.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Amritalal was so shocked that he shouted the words at her. ‘The play is a hit. We’re making good money.’

  ‘Chaitanya Leela was a hit too. You can start running it. Or Daksha Yagna.’

  ‘Those plays have had a long run. Who will see them again? Bilwamangal has just started making waves. People are flocking to the theatre. This is no time to stop.’

  ‘Look here Bhuni Dada. I don’t like Bilwamangal and I’ve told you I shan’t act in it. But I may consider changing my mind on one condition. Get that slut Gangamoni out. In fact cut out the part. Are you ready to do it?’

  Amritalal sighed and said, ‘Who am I to cut out any part? Have you forgotten that the play has a writer and a director? Could you have made such a demand on Girish Babu? Besides, this is the best play he’s written. And it has been written for you. Consider the depth of the character you’re portraying. Consider the length of the part. People clap for Gangamoni because they’re amused by the funny songs she sings and the faces she makes. But it is your part that they’ll remember forever.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Binodini cut in sharply. ‘We both know that our guru wrote Ganga’s part with the intention of humiliating me. And you’re all in the plot. Do you think you can get rid of me this way?’

  ‘I don’t know what has got into you Binod. Why should we wish to get rid of you? You’re our best, our most valued asset. Don’t we all know that it is you who pulls the crowds? But there’s something you must understand. We are players. Our job is to work together and make a success of whatever role is given to us. We have no right to interfere with the playwright’s work or make demands on him. Look at me. I accept any part. I don’t complain even if it’s a small one—a servant’s or a thief’s.’

  ‘The theatre was built with my money. You didn’t even name it after me—’

  ‘That’s an old story. What’s the sense in raking it up now? There! That’s the second bell. Put on your costume like a good girl and—’

  ‘I’ve told you my condition. Cut out Ganga’s part. From tonight—’

  Amritalal’s patience was at an end. ‘No’ he said firmly, ‘I won’t cut it out. In fact I won’t change a word. Her role will remain exactly as it is. If you’re determined not to play tonight I’ll make the announcement and return the ticket money. I’ll tell the audience that Binodini does not wish to act in Bilwantangal any more.’ Amritalal rose. Binodini’s face crumpled like a scolded child’s. ‘Wait Bhuni Dada,’ she called after him. ‘I’ll play the role. But just for tonight. This business has got to be thrashed out. I won’t allow anyone to humiliate me.’

  The matter was reported to Girish Ghosh in due course. ‘Tch! Tch!’ he clicked his tongue in derision. ‘Envy!’ he cried contemptuously. ‘it’s plain and simple envy. These theatre sluts are all the same. Can’t bear it if someone else gets a few claps. An actress of Binodini’s stature feels threatened when a paltry whore like Gangamoni gets a bit of applause! It’s unbelievable! Striyascharitram!’

  Next morning he sent for Binodini, ‘It amazes me Binod,’ he said, ‘that a great artist tike you, one who has been the reigning queen of the theatre for so many years, cannot overcome your fascination for a few claps. Haven’t I told you about the famous English actress Ellen Terry? She didn’t get a single clap when she acted Lady Macbeth. The spectators were terrified of her. Yet they couldn’t forget her. Out of all her performances that was the best and most memorable. Don’t you remember what Bankim Babu said when he came to see, um, what was it—? Ah yes, Mrinalini. His own Mrinalini. Seeing you play Monorama he exclaimed, “But this is a real, living Monorama! Far superior to the one I created.” A compliment of this sort from Bankim Babu is not to be taken lightly. You don’t know your calibre as an actress, Binod. That is why you need constant reassurance. Let me tell you something. When I created Chintamoni it was your face that floated before my eyes. But what you’ve made of her goes far beyond the pages of my script.’

  Binodini was mollified for the time being and the shows went on as usual. But her frustration and discontent kept smouldering within her erupting, suddenly, from time to time. Gradually her colleagues started finding her intolerable. Her tempers and tantrums; her whims and sulks; her total disregard of theatre discipline and her constant harping on the fact that it was with her money that Star had been purchased were getting on everyone’s nerves. Girish Ghosh felt it too but even in his indignation and disgust he could find a ripple of sympathy. The girl had sacrificed her own self interest for the collective good. There was no doubt of that. ‘Bini,’ he said to her one day, ‘I’m writing a play called Bellik Bazar. It’s full of fun, music and laughter. No more religion and morality for a good long while. You shall be playing Rangini. The spectators like to see you in gorgeous costumes singing, dancing and coquetting. You’ll get so many claps—your ears will burst.’

  ‘From Nimai and Chintamoni to Rangini!’ one of the bit actors commented snidely, ‘What a come down!’ ‘We have to save the theatre, don’t we?’ Girish Ghosh snapped. ‘What good will ideals do when we’re all starving to death? Bini is a great actress. She acted Bilasini and Nimai at the same time, didn’t she? A few light roles for the present will do her good. I’ll get her on to serious ones again.’
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  Bellik Bazar was a success and Binodini got all the applause she wanted. Her anger had simmered down and, to the ordinary eye, all seemed to be as before. But there were changes in her personality that didn’t go unnoticed. Amritalal saw, to his surprise, that she, who had always used the lightest make up possible, was covering her face with layers of powder—not only during performances but during rehearsals. Around the same time rumours started going round that a white spot had appeared on Bini’s chin which might be leucoderma. Binodini had always kept herself aloof from Gangamoni but now she started avoiding Bhushan Kumari, Kshetramoni and all the other women as well. She started coming in late for rehearsals and leaving early. Sometimes she wouldn’t make an appearance at all. Her absence at rehearsals didn’t affect her own acting but it created problems for the others. Girish Ghosh was wild with fury when, coming in one day, he found her missing. ‘Who does she think she is?’ he thundered, ‘The Lady Vicereigne? Come Bhuni. Let’s go to her house and drag the little bitch in here by the hair.’ Then, seeing Amritalal hesitate he cried angrily, ‘What’s wrong with you? You look as if I’m pushing you into a lion’s den. Are you that scared of

  ‘No Gurudev. The fact is—things have changed. We can’t walk into her house as and when we please any more.’