First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘Of course,’ Irfan rose too. ‘Everything is ready. All I need to do is warm up …’

  The two friends proceeded to the kitchen. ‘I hate the thought of going back,’ Irfan muttered as he lit the fire. Bharat laughed, ‘It was an evil day for you when you saved Brown Saheb’s life,’ he teased. ‘From Brown to Darwin! From the frying pan into the fire! But don’t distress yourself. You’ll forget them both the moment you see your new bride’s face. You’ll say your namaaz, observe Ramzaan and become one with your family, clan and community. And quite rightly, too. Why should you alienate yourself from all you’ve held dear all these years? Living in isolation is terrible, Irfan. Particularly in a village—’

  Irfan stood up suddenly and took Bharat’s hands in his. ‘What if I go mad Bharat?’ he asked in a dazed, wondering voice. ‘My head feels as though a storm is raging through it day and night. I see nothing but darkness before me.’

  ‘Shove Darwin’s book into the fire, Irfan. And stop going to Brown Saheb. Why do you torture yourself? Hang on to life and sanity. They are more important than knowledge.’

  Bharat had to wade through knee deep water on his way back. Irfan had begged him to stay the night. His brain was agitated and confused, he said, and he was in desperate need of company. But Bharat declined. He couldn’t sleep except in his own bed, head resting on his own pillow. His friends teased him about his insistence on getting back home. ‘You don’t have a wife waiting for you,’ they grumbled, ‘Why do you have to rush back?’ Bharat smiled and answered invariably, ‘My pillow is waiting for me.’

  The rain had stopped falling and a few stars were twinkling in the sky when Bharat set off. Walking past Hedo Lake he started humming to himself. When alone his memory of Bhumisuta became sharper and more poignant. Reaching home he unlocked the front door and lit the lamp. He had talked more than he usually did and the exercise had robbed him of all desire to sleep. His brain was teeming with thoughts and he felt wide awake. He decided to make himself a cup of tea. Lighting the fire he was filling up the kettle when he heard a carriage roll up to the door and an angry voice call out, ‘Bharat! Bharat! Open up at once.’ Bharat ran to the veranda. It was very dark outside and all he could see were two dim shapes and the silhouette of a carriage. Even as he called, ‘Who is it?’ one of them lifted a walking stick and rapped loudly on the door. Bharat ran down the steps and opened it. And now he recognized them. One was Shashibhushan and the other, her veil pulled down to her chin and hands crossed over her breast, was Bhumisuta.

  Shashibhushan ascended the stairs without a word, then, reaching Bharat’s room, snapped angrily, ‘Why haven’t you lit the lamp?’ Bharat ran to the kitchen and brought it. Raising the wick till a golden glow filled the room he looked up at Bhumisuta. And then he saw, with a shock, that a large bandage covered one side of her head. It was soaked with blood. There was blood, too, clotted in the long strands of her hair and her sari was streaked with red.

  Shashibhushan waved his stick angrily in the air and said in a harsh whisper, ‘I have brought her to you. You may do what you like with her. I won’t be there to see it. As of today I have nothing to do with either of you.’ He stopped, frowning, for a few moments, then continued, his voice changing a little, ‘I didn’t believe in destiny ever in my life. But I do now. We are powerless before her.’ He turned to go. Bharat ran after him. ‘Master Moshai!’ he cried. Shashibhushan couldn’t control himself any longer. ‘Silence! You base ingrate!’ he shouted. ‘I saved you from a terrible death. I fed you, gave you shelter and educated you. And you! You betrayed me! You kept me in the dark. You wrote her letters. Yes—love letters. And she? I pulled her out of the lion’s jaws. I offered her everything any woman could ever want. Independence, a life of dignity, a beautiful house by the river, wealth, status, prestige. I offered to marry her and give her my name. But she wanted none of it. You two have conspired together behind my back. You’ve made a laughing stock of me and—’

  ‘I know nothing of what you say. Believe me—’ Bharat cried, his face twisted with pain.

  ‘He is not to blame,’ Bhumisuta murmured. ‘It’s all my fault.’ Shashibhushan didn’t even glance at her. ‘You live on charity yourself,’ he curled his lip derisively at Bharat. ‘How do you propose to give her your protection? The Maharaja will make enquiries. If you are caught—it will be the end of you. You’ll have to spend the rest of your life as a fugitive. I wanted to give you a new life. A pure, clean life. But your own blood has betrayed you.

  How can you escape it? The fount from which it flows … I should have remembered—’

  ‘Sir please. Please sit down and tell me—’

  ‘No. I can’t endure your presence another minute. I can’t breathe the polluted air. I feel choked, suffocated …’

  Bharat fell to the ground and clasped Shashibhushan’s feet with both hands. Shashibhushan stepped back hastily as if recoiling from a snake. ‘Don’t touch me haramzada!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll break your head if you do.’ And he raised his stick as though he would actually strike Bharat. Then, trembling all over, he lowered his arm and turned to the door. ‘It’s no use,’ he muttered. ‘Violence is not for me.’ He stopped once again and said as if pleading with Bharat. ‘I didn’t strike her. She jumped from the balcony in an effort to escape and hit her head. But where was the need? I wouldn’t have kept her against her will. I only wanted … Never mind. It’s of no consequence.’ He went rapidly down the stairs his English boots creaking loudly as he went. A door slammed in the distance followed by the sound of wheels rolling down the road. It grew fainter and fainter and gradually faded away …

  Bharat turned slowly to Bhumisuta. She was sitting on a frayed mora at the doorway leading to the other room, her elbows on her knees and her chin resting in her hands. Her veil was pushed back from her face and her eyes looked compellingly into Bharat’s. The minutes passed as though they were hours. When Bharat spoke it was quite out of context. ‘Will you have some tea?’ he asked. Bhumisuta shook her head. Bharat wondered why he had asked her that. Then he remembered that he had been about to make tea for himself. Groping in the maze of his agitated mind he sought desperately for something to say. ‘Your … your head,’ he stammered. ‘Does it hurt … badly?’ Bhumisuta shook her head again. Then she stood up. ‘The Maharaja wanted me to go with him,’ she said.

  ‘To Tripura?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t go. If I went with him I would have had to stay there forever.’

  ‘That is true,’ Bharat agreed thoughtfully. ‘No woman has ever returned from the king’s palace.’

  ‘I don’t know if he meant to keep me in the palace.’ Bhumisuta could see Bharat’s awkwardness and tried to ease the situation by carrying on the conversation. ‘He wanted me to sing to him every night.’

  ‘Sing to him!’ Bharat echoed then asked curiously, ‘How did he take your refusal? What did Master Moshai say?’

  ‘He said that the only way he could save me from the king was by marrying me. I shut my ears when he said that—not with my hands but with my mind. I do that whenever I don’t want to hear—’

  They sat in silence after that listening to the rain which had started to fall again. The wind rose and howled around the house. ‘Shall I shut the door?’ Bhumisuta asked softly, ‘The rain is coming in.’

  ‘Bhumi!’ Bharat cried out in the voice of a drowning man. ‘Why did all this have to happen?’

  ‘I had written an answer to your letter. But I didn’t know how to send it. Then I decided to come to you. I couldn’t stay there any longer.’

  ‘I promised to look after you. I wanted to—desperately. I’ve thought about you day and night. But I didn’t want you this way. I owe Master Moshai everything. Everything, Bhumi, down to this life itself. He loves you. He wishes to marry you. How can I …? No, no Bhumi. I can’t. You shouldn’t have come—’

  ‘I wouldn’t have married him even if you hadn’t written. But I don’t want anyone’s pity. I …’

  �
��Bhumi!’ Bharat cried out in his agony. ‘Don’t you understand? He loves you. I’ve never heard him speak of any woman … He was determined never to marry again. Then he saw you and loved—’

  ‘I’ve waited for you. Day after day and night after night. I knew you would respond some day.’

  ‘You’ve come to me. This should have been the happiest day of my life. But the cost … The cost is too great. How can I think only of myself? Master Moshai has been cruelly hurt. He loves you—’

  Bharat and Bhumisuta stood facing one another. One step forward and they could have been in each other’s arms. But no one took that step. ‘What shall I do now?’ Bharat, in utter helplessness, turned to the very woman who had come to him in the hope of protection. She had no answer to give him. Raising the edge of her sari she wiped the tears that streamed silently down her cheeks. Bharat shook off his indecision with a tremendous effort and said, ‘We cannot sleep under the same roof. And marriage is out of the question. I cannot live with my mentor’s curses ringing in my ears to my dying day. I have nothing; nobody. I’ll starve in the streets if Master Moshai withdraws his protection. And you’ll starve with me. Go back to him. He’s worth a hundred of me Bhumi. He’ll make you a good husband. You’ll be happy and I’ll be happy in your happiness.’ Bhumisuta shrank from these words. Cowering against the wall she looked at him with the eyes of a dumb animal. ‘There’s a bed in the other room,’ Bharat continued. ‘Go—get some sleep. I’ll spend the night with my friend.’ Slipping his feet into his shoes he murmured, ‘I’ll take you back tomorrow morning. When Master Moshai hears we have spent the night apart from one another he’ll forgive us.’ Unhooking his piran from a nail in the wall he slipped it over his head and went on, ‘There’s wood and water in the kitchen. I’ll bring the milk with me when I come. Don’t be frightened if you hear sounds overhead. There are large rats on the roof and they scamper about all night.’ He felt his heart bursting with pain as he uttered these mundane words. Hot, bitter tears rose to his eyes. He ran out of the house, into the wind and rain, sobbing loudly as he went.

  Irfan opened the door to find Bharat standing outside dripping from head to foot, his clothes caked with mud and slime. He was shivering violently and his teeth chattered so that he could hardly speak. Irfan put down the candle and drew his friend into the room. ‘You’re soaked through!’ he exclaimed. ‘And what is this on your clothes? Did you fall on your way home?’ Bharat made no answer. Irfan fetched a gamchha and lungi, fussing all the while. ‘Now rub your head dry. And take off your wet clothes. What happened? You couldn’t reach home? Where were you all this time?’

  ‘Will you let me stay with you tonight Irfan?’

  ‘Of course. I told you not to attempt going back in this terrible weather and—’ He peered into Bharat’s face and got a shock. Bharat’s lips were twisted in an effort to keep himself from crying and his eyes were as red as hibiscus. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Irfan asked anxiously. ‘Tell me Bharat.’ But Bharat only shook his head. ‘You should have some brandy mixed with hot water,’ Irfan said. ‘It will warm you up.’ Now Bharat spoke, for the second time after his return. ‘Can I have some tea?’ he asked. Tea! At this hour? Irfan was nonplussed but he went into the kitchen and made a big glassful. Bharat drank it in great, thirsty gulps and felt better. ‘Irfan,’ he said. ‘We were talking about Reason and Logic only a couple of hours ago. But they don’t work in the life of a human being. I—’ Irfan cut him short with a great yawn. ‘We’ll resume our conversation tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

  But for Bharat there was no sleep. He kept sitting in the outer room staring into the dark. And before his eyes he saw—no, not Bhumisuta’s face, pale and soft as a wilting flower, but Shashibhushan’s—dark and fiery with suppressed anger and humiliation. Bharat had lost his mother in his infancy. His father had sent him to a cruel death. No one loved him. No one had ever spared a thought for him. Except Shashibhushan. He had to prove to Shashibhushan that he was no base ingrate; that he valued his affection and protection above everything else in the world. Even life and … and love. A wave of salt water welled up in his eyes at the thought of losing Bhumisuta. But he stood firm. He would give her up. He would take her back to Shashibhushan and then—he would go away. From everything and everyone who reminded him of her.

  Across the street, in the weaver’s colony, a cock crew heralding the approach of dawn. Bharat rose to his feet. His clothes lay in a soiled, dripping heap in a corner of the room. There was no question of wearing them. But he couldn’t walk the streets in Irfan’s lungi. He entered Dwarika’s room. Dwarika’s clothes hung on a wooden alna folded neatly in stacks. Bharat picked out a dhuti and a piran and put them on. Then, walking into the kitchen, he picked up a large meat knife and stuck it at his waist. If Shashibhushan doubted his words he would slit his throat in his revered guru’s presence and prove his fidelity.

  Bharat closed the door gently behind him and walked out of the house. It was very early and the streets were deserted except for some bathers who were making their way to the Ganga with their ghotis and gamchhas. Bharat walked rapidly past them, stopping only once—at a sweet shop.

  Over a clay oven a vast vat of rich milk simmered, creaming and frothing and emitting clouds of fragrant steam. In another a fat cook was frying jilipi. Bharat watched the golden strands curl and twist crisply in the hot ghee. The delicious odour assailed his nostrils and he felt a sharp pang of hunger. He bought a pot of milk and a basketful of jilipi. Bhumisuta would be hungry, he thought. He would have to give her something to eat before he took her back.

  Climbing up the steps to his apartment he was surprised to find the front door wide open. Bhumisuta must have forgotten to shut it after he left last night. ‘Bhumi! Bhumi!’ he called, peering into the bedroom. But there was no one there and the bed was neat and smooth. No one had slept in it. Bharat was frightened. What had happened to Bhumisuta? He went from room to veranda and back again. He peeped into the kitchen and lavatory and even climbed up to the roof. But there was no sign of Bhumisuta.

  Where could she be? Had she gone back to Shashibhushan? Hurt and humiliated by Bharat’s betrayal she hadn’t waited for his help. But would she be able to find her way? Bharat had to find out. He had to take her back, in safety, to Shashibhushan. If he started right now he might overtake her. He rushed down the steps and ran down the street. Banibinod was cleaning his teeth with a neem twig a few yards away. He grinned at him but Bharat had no eyes to see. Jerking his head like a madman he muttered as he went, ‘You risked your life in coming to me Bhumi. You hurt yourself. But I couldn’t give you my protection. I’m not worthy of your love Bhumi. Forget me. Be happy in your new life.’

  Arriving at his destination, Bharat stood at the gate to recover his breath. He had avoided coming within miles of this house for death awaited him here. But, at that moment, he had no fears for himself. He only thought of Bhumisuta. Stepping through the gate along with a pedlar who had been allowed entry by the gatemen, Bharat came to the great hall where a flight of stairs curved upwards. Banibinod had described the house to him in detail so he knew where to go. Skipping nimbly up the stairs he came to Shashibhushan’s chamber. Shashibhushan sat in a chair by the window—his face tense and preoccupied. Then, before the latter could stop him, Bharat fell to his knees on the floor. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, sir,’ he cried wildly, rubbing his face on his mentor’s fair feet. ‘I didn’t want her. I didn’t keep her. I sent her back to you.’ Shashibhushan felt the warm tears trickling between his toes and tried to rise. But Bharat clutched them like one possessed and went on. ‘She has realized her folly and come back. She wants you—only you.’ Now Shashibhushan withdrew his feet and said sternly, ‘I told you I’ll have nothing to do with either of you. Why do you come here to torment me?’

  ‘I haven’t touched a hair of her head. I swear it before you Master Moshai. I left home last night. I sent her back …’
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  ‘Sent her back! Where?’

  ‘To you. Isn’t she here?’

  ‘Why should she be here? I don’t want her any more. No—I don’t want her.’

  ‘She isn’t here?’ Bharat raised his head. His eyes stared wildly out of his pale face at Shashibhushan. ‘Where is she then? She isn’t in my house.’

  Shashibhushan had lifted his arm to strike Bharat the night before and had checked himself in time. But now he lost control. Gripping Bharat’s hair with one hand he twisted it mercilessly. ‘You’ve lost her you scoundrel!’ he cried in an agonized voice. ‘You coveted her but you couldn’t keep her.’ His eyes, flaming with rage and hate, glared at Bharat. ‘Get out of my sight you worthless bastard. Get out!’ He pushed Bharat away with all his might, then rose and left the room.

  The rest of the day was spent in looking for Bhumisuta. Shashibhushan sent a messenger to the house in Bhabanipur. But she hadn’t come there. Enquiries were made in all likely and unlikely places. But Bhumisuta was nowhere. She seemed to have vanished altogether. And she had gone empty handed. Her clothes had been left behind in the Maharaja’s house. Even the bandage on her head was found, thrown in a corner of Bharat’s bedroom.

  Bharat walked all day through the lanes and alleys of Calcutta looking for Bhumisuta. Then, in his wanderings, he reached the river. He peered into each ghat in the light of the setting sun. Then, completely exhausted, he sank to the ground beneath a tree. A little breeze, dancing in the leaves above his head, played sweetly over his heated, fatigued limbs. His eyelids slipped over his burning eyes and sweet sleep, the balm of hurt minds and bodies, overtook him. Crowds of people passed him by. Memsahebs in gorgeous gowns promenading with their companions, Eurasian girls, arm in arm with their escorts, walked up and down the Strand. They cast curious glances at the fair boy lying asleep on the bare ground. But no one cared to find out why. The city was a cruel place.