First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Two days later Rabindra left Sajadpur and sailed towards Shilaidaha. His mission had ended successfully and he felt pleased with himself. The tenants seemed contented; the manager and servants of the estate were working well and enough rents had been collected to satisfy even Baba Moshai.

  On the way, in the boat, he wrote two short stories. They were coming as naturally to him these days as poetry. He had been contributing a short story to each of the issues of Hitabadi till the editor Krishna Kamal Bhattacharya commented that his stories were too heavy for the ordinary reader. ‘Write something in a lighter vein Robi Babu,’ he had advised. That had incensed Rabindranath. Was he to adapt his style to the whims of editors? He stopped contributing to Hitabadi giving his stories, instead, to his nephews Sudhindra and Nitindra who were looking after the family journal Sadhana. One of the two stories he wrote on this journey was called ‘Kabuliwala’. For some reason he kept remembering his little girl Beli all the way to Shilaidaha. She had just learned to talk and was talking all the time.

  Shilaidaha of the Birahimpur pargana was situated at the mouth of the Gorai, one of the tributaries that branched out from the Padma. The name had an interesting history. During Muslim rule this ancient village had been called Khorshedpur after a pir named Khorshed who had appeared from no one knew where and built a hut in the woods. Then, with the coming of the British, he had suffered the indignity of being forgotten. A fiery indigo planter, who went by the name of Mr Shelley, built a kuthi at the fork of the two rivers. Gradually the village acquired the name Shelleydaha, corrupted in the vernacular to Shilaidaha. Needless to say, the cruel, oppressive Mr Shelley was no kin to the dreamy, romantic, tender-hearted poet of England.

  When the fortunes of the planters had dwindled, Rabindra’s grandfather Dwarkanath Thakur had bought the enormous kuthi for a song. Ever since then it had served as an office not only for the estate of Shilaidaha but for Kaya, Janipur, Kumarkhali and Punti Mahal. It was also used as a holiday resort by the Thakurs and Rabindra remembered many happy boyhood days spent in it. However, over the years it had fallen into a decline and had to be demolished. A new kuthi had been built in its place and it was there that the Punyaha would be conducted. But on reaching Shilaidaha, Rabindra decided not to move into the kuthi. He preferred to stay on the boat in full view of the river which had swelled to twice its size with the monsoon rains and acquired a wild terrifying beauty.

  The Punyaha took place the next day. The arrangements were somewhat different here. The zamindar was welcomed not with the sweet, throbbing strains of shahnai but with a volley of gunshots. The distance between the river ghat and the kuthi was less than a hundred yards but a palki had been arranged to carry the zamindar. It was not meet that he walk the path like a peasant. But Rabindra waved the palki away and declared that he would walk. The nayeb was dismayed, more so at the fact that Rabindra had discarded his princely costume. He wore a simple dhuti and achkan and carried a shawl over one shoulder.

  Inside the hall, Rabindra noticed the same pattern in the sitting arrangements. In addition, there was a row of chairs presumably for the important officials of the estate. He had held his tongue in Sajadpur but here he decided to protest. ‘Why are they sitting in separate groups?’ he asked the manager gravely.

  ‘It’s been the custom for years, huzoor,’ the man replied. ‘The Hindus pay first. That is why they sit in front.’

  ‘But the Muslims are greater in number. They should be allowed to take precedence. Besides, why are they sitting on sacking? Why have no sheets been spread for them?’

  ‘Each man is seated as per his caste. The Brahmins are highest. Then come the Kayasthas. It’s the custom—’

  ‘All customs are not good or just,’ Rabindra cut him short. ‘Many need to be changed with the changing times. Please alter the arrangements. Let everyone sit together as friends.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying huzoor,’ the manager smiled indulgently as if dealing with a recalcitrant child. ‘That will convey a most disastrous message. The lower castes will think they are just as good as their superiors. Come, sit on your throne and start the Punyaha. It is getting late.’

  ‘I don’t believe in caste distinctions and I won’t accept them. I won’t sit on the throne either. Take it away. I’ll sit on the floor with the others.’

  ‘No, huzoor,’ the manager shook his head and bit his tongue. ‘We can’t change the rules of centuries so easily. Come. let’s begin. It will take a long time and—’

  Rabindra fixed his large dark eyes on the manager’s face hoping to shame him into obedience. But the man was an old hand, hardened and astute. He had ruled the estate with an iron hand for many years and he was not about to lose his authority on the whims of a youngster. He had heard that this youngest son of the Karta’s was as unlike a zamindar’s son as possible. He didn’t ride or shoot or keep company with singing and dancing girls. He didn’t even drink. Instead he wrote poetry and sang songs. He was determined not to stand in awe of such a one.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said firmly, ‘but I can’t alter the arrangements without the zamindar’s permission.’

  ‘I’m the zamindar here,’ Rabindra replied equally firmly, ‘and my command is above all others. If you choose not to obey me you’ll have to leave.’

  ‘I’m not the only one. All the officials of the estate will resign if you force the issue.’

  ‘So be it,’ Rabindra replied coolly. ‘Anyone who wishes may leave my service. I’ve brought my own khazanchi from Calcutta. He’ll look after the estate.’ With these words Rabindra picked up the heavy throne-like chair and placed it in a corner of the room. Then, turning to his subjects, he said ‘Today is Punyaha—a day of rejoicing and union. We will set aside all caste distinctions and sit together like brothers.’

  His words created quite a stir in the assembly. It took the members some time to understand the purport behind the zamindar’s pronouncement. Then, when light had dawned, the Brahmins started muttering their disapproval and the Muslims looked shamefaced. ‘We are quite comfortable where we are,’ they said. But a band of young men had risen on the zamindar’s command and they came forward to help him. Together they picked up the chairs and placed them outside the hall. Removing the sacking they spread white sheets all over the floor. When all this was done they turned to the now standing assembly and cried, ‘Huzoor has said all his subjects have the same value in his eyes. All men are equal. You may sit where you like.’

  After all the men were seated, Rabindra sat down facing them and the Punyaha commenced. The manager and his officials stood standing for a while. The former looked angry and perplexed. He hadn’t expected such firmness from one who looked so soft and gentle. It was a highly embarrassing situation, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. Matters became worse when a couple of officials looked at one another sheepishly and decided to sit down. But Rabindra put an end to his dilemma by smiling kindly at him and saying, ‘I request Manager Babu to withdraw his resignation. And the others too,’ he added.

  After this incident other changes were ushered in easily and painlessly. Rabindra went walking by himself, dismissing his guards and attendants. He met the villagers and apprised himself of their problems and needs. Not everyone opened up before him though. Many still stood in awe of the zamindar.

  But though Rabindra was busy all day with his estate officials and subjects, the nights were his own and he spent them in the bajra, huddled over a lamp and writing poetry far into the night. When weary he would stroll on the deck and look out on the river, vast as a sea and swelling and foaming with deadly currents. He loved the Padma. She whispered to him at night and many were the thoughts she shared with him.

  Looking out over the dark expanse of water, that night, he remembered the mysterious woman he had come across at the river ghat. She had a pleasant face and a tight well-knit body draped in a saffron sari. Her anchal was tucked into her waist and it was full of white flowers. Nayeb Moshai had told him about her. S
he lived in a leaf hut under a tamal tree by the little green pond that belonged to the Basaks. No one knew where she had come from but many stories were whispered about her. ‘Don’t look into her eyes huzoor,’ Nayeb Moshai had warned him, ‘She has strange powers.’ Rabindra had suppressed his amusement with difficulty and when he saw her at the river ghat, he looked straight into her eyes. Sarbakhepi, for that was the name the woman went by, stopped short and returned stare for stare. Then, taking up a handful of camellias from her anchal, she put it in his hands murmuring softly, ‘Gour. My heart’s treasure! The jewel of my eyes! My beautiful, beautiful Gour!’ Rabindra felt the soft hand brush against his and a shudder passed through his frame. Sarbakhepi held his eyes with her own dark ones and song in a sweet clear voice:

  ‘Morè jè bolo sè bolo sakhi

  Sè roop nirakhi nari nibaritè

  Majilo jugal ankhi

  O na tanukhani Keba sirojilo

  Ki madbu makhiya tai’*

  Rabindra wondered if this was Sarbakhepi’s own composition or that of some ancient padakarta’s. He left her and came away but her song wouldn’t leave him. He kept humming it all day.

  Boats went up and down the river even at night, their lights flickering over the dark water like glow-worms. In the sky the moon played hide and seek with the clouds. A soft breeze, laden with the scent of flowers, blew into his face and lifted his hair. His ears were filled with melody from the voices of the boatmen who sang as they plied their oars:

  ‘Jyobati!

  Kyan ba karo man bhari

  Pabna thèkè ènè dèbo

  taka damèr motri’

  Rabindra was charmed. This was a song of love and separation; emotions as old as the human race itself! The traveller had left his young beloved far away in a distant village and set sail over the Padma on a long uncertain voyage. She had wept and sulked and he had tried to comfort her with the promise of bringing her a motri from Pabna. What tender pathos there was in the lines! What nostalgia in the tune! Rabindra wondered what a motri was! What was that invaluable something that cost only a rupee but would bring a smile to the face of the beloved?

  Rabindra hurried to his room and wrote down the lines in an exercise book he kept for the purpose. He couldn’t allow this charming little song to be borne away over the river and be lost to him. It was better than many compositions of so-called poets. He decided to send for the runner Gagan Harkara next morning. Gagan had a fine collection of songs which he sang as he ran with the post, from village to village. Rabindra would copy them in his book. Bengalis were so musical!

  His sojourn by the villages of the Padma was coming to an end and he would be leaving for Calcutta in a few days. He had collected a substantial amount of money in taxes and Baba Moshai would be pleased. But his personal collection of experience was his own and he hugged it in secret. So many faces! So many songs! Sights, sounds, scents! He was taking back a treasure trove.

  Chapter II

  The evening teas at Janakinath Ghoshal’s house were famous, practically on par with the Governor’s ‘At Homes’. Receiving an invitation to one was considered a status symbol and anybody who was anybody in Calcutta had attended them at some time or the other. The gatherings were presided over, not by the master of the house but by the mistress. It seemed to be an age of women’s empowerment. Queen Victoria ruled England, and Swarnakumari, the Ghoshal family of Kashiabagan.

  Swarnakumari took care not to invite more than seven or eight guests at a time but they all had to be distinguished in some field or other. Thus bureaucrats, politicians, poets, playwrights, doctors and journalists rubbed shoulders with one another at the gatherings in her house. Unlike other high-profile parties a fair sprinkling of women could also be seen in Swarnakumari’s drawing room. The furniture in the room was Western, the ambience Western but the conversation that went on was strongly national in spirit. The master of the house was an ardent patriot and though he kept a low profile, it was his personality that imbued the assembly. He resented British rule as fiercely as he hated the traditions that created and nurtured disparities between man and man. His crusade against the caste system was far from theoretical. He had brought it right into his own kitchen by employing cooks from the lowest stratum of the caste hierarchy—the untouchables. His passion for the upliftment of Indian women was manifested in the freedom and status enjoyed by his wife and daughter.

  Today, of course, the untouchable cooks had been replaced by Brahmins of the highest order as was evident from their thick shikhas and dazzling white poités swinging from bare torsos. A special guest was coming this evening from Bombay about whom many stories were circulated. It was rumoured that he was a rabid Hindu who wouldn’t deign to wash his feet in a non-Brahmin house.

  Swarnakumari cast a final glance at the arrangements before going up to her room to dress for the party. She was satisfied. Everything was in place. The couches had small teapoys in front of them with a glass of water, a silver cigar box and brass ashtray, long and slim and shining like gold, on each. The sixty-four-lamped chandelier was ablaze with its wealth of candles and the grandfather clock was polished to perfection. Little lace fans were scattered about, there being no punkah in the room. Swarnakumari put up her hand to straighten a picture on the wall, then turning to her daughter she asked, ‘What songs have you prepared for this evening Sarala?’

  ‘Two songs of Robi Mama’s,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t ask me to sing any more.’

  ‘Mr Tilak doesn’t know Bengali. Why don’t you sing something in Sanskrit?’ Sarala had a large repertoire of songs. She could sing in English, Bengali, French, Sanskrit, Hindi—even Karnataki. ‘People from other parts of India think Bengalis have faulty diction when it comes to Sanskrit,’ Swarnakumari continued. ‘Show Mr Tilak how good your Sanskrit is.’

  ‘Why should I? I don’t care to put my accomplishments on display for anyone—not even Mr Tilak.’

  ‘That’s a very foolish attitude Sarala,’ Swarnakumari said severely. ‘You must sing Bankimbabu’s Bande Mataram at the very least.’

  Sarala and her mother often got into arguments. But they were never loud or aggressive. Their family culture drew a firm line against the rude and the vulgar. Besides, offending your elders was considered the height of bad breeding. ‘I’ll sing Bande Mataram,’ Sarala conceded sullenly, ‘but if we can learn Hindi, surely they can learn Bengali ?’ Sarala was a rebel. She had wanted to take up Physics as her subject in college but Bethune didn’t even have a Physics department. The best they could offer by way of a science course was Botany. But Sarala had not want to study Botany. She decided to attend the evening lectures at the Indian Institute of Science and take the exam in private. Her parents and relations advised her against it but Dr Mahendralal Sarkar backed her up. ‘We’ll make special arrangements,’ he declared joyfully. ‘In any case, the boys are not tigers. They won’t eat her up.’ The special arrangement was the placing of three chairs in one corner of the hall. At the commencement of each evening’s lectures Sarala was escorted there by her two brothers who sat by her till they were over. ‘Bodyguard! Bodyguard!’ the boys whispered loudly enough for her to hear but she didn’t condescend to cast a glance in their direction.

  Sarala had passed with distinction and been awarded a silver medal. Following that she had completed her graduation and was now studying for her postgraduation in Sanskrit. This shift from Physics to Sanskrit had surprised many. ‘It won’t be that easy,’ an eminent professor of Sanskrit College had said on hearing that she proposed to take the examination on the strength of instruction from a private tutor, ‘We’ll see how she gets through.’ Sarala had taken up the challenge and was working day and night. Her pandit was very pleased with her efforts, and had declared that out of all his pupils Sarala and Hirendra Datta of Hathibagan were the most meritorious. Sarala had two other preoccupations these days. One was editing the family journal Bharati and the other was keeping her numerous suitors at bay. She was determined not to marry and become a
housewife. One had only a single life, which was too precious to waste. Her parents were not putting pressure on her either.

  The sound of carriage wheels on the drive made Swarnakumari beat a speedy retreat. She couldn’t let anyone see her as she was. She would come down the stairs after all her guests had arrived and taken their seats, and make her entrance into the hall as dramatically as a queen. Sarala, unlike her mother, paid little attention to her dress or to the effect her presence would have on the guests. She wore a white silk sari, this evening, held at the shoulder with a brooch set with a large ruby the colour of pigeon’s blood. She wore no other ornament. She hastened to the door, just as she was, to see her father descending from his carriage. ‘There won’t be any bachelors this evening Solli,’ he smiled at his daughter. ‘No one will pester you to marry him.’ Even as he spoke another carriage rolled up the drive and, within a minute, two men entered the hall. One was Motilal Ghosh, brother of Sisir Kumar and editor of Amrita Bazar Patrika. His companion was also a journalist. He came from Bombay and was the editor of the famous Marathi journal Kesri. He was a fiery pamphleteer and wrote both in English and Marathi. His name was Balgangadhar Tilak.

  Balgangadhar was about thirty-six years old. He had a very fair complexion, a strong muscular body and a face in which pride and arrogance were ill concealed. He belonged to the caste of Chitpavan Brahmins who considered themselves to be the highest in the Brahminical order. Sarala was familiar with the legend associated with the Chitpavans. Centuries ago, after a shipwreck in the Arabian Sea, a number of bodies had come floating over the waves and been cast ashore on the Konkan coast. Presuming that these were dead bodies, the villagers had prepared a giant pyre for their cremation. But the moment the flames touched them the corpses rose and leaped to the ground. That they belonged to some white race was evident from their exceedingly fair complexions and grey-green eyes. They were accepted by the community and given the status of Brahmins for were they not twice born?