‘Get them into shape Bhuni,’ he would instruct Amritalal briefly before vanishing from the scene. Amritalal had to take care of everything but, when the play was a success, the credit for it all went to Girish Ghosh. ‘Girishchandra Ghosh Mohodai,’ a newspaper column ran, ‘has written a very superior play. The excellent production and flawless acting is all owing to his tireless training and scrupulous attention to detail.’ Although an intelligent man, Girish hadn’t a clue as to how all this was affecting Amritalal. He persisted in his naïve conviction that Amritalal was perfectly content to bask in his reflected glory.
Around this time Girish was overtaken by a domestic crisis. His second wife passed away after a prolonged illness and he had no one to help him take care of the sickly child she had left behind. This boy was the apple of his father’s eye. Once, in a drunken state, he had begged his guru Ramkrishna to be his son. Then, when the child was born, he fondly believed he was his guru come back to life. He was completely wrapped up in the child and wouldn’t leave him for a moment. He spent all his time caring for him, consulting doctors and trying out new remedies. He hardly ever came to the theatre. If they needed a new play he dictated something hurriedly to whoever came to ask for it. He was the manager of the theatre and took a monthly salary. But he wasn’t there—either physically or in spirit.
Discontent had been simmering in Amritalal and his cronies for quite some time. It now rose to a raging fire. What was Girish Ghosh doing for Star, they asked each other, except writing a few plays? Anyone could write plays. Amritalal’s own Sarala had proved more popular than Girish Ghosh’s Nasiram.
Gradually the resentment started expressing itself. Words were exchanged, first mild, then heated. ‘You dare to talk to me like that,’ the impulsive, egoistic Girish Ghosh cried out one day, ‘because I take a salary. Well—I won’t take a paisa from this day onwards. And I won’t write for you. Fend for yourselves as best as you can.’ Girish Ghosh was sure Amritalal and his group would come to their senses and beg him to continue as before. But nothing like that happened.
The doctors having advised a change of climate for the sick boy, Girish Ghosh proceeded to leave Calcutta for Madhupur.
But he was very short of money. Nothing was coming in and he had spent most of his savings. Around this time a man named Neelmadhav Chakravarty approached him with an offer. Neelmadhav had recently purchased a theatre named Bina and started running it under the new name of City Theatre. He wanted to stage three of Girish Ghosh’s old plays—Bilwamangal, Buddhadev Charit and Bellik Bazar—and was prepared to pay a fair sum for them. The terms were acceptable to Girish and the deal was concluded.
With the money received Girish rented a house in Madhupur and threw heart and soul into nursing his son back to health. The air of Madhupur was clean and unpolluted. The vegetables were fresh and eggs and mutton were plentiful and cheap. The boy improved slowly and Girish Ghosh felt greatly relieved. Then, suddenly, a message reached him that Star had brought a suit against Neelmadhav Chakravarty for appropriating plays Girish Ghosh had written for Star as its paid employee. The management had also made a public announcement of Girish Ghosh’s dismissal as manager of the company.
The news was so unbelievable that Girish Ghosh shrugged it off at first. It just couldn’t be true! Star was his. He had created it with his blood and tears. How could they sack him as though he was any paid employee? How could they bring a case against him? Then, gradually, he saw the truth. Amritalal was the leader of the group that wanted him out. And he had worked silently and stealthily. Amritalal—his favourite student whom he had loved as a son! Only the other day, it seemed to him, Amritalal had brought him home, dead drunk, practically carrying him on his back. What had happened? Why had everything changed so drastically?
But Amritalal and his friends had their own arguments. Girish Ghosh had worked hard for the theatre in the past. No one denied it. But how long could he cash on that? For several years now he had done nothing but take a salary. Didn’t Binodini have to leave? Had her contribution been less than that of Girish Ghosh?
The realization that he was truly in trouble brought Girish Ghosh post haste to Calcutta. Amritalal came to see him. Although he was the prime instigator of the present crisis Amritalal was the soul of courtesy while addressing the older man. ‘Gurudev,’ he began humbly, ‘I wish to say a few words to you. If you find them offensive you may panish me as you will. But hear me out first. I’ve observed that, for some years now, the bonds between you and the theatre have slackened. First you stopped acting. Then you gave up directing and training newcomers. Your heart is elsewhere. You’ve lost interest—’
‘Lost interest!’ Girish Ghosh burst out angrily. ‘You’re telling me I’ve lost interest in the theatre! It’s like telling a fish it’s not interested in water; like telling a bird it’s not interested in the sky. Where has my interest gone—may I ask?’
‘Beyond the pale of the Earth. The day you accepted Ramkrishna as your guru you gave up the theatre—in spirit at least. Try to recall the past Gurudev. You were present in the theatre every single day. Your wife’s illness; your eldest son Dani’s near death; your own diseased liver—nothing, nothing could keep you away. But ever since Ramkrishna fell ill and you started visiting him in Kashipur—’ Amritalal did not complete the sentence. He didn’t need to. Girish Ghosh sighed and was silent. After a while he raised his head and asked with a great sadness in his voice, ‘What do you want of me?’ Amritalal hesitated a little, then said softly, ‘You’ve loosened your link with the theatre little by little. Let the break be final. You’re still a great playwright. If you sign a new contract with us promising to give us everything you write I’ll persuade the others to withdraw the suit.’ Girish Ghosh laughed—a hard, dry, mirthless laugh. ‘You want to get rid of me, don’t you Bhuni?’ he asked bitterly. ‘You’re an important man now. Manager of Star and a playwright besides. My presence is a thorn in your side. But, rest assured. I won’t dream of entering into competition with you. In fact, my sincerest blessings are with you. Be a big man—bigger than your guru. May your fame spread throughout the land and far beyond it.’
The contract form arrived the next day. Girish Ghosh was to have nothing to do with Star from henceforth, but he would not join any other theatre company, either, for acting, directing or training. He would be obliged to offer anything he wrote first to Star, for which he would receive a monthly salary of one hundred rupees. If Star rejected a manuscript he was free to give it to any other theatre company. In short, as per the terms of the new contract, Girish Ghosh could not enter a theatre except as a member of the audience. Girish Ghosh signed his name with a flourish, then, throwing the pen away, said whimsically, ‘I’ll never take up a pen again. I won’t act, direct, train or even write anymore. That should make you happy Bhuni.’
With his occupation gone, the Garrick of Bengal didn’t know what to do with himself. ‘Binodini’s curse has fallen on me,’ he thought. Life became even more unbearable after his little boy’s death. The thought that he hadn’t been able to save the child even at the cost of giving up his life’s mission tortured him day and night. In this mood he longed to get out of Calcutta. But where could he go? Suddenly an idea came to him. Saradamoni was still alive. He would go visit her and see Ramkrishna’s birthplace.
As the bullock cart wended its way slowly towards Kamarpukur Jairambati, Girish looked out eagerly. He had lived in the city all his life and had never seen a village as primitive and backward as this one. He was charmed, nevertheless. Meadows, green as emerald, stretched far away merging into the horizon. The sky was blue and cloudless and the air fresh and pure. There was not a brick structure to be seen anywhere. Little homesteads built of bamboo and straw dotted the landscape appearing between fields of golden paddy and waving palms.
Saradamoni was very happy to see him and Girish, who had been orphaned as a child, experienced a mother’s love for the first time in his life. Saradamoni cooked delicious meals for him a
nd sat by while he ate waving away imaginary flies with a palm leaf fan. She washed his clothes and made his bed smoothing down the sheets with gentle hands. When he lay down to sleep he felt her touch, warm and tender, soothe and caress his tortured body and mind. ‘You’re my mother,’ he said to her one day in a gush of sentiment. ‘I’m your son. I left you and was miserable—’
‘You’ve come back haven’t you?’ Saradamoni smiled at him, ‘Stay as long as you like.’
Girish, who had come to spend a week, stayed on for two months. Then he left for Calcutta with a new resolution. He would take up his pen again, but not to write plays. He would write a book based on the lives of his guru and guru ma. This would be his new mission in life. On his return Girish gave himself up to the task with a singlemindedness that was quite unusual for him. He didn’t go near the theatre again. Not did he care to hear about it. In fact, whenever some of his former colleagues came to see him, he abused them roundly and drove them out of the house. The only people he associated with were Ramkrishna’s disciples.
One day a gentleman called Nagendrabhushan mukherjee came to see him. Girish knew him slightly. He was the grandson of the famous Prasanna Thakur of the Pathuriaghata branch of the Thakur family. It was hardly possible to turn away a man with such a distinguished lineage, so Girish Ghosh was obliged to give him a hearing. After the initial courtesies were over Nagendrabhushan came to the point. ‘Girish Babu,’ he said shaking his head in a dejected manner, ‘Are you aware of the depths of depravity to which the Bengali theatre has sunk? Cheap dialogue, obscene gestures, titillating song and dance sequences are being offered to the public in the name of the theatre. You’re still alive, Girish Babu, and here in Calcutta. How can you be so indifferent? You must find a way to curb this disgusting trend and bring the glorious age of the Bengal theatre back again. Don’t you realize that it is a blot on the reputation of the entire race? Do you know what was reported in Englishman—?’
‘Nagendra Babu,’ Girish interrupted. ‘You’re probably not aware that I’ve snapped my links with the theatre. I have nothing to do with it anymore.’
‘I’m aware of the fact. But I don’t see why I should accept it. The reputation of our whole nation is at stake. How can you have the heart to hold yourself so aloof when the fabric you wrought with your blood and tears is falling in shreds about you? The sahebs were forced to admit once that our theatre was not a whit inferior to theirs. Now they laugh and pass snide comments. Won’t you do anything about it?’
‘Why do you come to me? Ardhendushekhar is your man. If anyone can stand up to the British—he can.’
‘Ardhendu is as slippery as a fish. He’s here today—there tomorrow. No one can get hold of him. Besides, his brains have addled with the passing years. No, Girish Babu. You’re the only one who can grasp the oars firmly and bring the floundering boat back to the shore. The need of the hour is a new hall and a new play of such excellence that even the sahebs will have to sit up and take notice.’
‘Who will pay for the new hall?’
‘I will. I’ve bought up the land on which the Great National stood and I’ve started building a new auditorium. It’s a fine imposing mansion fitted with the most modern equipment. I’m calling my theatre Minerva. Do you like the name?’
Girish Ghosh sat silent, frowning in thought. No one had come to him with such a proposal for years now. People thought he was finished. He had thought so too. But the fire of his ego, reduced to ashes by domestic cares, heart break and humiliation, now roared into life. His breast heaved as though huge breakers of salt water were pounding against it. He was Girish Ghosh and he could still show the world what was what. Then, suddenly, he remembered the bond he had signed. Shaking his head sadly, he sighed and said, ‘My contract with Star debars me from joining any other company. I’m sorry. I must respect my own signature.’
‘Nonsense!’ Nagendrabhushan cried out angrily. ‘No one has a right to put in a clause like that. It has no legal standing. You’re Girish Ghosh—not a man to be trifled with. Let me have a look at the contract—’
‘No, no,’ Girish said hastily. ‘I’ve no wish to embroil myself in legal wrangles any more. I’m at peace now. Leave me as I am.’
However, he handed the document over and Nagendrabhushan read it carefully. Presently his lips twitched in a smile. ‘Have you gone through this contract?’ he asked. ‘I don’t need to,’ Girish shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was told what it contained.’ Nagendrabhushan shook his head in admonishment. ‘If you had taken the trouble to go through it you would have realized that you had nothing to fear. The men who drew it up knew that it would have no standing in a court of law. They’ve taken the precaution of adding a line right at the bottom. It says that you’ll have to pay five thousand rupees in case you break the contract.’ Girish Ghosh stood up in his excitement. ‘Really? Let me see,’ he cried, bending over the paper. Nagendrabhushan ran his forefinger over the line and said, ‘I’ll send five thousand rupees to the manager of Star this very evening. Consider yourself released from your bond and get busy writing a crackling good play. We must remember that we are undertaking an important mission—that of reviving the reputation of the theatre in Bengal.’
Girish Ghosh hadn’t touched a bottle for many months but that evening he sent for one. His mind was in a whirl. Sitting before his writing table he hesitated a few moments before taking up his pen. He had known peace and tranquillity for the first time in many years. Did he really wish to exchange them for the strains and anxieties of his old life? The backbreaking work, the hard drinking, the sleepless nights, the endless bickerings and jealousies. He closed his eyes in weariness at the thought. Then, suddenly, he felt the blood leap up in his veins and pound in great waves against his heart. He remembered the bright lights, the gorgeous costumes, the crowds, the music. What glamour! What excitement! He had lived without them for many months. But could he call it living?
Girish drew a sheet of paper towards him. Picking up a quill he dipped it in ink and wrote MACBETH. The idea of an adaptation of this great play had been simmering in his head ever since Nagendrabhushan had told him that they needed a script that would shock the sahebs out of their complacence. He would begin with Shakespeare; with one of his greatest tragedies. Girish’s pen raced over the paper for an hour or so. Then he rose and, taking a swig from the bottle, paced up and down the room with the air of a caged lion. His eyes burned and he breathed heavily. ‘They tried to get rid of me,’ he muttered between clenched teeth, ‘But they forgot who I am. I am Girish Ghosh.’ And that moment he took a decision. He would not only write and direct. He would act once again. He would play the lead role. He would be a Macbeth that people wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
But who would play Lady Macbeth? Girish considered Promoda Sundari at first then rejected the idea. She was a good and experienced actress but she had grown quite obese of late and waddled like a duck. Next he considered Teenkari. Teenkari was much younger and far less experienced. But she had promise. Besides, she would look right in the role. She was tall and gaunt and there was something decidedly musculine in her voice and manner.
Girish’s calculations were proved right. The first two nights went off without a hitch and Teenkari received several rounds of applause. Then the blow fell. Teenkari was taken ill and there was no one to replace her. Disaster stared Girish in the face. He had invited the press and some distinguished gentlemen of the city, several Englishmen among them, for the Saturday night’s performance. And he didn’t have a Lady Macbeth.
Ardhendushekhar came to him where he sat disconsolately with his head in his hands. It was lucky for Girish that Ardhendushekhar had suddenly surfaced from heaven knew where and had offered his services. He was playing several characters in the play—one of the witches among them. ‘There’s a girl in the cast Gurudev,’ he said, ‘who knows the whole play by heart. Why don’t you try her out?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Girish lashed out at him. ‘Simply learning the part b
y rote means nothing. Can she act? And that too—Lady Macbeth?’
‘There’s no harm in trying her out, seeing as we have no other option.’
Girish sat abstracted in thought for a few minutes. Binodini was out of the question. Should he send word to Bonbbiharini? Or Kusum Kumari? They were too old. They had retired from the theatre ages ago. Promoda Sundari? He shook his head. ‘Call the girl in,’ he muttered. ‘Let me have a look at her.’
Ardhendushekhar left the room and reappeared a few minutes later bringing a young girl with him. Girish recognized her. She was playing Lady Macduff’s son. She was tall and slim and had long tip tilted eyes with a clear, unflinching gaze.
‘What’s your name?’ Girish asked.
‘Nayanmoni,’ the girl replied.
‘That’s the name we’ve given you. What’s your real name? The name your mother calls you by. Is it Penchi, Khendi, Dekchi, Podi? Which is it?’
‘I don’t have a mother and my name is Nayanmoni.’ ‘Where were you born? Sonagachhi or Hadh Katar Gali? Or was it Goabagan or Ulta Dinghi?’
‘In none of those places. I was born very far away.’
Now Girish looked the girl up and down appraising her carefully. ‘You’re very thin,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Don’t you get enough to eat? I hear you know my whole play by heart. Let me see. Can you recite Lady Macbeth’s Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts?’ The girl not only recited the lines with a rare fluency—she even enacted the part. Girish Ghosh heard her out his brow creased in a puzzled frown. ‘There’s something alien in your pronunciation—a tendency to enlarge the vowel “a”. Tell me truly. Where were you born?’
‘Very far away’ Nayanmoni repeated, then hastened to add, ‘I’ll correct my pronunciation and—’
‘Can you walk like an Englishwoman? Show me.’ Nayanmoni drew herself to her full height. Then, head held high, she walked with arrogant strides across the stage. Girish turned to Ardhendushekhar. ‘Where did you find this girl Saheb?’ he asked.
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