‘I was in Allahabad at the time,’ Jadugopal murmured, ‘So I couldn’t go and see him.’
‘I remember it as if it was yesterday.’ Dwarika’s voice rose, loud and full, as though suddenly enthused. ‘It was the thirteenth of Sravan. I remember the date clearly. Basi and I were sitting on the terrace and she was singing … It was well past midnight when she pointed to the sky and cried, “Look! Look at that beam of light moving slowly across the sky! A great soul is leaving the earth.” I looked up but could see nothing. Next day I heard Vidyasagar Moshai had breathed his last in the middle of the night—at two-thirty to be precise.’
‘Ogo!’ Basantamanjari interrupted Dwarika’s reminiscences with a sudden question. ‘Where is that friend of yours? The one called Bharat.’
‘I have no news of him. Irfan says he disappeared one morning and was never seen again.’
‘He’s gone far—very far,’ Basantamanjari murmured dreamily.
‘When did this happen?’ Jadugopal asked curiously.
‘It’s been many years now. Six—no seven years. Basi keeps asking after him even though she has seen him only once in her life. I used to feel jealous at one time. But it’s over now. He may be dead for all I know.’
The two friends chatted for a while longer then Jadugopal rose to his feet. He had a long way to go.
Dwarika went to Bankimchandra’s house religiously every day. The great man was adamant in his refusal to have the operation preferring to die of the pain than suffer the indignity of being cut to ribbons by the surgeon’s knife. Fate was on his side for, quite miraculously, the boil burst on its own and the blood and pus drained away out of his body. The wound healed and he felt much better. Now he could sit up and talk to his visitors.
‘Why do you haunt my bedside you foolish boy?’ he asked Dwarika one day. ‘Are you still hoping to get a novel out of me?’
‘You mustn’t give up writing,’ Dwarika begged, clasping the sick man’s feet with his hands. ‘Don’t write for my journal if you’d rather not. Write for Bharati. Or for Sahitya. You are our pride and strength. We won’t let go of you that easily.’
Bankimchandra smiled wryly. The end was coming near slowly but steadily. He knew it. He felt it in his bones. Around the ruptured boil others were rearing their heads—a whole crop of them, small as pimples but filled with a deadly poison. Pain lashed his worn body once again; excruciating pain that drove him into a coma. Then, one day in late Chaitra, between sleeping and waking, Bankimchandra passed away. It was not only the end of the year; it was the end of the century. A new age was being ushered in. It would dawn in a few days but Bankimchandra would not be there to see it.
Chapter IX
Macbeth, though hailed by critics as the best play of the year, was not a box office success. The public didn’t take to it and the audience dwindled in number so rapidly that the management was alarmed. Running a theatre was a business after all. What was the point of staging a play, however good it was, if only a handful of intellectuals came to see it? At length, even Girish Ghosh was forced to admit the truth. People didn’t want to see a serious play. He felt so frustrated that he was tempted to give it all up and go back to writing his book on Ramkrishna. But he had signed a contract with Minerva and couldn’t quit upon a whim. Besides Nagendrabhushan was a perfect gentleman. It was but fair to consider his interest. Abandoning his grand plan of adapting and staging Shakespeare’s plays one by one, Girish turned his hand to writing little pieces full of fun and froth with no substance. One by one they emerged from his pen—Mukul Manjura, Abu Hossain, Baradin ér Baksheesh, Saptami té bisarjan—farce, not even comedy, full of slapstick humour and laced with erotic songs.
After the box office had revived a little Girish set himself seriously to writing a new play. He had been hurt and offended by some newspaper reviews which had likened his latest work to the ‘dancing of buffoons’. The need of the hour was a play which would have quality as well as general appeal. He decided to fall back on the Mahabharat as he had done so often before. For the new venture he selected the story of Jana. The audience hadn’t seen a mythological play for many years now and would welcome the rich sets and gorgeous costumes. Besides Jana had a strong story line and a variety of characters. Into this blend Girish mixed a little of his own philosophy. But he took care not to serve it up neat. He coated it in humour, subtle but pungent.
This time Girish decided to stay out of the stage and gave his son Dani the hero’s role. Dani had a wonderful voice, even deeper and richer than his father’s. In fact many people said that, in a few years, Dani would outstrip his father as an actor. Teenkari Dasi was Jana and Ardhendushekhar the clown. This last role was really the most important one in terms of the theme. The clown had all the punch lines.
Jana was a great success and ran to full houses night after night. Then, when its popularity had reached its zenith, the blow fell. Ardhendushekhar came to Girish Ghosh’s house one morning and, after a hearty breakfast of kachuris and rosogollas and several cups of tea, he broke the news. ‘You’ll have to let go of me,’ he announced calmly, ‘The bird is poised for flight.’ Girish Ghosh froze at these words. He knew Ardhendushekhar. He was an extremely gifted actor but moody and impulsive. The love of roving was in his blood and he couldn’t put down roots. Nothing and no one could pin him down. He was indifferent to wealth and fame and could abandon them on a moment’s whim. He had a fascination for the occult and took off from time to time in its quest. He had spent several months in the mountains learning Hatha Yoga from a sadhu and he had taken lessons in hypnotism from Colonel Alcott.
‘Why! Where are you planning to run off this time?’ Girish cried, making his voice loud and jocular. ‘Just when we are starting to make waves! Now, listen to me brother. We need you in Minerva. You can’t abandon us.’
‘That’s exactly what I propose to do.’
‘Are you leaving Calcutta?’
‘No. But I’m leaving Minerva.’
‘Why? Has anyone offended you? Who would have the guts? Besides, everyone loves you.’
‘No one has offended me. And even if they had—I have a thick skin. The truth is —’
‘Has Star recalled you?’
‘No. Besides, I wouldn’t go back to Star if they begged me on their knees.’
‘Go home Saheb,’ Girish cried in a burst of irritation, ‘and stop bothering me. No one has hurt your feelings! No theatre has offered you a job! Your role in Jana is being acclaimed by one and all! Yet you wish to leave. It doesn’t make sense.’
Ardhendushekhar took the albola from the older man’s hand and put the pipe to his lips without troubling to wipe it. ‘Let me be frank with you then,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a worm stirring in my brain. I keep trying to shake it off but it won’t go. I want to be Number One.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You write the plays. You direct the actors and actresses. You even compose the music. I leap and prance upon the stage at your command.’
‘Is that all?’ Girish Ghosh sounded relieved. ‘Very well then. I put the next play in your hands. Write, direct—do everything. You be Number One. I’ll keep out of the way.’
‘That’s easier said than done. Wherever you are you’ll predominate. Do you know what decided me? I had a queer dream last night. I dreamt I was a tiger in a jungle roaring at the top of my voice. When I awoke I understood what it meant. I may be a tiger but you are the King Lion. If I mean to be king I must find another jungle.’
‘Indigestion!’ Girish gave a great cackle of laughter. ‘You must have stuffed yourself with pulao and mutton curry floating in ghee and spices. That’s why you had this silly dream. Go home and drink some lime water, then get back to bed. You’ve had a disturbed night and —’
‘No, Girish. My mind is made up. Emerald has been lying vacant for several months now. I’m going to rent it and start a company of my own. I’ve made all the arrangements.’
‘Who is the producer?’
�
�No one. I’m putting in my own money. I don’t want anyone holding a stick above my head. I’m going to be Number One. Remember?’
Now Girish was truly alarmed. Taking Ardhendu’s hands in his he pleaded, ‘Don’t do such a thing Saheb. It’s a terrible risk to take. We are artistes. What knowledge do we have of financial matters? Look at me. I could have been manager of Star had I wanted to. But I steered clear of all that. I know you. You have the spirit of a true artist. Be Number One if you wish. Go anywhere you like. But don’t try to run the business yourself. You’ll be ruined.’
‘Un hunh,’ Ardhendushekhar shook his head. ‘I’ve told you the worm in my brain won’t let me rest. I’ll have to try it out. After all, all I’ll lose is a little money.’
‘What about the play? Jana will crumble to pieces without you. No one can do your role.’
‘You can.’
‘I’m too old.’
‘Why? You played Macbeth only the other day.’
‘But the part was written for you. The audience adores you. They won’t accept a substitute.’
‘They’ll accept you alright.’
Ardhendushekhar left Minerva after three days and a number of the company went with him. Just before he left he sent for Nayanmoni. ‘Will you come with me Nayan?’ he asked her then went on in the forthright manner that was habitual with him. ‘You’ll never play heroine in this theatre. Be sure of that. Teenkari is Girish’s favourite and you’ll never take her place. I’ve studied you. You have the potential. All you need is a little spit and polish.’ Nayanmoni didn’t know what to say. She revered Girish Ghosh like a god and had resolved to learn the art of acting at his feet. But Ardhendushekhar was like her father. It was he who had picked her off the streets and brought her to the theatre. She owed him her very existence. Coming home she consulted Gangamoni. ‘Take his offer. Take it,’ Gangamoni was quick to advise. ‘It’s a great chance. Don’t lose it. One should never stay in one place too long. The more one moves the higher one reaches. Besides,’ and here she dropped her voice though no one was listening, ‘Ardhendushekhar is a better trainer than Girish Ghosh. I’ve spent a lifetime in the theatre. I know what I’m talking about.’ Then, raising her voice, she cried, ‘If you refuse this offer I’ll drive you out of my house at the end of my broomstick. I swear I will.’
The next day Nayanmoni left Minerva and joined Emerald. The first play Ardhendushekhar chose for performance was Atul Krishna Mitra’s Ma. Nayanmoni was to play the female lead. She was to get one hundred and fifty rupees a month, free meals during rehearsals and a carriage to fetch her to the theatre and take her back. Ardhendushekhar was a generous man.
But though kind and fun-loving in general, Ardhendu was a hard taskmaster and extremely strict during rehearsals. No one dared utter a sound or move from his place from fear of provoking a sarcastic comment. He also took a lively interest in each one’s personal habits and gave good advice. ‘What do you eat during the day Nayan?’ he asked her one day, ‘Begin with breakfast.’ On hearing her account he flung his hands in the air with a cry. ‘You mean to tell me you eat no fish or meat? You’re not a widow, are you? Even if you are let me tell you something. An actress has no social obligations. Your job is to sing and dance and entertain the public, sometimes for hours at a stretch. How can you hope to do that on a diet of rice and greens? From where will you get the energy? No, no Nayan—this won’t do. You must eat some fish or meat everyday to keep up your strength. Do you drink?’
‘No.’ Nayanmoni shook her head.
‘Is anyone keeping you? I mean, do you have a Babu?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a lover then?
‘No.’
‘Are you married? Do you have a husband?’
‘No.’
‘No! No! No!’ Ardhendu echoed angrily. ‘Is that all you can say? I hope you are lying because if you aren’t it’s something to worry about. A woman needs to sleep with a man from time to time. The sap dries up in her body and her face becomes hard and brittle if she’s left alone for too long.’ Then, winking at her, he whispered, ‘I can help you out you know. But doubtless you think me too old. We must find a young buck for you.’
The play was staged after two months of rigorous rehearsing. The critics were thrilled with it and so was the audience. Nayanmoni’s role was praised to the skies and she was referred to in newspaper columns as the ‘rising star in the horizon of the Bengali theatre’. But though playgoers were flocking to Emerald, night after night, it was obvious that the expenses incurred went far beyond what was coming in. Ardhendushekhar’s own investment had been swallowed up and he was heavily in debt. It seemed as though Girish Babu’s prophecy was coming true. But Ardhendushekhar would not give up his dream. He decided to take on a partner, a businessman called Harishchandra Malakar, and set about signing a contract with him. Harishchandra would not only pay off Ardhendushekhar’s debts, he would finance the new play and take charge of the accounts in future.
On the day the contract was to be signed Harishchandra brought his legal advisor with him—a young barrister, newly returned from England, named Jadugopal Roy. One by one the members of the cast came up to him and signed their names or put their thumb impressions on the papers spread out before him. When Nayanmoni’s turn came the barrister looked at her curiously. He had seen the play twice and had been fascinated by her beauty and histrionic ability. Now, in her simple sari of striped cotton with her hair tied carelessly in a knot at the nape of her neck, she looked a different person altogether. Yet, there was something vaguely familiar about her. He was sure he had seen her somewhere; somewhere other than the theatre. The more he looked at her the surer he was. Moved by an impulse he blurted out, ‘Nayanmoni Dasi must be your stage name. What’s your real name?’
‘Nayanmoni is my name. I have no other.’
‘You can’t fool me. I’ve seen you before—many years ago. I have a good memory and forget nothing. While in College I had a friend called Bharat. One afternoon some of us were picnicking in the woods in front of his house in Bhabanipur. A young girl came and lit the fire for us. She was a pretty girl, well educated and could sing and dance. As far as I remember the girl’s name was Bhumisuta. Am I right?’
Nayanmoni froze where she stood. Her lips went dry and drops of sweat broke out on her forehead. ‘Bharat was my friend,’ Jadugopal went on, relentless in his probing. ‘I hear he has disappeared from Calcutta. Do you have news of him?’
‘No,’ Nayanmoni’s voice was no more than a whisper. Then suddenly she started screaming, ‘No! No! No! I know nothing. Nothing.’ Turning, she ran out of the room, out of the theatre and climbed into her carriage. Reaching home she flung herself on her bed in a storm of tears. ‘What’s wrong with you child?’ Gangamoni asked over and over again. ‘Has any son of a bitch said anything to you?’ But Nayanmoni did not answer. She buried her head deep into her pillow and wept as though her heart would break.
Chapter X
It was past midnight and the house was dark and still. All the inmates were asleep barring one. Rabindra stood by the window, his hand gripping a bar. The knuckles were clenched and the veins stood out over the fair skin. A terrible rage had taken possession of him. His eyes burned and the blood thudded against his heart in angry spurts. It was an unusual condition for him. Rabindra was patient and tolerant by nature and rarely allowed himself to lose his cool. A poet couldn’t afford to. Anger clouded a man’s imagination and blunted his creative powers. He kept telling himself this but it wasn’t helping. Not this time.
This trip to Orissa seemed to have been jinxed from the start. He had come, ostensibly, on a tour of his estates but in reality he had wanted a change. He had wanted to get away from the pulls and pressures of Calcutta and to spend a few days relaxing with his friends and enjoying the spectacular beauty of the sea and lush green land. The sea, in particular, drew him like a magnet. He had crossed the Atlantic on his way to England. He had spent several holidays by the Arabian Sea. B
ut he had never seen a more awesome; a more wondrous sight than the sea of Puri. He could stand on the sands for hours on end feasting his eyes on the breakers that swelled so high they seemed to touch the sky before rolling majestically to the shore. The deafening roar threatened to tear his ear drums. The water, warmed by aeons of tropical sun, curled and foamed about his feet. The wind all but knocked him down with every gust. But he never had enough of it. He stood gazing at the great expanse, hour after hour, his heart as light as though transported into another world. Yet it was in this very paradise that Rabindra had had a bitter experience.
His host and hostess Biharilal Gupta and Soudamini were old friends and excellent people, but having brought him to Puri for a holiday, couldn’t bear to leave him to his own. His soul cried out for seclusion but he had to endure their company and that of their friends every single minute of the day. Even that wasn’t so bad.
Rabindra didn’t mind meeting the local people who were simple and unassuming and came in small groups. But he drew the line at meeting the big officials of the town particularly if they were British.
Biharilal didn’t know Rabindra’s bashful nature and couldn’t understand his need for privacy. He thought it was his duty as host to introduce him to important people. Rabindra’s presence was a feather in his cap and he liked to show him off. But it wasn’t only that. He was thinking of the boy’s welfare. Rabindranath was a scion of the noble house of Jorasanko and a poet. But who knew him outside Bengal? It was important that he met people wherever he went and, to this end, Biharilal insisted on taking him to the house of the District Magistrate. Rabindra begged to be let off but Biharilal pointed out that, as a zamindar come to tour his estates in Orissa, it was his duty to call on the DM. Protocol demanded it.
Flushed with his plan Biharilal sent a letter to Mr Walls informing him that he was bringing his distinguished guest to meet him that evening. But when they reached the saheb’s bungalow they were surprised to find that there was no sign of a welcome. A chaprasi made them wait on the veranda and went inside to inform his master and mistress. He came out in a few minutes with the message that the saheb and memsaheb were busy and couldn’t see them. However, they could come back the next morning. Rabindra’s face turned pale with humiliation. Biharilal, though considerably mortified himself, insisted that the saheb and memsaheb were decent people and wouldn’t misbehave with him. There must be some communication gap, he assured Rabindra, over and over again.
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