‘We must look for an actor,’ Mahim answered, his face brightening visibly. ‘I’m sure we’ll find—’
‘Don’t be stupid! Where do you mean to look? It’s not a lost cow that you’ll make discreet enquiries at the abattoir. We have actors right in the palace. You can be Jai Singh and Radharaman—Gobinda Manikya. No, that won’t do. He’s too thin. He can be the minister. We could try out Naradhwaj. And I’ll be Raghupati.’ He drew himself to his full height as he said this and stroking his moustaches, added, ‘I’ll act even better than Rabindra Babu. You’ll see.’ Birchandra walked up and down the room excitedly, stroking his chest from time to time. Turning, he ordered sharply, ‘Bring the book!’ Mahim ran out of the room and reappeared after a few moments, a copy of Bisarjan in his hands. Birchandra opened it at random and began declaiming:
‘The truth?
Why shall I not speak it?
Am I afraid?
A craven coward?
The demon goddess …’
Suddenly the book slipped from his hands and Birchandra Manikya fell, face foremost, in a crumpled heap on the floor. Mahim ran to him and, kneeling on the ground, turned him over. Blood was flowing from his nostrils in a thin stream and the corners of his mouth were laced with foam. But his senses were intact. ‘Take me home Mahim,’ he whispered. ‘Back to Tripura. My chest hurts so … it’s about to burst … Take me … before it’s too late.’
It was too late. With these words the king fell into a stupour from which he came out, from time to time, after long intervals. And then he would call out to his first queen Bhanumati. But the moments of consciousness were few and far between. Five distinguished physicians took turns in watching over him day and night. But no one could hold out any hope.
Seventeen days after his fall Birchandra opened his eyes and spoke for the first time. Seeing Samarendra leaning anxiously over him, he placed a trembling hand on his head and whispered, I promised your mother you would be king. Take the throne and don’t let go at any cost.’ Then, smiling wanly at the worried faces around him, he asked, ‘Am I well enough to go back to Tripura?’ The members of the king’s household were delighted at his recovery but the English doctor looked grave. ‘This is a precarious time,’ he warned Mahim. ‘He may slip away any moment. Exercise the utmost caution and care.’
Next day Birchandra felt well enough to sit up for a while leaning against masses of cushions. He even took a few sips from the cup of fruit juice offered to him. Then, addressing Mahim, he said, ‘I’ve lived a good life and kept the throne of my ancestors with strength and policy. I’ve subjugated rebellions and kept peace in my country. And though I’ve indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, I haven’t neglected the spiritual side. I’ve been to Brindaban on a pilgrimage.’ He sighed contentedly then, as if suddenly remembering, he commanded, ‘Take care of my photographs. They mustn’t get lost. And look after my youngest queen. She’s still a child. She mustn’t suffer in my absence.’ Dim, ageing eyes held Mahim’s for a long moment. Then he said almost shyly, ‘Only two of my desires will remain unfulfilled. One is to draw my last breath in the air of Tripura. The other … the other … is to hear that maid … Nayanmoni … sing to me while I’m dying. I’ve longed to hear her sweet voice sing padavalis at my bedside for so long—I can’t even remember. I want to hear that voice … the last thing … before I die.’
Mahim rose and, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, ran out of the room straight to Ardhendushekhar’s house. Nayanmoni had left the theatre, he was told, but she had come back home. Together they went to Gangamoni’s house and sought audience with her lodger. This time Nayanmoni did not refuse. Changing into a garad sari, and covering her shoulders with a shawl, she accompanied the two to the king’s mansion—the house she had lived in and left so suddenly so many years ago. Entering the royal chamber, she seated herself at the king’s bedside. Birchandra was breathing with difficulty. But the moment he saw her a smile of triumph lifted the blueing lips. He was a king, used to getting what he wanted. He had wanted her and here she was. Even while passing into death his heart swelled with a sense of victory. ‘Why did you go away?’ he whispered, ‘I might have lived a few more years if you had … if you had …’ His voice trailed away.
‘What shall I sing?’ Nayanmoni asked softly.
‘Anything you like.’ Then, gasping for air, he continued, ‘Live Bhumisuta. Live long and be happy. My time is over. I’m going …’
Nayanmoni began her song but before she could complete a full verse, Mahim burst out weeping …
In a few hours Birchandra’s house was filled with mourners. With one notable exception. Rabindranath Thakur could not come. While the king had been ill Rabindra had been confined to bed. He had strained his back muscles, while lifting the heavy statue, so badly that he found it difficult to stand—leave alone walk. And when news came that Birchandra Manikya of Tripura was dying, his wife Mrinalini started her labour pains. She was giving birth to Rabindra’s fifth child. Next morning, after seeing his newborn son, he hurried to the burning ghat at Keoratala and laid a bunch of flowers at the dead man’s feet.
Chapter XIV
Exactly eighteen months after their marriage Mohilamoni gave birth to a son. Bharat looked on as the baby lying in the chamber was put up in the courtyard and marvelled at himself. Mohilamoni was in labour but he felt nothing—nothing at all. Not apprehension or anxiety on her behalf nor elation at the thought of becoming a father. But when it started to rain, the water lashing mercilessly at the flimsy structure of grass and bamboo, he suddenly woke up to a sense of impending doom. Mohilamoni was in there, tossing and turning in agony, sweating and struggling to bring forth his progeny, while he stood helpless. The water was seeping through the grass and soaking her to the skin. He was sure of it. What if she caught a chill and died and the unborn babe with her? He ran into the courtyard and started pacing up and down in a fever of anxiety, oblivious of the rain that fell on him in torrents. The midwife and the two women who were assisting her railed at him for his foolishness and bade him to go back to his room and wait. But he turned a deaf ear. He stayed out in the wind and rain till a cry, much like a night bird’s shriek, entered his ears. He breathed a sigh of relief. His child was born and, like every other human being, was weeping its way into the world.
Bharat came back to the house and, entering Mohilamoni’s puja room, knelt before the images of Radha and Krishna. Knocking his head on the floor he wept in gratitude to that Supreme Deity who, in his infinite mercy, had thought fit to bless him with a child. He who had never known a father’s love now had a son to love and protect; to nurture and cherish. He vowed to keep the tiny flame alive through all the winds and storms that might buffet it. He had suffered excruciating agonies at the hand of god. But now he had his reward.
God had rewarded him in other ways too. His hard work at the bank had been recognized and he had risen step by step. Soon after his marriage the agent of the bank, Mr Ferguson, had sent for him. ‘Babu,’ he had said, ‘You will need to improve your financial situation now that you’re married. I’m elevating you to the status of a manager. I could send you to Calcutta if you so wish. Alternatively, you could go to Puri. We are opening a new branch there of which you could take charge.’ Bharat had no desire to return to Calcutta. He had promptly accepted the transfer to Puri and moved there with his wife. Opening a new branch and getting it going was strenuous but he didn’t mind. He worked hard all day then went back to the house he had rented near Singhadwar, with a sense of eager expectancy. He love his home. It was the only home he had ever known. Mohilamoni kept it very neat and pretty with a few pieces of elegant furniture, lace curtains and flowers. She, too, had never had a home of her home and gave it all she had. With her good sense and natural good taste she had created a haven for Bharat to return to at the end of each day. And it was here that God had blessed them with a son.
Mohilamoni recovered from her ordeal in a few days. And to Bharat’s amazement, the child seemed to be
growing by the hour. His features were taking shape and the mottled redness of his skin started disappearing leaving it as smooth and silky as a rose petal. His eyes were like two spoonfuls of the clearest sea water and he kept turning them this way and that exploring his surroundings. He didn’t cry so much these days. He had learned to laugh and he did so frequently, opening his little mouth wide and displaying a tiny tongue and palate as fresh and pink as a kitten’s. Bharat wondered at the child’s innocence. What did he see in this miserable world that made him so happy?
The neighbours were dropping in every day and commenting on the child’s beauty. He was exactly like his mother, they said, except for the chin which was like that of his father’s. Bharat laughed at these remarks. He saw no resemblance to anyone. But one day he got a shock. The cash clerk at the bank, a conservative Brahmin, came to see the child. ‘He is like his mother,’ the man remarked, ‘Happy is the son who has his mother’s face. But his brow is like yours. It bears the royal stamp.’ Bharat’s heart quaked and a shudder passed over his frame. ‘Why did he say that?’ he thought frightened, ‘Does he know the truth?’ But the very next moment he laughed in relief for the man continued, ‘This boy will grow up to be a judge. Or at the very least—a magistrate.’ It was true, Bharat thought. Judges and magistrates magistrate.’ It was true, Bharat thought. Judges and magistrates were treated like kings these days.
Bharat caught himself staring at mother and babe particularly when Mohilamoni was suckling him. He found the scene incredibly beautiful. Her face, turned sideways to her son, had a radiance—a rare beauty. Her long eyelashes quivered; her lips shone. The breast, pushed out of her jacket, gleamed as lustrous as mother of pearl. He wondered if anyone had ever held him like that. His mother had died when he was born. Had any other breast given him sustenance? Now, more than ever, he saw Mohilamoni’s resemblance to Bhumisuta. Her new motherhood made it sharper; more poignant. And, looking on his son, he saw the same tilt of the eyes and curve of the mouth. The child could have been Bhumisuta’s! He caught himself sharply. What was he thinking of? Bhumisuta was lost to him. That phase of his life was over. He must try and forget her. He owed it to Mohilamoni.
One day Mohilamoni said to her husband, ‘We call him Sona but the boy must be given a proper name. You must choose one for him. I have no idea of the kind of names men have in Assam from where you come.’ Bharat was silent. He had told everyone here that he came from Assam because his mother had been Assamese. He hadn’t breathed a word about Tripura or Calcutta. He didn’t feel as though he belonged to either of those places. His natural father had banished him from Tripura and his surrogate father Shashibhushan, who had brought him to Calcutta, had told him that he didn’t want to see him ever again. It was only here, in Orissa, that he felt loved and wanted. He worked here and had married here. He would spend the rest of his life here and his son would be Oriya. ‘We’ll call him Jagannath,’ he said on an impulse then, correcting himself, he added, ‘No, Jagannath is too common. Jagatpati is better. I am Bharat Singh. My son will be Jagatpati Singh Deo.’
When Jagatpati was a year and a half, word came that Mohilamoni’s father was seriously ill and wished to see his daughter. Making arrangements at the bank took three days and, at the end of that period, Bharat set off for Cuttack with his wife and son. There was a train to Cuttack but it had to be caught from Khurda Road. Thus the first phase of the journey had to be undertaken by palki. It was a winter morning and bitterly cold. through a deep forest, Bharat had been warned that it was infested with brigands who waylaid travellers and robbed them of their lives and valuables, and had, in consequence, taken the precaution of travelling with two armed guards. He had no fears that bright winter morning particularly in view of the fact that it was only a day’s journey. They would reach the rail station well before sundown. Husband and wife sat facing one another in the palki taking turns in holding the child. Bharat’s heart was fit to burst with pride as he looked on his little family. The aanchal had slipped from Mohilamoni’s head and her face was open to view. Her fair cheeks glowed in the winter sunlight and a sweet fragrance came from the flowers that adorned the knot of rich hair on top of her head. She had dressed the boy with special care in a red velvet coat, white woollen cap and socks and gold bangles on his tiny wrists. They laughed and chatted as they went along. And then …
The bearers screamed in terror and dropped the palki. Bharat thought they had seen a wild animal and, opening the door, he stepped out to see them fleeing into the forest. He tried to call out to them but before he could do so three men, terrifying in aspect with swords in their hands, bore down on him. One of them touched the tip of his sword to Bharat’s chest and hissed, ‘Shut your mouth, bastard. Utter a word and you sign your death warrant.’ Bharat could hardly believe his eyes. It was broad daylight. How could this be happening? And the guards—the armed guards he had brought to protect them! Where were they? He turned his head to find one of them lying on the ground threshing his limbs in agony. The other had disappeared. ‘Don’t take our lives,’ he entreated his captor in a hoarse whisper, ‘We’ll give you everything we have’ A harsh command from one of them compelled Mohilamoni to come, trembling, out of the palki—her baby clasped tightly to her bosom. The men dragged her forward by the hair and proceeded to strip her of all her jewels, from the gold pins in her hair to the rings on her toes. But they wanted more than just her jewels. Their eyes burned with lust. One of them snatched the baby from her breast and flung him into a bush. Another grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him. Mohilamoni screamed. And, hearing that scream, something snapped inside Bharat. It was happening again! His cursed destiny was dogging him, threatening to take all he had. Over and over again he built up something only to lose it. He wouldn’t allow it. Not this time. Without stopping to think he flung the sword aside with a powerful thrust of his arm and leaped on his captor. The strength and frenzy of seven devils seemed to have entered his body as he rolled over and over and, reaching the sword, took it in his hand. Then, springing up, he cried out in a terrible voice, ‘Let go of her, sons of bitches, or you die!’ Bharat had never uttered a term of abuse in his life. He never raised his voice. But now, he wasn’t himself. He was someone else. He knew only one thing. He had to save his wife and child or die in the attempt.
But, however desperate he was, he couldn’t have fought the three men singlehanded for long. Luckily for him, two more palkis appeared on the scene. The armed guards accompanying them rushed towards the brigands crying ‘Ré ré ré!’ at which the three bandits dropped their weapons and fled. Bharat chased them through the woods for a while, then turning back, he fainted. He was revived and taken to the rail station by his saviours where he caught the train to Cuttack. He had averted the disaster that threatened to engulf him and in the process he had learned a lesson. He realized that he had to fight his destiny; to resist it. He decided to buy a gun and keep it with him all the time. But the next blow came so swiftly and suddenly that he got no chance to retaliate.
Three or four days passed. The child, having fallen inside a leafy bush, had escaped unhurt. And Mohilamoni, except for being dragged by the hair and pushed to the ground, hadn’t suffered any physical injuries. The wound was to her spirit, and that refused to heal despite the love and affection that was showered on her and her child by her parents and siblings. Everyone went into raptures over the boy’s beauty. Mohilamoni’s ailing father, though he hadn’t fully endorsed his daughter’s second marriage, softened towards her on account of the child who was his only grandson. All the other children of his generation were girls. Pressing five gold guineas in the little hands he blessed the boy. But none of this had the power to soothe Mohilamoni and make her forget. It was only when she thought of how her husband had taken on three armed men, single handed, in an attempt to save her, that balm fell on her lacerated soul. Bharat often found her weeping into her pillow. ‘Forget it Moni,’ he told her, stroking her head tenderly. It won’t happen again. No one can touch
you while I draw breath, ever again.’
Somewhat stifled in the cocoon of love and warmth that enqulfed him Bharat escaped, now and then, to Biharilal Gupta’s house and to those of some of his old friends. One morning he decided to visit the bank in which he had worked and meet his ex-colleagues. While they sat drinking tea and talking shop a servant came running in with the news that Bharat was wanted in the house immediately. Mohilamoni had had a fall, while bathing, and lost consciousness. Bharat came rushing back to find a kaviraj sitting by his wife’s side, a finger on her pulse, while she lay as pale and still as if in death. The man looked up as Bharat entered and shook his head helplessly. She was still alive, he said, but in a state of acute danger. A vein had ruptured in her head and was haemorraging into the brain.
Three days went by with no change in Mohilamoni’s condition. More doctors were sent for but not one—not even the English civil surgeon—held out any hope. They all had the same prognosis. Death was only a matter of time. Only a miracle could save her.
Bharat couldn’t believe what he heard. Mohilamoni was only twenty-three. Why should she leave the world? What had she done? What kind of judgment was being passed on her? And why? He could fight life but how could he fight death? Standing by her bedside he broke into a violent fit of weeping, calling out her name, again and again, with the passion of a madman, till her brothers were forced to take him away.
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