First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘Come Dwarika,’ Jadugopal rose to receive his friend. ‘I’m so ashamed of myself. I heard about your mother’s passing away but I couldn’t attend the shraddha. Do forgive me.’

  ‘You were in Nator at the time were you not?’ Dwarika asked. Then, seating himself, went on to say, ‘I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time.’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve come at a very good time. You’ll have tea with us, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I never say “no” to tea.’

  Sunetra poured out a cup of tea and placed a plate tastefully arranged with ham sandwiches, salted cashewnuts, biscuits and barfi before him. Dwarika’s eyes brightened. He loved good food and could put away masses of it at any time. But Jadugopal punctured his enthusiasm by saying to Sunetra, ‘Don’t give him ham sandwiches. Tell the cook to make some with cucumber.’

  ‘Why?’ Dwarika asked, surprised.

  ‘You’re not supposed to eat meat or fish during the period of Kalashouch. Aren’t you following the traditional customs?’

  ‘You’re a Brahmo and a barrister from England,’ Dwarika bit into a ham sandwich. ‘You’re not supposed to know all this.’

  Dwarika finished everything on his plate then, leaning back, began sipping his tea with relish. ‘The food was marvellous Bouthan,’ he said smiling at Sunetra. ‘I’ve never eaten better sandwiches in my life. As for the tea—’

  ‘I’m very sorry about your mother Dwarika,’ Jadugopal said. ‘She was a great lady. A towering personality! Yet so kind and loving to us all.’ Dwarika nodded in affirmation. ‘I heard you spent a fortune on the shraddha,’ Jadugopal went on. ‘Once here and once in your native village. You distributed clothes to five hundred Brahmins and two thousand destitutes—’

  ‘I didn’t do so because I wanted to. Zamindars are expected to spend lavishly on weddings and funerals. If I didn’t rise to people’s expectations they would think me miserly and unused to the ways of a great family. And they would be right. As you know I’m not a zamindar by virtue of my birth. I inherited the zamindari by a fluke.’

  ‘Are you involved in a lawsuit?’ Jadugopal asked curiously, ‘Has another heir to the estate appeared on the scene?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because people are too busy to visit friends these days, except when they need help. If you are in some legal trouble don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll help you all I can.’

  ‘Wherever there’s property there’s wrangling and dispute. But nothing’s so wrong with my affairs that I’ll need the services of a big barrister like you. No, I haven’t come to you for legal advice.’ Dwarika frowned as though deliberating his next move. Jadugopal waited for him to say something more then, nothing forthcoming, he said, ‘Do you remember Irfan, Dwarika? I helped a relative of his win a case some years ago. He has been sending me clients ever since. In fact my Muslim clients outnumber my Hindu ones—thanks to Irfan.’ Dwarika grunted, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. Jadugopal waited a few moments for a response, then went on, ‘You’ll never believe what happened the other day. I was preparing a case for a Muslim tanner when I discovered that the defendants were some members of the Thakur family. Robi Babu’s name was on the list. You know Robi Babu, the poet? We were such fans of his in our college days! It was terribly embarrassing for me. I had to prosecute members of a family of which I was a son-in-law. Luckily, I managed to get both parties to agree to a mutual settlement out of court.’

  ‘Look Jadu,’ Dwarika said suddenly, interrupting Jadugopal’s train of reminiscences, ‘I saw you sitting with your son on your lap as I came in. Your wife was by your side serving the tea. The scene was so beautiful—it brought tears to my eyes. But it made me a little envious too. I have no one—neither wife nor child. A home is not a home without them.’

  ‘That’s entirely your own fault. You chose not to marry. However, there’s still plenty of time. Find a girl and make her your wife.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I plan to do. But I need your advice and support.’

  ‘Wonderful! Have you set a date? No, of course you haven’t. Your mother passed away only three months ago. You’ll have to wait until the year is out.’

  ‘You seem to know more about our Hindu customs than I do,’ Dwarika said with a touch of asperity. ‘Which Shastra decrees that a man may not marry for a year after his mother’s demise? Can you name it?’

  ‘Of course I can’t. I’m only telling you what I’ve seen all my life.’ Jadugopal was silent for a moment then said cautiously, ‘Don’t take offence, Dwarika, if I ask you a question. You were a conservative Hindu once. What has made you change so?’

  ‘I haven’t changed at all. I was and still am a Hindu and I’m proud of being one. I’m inheritor to one of the noblest, the most catholic religions of the world. But I can’t accept the trappings that have fastened themselves to it—the hateful customs sanctified by usage, the primitivisms, the superstitions. None of them are found in the Shastras.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Jadugopal said hastily for Dwarika was getting quite worked up. ‘Now tell me. Have you chosen the girl? What is her name and where does she come from?’

  Dwarika hesitated. ‘Jadu,’ he said after a while. ‘You know my feelings for Basantamanjari. I’ve loved her ever since I was a boy. But fate was against me. She was given away to another. When I found her again I wanted to make her my wife but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She made me swear a solemn oath and threatened to take her own life if I broke it. My mother’s dead now and I’m free. Free to marry Basi and—’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Jadugopal cried in a stricken voice.

  ‘Why!’ Dwarika exclaimed, startled. ‘Aren’t you on my side?’ ‘Dwarika,’ Jadugopal answered in measured tones. ‘Your father may have been an ordinary man but your mother was a zamindar’s daughter. She was an intelligent woman and knowledgeable in the ways of the world. The oath she made you swear was for your own good. As a zamindar you can keep ten concubines if you like. No one will point a finger at you. But if you give a soiled, unchaste woman the status of wife you’ll set every one of your subjects against you.’

  ‘Basantamanjari is neither soiled nor unchaste.’

  ‘We know that—you and I. But who will believe us? People will judge her by what they see. To all appearance she’s a widow who ran away from home and lived with several men before winding up in a brothel in Hadh Katar Gali. Don’t take such a drastic step Dwarika. Look after Basi as you’ve been doing all these years. But marry another. You need a wife who can take her rightful place by your side and give you children.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Dwarika sneered at his friend’s counsel. ‘Marry an innocent girl knowing fully well that I can never give her the love she deserves! And deny the woman I love the status of a wife! You’ll make a great judge Jadugopal. You’re so upright and noble!’

  ‘Why are you mad at me?’ Jadugopal cried, ‘I’m a Brahmo and have no social constraints to fight against. You are a Hindu. Hindu society holds its members in a vice-like grip and compels submission to its norms. You may have to pay a heavy price if you go against it.’

  ‘I must follow my conscience Jadu. Even at a price. If society decrees that an innocent girl be pushed into a living hell for no fault of her own—I reject that decree. If anyone deserves to be punished, it’s her father. Yet he escapes unscathed! What kind of judgement is this? What is the moral worth of such a decree?’ Rising to his feet Dwarika continued, calmly, without any bitterness, ‘I see that you don’t agree with me Jadu. But, irrespective of whether you stand by me or not, I shall marry Basantamanjari.’

  Jadugopal put out a hand and pushed him back into his chair. ‘When, in God’s name, did I say I won’t stand by you?’ he demanded. ‘Why should I object? I don’t want you to suffer any ill consequences. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m really impressed by your attitude Dwarika Babu,’ Sunetra spoke for the first time that evening. ‘You show exemplary courage and consideration for the poor gi
rl.’

  ‘You’ve changed a great deal from the old Dwarika of our college days.’ Jadugopal said solemnly. ‘You have gained confidence and consistency of mind. I respect you for it. Go ahead with your plan of marrying Basantamanjari. I’ll help you all I can. There are bound to be repercussions and we must be ready for them. I’ll take care of the legal implications—if any. But the resistance put up by your family and society—you’ll have to fight alone. You and Basi.’

  ‘I’m determined to do this thing Jadu and do it I will. No one can stop me. But thank you for your support. It takes a great load off my chest. I’m trying to get back in touch with all my friends. Do you have Bharat’s address? The boy from Tripura?’

  ‘No. Even Bhumisuta had no news of him.’

  ‘Who is Bhumisuta?’

  ‘The girl who helped us light the fire when we picnicked in the woods outside Bharat’s house. Don’t you remember? She’s an actress now.’

  Dwarika nodded. ‘I’ll invite her to the wedding,’ he said, ‘I’m making it a grand affair with thousands of guests. No hole and corner business for me. I want the whole world to know I’m marrying the woman I love.’ He rose to leave and Jadugopal followed him down the stairs. At the carriage door Dwarika put his arms around Jadugopal and said with a break in his voice, ‘I’ve suffered such agonies Jadu! I couldn’t bare my soul to you before your wife. But, do you know, we’ve never come together in a physical union? We’ve lived in the same house, eaten together and slept on the same bed but I’ve had to deny myself night after

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Basi wouldn’t allow it. She said she couldn’t endure the thought of her children being born out of wedlock; to be called bastards and to live out their lives under a cloud of humiliation. Can you imagine the agony of lying beside the woman you love and not being able to touch her? And all for a stupid oath made under a domineering woman’s threat!’ Jadugopal stared at his friend too overcome to speak.

  Dwarika had geared himself to topple over all the impediments that stood in the way of his gaining his heart’s desire. But he hadn’t dreamed that the greatest resistance would come from Basantamanjari herself. He had kept the marriage a secret from her with the idea of giving her a wonderful surprise. But Basantamanjari came to know of it in a devious way. Her maid Moofi had a flirtatious relationship with Dwarika’s watchman and had heard from him that the Babu was to be wed shortly. Preparations had already commenced in the house and the cards printed. This information Moofi duly passed on to her mistress. Basantamanjari, truly happy on hearing that Dwarika was settling down at last, gave her two silver rupees for bringing her the good news and, when Dwarika came to her that evening, she ran eagerly to the door crying out, ‘Ogo! I’m so glad you’ve decided to get married at last. I’ve told you again and again that you need a wife who can give you sons to carry the family name. I only wish you had taken this decision while your mother was alive. Poor lady! My heart goes out to her.’ Dwarika tried to put in a word of explanation but Basantamanjari swept on, ‘I can’t be present at the wedding, of course, but I’ll string the garlands for the mala badal. Promise me that you and your bride will wear my garlands.’

  Dwarika gave a great shout of laughter. ‘You can’t be present at the wedding!’ he cried, ‘Whom shall I marry then?’ Basantamanjari’s face paled. ‘What are you trying to say?’ she asked in a faltering voice. ‘Whatever’s between us—’

  ‘You thought I was marrying someone else? Am I a scoundrel? A cheat? My mother is dead and I’m free of my oath. You shall be my wife in the eyes of God and man. I shall marry you according to Brahmo rites.’

  night.’

  Basantamanjari moved quietly away, her silver anklets chiming softly as she went and stood by the window. The last rays of the setting sun fell on her exquisite profile and glowed richly in the folds of her ruby red silk sari. The waxy petals of the champa, nestling in the masses of her blue black hair gleamed luminous, as mother of pearl. Her long eyelashes rested, in a curve, against a cheek as delicately pink as a pomegranate seed. She looked like a painting, wrought in dim, rich colours, of a woman of yore—unreal, untouched, unearthly. Her low musical voice was husky with tears as she murmured. ‘I cannot be your wife. Fate does not will it. But I’m yours and Will be yours forever. I’ll sing for you as I do now and pour wine for you to drink. I’ll even dance when happiness wells up in my heart. That role is enough for me. I seek no other.’

  Dwarika rose from his seat and, stealing softly up to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Basi,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion, ‘I’ve never forced you to do anything against your will. I’ve never touched or caressed you because you didn’t wish it. Even when I was driven mad with desire—I kept away. But I’ll use force now. You must agree to marry me. All the arrangements are made. I’ve told everyone I know—’

  ‘You’ve told everyone!’ Basantamanjari murmured in a strange, wondering voice. ‘Everyone—except me.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you. I never dreamed—’

  ‘People will scorn you if you don’t marry me now. They’ll call you a cheat and a hypocrite. You’re afraid of that—aren’t you? But I’m afraid too. I’m afraid people will think me a scheming harlot who enticed you into marrying her; a worm from the gutter aspiring to fly to heaven.’

  ‘Why should we care about what people think? We love each other. That’s all that matters. I want you to be my wife and the mother of my children.’

  Basantamanjari turned her face to the sky, now dim with twilight. ‘I see nothing written there,’ she said in a passionate whisper. Then, turning to Dwarika, she cried, ‘Why don’t you understand? I’m a whore. Men don’t marry girls like me.’

  ‘I do and I will. My seed will flower only in your womb. Look into my eyes Basi! Look deep into my soul. Do you not see a fire burning it to ashes, bit by scorching bit? Can’t you leap into the flames to save me? I won’t take you in secret. I won’t take you out of a sense of guilt. I’ll proclaim to the whole world that you are the queen of my home and heart. I want you by my side not only through this life but in all our lives to come.’

  Chapter XVII

  It was Swami Vivekananda’s second visit to England. On his journey out to the West he had sailed by way of Japan, over the Pacific, and had landed in Vancouver. Then, after winning a good measure of acclaim in America, he had been persuaded by the Macleod sisters to accompany them to Europe. Francis and Bessy had set the date for their wedding and the venue was to be that most elegant and sophisticated of European cities—Paris. A Hindu ascetic was debarred from participation in wedding celebrations—even of those of his nearest kin. Yet Swamiji came to Paris. Was it because he had found it impossible to shake off the entreaties of his dearest Joe? Or was it because his wanderlust and love of beauty, suppressed for so long, were asserting themselves and he felt irresistibly drawn to the art and architecture of the most civilized city in the world? All this was true but only up to a point. The intention behind his European visit was deeper and more significant. While in America he had taken a decision. His next step would be to spread the message of Hinduism among the English people. France and England were separated by the thinnest strip of water. Once in France it would be the easiest thing in the world to move on to England. He had good friends there who would be only too happy to put him up.

  One of them was Henrietta Müller whom he had met in America. Another was ET Sturdy. Sturdy had spent some months in an ashram in Almora and was fascinated by Indian ascetics. Both of them had invited Vivekananda, several times, to be their guest.

  At the conclusion of the wedding festivities Vivekananda had left Paris and come to London. He hadn’t stayed long but his sojourn, short though it was, had taught him a good deal about the English people. The English, he had discovered, were far less racist than the Americans. He had walked the streets of London without children running after him crying ‘Blackie! Blackie!’ It was possible for a coloured person to book himself i
nto any hotel or walk into any shop. No one looked askance at him or ordered him out. The men and women who came to his lectures took him seriously and heard him out with patience unlike the Americans who were facetious and offensive by turns. The English had far greater exposure to cultures other than their own and were civilized, in consequence. Compared to them Americans were frogs in a well. Interacting with English men and women, in their own country, he marvelled at the difference between them and the ones who came out to India.

  That, however, had been a short visit undertaken with a view to test the country and its people’s powers of receptivity. This time Vivekananda had come with a purpose. He wished to open some centres from which knowledge of the Vedantas could be disseminated. His English disciples would see to the running of the institutions but who would take the responsibility of delivering the addresses? He, himself, couldn’t be in two places at the same time. He took a decision. He would send for some of his fellow disciples from India. Young men like Sarat, Kali Vedanti and Shashi were well versed in Sanskrit and could read and explain the texts. Besides, they also had a smattering of English.

  The last few months in America had been very productive. It was obvious to everyone that the mockery and hostility with which Vivekananda’s discourses had been received, in the beginning, were considerably diluted by now. More and more people, in search of a spiritual solace their own religion could not give them, were coming to his meetings. His followers were growing in number and a band had emerged, the members of which had declared their intention of devoting their lives to the proliferation of the humanistic ideals of the Vedantas. It was at this juncture that Swamiji had started giving deeksha and receiving the people of the West into the Hindu fold. Herr Leon Landsberg and Mary Louis, among the first to be initiated, were renamed Kripananda and Abhayananda and became disciples of Sri Ramkrishna—the same Ramkrishna who had lived out his life as a humble priest in the temple of Dakshineswar, unknown even in his own country, except to a handful of people.