First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Mr Mustafi name hamara

  Chaatgaon hamara acché Bilaat Rom—ti—tom—ti—tom …’

  The lunatic stared at him for a few moments his little eyes winking and blinking, all on their own, like black jewels. Then, without a word, he ran to the river’s edge and plunged into the roaring waves. Ardhendu took out a charred stump of a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Taking a puff he gazed out on the river which, though it was so early in the day, was already teeming with bathers. The black head of the madman bobbed up and down, up and down, like a cork. He wondered a bit. He had thought lunatics were afraid of water. Presently the man clambered up the bank and stood before him. ‘Give,’ he commanded, putting out a dripping hand.

  ‘Give what?’ Ardhendu asked belligerently.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to give. Get lost.’ He added, muttering, to himself, ‘I’m a beggar myself. What can I give another?’ The lunatic stood where he was, his neck twisted sideways, holding Ardhendu’s eyes with his own tiny, sparkling ones. A wicked smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I’ve acted a lunatic time after time,’ Ardhendu thought suddenly. ‘Why didn’t I act like this man? I should study his mannerisms and tuck them away in my head for future use.’ It didn’t occur to him that there would be no future use. Two pairs of eyes held each other—observing, scrutinizing. Then Ardhendu rose and, putting an arm around the other’s shoulder, he said ‘Come, dost!. Let’s have some hot jilipi. I have a couple of annas in my pocket.’

  Ardhendu Shekhar returned to the same spot the next day to see the lunatic rolling in the dust, whining and sobbing like a child. But he hauled himself into a sitting position the moment he beheld his friend of the day before, and reached for the cone of sal leaves he held in his hand. Digging into it he brought out a radha ballavi. Then, jabbing his forefinger into its crisp, puffed up crust, he blew kisses at it and murmured as coyly as if he was addressing his sweetheart. ‘May I nibble you just a teeny, weeny bit?’ Ardhendu Shekhar watched him fascinated. He spent the next four days with the man studying him closely, storing away every detail in his memory—the expression of the eyes, the twist of the limbs. He felt he was learning acting for the first time.

  On the fifth day the lunatic was gone. Ardhendu hung about the bank for a few hours waiting for him, then sauntered over to a sadhu’s akhara in the burning ghat a few hundred yards away. The man was a dangerous criminal, a drug addict and a fugitive from justice masquerading as a holy man. Ardhendushekhar knew that but he hung around him nevertheless. He had played the role of a charlatan sadhu once or twice and might play it again in future. The world was full of men of different kinds and callings and the theatre reflected them all.

  In order to reach the Ganga Ardhendu Shekhar had to cross the red light area of Rambagan. The place slept under the sun all day and came awake at night to the moon and stars, with music, laughter and drunken brawls. One evening, as he shuffled idly along, he was startled by the sound of loud voices flowing out from one of the houses. A male voice, slurred with alcohol, was abusing and threatening while a woman’s, shrill and piteous, wept and pleaded. A crowd of onlookers hung outside the door pushing and jostling one another in order to get a better view of whatever was going on within. Ardhendu Shekhar was thoroughly alarmed. Even though a scene of this kind was not uncommon in that particular neighbourhood, he couldn’t suppress his agitation. Anything might happen any moment now. The drunken monster might hurl a bottle at the woman’s head injuring her badly—even killing her. He made his way to the crowd and, raising himself on tiptoe, peered into the room. O Hari! It wasn’t a real quarrel. It was a scene from a play being rehearsed by a group of amateurs. He listened, ears cocked, for a few moments and recognized it. It was Deenabandhu Mitra’s Neel Darpan.

  The scene was being enacted at the centre of a long hall spread with cotton mats. Ten or twelve men and women sat in chairs scattered about the room waiting for their cues. Ardhendushekhar identified the director instantly from the open book in his hand as well as the way he fluttered about like a distracted hen and called ‘Silence! Silence!’ when the public outside became too noisy. Ardhendushekhar got so caught up by what he was seeing that he abandoned his plan of walking to the river. In fact, it seemed to him, that he had no will or volition of his own in the matter. His feet were rooted to the ground and would not move.

  The cast was a half-baked one with no training whatsoever. The director seemed to be little better. The voices were either dim and vapid or unnecessarily loud with no modulations or nuances. One of the actors had a speech defect and he stammered and stuttered all the way through his part. And a number of the cast hadn’t memorized their lines. Watching the rehearsal, that jewel in the crown of the Bengali theatre—Ardhendushekhar Mustafi, could hold himself in no longer. ‘Chup!’ the rich, musical voice, teeming with inflections, hit the ears of everyone present like a roll of thunder, ‘Tum shala na layak achhé!’ Every head turned around, the voice still booming in their breasts. Who had spoken those words? They were part of the Englishman’s dialogue. But whose voice? The director threw a burning glance at the crowd outside and said threateningly, ‘If there’s any more disturbance I’ll shut the door.’

  The rehearsal recommenced. Ardhendushekhar inched his way to the front, slipping and sliding like a snake through the mass of bodies. His lips moved silently, formulating the words that were being spoken within. He knew Neel Darpan by heart—all the lines of all the characters and he murmured them in rapt enjoyment. Suddenly he forgot himself again and roared out the line: ‘Hami tumar baap keno habo; hami tumar chheliyar baap hoite chai.’ The voice was slurred with liquor yet it conveyed every inflection of the arrogance and contempt with which the British planter habitually addressed his ryots. This time Ardhendushekhar was caught. The man who had been playing the role of the Englishman in a squeaking voice and pidgin English, came rushing up and took him by the throat. ‘Shala!’ he screamed shaking him violently with both hands, ‘You dare make fun of me! You’ll get such a kick on your behind that—’

  ‘Forgive me sir,’ Ardhendu pleaded meekly. ‘I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Mistake! What mistake? What club are you from?’

  ‘I don’t belong to any club. I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry.’ But even such abject humility failed to satisfy the man. He raised his hand to cuff Ardhendu Shekhar on the ear, the others shouting encouragement, ‘Give him a sound beating and throw him out.’ But the director had stood still, all this while, staring at Ardhendu Shekhar as if he had seen a ghost. ‘Ei!’ he roared suddenly at the man who still held Ardhendu by the throat, ‘Don’t touch him. Bring him over to me.’ As Ardhendu was dragged, protesting, over to the director, the latter fixed his eyes with a penetrating gaze on his face, taking in every detail—the tired eyes, the chin that hadn’t seen a razor for five days and the soiled uduni. ‘Who are you?’ he asked gently, almost humbly.

  ‘I’m no one. No one of any consequence, that is. I was walking down the street when I … I’ve seen Neel Darpan twice or thrice and remember some of the dialogue. It just slipped out. I’m sorry.’

  ‘My name is Chhoné Mittir,’ the director said. ‘And I’ve haunted the theatre since I was a boy. If I don’t recognize you by your voice I don’t deserve to direct even an amateur production such as this one. You say you are no one of consequence. But I know better. You are Saheb Mustafi.’

  At these words a ripple of excitement ran through the cast and through the spectators who stood outside—their eyes big with wonder. ‘Of course! Of course!’ Four or five voices cried out together. ‘It is Mustafi Moshai! Why didn’t we recognize him?’ Ardhendu Shekhar stood where he was not knowing what to do. Now Chhoné Mittir knelt before him and folded his hands. ‘You’re Dronacharya,’ he said. ‘I’m Ekalavya. I’ve seen you from a distance all these years and marvelled at your genius. Today you stand under my roof. What a blessed day it is for me!’ As if these words were their cue the
actors and actresses all came forward and knelt beside their director forming a circle around Ardhendu Shekhar. The man who had laid hands on him flung himself at his feet and cried, ‘Forgive me for not recognizing you Gurudev! Punish me in whatever way you wish. But give me your blessing.’

  Ardhendu Shekhar’s chest swelled with triumph. Flattery, however base and motivated, fed a man’s ego and restored his self esteem. He hadn’t felt so good in many months. Applause was like food to the artist’s soul. Without it he sickened and fell into a decline. Ardhendushekhar felt as though he had just woken up from a long, long sleep.

  Chhoné Mitter rose to his feet and put the book, reverently, into Ardhendu Shekhar’s hands. ‘Guru,’ he said in a voice so emotional that Ardhendu Shekhar was afraid he would burst into tears any moment. ‘We are your worthless brothers—not fit even to take the dust of your feet. Break us and mould us anew. Teach us the true art.’ The man who was acting Tohrab said, ‘I’ve seen so many of your plays—Mukul Manjura, Abu Hossain, Pratapaditya, Pandav Nirbasan and so many others. Yet I failed to recognize you. I deserve to rot in hell for it. I’ll rub my nose on the streets of Calcutta for a whole mile. I’ll fast for seven days. I’ll—’

  Ardhendu Shekhar put a hand on his shoulder and smiled, ‘You don’t have to do any of those things,’ he said comfortably. ‘You’re not responsible for what you don’t remember. But when you speak the line Shalar kaan ami kamre kete diyecchi go—do it like this.’ Ardhendu walked to the centre of the ring. Then, fumbling in his pocket, he brought out a piece of paper and, holding it before his audience, he looked out of burning eyes and said in the harsh, grating voice of the Muslim rustic ‘Halar kaan ér khanikda chhire niyechhi …’

  Chhoné Mittir’s amateur group, which went by the grand name of Victoria Dramatic Club, put up four to five shows each year. Unable to compete with the professional theatres of Calcutta, these plays were performed mostly in the mofussils where they were quite popular. Barring a couple of actresses no one was paid a salary. From Chhoné Mittir down to the lowest technician, everyone’s contribution was a labour of love. Ardhendu Shekhar agreed to take on the responsibility of training the cast on the condition of complete anonymity. Chhoné Mittir would continue as director and his name would appear in the handbills. Ardhendu would take no money either. But Chhoné could make him a present of three bottles of whisky a day, if he so wished. Chhoné Mittir hastened to agree.

  Within days of Ardhendu Shekhar’s joining the club the venue for the rehearsals was shifted. This time Chhoné found a place where the public could be sealed off completely. The rehearsals commenced with renewed enthusiasm. Ardhendu Shekhar sat in a large chair in the centre of the room, the pipe of an albola at his lips. In one hand he held a glass of whisky. He drank all day—from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning till he shut them finally at night. In consequence he never got drunk. His brain was clear and so was his speech. Between sips from his glass and puffs from his albola he trained the actors and actresses in the art of modulating their voices and articulating their lines. From time to time he rose from his chair and demonstrated the correct gestures of eyes and hands; the tilt of the neck and the set of the shoulders till it seemed as though he was determined to produce star quality theatre from this bunch of callow youngsters.

  One day Chhoné Mitter said to him, ‘I wish to ask you a question Gurudev. But only if you promise not to take offence.’

  ‘You want me to sign on a blank sheet? Very well. Go ahead with your question.’

  ‘There’s a girl called Haridasi—an actress. I sleep with her some nights—’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Married men should sleep with other women from time to time. It improves the circulation and relaxes the mind and body. You’re not asking for my permission, surely.’

  ‘Oh no. It’s like this. Haridasi lives next door to Gangamoni. Gangamoni was a reputed actress at one time and—’

  ‘I know that. Gangamoni is an old friend of mine and I visited her often in the old days. She was better known by her nickname Hadu.’

  ‘Gangamoni has a tenant called Nayanmoni.’

  ‘I know. I know. It was I who gave her the name. Her real name is quite a mouthful. Bhumi—something or the other. Most unsuitable for a heroine.’

  ‘Some people say she’s your natural daughter.’

  ‘Nonsense. I picked her off the streets and turned her into a fine actress. I’ve done that for many of the wenches. Hasn’t Binodini been trained by me? Hasn’t Kusum Kumari? Kshetramoni? Bonobiharini? Are they all my natural daughters?’

  ‘Nayanmoni respects you as her own father.’

  ‘That’s her business. I haven’t asked her to.’

  ‘But she’s in a difficult situation. And it’s owing to you.’ Now Ardhendushekhar’s brows came together. ‘What do you mean by that young man?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘Haridasi tells me that Nayanmoni is bound by oath to work only under your direction. She was with Emerald and—’

  ‘The company passed into another’s hands. The members of the cast lost their jobs. Is that my fault? Does she expect me to find her work? That, I’m afraid, is not possible.’

  ‘No sir. She doesn’t need anyone’s help in finding work. All the theatre companies of Calcutta are begging her to join them. Minerva sent for her. Amar Datta of Classic went personally to her. But she sent him away.’

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t want to work anymore—it’s her business. What can I do about it? If she has lost interest in the stage let her catch a rich Babu and live happily ever after.’

  ‘The girl, from what I hear, is a different type altogether. She’d rather go to Kashi and beg for a living than take a Babu. She loves the stage but, determined to honour her oath, she won’t join another board until you give her your permission.’

  Ardhendushekhar burst out laughing. ‘Ah yes—the oath!’ he said, ‘I’d forgotten. The girl’s a fool. Doesn’t she know that in the theatre business every word that is uttered is a lie? Our tears are false and so are our smiles. Deceiving is our profession. Tell her from me that the oath she took isn’t worth a horse’s egg!’ He laughed merrily for a few moments then, sobering down, added gravely, ‘She’s not only foolish and whimsical—she’s an arrogant wench and I scarcely know what to make of her. Do you know she had the temerity to turn down a maharaja, a real maharaja, who wanted to hear her sing?’

  ‘She may be foolish and arrogant but she’s a superb actress and ought to join Classic. Not only for her own good but for the good of the profession. If you would only go to her and release her from her oath—’

  ‘What!’ Ardhendushekhar thundered ‘I’m to go to her house! How dare you make such a suggestion? I lost my Emerald to that upstart of the Dattas. And you’re advising me to help him get the actress I moulded for my own use! The girl can go to Kashi or to hell. It’s all the same to me.’

  Ardhendushekhar couldn’t sleep a wink that night. He rarely lost his temper but, when he did, his brain got so heated that he couldn’t think of anything other than that which had provoked him. He tossed and turned all night between snatches of fitful sleep in which he saw strange, frightening dreams. Nayanmoni’s face kept appearing in them—now blurred and distant, now close, very close, and clear as glass. Thoughts, loose and disjointed, chased one another like leaves in a storm. And a savage pain tore at his vitals. He had created Nayanmoni! He had taken a lump of clay and wrought it lovingly till it took shape and contour. It was his hands that had formed the turn of her neck, the swing of her arms and the proud poise of the head on her shoulders. It was he who had taught her to smile and weep and walk with grace and dignity. But her eyes were her own. He had never seen eyes like hers. They could express the most superb range of emotions. In them he had seen the shy beauty of a wild doe; the serene tranquillity of a river under a cloudless sky; the fiery lava of an erupting volcano. Which is why he had named her Nayanmoni! She had taken an oath—Chhoné said. But when? He didn’t remember. W
ho cared about oaths anyway? I love you. I’ll never leave you, no—not to my dying day. People said those words and forgot them the very next minute. Was the girl mad? … Classic! Classic! He was sick of the name. Amar Datta had taken his Emerald and made it his own. Everyone said he was heralding a new age. It was easy for him. He had money. He was the son of Dwarkanath Datta—the wealthy agent of Ralli Brothers and Company. His brother Hitendra was a renowned Sanskrit scholar and philosopher …

  It wasn’t uncommon for scions of wealthy families to open theatre companies. They did so at the instigation of their toadies and packed up within a few months after losing a lot of money. But Amar Datta was different. He was applying himself to the theatre business very seriously. He was an extremely handsome man—tall, fair and well formed with a broad chest, powerful shoulders and a deep, manly voice. And he had acting ability. Consequently, he could play the male lead without any competition from others. He was a good director as well and had a discerning eye for props, costumes and hall decor. After acquiring Emerald he had renovated it completely, turning it into the most beautiful and luxurious playhouse in Calcutta. From the lights in the ceiling to the carpets on the floor—he had changed them all. He paid his cast better salaries and got better work out of them. He had also started a theatre magazine.

  All this was very well and Ardhendushekhar had nothing against it. An old theatre hand, he welcomed improvement wherever he saw it. But Amar Datta had made certain statements that set his blood on fire every time he remembered them. ‘We must clear the theatre of old fossils like Ghosh and Mustafi,’ he had declared. ‘Their style is out. Realistic acting is the order of the day.’ Realistic acting indeed! It was true that Amar Datta cut a fine figure in the role of a prince or nawab in historical plays. But could he do a Muslim peasant? A wily shopkeeper? A vagrant? Could he speak in three or four different voices in the time span of a single play as Ardhendushekhar could?