Balgangadhar Tilak had been immensely successful in Maharashtra both with his popularization of Ganesh Puja and his launching of Shivaji Maharaj as an icon for Maratha youth. Needless to say, the rest of India did not share these sentiments. English historians had no opinion of Shivaji. They called him ‘the mountain rat’, and denounced his perfidious killing of Afzal Khan. Indian intellectuals, from Bengal in particular, tended to agree with the British. But Tilak’s defence of Shivaji was readily accepted by his own people and, to tell the truth, even by Sarala. Yet Sarala wanted an icon from her own region. After a good deal of deliberation she hit upon Pratapaditya. ‘I’m willing to preside over your meeting,’ she told Monilal, ‘but upon one condition. You must help me organize a Pratapaditya Utsav. He was crowned king on the first of Vaisakh. Let us mark that day by honouring him. Start by collecting all the material you can find about his life and reign, then get one of your members to prepare a citation. Remember to give his courage and valour the utmost prominence. We will honour his memory—not with readings from literary texts but with demonstrations of physical prowess. Scour the streets of Calcutta and get together the best sword fencers, lathiyals and wrestlers. I shall present gold medals inscribed with the message Deva durbalghataka to the best performers.’
The first of Vaisakh arrived. Sarala stepped on to the dais dressed in a white silk sari with a veil partially covering her head. Her neck and arms were like moulded marble—stark and bare of adornment. Taking up a garland of blood-red hibiscus she hung it on the full-size oil painting of Pratapaditya that stood on one side. Then she took her seat without a word. The events commenced. Never had these obscure club premises of Bhabanipur witnessed so many people together. Crowds milled around the combats spilling out into the streets. People climbed trees and rooftops and peered through the windows of neighbouring houses. It was a historic moment! Bengalis, contemptuously dismissed by the other races of India as ‘rice eating cowards’, were wielding weapons and a beautiful young girl from one of the highest families in the land was standing on the dais calling out encouragement.
Next day the newspapers were full of praise for the occasion. Even a staid, conservative paper like the Bangabashi gushed admiration: ‘Ah me!’ the column read, ‘What a sight these eyes beheld! What a gathering! No speeches, no readings, no thumping of tables. A great son of Bengal was honoured by demonstrations of unparalleled skill and valour! A high-born Brahmin maiden, tenderly reared, bestowed prizes of honour to the strongest and the bravest with her own delicate hands. It seemed as though the ten-armed goddess had stepped down from Heaven and taken refuge in her person.’
After this the Pratapaditya Utsav gained in popularity and was celebrated in several other neighbourhoods of Calcutta. Enthused, Sarala began delving into the history of Bengal and discovering new heroes. One of them was Pratapaditya’s son Udayaditya. No one had heard of Udyaditya for history held no glory for him. He had lost his kingdom to the Mughals. But what impressed Sarala was the fact that he had faced the vast army pitted against his own feeble one and fought alongside his soldiers to the death. Was not fighting and dying for one’s country an act of valour? The time had come for the young men of India to emulate his example. Sarala set a date and started making arrangements for holding a meeting in honour of Udayaditya.
The venue chosen for the occasion was the celebrated Albert Hall on College Street and the eloquent speaker Kshirod Prasad Vidyavinod was invited to preside and address the audience. Despite a good deal of search no portrait of the dead hero could be procured. Sarala decided to set up a sword, instead, to which everyone who came would pay floral tribute. It was an antique sword, very valuable, with emeralds and diamonds studded around the hilt. Sarala had borrowed it from the family of a wealthy zamindar of Calcutta.
The meeting was to commence at four in the evening. However, a few minutes after noon, Shreesh Sen came running to Sarala with the news that the trustee of Albert Hall, Naren Sen, had locked them out. He had heard that the boys were going to worship a sword and, since natives weren’t allowed to carry weapons, it might be considered a treasonable offence by the rulers. ‘There’s no way out,’ Shreesh told Sarala. ‘We’ll have to cancel the meeting.’
‘There is a way out,’ Sarala answered, her face flaming. She swept inside the house and came out, a few seconds later. Thrusting a fistful of money into the hands of the gaping Shreesh she commanded him to go book another hall as close to Albert’s as possible. ‘We’ll hold the meeting exactly as planned,’ she cried. ‘No one can stop us. The newspapers have carried the news. Hundreds of handbills have been distributed. How could Naren Babu do this to us? It’s insufferable!’
Sarala dashed off a letter to Naren Sen that instant. Her sense of outrage was so great that her pen raced over the paper: ‘If you try to stop the meeting,’ she wrote, ‘You’ll have a whole nation against you. All the newspapers will carry the report that you, an elderly Hindu and an acknowledged leader of Bengal, lost your courage and tried to prevent the young men of the country from performing a symbolic worship of strength.’
Naren Sen’s face clouded as he read these words. He had heard of Sarala Ghoshal’s popularity and power over the younger generation. On the other hand, a worship of arms was a traitorous act and the rulers could come down heavily on him. Memories of the Sepoy Mutiny were still fresh in his mind. He sat, in glum silence, for a long time trying to make up his mind. Then, taking the key out of his pocket, he sent it along with a note to Sarala. She could hold the meeting if she wished, he wrote, but if there was trouble she would be held solely responsible.
In the few hours between this exchange of letters Shreesh Sen had booked Alfred Theatre on Harrison Road. It was very close to the Albert Hall and now Sarala had two options in place of none at all. Which one was it to be? Everyone would come to the latter for that was the venue publicized in the handbills. On the other hand it was important, Sarala felt, to expose Naren Sen for the cowardly retrograde that he was. Sarala decided to hold the meeting in Alfred Theatre. A group of volunteers were stationed outside Albert Hall to lead the people to the new venue.
Sarala didn’t attend the meeting. While it went on she stood before the map of India in her mother’s drawing room, her eyes closed in reverence. A wave of patriotic feeling swept over her. What a vast, what a great country was hers! Composed of so many races and cultures! So many religions! Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians and Buddhists had all found a place here! How blue the sky was here; how bright the sun! Yet it was being held in bondage by a small knot of men from a damp, fog-ridden island thousands of miles away. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves with a passion she couldn’t explain even to herself. Something must happen soon! She willed it with all her being. A wild tornado must come bursting from all directions shattering this structure of false governance and set her country free. Tears poured down her cheeks but they were tears of joy. Her lips parted and she sang softly:
‘Namah—Hindustan
Har har har—Jai Hindustan
Sat sri Akaal—Hindustan
Allah ho Akhbar—Hindustan
Namah—Hindustan’
Chapter XXII
Dwarika and Basantamanjari descended from the train at Mughulsarai to encounter the noise and bustle of milling crowds. It was the evening before the Purna Kumbha when men and women from all parts of the country congregated at Prayag to bathe in the holy waters of the confluence of the Ganga, Jamuna and Saraswati. Legend had it that Jayanta, son of Indra, had stolen the kumbha or pot of amrita from the demons and was carrying it to heaven when his hand had trembled and a few drops had fallen into the water. It had taken him twelve days to reach his destination. A day’s journey for a god being equivalent to a year’s journey for a man, the sages declared that every twelve years amrita, which is inexhaustible and ever renewable, appears in the waters of the confluence. And he that drinks of it and bathes in it is blessed.
Dwarika was dressed in an impeccable English suit complete
with bowler hat. An expensive jamawar shawl was draped over Basantamanjari’s head and shoulders, the embroidered end of which was pulled low over her face. Holding her by the hand Dwarika pushed his way through the massed bodies his eyes darting here and there. He was looking for Ratikanta the official of his estate whom he had sent on in advance to make arrangements for their stay. Ratikanta was on the lookout too and a few minutes later all three were sitting in a buggy on their way to Allahabad.
Dwarika had prevailed on Basantamanjari and obtained her consent to the marriage. But it couldn’t take place before the year of mourning his mother’s death was over. Basantamanjari had insisted on it. He had suffered a number of other disappointments as well. He had wanted a solemn ceremony in accordance with Hindu rites. But not a single priest was ready to conduct it. Basantamanjari was not only a widow—she was a prostitute and, as such, an outcaste from Hindu society. An outraged Dwarika bad decided to thumb his nose at the clergy and diehards by going through a civil ceremony and holding a grand reception afterwards which all the enlightened elite of the city would attend. But, to his shock and horror, only sixty-five guests turned up at a reception organized for fifteen hundred. Dwarika had ordered the rarest of delicacies for the occasion and he had to suffer the humiliation of seeing them thrown out on the street in heaps. So great was the quantity left over that enough beggars could not be found to consume it all. The people who had been most voluble in their encouragement of his venture had stayed away from the feast. It was this fact that had hit Dwarika the hardest. In his disgust he decided to leave the city. Now he wandered from one pilgrim spot to another as and when the whim took him.
‘Uncover your face Basi,’ Dwarika said to his wife as the horses broke into a canter. ‘See how blue the sky is. And how the wings of the cranes shine like silver against it.’ Basantamanjari pushed the shawl away and lifted her face to the sky. Her lips smiled but her eyes were moist with the tears she had shed in secret. ‘You’ve been weeping again,’ Dwarika admonished her tenderly.
‘I keep wondering—’
‘What?’
‘My life was like a slender stream without ebb or flow. Then it swelled into a mighty river with many currents. I felt as though I was being sucked in. I wonder where the tide is taking me now.’
‘Again!’ Dwarika said with a touch of impatience. ‘Again you start your foolish prattle about streams and rivers. There are many rivers in the world. We’ve seen some and we’ll see more. We may even go to Puri and see the sea. But they have nothing to do with your life.’
‘Beyond the sea lies the ocean,’ Basantamanjari murmured dreamily. ‘Rivers pour their waters into the sea which, in turn, merges with the ocean. Shall we see the ocean?’
‘Yes—if we go to Kanyakumari. Would you like that?’
‘Yes. But what if the ocean swallows me up? What if I’m borne away on its waves?’
‘What nonsense you talk! So many people visit Kanyakumari and return safe and sound. Why should you be borne away?’
‘I don’t know. But I seem to see something like that happening to me. I see myself being lost in a great expanse of turbulent water …’
‘We won’t bathe in the sea,’ Dwarika said hastily. ‘We’ll sprinkle some water on our heads and—’ Basantamanjari smiled at the look on Dwarika’s face. ‘I can swim,’ she said pressing his hand in reassurance.
They reached Allahabad after midnight. The house Ratikanta had rented for them in Nurganj was neat and comfortable and Dwarika was pleased with the arrangements. After washing away the grime and fatigue of the journey Dwarika had a lavish meal and came and stood on a veranda overlooking the river. It was nearly two o’clock-but the scene outside was alive with noise and movement. People walked up and down, the lanterns in their hands dotting the dark like glow worms. In between the specks of swinging light Dwarika’s eyes discerned dim, dark shapes lying on the bank. They were evidently sleepers wrapped in blankets. ‘Basi!’ he called out to his wife who stood before a mirror inside the room combing her long black hair, ‘Come here and stand beside me.’ Basantamanjari hesitated. She had taken off her jacket and chemise and her neck and one shoulder were bare. Dwarika took off his shawl and wrapped it around her. ‘The night is dark,’ he whispered as he took her hand and led her to the veranda, ‘No one will see us.’
‘There are so many people down there,’ Basantamanjari said in a wondering voice. ‘Do you think any of them know us?’
‘It’s not likely. Bengalis prefer to go to Gangasagar which is nearer home. However, some do come to Prayag.’
‘I thought I saw someone just now. Someone we know.’ ‘Nonsense! It’s as dark as pitch out there. You couldn’t possibly have seen anyone’s face.’
‘I didn’t see his face. I recognized his walk. I don’t know who he is. But I’m sure I’ve seen that walk before.’
‘You’re crazy!’ Dwarika’s tone was indulgent but he sounded a little worried.
‘Let’s go to the Triveni,’ Basantamanjari’s voice came suddenly out of the dark, eager and expectant as if hanging on his reply.
‘At this time of the night? Nonsense! Besides I’ve already dismissed the carriage.’
‘We’ll walk. After all we have the whole night before us. We’ll stroll along the river as slowly as we please. Won’t it be fun?’
‘No it won’t. Don’t you feel the chill rising from the water? I’m frozen. Let’s go in.’
Placing a hand on Basantamanjari’s shoulder he consoled her with the promise, ‘We’ll go tomorrow at break of dawn. We’ll watch the sun rise over the confluence.’
‘Let’s stay awake till then,’ Basantamanjari begged. ‘There are only a few hours left. I don’t feel like wasting them in sleep.’
‘Yes—if you promise to sing to me all night.’
Putting his arm around her Dwarika led her in. Then he stretched himself out on the bed his head in her lap. ‘I’m so happy,’ Basantamanjari murmured running her fingers through his hair, ‘So happy! If we could only sit like this under a tree—its branches waving and its leaves shimmering above our heads.’ Dwarika, exhausted by the rigours of the journey and lulled by the warm comfort of his beloved’s lap, muttered sleepily, ‘In spring … on the way to Brindavan … Sing to me Basi,’ before floating away on the wings of slumber. Basantamanjari laid his head down gently on the pillow.
Basantamanjari woke Dwarika up at cock crow. But Dwarika only snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of his satin quilt and murmured indistinctly, ‘We’ll go another day.’
‘No,’ Basantamanjari said firmly. ‘We’ll go today. You promised me.’ Dwarika sat up with a groan. Then, splashing some water on his burning eyes and struggling into his clothes, he ordered the carriage. In a few minutes the two were on their way to Prayag.
They reached the confluence to find a huge hibiscus-coloured sun already risen over the edge of the river its red gold reflection trembling on the still dark water. Thousands of pilgrims thronged the waterfront and innumerable heads could be seen bobbing up and down in the river. No separate ghat was assigned for women. They bathed within inches of strange men, then rose and walked away oblivious of the glances that followed their dripping forms. Dwarika turned to the veiled figure by his side and said, ‘Women don’t observe purdah on this day Basi. How can you see anything if you keep your face covered?’ At his words Basantamanjari pushed her veil aside and looked around, her eyes wide with curiosity. ‘I recognize this place,’ she said after a while, ‘I think I’ve come here before.’
‘You’ve heard about it. That’s why it seems familiar.’
‘Let’s go there,’ Basantamanjari pointed a finger to her right. ‘Why?’ Dwarika asked, surprised. ‘The left side is much better. It’s quieter and cleaner.’
‘No, no. We must go right. We must.’
‘Silly girl,’ Dwarika laughed indulgently. ‘You’re behaving as though you really know the place. Very well then. Let’s go.’
Basantamanjari walked rapidly
ahead, Dwarika following her. There was a great press of people but she avoided them by moving from this path to that till she came to a row of shops. Dwarika sniffed at the delicious odours that hung in the air and realized that he was prodigiously hungry. Dwarika liked his comforts and Basantamanjari pampered him outrageously. ‘So this is why she insisted on coming this way,’ he thought. ‘She wanted to give me my breakfast. But how did she know the shops were here?’
Standing before one of them Dwarika surveyed the scene with interest. Rich milk frothed and bubbled in an enormous wok over a charcoal fire sending out clouds of fragrant steam. In another, huge saffron-scented jalebis were curling and twisting in sizzling fat—each gold ring the thickness of a man’s finger, hollow from within and bursting with syrup. In the next shop kachauris were being sold on lotus leaves, four to a portion, with a mound of halwa glistening with sugar and ghee and liberally sprinkled with nuts and raisins. Saliva squirted into Dwarika’s mouth in anticipation. Standing outside the shop he ate his fill of the rich viands passing his tongue over his lips to catch the crumbs. He offered some to Basantamanjari but she shook her head. She wouldn’t eat anything before her bath. Satiated at last, Dwarika threw the leaves away and ordered a large pot of milk. He loved hot milk and this was as thick and sweet as kheer.
‘Ogo!’ Basantamanjari plucked urgently at the sleeve of his kurta, ‘Come this way. There’s someone there … you remember I saw someone we knew last night.’
First Light Page 63
