First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Sitting in the Viceroy’s office Lord Curzon heard the shouts. But his face was calm and placid without a trace of fear or anxiety. He knew what was going on. Every ten minutes his private sleuths were reporting developments. Now his lip curved in a smile as an adult’s does at a child’s threat. He knew the Bengali race. They were lazy and weak and incapable of sustaining any effort for long. This was a temporary excitement and would fizzle out in a few hours. Turning to the Police Commissioner Andrew Frazer, Lord Curzon said, ‘Conceive the howls! They will almost slay me in Bengal.’

  Chapter XLI

  Contrary to everyone’s expectations Rabindranath Thakur displayed no reaction whatsoever to the proposed Partition of Bengal. He neither lent his voice at the rallies and meetings, nor did he take up his pen in protest. People were surprised at his attitude and speculations were rife. Was he under the impression that it was an empty threat? A bogey to frighten the natives with? Or was his faith in British justice and fair rule so great that it swamped his patriotic considerations? In all probability, his indifference stemmed from the fact that he was overwhelmed, at the time, by domestic upheavals. The grand patriarch of Jorasanko, Debendranath Thakur, had passed away peacefully in his bed at the ripe old age of eighty-seven leaving the whole of Bengal mourning as at the loss of a father. Passing over his elder sons he had appointed his youngest as chief trustee and executor of his last will and testament. In consequence Rabindranath found himself so deeply embroiled in mundane tasks that he rarely found the time to even pick up a pen. Besides, his own health was troubling him. He was suffering from piles and the pain was so excruciating that, stoic though he was, he found it unendurable at times.

  But the moment he realized that the British had every intention of implementing their plan and that it was soon to become a reality, he shook himself out of his personal troubles. His faith in their governance suffered a rude shock. They claimed that, the Bengal, Presidency being too large and unwieldy, they were dividing it in two in the interest of better administration. Their argument was tenable but only up to a point. Rabindranath could see the sense of carving a separate state out of Bihar and Orissa. But why divide up the Bengali-speaking zillas and graft some of them on to Assam? The reason was obvious. The Bengalis were slowly awakening to a sense of nation and country. And this was being achieved through their language. The intention behind the partition of the province was to strike a blow which would stem the spread and development of the Bengali language. This was gross injustice Even Sir Henry Cotton, erstwhile administrator or British India, had admitted the fact.

  Rabindranath was primarily a poet and composer and his protest came in the form of songs. Amaar sonaar bangla ami tomai bhalobashi he wrote on a still, lonely night in Shantiniketan and set it to the tune of a song he had heard the runner Gagan Harkara sing in Shilaidaha many years ago—Ami kothai pabo taaré amaar monér manush jé ré. This song caught the public fancy to such an extent that it was now being sung at all the meetings. This was followed by a host of songs in praise of the motherland—O amaar déshér mati; Jadi tor daak shuné keu na aashé Saarthak janam amaar; Ami bhay karbo na bhay karbo na, among others, Apart from writing songs Rabindranath was attending meetings these days and speaking at them. He had also lent open support to the boycott movement.

  Tossing aside the resolution passed at the meeting in the Town Hall as carelessly as though it was a scrap of waste paper, Lord Curzon set a date for the dreaded event. On the sixteenth of October 1905 Bengal would be split in two! The nation was appalled. How could the rulers be so insensitive; so indifferent to the wishes of the people? Sitting in the train on his way to Calcutta from Giridi on the night of the ninth, a week before the impending disaster, Rabindranath composed a song that reflected his shock and anger:

  The tighter they tie our limbs,

  The sooner our bonds will break.

  The harsher the glare of their bloodshot eyes

  The better our eyes shall see.

  Now is the hour for ceaseless work;

  no time for empty dreams.

  The louder they roar, the sooner oh! Brothers

  our slumber shall shattered be

  The harder they try to break with force

  The stronger shall they build.

  The more they strike with frenzied hate,

  wave upon wave will spring.

  Lose not hope you suffering souls.

  The Lord of the Earth still wakes.

  If they trample the truth beneath their heels

  Their flag will be dragged in the dust;

  Their proud flag will be dragged in the dust.

  A call for total hartal was issued by the leaders. On the sixteenth of October Bengalis from all sections of society, high and low, rich and poor, Hindu and Muslim would tie rakhis on each other’s wrists and take the pledge of brotherhood. On that day, a day of national mourning, all hearths would be cold. No fires would be lit and no food cooked. The British wanted to divide Bengal. But they would do so only on their maps. In their hearts the Bengalis would remain undivided.

  The historic day dawned. The sky was a clear, flawless blue with soft, white clouds massing near the horizon. The air had a nip in it as though it held the promise of approaching winter. Rabindra loved this season and had expressed this love in many of his songs. But, perfect autumn day though it was, Rabindra’s heart did not lift up in ecstasy. It beat, slow and heavy, with fear. Would the masses respond to the call? Would Hindus and Muslims come together in a spirit of brotherhood? What if a clash took place and riots followed?

  But if Rabindra had any fears about the success of the call, the other members of the Thakur family didn’t. Preparations had started weeks ago. Thousands of rakhis had been bought and were being sent out by post to friends and relatives living outside the city. The western veranda of the mansion of Joransanko had been transformed into a centre of frenzied activity. Mounds of rakhis lay on one side beside piles of envelopes. The members of the family, men and women alike, were working furiously—writing addresses, pasting stamps, sealing envelopes and carrying them to the post office. Some of the women were even engaged in making rakhis. Only one member of the family took no part in all this. And that was Jyotirindranath. News of the boycott had reached his ears but it failed to enthuse his spirit. He spent his day, as usual, reading and staring out of the window. But a slow anger burned in his breast. His had been the first attempt to strike a blow at British industry. But his countrymen hadn’t lent him their support. They were boycotting British goods now and making a great virtue of it. Why hadn’t they thought of it a decade and a half ago? Why hadn’t they boycotted British ships and saved his company? The country’s history would have been quite different if they had. But they had abandoned him. They had ignored his pleas and sold their souls to the ruling race.

  That day Rabindra rose at dawn and shook the sleepers awake. They were to go first to the Ganga and bathe and purify themselves before joining the pledge-taking utsav. Rabindra wore a simple dhuti with no shirt. A muga shawl was flung carelessly around his shoulders and his feet were bare. Looking up and down at Abanindranath he said pleasantly, ‘Take off your shoes Aban. We shall walk barefoot to the river.’ Walk! Abanindranath was alarmed. He was a fastidious young man and a dandy. He seldom walked anywhere and wore slippers even within the house.

  ‘But …but,’ he stammered. ‘The road to the river is full of stones and nails and pieces of glass!’

  ‘We shall walk barefoot nevertheless,’ his uncle announced inexorably, ‘like the rest of our countrymen.’ Leaving the great gates of his ancestral mansion behind, he walked rapidly to the waiting crowds and became one with them. Banglar mati banglar jal, banglar bayu banglar phal he sang as he walked and thousands of voices took up the refrain. And thus they came to the river.

  At first Rabindranath couldn’t see the water for the sea of human heads that bobbed up and down. There were thousands of people on the bank too—laughing, singing, shouting Bhai bhai ek thain,
bhed nai bhed nai before tying rakhis on one another’s wrists. Rabindranath took a few dips then, changing into a dry dhuti, joined the utsav. Abanindranath stared at his uncle in bewilderment. Robi ka seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis. He, who was so aloof and withdrawn by nature, so polished in his manners that they bordered on the artificial, was tying rakhis and embracing everyone, indiscriminately, not caring if the man was a Brahmin or an untouchable. Aban even heard him saying to a sepoy, ‘Come brother. You’re Bengali too.’ But the man put his hands behind his back and said ruefully, ‘Forgive me huzoor. I’m a Muslim.’ Rabindra’s face fell. He had heard that a large section of Muslims favoured partition and had welcomed the move of the rulers. Reports were coming in of communal tension in several zillas of East Bengal. ‘As you wish,’ he said gently and turned away. But another man come forward his arm outstretched. ‘I’m a Muslim too,’ he said, ‘and I would be proud to wear your rakhi.’ After that it seemed to Aban that his Robi ka was in imminent danger of being suffocafed to death by the press of people who wanted to wear his rakhi. Brahmins with poités gleaming against bare brown chests, firinghee priests in robes and rosaries, Muslim clerics with hennaed beards, aristocrats and scavengers, clerks and barristers, watchmen and watermen clamoured and pushed one another to get close to him.

  On the way back to Jorasanko Aban declared, ‘You’re twice your weight Robi ka.’ Rabindra laughed, looking down at his arms. They were covered with rakhis, one on top of another, from the wrists up to the shoulders. ‘Let’s go to Nakhuda Masjid Aban,’ he said, and’ tie rakhis on our Muslim brothers.’ Abanindra was terrified at the suggestion. ‘Don’t attempt anything so dangerous Robi ka,’ said. ‘Do you want to start a riot?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Rabindra asked surprised. ‘We’ll go to the mosque and take permission from the Iman. It he refuses we’ll come back home.’

  ‘Do as you wish, ‘Aban replied. ‘Count me out.’ Abanindranath walked rapidly away. Rabindra stood watching his retreating back for a while. His lips curled in a smile. Then, turning to the others, he said, ‘Les’s go.’

  A few minutes after his arrival at the mosque Rabindra was ushered into a small room where the Iman sat talking to some of the maulvis. He was very fair with hawk-like features and looked quite regal in his velvet robe with his snowy hair and beard. His eyes were bright and surprisingly young in a face as old and wrinkled as a piece of parchment. He looked up as Rabindra walked in through the door and a look of respect came into his eyes. It was obvious that he who stood before him was no ordinary man. ‘As you know,’ Rabindra began, after touching his rigth hand to his forehead in the customary Muslim greeting, ‘our rulers have passed a bill dividing our province. But we Bengalis must remain undivided in spirit. We must remain brothers as we have for centuries—Hindus and Muslims together. In this dark hour, when we are being tested, let us take a pledge of everlasting brotherhood. Let me tie a rakhi on your wrist as a token of that pledge’

  The Imam turned his eyes on the faces of his companions, turn by turn, as if seeking support. But no one spoke. A grim silence prevailed. The Imam smiled—a wide beautiful smile that lit up his ‘eyes and filled every nook and cranny of that ancient, noble face. Come my son,’ he said, stretching out his arm.

  Chapter XLII

  On her way to the theatre Nayanmoni often took a detour. ‘Go through Chitpur Road Rahmat Miyan,’ she would call out to the coachman. But in what hope? Did she really believe that Rabindranath would come walking out of Jarasanko Gali, one day, and she would see him in person? She was spending all her free evenings in Sarala Ghoshal’s house these days learning his songs. They, of course, were not meant for the theatre. She sang them to herself at home, her eyes closing in ecstasy. Then the face she thought of during all her waking hours came before her eyes. Had the memory of Bharat dimmed with the passing years? No. Bharat was vivid and alive in her heart and there was no place for another. Why this yearning for Rabindranath then? Nayanmoni thought about it a great deal and came to a certain conclusion. Bharat was the man in her life. He was the only husband she would have—if any. But a woman needed a god, Sri Krishna had been her god once. She had offered him her devotion in song and dance and shared all her joys and sorrows with him. But the image had changed. It was Rabindra’s face and form that came before her eyes now—not Krishna’s.

  Her life at the theatre had also undergone a change. Classic had fallen into a decline and the blame for it was Amar Datta’s—entirely. Puffed up with the successes of the past few years he had bought up the crumbling Minerva and, having renovated it at great expense, had proceeded to run the two theatres together. Since he could be physically present in only one place he left the running of the latter to his employees whereupon Minerva suffered loss upon loss—the men in charge bleeding her systematically. Amar Datta was forced to plough in some of his profits from Classic into the sick Minerva but still the theatre wouldn’t pick up. Any other man in his place would have written it off as a bad investment but not Amar Datta. His ego couldn’t allow him to accept defeat. But all his efforts notwithstanding, Minerva crashed threatening to bring down Classic along with it as well. Now he, who had had so much money only a few years ago that he didn’t know what to do with it, was reduced to borrowing from friends, relatives and even moneylenders. His stars were against him perhaps. For, added to his money troubles, came another blow. His audience started dwindling—why no one could tell. His plays lost their appeal and no matter what he tried to do; wherever he tried to turn, he met with loss and failure. In his frustration he took to drinking and, doing so, he lost whatever little grip he had on himself and on his cast.

  Around this time, when Amar Datta was changing plays every other night in an effort to woo back his fast disappearing audience, Nayanmoni suggested that they put up a dramatized version of Chokhér Bali. It was her favourite novel and she empathized with the situation in a strange kind of way. In Bihari and Mahendra she caught glimpses of Bharat and Shashibushan. Did she see herself as Binodini then? No. She had never met anyone like Binodini in her life.

  ‘Chokhér Bali!’ Amar repeated thoughtfully after her. ‘Well—if you say so. But it had better perk up the box office. We’re in a bad way.’ He threw her an affectionate glance as he spoke. He hadn’t paid her salary for four months now but she hadn’t complained even once. And she hadn’t responded to overtures from other companies.

  But even Chokhér Bali failed to revive the declining fortunes of Classic. One night, immediately after a performance, Amar Datta sent for Nayanmoni. Walking into his office she saw him sitting at his ease, his feet propped up on the table. He had already drunk more than was good for him and he was pouring yet another glassful from the whisky decanter by his side. Nayanmoni stood waiting for him to speak. She hadn’t had time to remove her make-up and she was still wearing the white than which was her costume. ‘You’ve failed me Nayan,’ his mouth twisted bitterly. ‘I staged Chokhér Bali on your recommendation. But it’s faring even worse than the others. Do you know what our earnings are for today? One hundred and eighty-seven rupees.’

  ‘You can’t blame the play for that.’ Nayanmoni said quietly. ‘The fault lies in our acting. We’re not good enough.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Amar Datta banged his fist on the table. Then, bringing his face close to hers in a drunker leer, he said, ‘The play’s as dull as ditch water. We need to pack in some explosive stuff. Start preparing two dance sequences and—’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Nayanmoni said coolly. ‘You wouldn’t be making such an absurd suggestion otherwise. Binodini is a high-caste Hindu widow. And you want to make her dance! The audience will throw rotten eggs at you.’

  ‘Chup!’ Amar Datta roared like a bull. ‘How dare you use that ‘tone of voice with me? I am drunk and I intend to get drunker. But I’m the master here and you’re only a paid employee. You’ll do as you’re told.’

  ‘I can’t obey you this.’ Nayanmoni looked straight into his eyes as she said so
. Her checks were flushed and her nostrils flared with distaste. Inflexibility and determination were stamped on every line of her face and form. Amar Datta couldn’t bear her insolence. Springing from his chair he made a lunge at her and slapped her full on the cheek. ‘Get out of my theatre,’ he shouted, the words slurred and indistinct. ‘Get out this very minute.’ Nayanmoni’s face turned white. Her eyes blazed and her cheek stung what he had hit her. But she said nothing. Pulling the edge of her than around her shoulder she said softly, ‘I’ll be glad to do so. In fact I’ve wanted to leave for quite some time now. But I didn’t. Do you know why? Because I didn’t want to be the rat that deserts a sinking ship. But, by dismissing me yourself, you’ve set me free. I’m going. You’ll never see me again.’

  Amar Datta was too outraged to speak. He opened his mouth but no words came. He kept sitting, sunk in his chair, and watched her slender form walk out of his door and out of his life.

  In the theatre world nothing remains hidden for long. World spread, within a few hours, that Nayanmoni had left Classic, and messengers from other companies started coming to her door with offers. But Nayanmoni had the same answer for everyone. Folding her hands humble before them she said, ‘I have no desire to act anymore. In Classic—or any other board.’ She did not move a hair’s breadth from her stance despite all the pleas, argument, flattery promises of excellent terms and emotional blackmail that were showered on her. But, in her heart, she knew that if one person came to her she couldn’t refuse him. Rumours were floating about that Ardhendu shekhar was trying to get a cast together. But, fortunately for Nayanmoni, it didn’t materialize and she was not called upon to redeem her promise.