First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘Why?’

  Dwarika put the glass in Bharat’s hand. ‘Drink it up,’ he commanded. ‘It will do you good.’ Then, fixing his large sombre eyes on Bharat’s face, he said, ‘You ask me why? Are you really such a complete fool? The girl came to a house where she didn’t know a soul the moment she heard you were ill. She stayed here for days nursing you back to health. She threw herself, heart and soul, into your service. Why did she do so? Have you ever asked yourself this question?’ Bharat sat, glum and silent, staring down at his feet. ‘She gave you your life Bharat,’ Dwarika Went on relentlessly, ‘What have you given her in return?’ A spasm passed over Bharat’s face. ‘What do I have to give?’ he murmured softly.

  ‘Idiot!’ Dwarika burst out angrily. ‘What does a man give a woman who loves him? He gives her a future. Are you such a numskull that you don’t know?’

  ‘What future do I have myself Dwarika? I’ve pledged myself, by fire and sword, to work for the country. I can’t go back on that pledge. That would amount to treason.’

  ‘A mole ja!’ Dwarika cried out in exasperation. ‘Who is stopping you from working for the country? Are you the only one who has taken such a pledge? What about the others? Aren’t they marrying and raising families? What about your precious leaders—Suren Banerjee, Bipin Pal, Aurobindo Ghosh—don’t they have wives and children? Even your friend Hem … Look Bharat. You’re not a boy anymore. You’re a man in your prime. It’s time you settled down. Bhumisuta has waited for you all these years. She has kept herself pure and chaste only for your sake. And, being an actress, it wasn’t easy as you well know. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  Bharat sighed. Dwarika had no idea of how much it meant to him; of how much he loved and needed Bhumisuta. But how could he ask her to join her life to his? She was so beautiful and talented. So many men, much worthier than himself, wanted her.

  He was nothing and could give her nothing. Taking a few sips of the brandy Bharat pleaded a headache, rose and came to his own room. He sat on the bed sunk in thought. He was as well now, he decided, as he would ever be. It was not fair to impose on Dwarika’s generosity any longer. He would leave in a day or two and make his own way in the world. But where could he go? He knew no one in Calcutta except Barin and his cronies. But his gorge rose at the thought of going back to Barin. Every time he remembered the way Barin had run off, leaving Hem trapped in the Brahmin’s house, his flesh crawled with disgust and the blood pulsed and pounded in his head till he felt physically ill. Hem, he had come to know later, had saved himself by climbing up the chalta tree. He had remained under cover till the men had left, then made his way back to the house in Rangpur. Hem had visited him several times during his illness. Now he was back in Medinipur.

  The trouble was that Bharat had no money. When Dwarika discovered him in the Kali temple he had found a gun and sixteen rupees splattered with clotted blood in his pockets. The gun he had returned to Barin. Now the sixteen rupees were all that he had. Even the clothes he wore were Dwarika’s.

  Bharat racked his brains for the next two days. Should he go back to Medinipur? But that would be exchanging one life of charity for another. He would have to depend on Hem for the farm had gone out of his hands. Just before embarking on his pursuit of Fuller he had mortgaged it, for five hundred rupees, to a man called Neelmadhav Chakravarty. There was no way, now, for him to redeem it. While he thought of the various possibilities or rather, their lack, a letter arrived from Hem. It read:

  Brother Bharat,

  I’m off. You won’t see me again for a long time. I’m sick of the child’s play that is going on in the name of revolution. We have no money, no weapons and no leadership. No one has the slightest notion of how to, form a secret society or wield weapons. We are being exploited and fed on lies. I can’t take it anymore.

  I’m making one last effort. I’m going abroad to Russia and America with the intention of learning the latest methods of secret warfare. I might even visit Paris which, from what I hear, is full of secret societies. You’ll be wondering where the money is coming from. I’ve sold everything I possessed and sent my wife and children to my father-in-law’s house. I’m free at last. Free to do what I’ve always wanted.

  Don’t think I’m running away. I’ll come back but only when I’m ready. Look after yourself and wait for my return.

  Yours

  Hem

  P.S. Tear this letter as soon as you’ve read it.

  Bharat read Hem’s note three times in succession then, tearing it into fragments, flung them out of the window.

  Dwarika came into Bharat’s room, the next evening, and insisted on taking him to his private den and giving him a drink. He was convinced that the cobwebs in Bharat’s brain could only be dispelled with some fumes of brandy. After downing a couple of pegs Dwarika brought up the subject of Bhumisuta once more. ‘Why don’t you go and see her?’ he asked irritably. ‘That’s the least you can do.’

  ‘I don’t know where she lives.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask? Really Bharat—’

  ‘Do you know her house?’

  ‘Of course I do. I went there with Jadu and brought her here, didn’t I?’ Dwarika rose to his feet. He had drunk more then usual and was excitable in consequence. ‘Let’s go to her this minute,’ he cried. ‘No, no. I won’t take a refusal. You must thank her for all she’s done And so must I.’ Sweeping Bharat’s feeble protests aside he called for his carriage and set off with Bharat in tow.

  But on reaching Bhumisuta’s house the two men found the gates locked against them. The Nepali darwan salaamed politely but wouldn’t let them enter. The mistress wasn’t in, he told them. In fact she wasn’t in Calcutta at all. She was in Kashi.

  ‘Kashi!’ Dwarika exclaimed. ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  The darwan shrugged. He hadn’t the slightest idea. Asked if he knew her address in Kashi, he shook his head. The mistress had told him nothing. Only that he was to continue guarding her house and that his salary would be paid to him at the end of the month as always.

  Taking their seats in the carriage, on their way back home, Dwarika put his arm around Bharat’s shoulders. ‘I have an idea Bharat,’ he said. ‘You’ve just recovered from a serious illness. And you’re still as weak as a kitten. This is just the time for a change of air. Why don’t you go to Kashi? The climate is cool and dry and you’ll recover fast. Besides the food is excellent. You’ve never seen finer fruits and vegetables. And the milk is so pure—you can eat all the rabri and malai you want and suffer no ill effects. I have a house on the river near Dasashwamedh Ghat. It is fully furnished and there are two servants who will look after you. You’ll be quite comfortable.’

  The matter was settled over the next half hour and Bharat left for Varanasi the following day. Basantamanjari packed a hamper of food for the journey and Dwarika tucked a hundred rupee note into Bharat’s pocket. Dwarika couldn’t see Bharat off at the station because he had to attend a court hearing but he promised to visit him in Kashi as soon as he could. Bharat looked up regretfully at Basantamanjari’s window on his way to the carriage. She had done so much for him and he hadn’t even thanked her! Basantamanjari never came into his presence. And his bashful nature would have prevented him from speaking to her even if he had had the opportunity. His eyes shone with tears as he grasped Dwarika’s hand and said, ‘I don’t know how I’ll repay you for all you’ve done Dwarika. I’ll be indebted to you and your wife all my life.’ But Dwarika dismissed this with a shout of laughter. ‘Repayment!’ he clapped Bharat heartily on the shoulder. ‘Don’t even think of it brother! Continue to be in our debt for all your lives to come.’

  Dwarika’s house on Dasashwamedh Ghat was small but neat and comfortable. The ground floor, somewhat dark and damp, was the servants’ domain. But the upper storey, where Bharat was lodged, was bright with sunshine. And, being right on the river, cool breezes blew constantly through the many win
dows keeping the rooms fresh and airy.

  Varanasi was a famous pilgrim spot and a city of revels at the same time. Consequently it was packed with people at all times of the year. Many rajas and zamindars had houses here and spent months at a stretch with their favourite mistresses. Every evening the street of the courtesans in Dal Mandi reverberated to the sweet, slightly nasal, singing of thumris and kajns and the tinkling of ankle bells. And when dusk fell over the Ganga, boats and bajras descended on her breast like a flight of stately swans. Within, each boat was alive with light, sound and movement. Mashals blazed; lamps twinkled. The raja sat, wine glass in hand, reclining on satin cushions and surrounded by his courtiers. In front of him a dancing girl contorted her body lasciviously taking care to reveal her legs and thighs with every pirouette. ‘Wah! Wah!’ the toadies cried and threw coins and flowers.

  But no matter how crowded the city, it was never difficult to find the person one sought in Kashi, For everyone came to Dasashwamedh and Manikarnika some time or the other during the course of the day. Bharat saw Bhumisuta, for the first time, bathing in the river close to the ghat at Manikarnika with two other women. Presently all three rose from the water and walked away their dripping saris clinging to their bodies, outlining every curve. Bharat averted his eyes delicately, hesitating to call out to Bhumisuta in her state of dishabille. In actual fact it was quite common for women in Kashi to walk about the streets, visit temples and make purchases from vendors after a dip in the Ganga. No one thought anything of it. The same evening he saw her sitting in the middle of a group of women listening to the Kathak Thakur at Dasashwamedh Ghat. He took up his position, under a tree, a little distance away and waited for the assembly to break. But when it did it was quite dark and Bhumisuta was, presumably, in a hurry. She walked away quickly and Bharat missed his chance of speaking to her.

  There were many places of interest in and around Kashi and Vishnupada, the cook, had been urging Bharat to visit some of them, from the day of his arrival. Next morning, over a breakfast of luchi and pumpkin curry, Bharat declared his intention of going to Sarnath. He chose Sarnath not so much for its historical significance. He had heard that a group of archaeologists had identified a tell and were excavating it with excellent results. A row of Buddhist monasteries had been discovered. Besides, Sarnath was not too far away. He could return the same day, in time for the Kathak Thakur’s discourse. He was determined to speak to Bhumisuta that evening.

  Reaching Sarnath he wandered around the tell for a couple of hours watching the rising walls with interest. The sun was hot and the sahebs supervising the digging wore solar hats. Bharat wished he had one too. His head had started aching and his feet were weary. He tired easily these days. Seeing a huge pipal tree, a little distance away, he walked over to it and sat down to rest himself. It was cool in the shade and a sweet breeze passed over his hot sweaty limbs. ‘Ahh!’ he breathed a sigh of contentment. Sleep dragged at his eyelids and numbed his senses. He fought against it for a while then, surrendering, he stretched himself on the ground and drifted away on its wings. Clouds gathered in the sky and a light rain fell, pattering through the leaves, on to his limbs. But he slept through it all. When he awoke he found the day gone. Dusk was falling and the place was deserted. Bharat sat up his heart thumping with anxiety. How would he get back? Ekkas and tongas waited only when there were people to hire them. They must have gone away for not a soul was in sight. He was also prodigiously hungry. He had had nothing to eat since the luchi and pumpkin curry. But his worst fear was that of missing Bhumisuta. He could walk all the way back to Kashi but he wouldn’t reach in time. The assembly at Dasashwamadh Ghat would be over and she would have gone home.

  Kashi was eight or ten miles away and he was still quite weak. Yet he started walking hoping to catch a passing carriage. But within an hour or so Bharat was thoroughly exhausted. He had covered only a couple of miles on the road that wound in and out through rocks and mounds of earth. He decided to rest for a while. After a few minutes a humming sound came to his ears, low and indistinct at first, but growing louder and clearer every second. It was a motorcar coming, not from Sarnath but from the direction of Kashi. Bharat stood up in his excitement and ran towards it waving his hands. But in a few seconds he realized his folly. This was no ordinary tourist vehicle. It was a killer car and the intended victim was Bharat himself.

  Bharat stared in horror as it came towards him at a maniacal speed lurching from side to side like a drunk. The headlights gleamed evilly like the eyes of a demon. A sixth sense, one that he had developed through his many encounters with death, made him leap back in a flash. Flattening his body against a wall of rock he waited, his heart beating wildly against his ribs.

  By a miraculous chance Bharat was saved. The car shot past, nearly grazing his shoulder, crashed against a tree a few yards away and turned over. Bharat’s first impulse was to run in the opposite direction and let the victims of the crash fend for themselves. He stood undecided for a few moments then, a faint groan coming to his ears, he ran to the overturned car and wrenched the door open. There were two men inside. One lay huddled over the steering wheel. He was probably dead from a wound in the chest for his satin vast was soaked with blood. A glance at him was sufficient to tell Bharat that he was a member of the nobility. Three strings of pearls hung from his neck and the hands on the steering wheel were loaded with rings. The other was obviously an employee. He was unhurt but had fainted from the shock. Bharat pulled him out first and laid him on the ground then turned his attention to the other. The body was wedged between the seat and the wheel and it took Bharat some time to extricate it. To his relief, he discovered that the man was not dead but had fainted from loss of blood. He was small and slight and Bharat picked him up quite easily. As he did so the man’s head fell back and his face came clearly into view. In the light of a rising moon Bharat saw that it was the face of Radhakishor Manikya.

  Radhakishor was trying to kill him! Why? Why? The question tortured him, searing his soul, as it had done so many times in the past. He felt overwhelmed with conflicting emotions—fear, nostalgia, a strange elation; murderous rage. This was the moment to take revenge for all his past wrongs, he thought suddenly. He could put his hands around Radhakishor’s throat and strangle him to death. Then, he could walk away from the scene without anyone being the wiser. However, what Bharat thought and what he did were totally different from one another. Placing his burden on the ground, he ran to a pond near by and, whipping off his shirt, brought it back soaking wet to where the men lay. The other one, he saw, had regained consciousness and was trying to sit up. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, his eyes dazed and anxious. ‘Has there been an accident? Is Raja Moshai … dead?’

  ‘No,’ Bharat answered, ‘He’s seriously injured but alive.’ He had recognized the man by now. It was Mahim Thakur. Mahim clutched Bharat’s hands and exclaimed, ‘We must save him. He’s no ordinary man Moshai. He’s the Maharaja of Tripura.’

  ‘I know,’ Bharat said quietly. Then, on an impulse, he spat out the question, ‘Why were you trying to kill me?’

  ‘Kill you?’ Mahim’s eyes nearly started out of his head. ‘Why should we try to kill you? The car went out of control and nearly ran you down. But it wasn’t deliberate.’ Then, frowning a little he peered into Bharat’s face and added. ‘You said you knew he was the Maharaja. Have you seen him before?’

  ‘Not really. I guessed he was a Maharaja from the way he was dressed. But we’d better get him out of here as soon as we can. He needs a doctor.’ Leaving Mahim Thakur sitting beside the still unconscious Radhakishor, Bharat went in search of a tonga and, by an amazing stroke of luck, he found one. It was coming from Sarnath and had one passenger in it. ‘It’s a matter of life and death Sethji,’ he begged. ‘If you don’t give us a lift to Kashi a man will die.’

  As the tonga rattled along on the road to Kashi Mahim Thakur, who had been glancing at him curiously from time to time, said suddenly, ‘Your face is familiar. What is y
our name brother?’

  ‘I’m Bharat Mahim Dada. Am I so changed that you don’t recognize me?’

  ‘Bharat! Which Bharat?’ Mahim frowned. Then, suddenly, his brow cleared. ‘Of course I recognize you. I was wondering why your face looked so familiar. Your eyes and brow bear a striking resemblance to the old Maharaja’s. You’re Prince Bharat—the King’s son.’

  ‘I’m no prince. I’m a kachhua’s child.’

  ‘You are a prince nevertheless. The blood of the king and his forefathers flows in your veins. Isn’t it an amazing coincidence? That out of all the people in the world, you should be the one to save your brother’s life?’

  An hour or so later, the tonga clattered through the deuri of the Maharaja’s palace in Kashi and drew to a halt at the porch. Within seconds, news of the accident had travelled over all the wings and everyone came running out. Arrangements were swift and efficient. Radhakishor was carried up to his bedroom and two eminent physicians of Varanasi called in. Examining the patient they found several ribs fractured and a great gaping wound on his chest. Recommending instant surgery they suggested that he be removed to the hospital. But the royal priest of Tripura who had been standing by the king’s side all through the examination was horrified at the suggestion. There was only one hospital in Kashi and that was a charitable institution. There could be no question of sending the reigning king of independent Tripura to such a place. He dismissed the suggestion scornfully and was supported in this by the king’s wives and mothers. It was decided that Radhakishor would be treated in his own apartments with full dignity as befitted his status and all the facilities the hospital could provide would be arranged here. The king was young and healthy and would recover.

  It was past midnight by the time the wound was washed and bandaged and the preliminary treatment given. Through it all the king lay in a deathlike stupor. Bharat felt dizzy with exhaustion. He had just recovered from a mortal wound and severe loss of blood and was still very weak. His muscles felt heavy and were aching. The rims of his eyeballs burned with the effort of struggling against the fumes of sleep. And now he sensed a familiar tug in his bowels which reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for seventeen hours. ‘I’d like to go home Mahim Dada,’ he said. ‘Send for me whenever you need me.’ Mahim was loath to let him go at first but Bharat looked so dishevelled and distraught that he was forced to change his mind. ‘You do look exhausted,’ he admitted, ‘And your clothes are coated with dust and streaked with sweat and blood. But you shan’t go alone.’ Calling for one of the carriages he sent Bharat home with a footman in attendance.