First Light by Sunil Gangopadhyay Page A

were of stained glass in rich, dim old colours. Each depicted a separate scene executed by skilled craftsmen. One of them stood out the most from the others in its beauty. On a swing, dangling from the bough of a leafy tree, a pair of lovers sat side by side their faces turned to one another in enrapt empathy. A large garden laid out with flowering vines and bushes surrounded the house on three sides. Beyond it was an orchard with some fine, old fruit trees. Here, duplicating the scene in the salon, a real swing hung from a branch of a spreading mango tree. In front of the house a
bajra
swayed gracefully in the wavelets of the rushing Ganga. This was a private ghat and no other boat could cast anchor in these waters. The indigo trade having fallen on evil days, Moran Saheb was constrained to rent out the villa from time to time. Jyotirindranath Thakur and his wife Kadambari were its present occupants.
    It was evening. The Ganga, rippling and shimmering like a sheet of silk, reflected a sky flushed with sunset. Boats, big and small, darted about on the waters, their sails catching the iridescent hues, like thousands of winged moths. On the steps of the ghat a young man with a tall, powerful frame, high nose, large dark eyes and wavy hair stood watching the scene and sipping tea from a porcelain cup with a silver handle. He was Jyotirindranath, sixth in line among Debendranath Thakur’s fourteen children. Of all the latter’s offspring Jyoti’s personality was the brightest and most multifaceted. A keen sportsman, horseman and hunter, he was also an able administrator. In his father’s absence it was he who was entrusted with the running ofthe estates. With all this he was also a fine litterateur and musician. He could play the violin and piano, write songs and set them to music. He was also a good playwright and his plays were often performed in professional theatres. Famed throughout Bengal he was the pride of the Thakur family and everyone had great hopes of him.
    â€˜Where is Robi? Why hasn’t he come down?’ Jyotirindranath turned to his wife who sat in one of the chairs scattered about in the garden. Kadambari Devi was a tall striking woman with handsome dark eyes, heavy brows and long lashes. There was something about the planes of her face and the proportions of her body that reminded one of a Greek goddess. In consequence her intimates in the Thakur household had devised the nickname Hecate for her. She had another name and that was Natun Bouthan. Athough many brothers and sisters had followed him, Jyotirindranath was addressed as Natun Babu or Natunda. Hence, his wife was Natun Bouthan. Kadambari Devi’s hair was framed around her face in elaborate scallops after the fashion of the times. She wore a white silk sari over a blue velvet jacket with puffed sleeves. She, too, had a teacup in her hand. A book rested on her knees. ‘Robi doesn’t drink tea,’ she answered in reply to her husband’s query.
    Robi’s favourite haunt was a round room with glass windows that opened out on all sides. It was right on top of the house. Here he stole away whenever he could and wrote his verses. He heard his Jyotidada call out to him now and hastened to put away his papers. Then, skipping nimbly down the stairs, he came to the garden where his brother and sister-in-law awaited him. He was a shy lad of twenty. He wore a pleated dhuti and kurta embroidered in fine silk and vamped slippers on his feet. His hair was parted in the middle and combed neatly down on both sides. He had an open, innocent face with the faintest suggestion of down clinging to his cheeks and chin.
    Robi had, recently, abandoned ship on his way to England leaving it even before it entered the territorial waters. Of all Debendranath’s children the only one who had succeeded in making a living for himself was his second son Satyendranath. The others used their time and energy in spending their father’s money.