The Lonely Monarch

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Calcutta, 1924. In the vibrant world of Bengali theatre, Sisirkumar Bhaduri, a young man of talent and vision, is king. A brilliant performer, he is loved and respected by his peers, adored by spectators and acknowledged as a master by Rabindranath Tagore himself. Yet, Sisirkumar remains passionately committed to a singular dream: to steer his audience away from the raucous melodrama that has come to be called entertainment toward an evolved enjoyment of stage performance. This searing novel brings to life Sisirkumar’s relentless efforts to free the stage of Western influences and mediocrity; his frustration and disillusionment with apathetic patrons and obdurate audiences; his ruinous weakness for alcohol; and the impossible ideals that alienated him from his closest friends and the women in his life. This translation of Sunil Gangopadhyay’s spirited recreation of the tumultuous life of a remarkable man and a defining era in the history of Indian theatre is a tribute to the might and resilience of the creative spirit.'

Release date: February 10, 2013

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 248

Sample

I met Sunil Gangopadhyay for the first time in 1982, just over thirty years ago.

I was at Ananda Bazar Patrika’s office in Calcutta to meet Nirendranath Chakrabarty, then editor of Anandamela, a popular children’s magazine. Nirendranath Chakrabarty was busy in a meeting so I asked quite casually if I could see Sunil Gangopadhyay instead. Those were the days when anyone could walk into a newspaper office and meet whoever they wanted provided he/she was available at the time. One of the clerks pointed out Sunil-da’s room and I walked in. Sunil-da, who was busy writing, looked up with a frown but asked me to take a seat as soon as he heard that I was a writer – albeit a writer of children’s books – based in Delhi.

Although I had enjoyed Sunil-da’s Sei Samay (for which he was to receive the Sahitya Akademi Award four years later), I was not particularly fond of his other novels. I preferred his poems and short stories, many of which I thought brilliant. And of course I had enjoyed his Sabuj Dwiper Raja (both the novel and its film version) and his stories for children. As we got talking I blurted out the names of some of his novels which I had not liked and told him as much. Instead of taking offence he merely smiled and said that he did not like everything he wrote and didn’t expect his readers to either! I asked him if I could translate some of his poems and short stories. ‘Of course,’ he said.

My translations of a few of his poems appeared in Indian Literature and Heritage magazines a few months later and he asked me if I would translate one of his articles on Tagore. It was the beginning of a spontaneous, meaningful bond, kept alive through occasional letters and phone calls, and meetings at functions whenever he came to Delhi. I translated many more of his poems and some short stories over the years, which were published in various magazines and anthologies.

Yet, I never felt like translating any of his novels as I did not feel close enough or interested enough in them – until I came across Nihsanga Samrat, which I had picked up casually, not really knowing what to expect. I knew very little about the theatre scene in Bengal and even less about the people involved in it. Sisir Bhaduri was no more than a name to me; I merely knew that he had been an actor of repute. But once I started reading the book I was fascinated, enthralled and unable to put it down. Even though the novel did not have the wide canvas of Sei Samay, Nihsanga Samrat brought to life another era, as it did the celebrities who had been mere names before, and Sisirkumar Bhaduri, the ‘lonely monarch’, seemed more real than anyone I had met in person. Sunil-da’s writing breathed life into every scene, every sequence, and I loved the crisp dialogues that rang true and sounded so convincing.

I collaborated closely with Sunil-da on all my translations of his work and normally called him up if I needed any clarification. Nihsanga Samrat has many quotations from poems and as I have always been rather finicky when it comes to translating verse (feeling strongly that the feel and music of the original should be retained even in translation), I told him that it was beyond me to do justice to some of the poems by Tagore. He said, ‘Translate as much as you are comfortable doing. It need not be the whole extract, just enough so people understand which poem we are talking about.’ I had asked him if he liked the lines I had translated. ‘Yes,’ he had said, and had concluded his reply (dated 8 December 2011) with the words, ‘Kaajtake egiye niye jao’ (proceed with the project).

That was his last letter to me. I really wish he had lived to see the work completed.

Swapna Dutta

December 2012, Bangalore

Postscript: Normally a translator’s note should not require a postscript. But as Nihsanga Samrat is the chronicle of an important era and mentions several celebrities whom people outside Bengal might not know, I felt I should include here a few words about some of the important personalities and the time when these celebrities were around in relation to the protagonist of the book, Sisirkumar Bhaduri (1889–1959).

Michael Madhusudan Dutt (1824–1873), a famous poet and dramatist especially remembered for his blank verse.

Dwijendra Lal Roy (1863–1913), poet and playwright.

Gaganendranath Tagore (1867–1938), a self-taught artist who founded the Indian Society of Oriental Art with his brother Abanindranath Tagore in 1907. He was Rabindranath Tagore’s nephew.

Chittaranjan Das (1870–1925), a revolutionary freedom fighter, affectionately called ‘Deshbandhu’ (friend of the nation).

Abanindranath Tagore (1871–1951), artist and writer; also the principal founder of the Indian Society of Oriental Art. The younger brother of Gaganendranath, he too was a nephew of Rabindranath Tagore.

Saratchandra Chattopadhyay (1876–1938), one of the most popular and widely read Bengali novelists.

Satyendranath Datta (1882–1922), poet, often described as ‘the wizard of rhymes’.

Rakhaldas Bandopadhyay (1885–1930), a historian of repute.

Jamini Roy (1887–1972), one of the first ‘modern’ artists.

Manilal Gangopadhyay (1888–1929), writer and editor.

Narendra Deb (1888–1971), poet and playwright.

Hemendra Kumar Roy (1888–1963), editor and writer, who later became famous for his adventure and fantasy stories for children.

Kalidas Roy (1889–1975), poet.

Sunitikumar Chattopadhyay (1890–1977), linguist, educationist and litterateur.

Srikumar Bandopadhyay (1892–1970), scholar and writer

Dilip Kumar Roy (1897–1980), musician, musicologist and writer.

Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899–1976), the ‘rebel poet’ of Bengal.

Achintyakumar Sengupta (1903–1976), writer, part of the literary movement known as Kallol.

Premendra Mitra (1904–1988), writer and poet, who also belonged to the Kallol group.

Budhhadeb Bose (1908–1974), writer, poet and playwright, also part of the Kallol group.

Manilal alighted from a horse-drawn carriage in front of a double-storeyed house near Maniktala. A man of refined taste, just past his prime, he was dressed in a yellow silk panjabi, an exquisitely pleated dhoti from Shantipur and a stole slung over his shoulder. On his nose was a pince-nez and his hair was carefully styled in the latest fashion. A steady drizzle since the morning had made the roads somewhat slushy. As Manilal headed towards the door, carefully holding up the ends of his dhoti, his smart Moroccan leather sandals were splattered with mud.

After a few knocks a servant opened the door. Recognizing Manilal he said, ‘Please come in, sir.’

‘Where’s your Baro Babu?’ asked Manilal, stepping into the drawing room. ‘Has he gone out?’

‘Oh no. No sir. He’s fast asleep,’ replied the servant.

Manilal whisked out his round gold watch from the tiny breast pocket of his panjabi and looked at the time. It was nearly half past ten.

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Still asleep?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Where’s Ma?’

‘She’s inside, slicing betel nuts. Would you like to see her? She’s done with her morning pujas.’

The small central courtyard inside had a tap that carried water from the Ganga. It was used for washing dirty dishes. From the enormous pile of unwashed utensils it was easy to guess that the family was a large one. A maid sat scrubbing the utensils with tamarind and ashes.

Across the courtyard, in her room, Kamalekamini sat on her four-poster bed. She had lost her husband about a decade ago. Although she was dressed in white and had gained some weight she still looked extraordinarily beautiful and regal. Her sons called her ‘Queen Victoria’ behind her back. Her fair complexion was indeed something to write home about. Of late her rheumatism had made her somewhat immobile so she seldom stepped out, reigning over her large domain from her room. But she remained well-versed with all that happened within the house down to the minutest detail. Even now, everyone in the household had to take her permission at every step, even while choosing ingredients for a vegetable curry. Kamalekamini sat slicing betel nuts with a deft hand and placing them on the newspaper spread before her. A gleaming container of betel leaves stood beside it. Manilal realized that whenever he had seen her earlier he had found her similarly occupied. Obviously, the household required an enormous quantity of betel nuts!

Manilal removed his sandals and stepped into the room. He bent down and touched her feet, which were the colour of sandalwood paste. ‘May you live to be a hundred,’ said Kamalekamini, blessing him in a muffled voice.

She looked at him and asked, ‘How did you manage to come? It’s Dol today! Didn’t the boys dunk you in colour?’

‘I came in a horse-drawn carriage. The revellers aren’t out in the streets yet. Besides, it’s raining.’

‘Take a seat, dear. How’s Aban Babu?’

‘He’s fine, as always. Hale and hearty,’ replied Manilal, still standing. ‘I was told Sisir is fast asleep although it’s so late. He isn’t ill, is he?’

‘Oh no, he isn’t,’ said Kamalekamini, ‘but you know how he is. There are times when he doesn’t sleep at night and goes to bed at dawn. I wonder what happened last night. I heard him roaring like a lion and muttering poetry to himself as he paced up and down. I can hear him quite clearly down here, especially when he recites miles of poetry and strides along the balcony upstairs. But I couldn’t make out what he was saying as it was all in English. When I woke up last night, at around half past three, I could still hear him pacing up and down, mumbling verses. I have no idea when he finally went to bed.’

‘But I need him to come with me right away,’ said Manilal. ‘Can’t somebody call him?’

Kamalekamini opened her large eyes wide. ‘Goodness! Don’t you know what his temper is like? Who’s going to risk confronting him, knowing full well that he’s likely to get his head bitten off or a tight slap across his cheek?’ she asked.

‘May I give it a try, Ma?’ asked Manilal.

Kamalekamini burst out laughing. ‘Yes, please do,’ she said, ‘you could give it right back if he tries to shout at you.’

Manilal touched her feet once again and walked out of the room. Looking around, he spotted a servant nearby and called him. ‘What does your Baro Babu have in the morning when he wakes up? Tea or coffee?’

The servant stood quietly for a moment and sheepishly said. ‘He isn’t likely to wake up now.’

‘I’m asking you whether he drinks tea or coffee,’ said Manilal in a stern voice.

‘Sometimes he asks for a glass of bel juice. But mostly he has coffee.’

‘Very well then. Make two cups of coffee and bring them upstairs. Quick!’

As Manilal climbed the stairs he met Bishwanath, a slim man, dressed in a dhoti and vest. He joined his palms to greet Manilal and said, ‘Dada isn’t up yet. He went to bed well after dawn so he isn’t likely to wake up before mid-day.’

‘I’ll deal with him,’ said Manilal, ‘but please make sure you’re there on time. In fact, you’d better go with a little time to spare – definitely before four o’ clock. Who is going to fetch Deshbandhu? I hope that has been arranged.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Bishwanath. ‘Tara will be going. Deshbandhu has said that he does not require a car. He will come in his own. But someone should accompany him.’

Manilal went up the stairs. A long veranda had a row of rooms on one side. On the other side, above the railing, hung a few bird cages. Faint sounds of voices came from inside the rooms. The door to the room at the end of the veranda stood ajar. A short flight of steps led to a smaller balcony below. A mango tree grew right next to it, its branches so close that in season, one could pick the mangoes from the balcony itself.

Once, someone in the family had died in his sleep and his body had to be removed after breaking the door open. Ever since, no one bolted their doors at night and they remained loosely shut. The door to Sisirkumar’s room swung open as soon as Manilal tapped on it. The bed, evidently meant for a single man, was not an elaborate four-poster. Thirty-five-year-old Sisirkumar, Kamalekamini’s eldest son, lay on his back, fast asleep. He had inherited his mother’s complexion but not her perfect features. He had a strongly built body and was wearing a silk lungi with a silk vest. A muga coverlet lay beside him as the nights were still a little chilly. But the sleeping man had either not bothered or not felt the need to use it.

Manilal stood still for a few minutes in the room. There were books everywhere, spilling out from all sides. The racks on the walls were full of them. There were books on the floor, books under the bed and books scattered on it as well. A few books had their pages open. Manilal knew that here was a man who could not live without books, not for a single moment. Although he enjoyed speaking to people, there were times when he felt lonely; only poetry and literature were his companions then. One glimpse at the room was enough to make an onlooker realize that it had not received a woman’s caring touch. The servants were not allowed to touch his books either. Manilal wondered for a moment whether he had been right in dragging this man from the world of letters into the world of theatre. But it was far too late now. An arrow once released could only charge ahead whether it managed to hit the target or not.

Manilal did not need to call. Sisirkumar’s eyes fluttered open, and he shouted groggily, ‘What is it, stupid? Who asked you to come in here? And how dare you wake me up?’

‘No one asked me,’ Manilal replied in a firm voice. ‘I came on my own. Besides, it’s unhealthy to keep awake all night and sleep during the day. Get up at once.’

Sisirkumar crinkled his eyes and looked pointedly at the speaker’s face. He sat up with a jerk. ‘Mani! Why are you here so early in the morning? What’s wrong? Is anyone dead?’

‘No one’s dead and it’s not early morning,’ replied Manilal. ‘It’s a quarter to eleven. Get ready, quick. We must leave right away.’

‘Where do we have to go?’ asked Sisirkumar, sounding bewildered.

‘I heard you were up all night,’ said Manilal. ‘How many bottles did you finish?’

‘Not one, believe me,’ said Sisirkumar rubbing his eyes. ‘I didn’t drink a drop last night.’

‘Sounds too good to be true,’ said Manilal. ‘Bravo, if you really mean it. Excellent! I’m aware of your will power, Sisir. Now get ready quickly. We have no time to lose.’

‘But where are we going?’ asked Sisirkumar again.

‘Really, Sisir, don’t you remember what day it is? We have to go and check if everything has been arranged properly. They are supposed to supply the new lights around noon.’

Sisirkumar stretched and yawned, and got off the bed looking vexed. He rubbed his chin and realized he hadn’t shaved for two days. Looking towards the wall he said, ‘Just stop it!’

‘Stop what?’ asked Manilal, astonished.

‘We are not having the opening ceremony tonight. Cancel everything. Arrange to refund all the tickets.’ Then he lit a cheroot without even washing his face.

Manilal slumped into a chair. ‘What are you saying, Sisir? Have you gone crazy? Everything has been finalized already. The entire city is plastered with posters and I doubt if there’s an empty wall anywhere. It’s the first show of your own group! Deshbandhu Chittaranjan is going to light the ceremonial lamp and the hall will be chock-full of distinguished guests.’

‘And what, I ask you, are they going to see? Do you think I am going to make a fool of myself?’ shouted Sisirkumar.

‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be a hit,’ said Manilal. ‘We’ve invited Krishnachandra Dey to sing. And we’ve asked Nazrul Islam, who’s quite a name these days, to recite some of his poems.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Sisirkumar. ‘The audience will expect to see Sisir Bhaduri act. When they realize that I’m nowhere in the picture and there’s not going to be a play at all, won’t they be furious? They will throw stones. They will break chairs! Did I join the theatre for this? To present a bunch of sentimental songs, irrelevant dancing and nonsensical weeping and wailing? This is cheating, pure and simple, I refuse to be party to it! I shall not be there tonight. To hell with the show! You’d better stick a notice on the door of the theatre announcing that the show has been cancelled.’

Sisirkumar Bhaduri, scion of a declining zamindar family, had been a hero to his friends from his early years. Bright, handsome and sharp-witted, he was a brilliant student though not an attentive one. He read far more than the others but was not particularly keen to be among the toppers. He took up teaching at the Metropolitan College after completing his Masters in English and was very popular with his students. They would listen to him spellbound when he recited from Shakespeare. He was equally adept at reciting in Bengali.

Sisirkumar loved acting right from his student days. He would often participate in amateur plays put up at the University Institute, in English as well as Bengali. Once, Rabindranath Tagore himself came to see Baikunther Khata (Baikuntha’s Diary), one of his own plays, being performed. That was before he received the Nobel Prize. After the performance he had asked one of his companions, ‘Who is that lad who played Kedar? Watching him on stage made me envious. It’s a role I was once famous for.’

Sisirkumar had played the lead in a number of plays during the six years he had taught in the college. Then he gave up teaching and joined the theatre as a professional. Until then no other man as highly educated and well bred as him had become a professional actor. This was partly because of the notoriety connected to the world of theatre. The actresses were from the red light area. The actors were mostly uneducated and given to various vices. In fact, one of the prime reasons for Sisirkumar joining this sordid world was his ardent desire to cleanse the stage of its stigma and make it integral to the nation’s culture. He wanted theatre to be instrumental in shaping and redefining popular taste as had happened in many other countries.

Girishchandra, the undisputed king of Bengali theatre, had passed away in 1912, leaving the stage virtually bereft of talent. Now, in the handful of theatres that remained, the footlights flickered dimly. There were hardly any plays or actors left who could attract audiences. Dani Babu, Girishchandra’s son, was the sole star of the day. Dani Babu was neither as educated as his father, nor did he have the same command over literature or culture. But he had a marvellous voice, deep and rich with feeling. His success as an actor came from inherited talent rather than careful training.

Sisirkumar had taken many risks when he opted to leave the classroom for the stage. He was not bothered by the disrepute associated with the stage. His anxiety was about his friends with whom he spent a considerable amount of time. They belonged to well-bred, highly educated families and had impeccable taste. Would they cut him out . . .