Orb of Night

The room no bigger than 10¢x12¢ was crowded with a bed, a cloth horse and a dressing table, each one a fine specimen of curved wood in pure Burma teak; time had taken away the shine of polish, yet they stood tall in some innate glory. A gramophone sat on a rack at a corner with its majestic presence. In the soft glow of morning sun, an assortment of empty perfume bottles of varied size and shapes glittered over the dressing table. A puny figure of a woman, also ancient like the furniture, crouched on a mat in front of the small temple fixed at the corner of the room. Her silvery hair complemented the whiteness of her sari, though both were merely a skeleton of their original lustre. 

‘Pranab, is that you son?’ she reacted on a rustle at the corridor. Her voice, though frail chimed like a musical note. ‘It’s me, Bhola; every time someone passes the oldie has to call out. Don’t know why I even bother!’ a grumbling voice faded with the footsteps along the corridor that connected a number of rooms in a row, housing an ensemble tenants staying at meagre rent for years. She felt for her stick and advanced towards the bed with effort.

‘Ma, how are you keeping?’ a middle aged man in dhoti kurta with weather beaten face entered her room on a Sunday morning. ‘Pranab, why didn’t you come for so long son? My old eyes seek for you all the time’. ‘You think I have no work other than giving you company?’ ‘Son, do something for my failing vision, I get scared at night’. ‘Doctor already told its cataract, need operation; you know very well it is expensive and I am always hand to mouth.’ A sigh escaped involuntarily under her breath. This was a weekly routine between the discounted mother and her foster son, ever since, she had been indisposed and he too independent.  

‘Burima, your lunch’, a girl no more than fifteen placed a plate of paltry food on the ground; she also helped the lady to sit for her lunch. ‘Weren’t you late today Rina or is it my impatience?’ ‘Yes I am late, you must be hungry?’  ‘It’s not so much the food, it’s your company I wait for dear’ she muttered with affection. ‘Don’t you know Burima today is Holi?’ she radiated. ‘Holi!....’ the lady’s aged insipid eyes lit up with some distant memory. 
 

***

It was a musical soiree at Mysore Palace; the enormous hall was graced by great musicians and eminent personalities. The day was Vasant Poornima, there was riot of colours in terms of dresses and colourful jewels; each one present in the hall was vivacious in the mood of Holi.

‘Na maro Pichkari saiyan paiyan paroon tori….’

(Don’t sprinkle colour dear, I beg of you)

ch one of the of dresses and colourful jewelsal of colour; colod Indubala dressed in an indigo coloured sari just like Sri Radha, performed on this composition of her mentor Gauhar Jaan. Radiance of the immense crystal chandelier overhead reflected on her diamond tiara with each move; she looked every bit the Moon (Indu), the Orb of Night.

She was only twelve when she performed for the first time in Calcutta along with her mother Rajbala; the music world embraced her with open arms instantly. She became a professional singer against the wish of her mother who tried to keep her away from the tag of being from Rambagan, a notorious red light area of Calcutta, her childhood home.

Mother was naïve, she failed to come to term with the fact that the daughter of Motilal Bose of The Great Bengal Circus, the famous Gramophone singer, a prominent stage artiste, a Film star, none of these could wipe out the tag of Rambagan from her name; no matter neither of the mother daughter ever joined the trade.

It was Gauhar Jaan the diva, gorgeous, enigmatic took her through the finesse of Thumri; she taught her to be bold, not to be ashamed of her background. ‘It is your talent that draws people towards you, not your family name’ she always emphasised.   

‘Mantu-da’, Mahindra Nath Ghosh a famous Gramophone singer knew her as a promising child, as he was acquainted with her mother. He introduced her as a record artist to HMV, she was only sixteen. ‘You can do it Indu, it’s there in you’; he encouraged the nervous teenager. Her songs were big hits ever since she recorded the first one.

***

‘Mohe punghat par nandlal cher dino re,

mori nazuk kalaiyan maroro dino re’.

(Nandlal teased me at the riverbank,

He grasped my delicate wrists.)

That handsome face vibrant in youthful intelligence, always present at her concerts as a silent admirer; she considered him as her Nandlal. Romance blossomed secretly amidst name, fame and prosperity. He often gifted her exclusive perfumes, indulging her fetish for fragrance. ‘Why do you waste so much of money?’ she would ask while playing with his unruly curls. ‘It’s not a waste dear, it’s an investment. Whenever, you put them on I shall be around.’ ‘What if they all finish?’ she teased. ‘The empty bottles will remind of me’.

The empty bottles still reminded her of him, much after he disappeared from her life.

A dashing young man dressed in saffron kurta of pure khadi and yellow silk turban came to Manmohan theatre one evening at the rehearsal of their upcoming play. Those large compassionate eyes contrasting the boldness of his character made her curious. He was the famous poet, singer, composer and freedom fighter Kazi Nazrul Islam; beloved ‘Kazi-da’ to all the theatre artists.  Kazi-da opened a new poetic world for her; she started singing his compositions for Gramophone Company as well. The depth of his composition, the poetic value of the lyrics took her to a different arena of music; she became an adored household name with his songs.

‘Cheona Sunayona ar cheona ei nayon pane’

(Don’t look at my eyes you doe-eyed beauty)

It was one of the two Nazrul songs she first recorded, ‘this song suits you Indu’ Kazi-da said light-heartedly hinting at her beautiful eyes.

***

The morning air carried a soothing chill at the onset of winter in November; a strip of sun touched the corner of the bed. The frail frame of Indubala laid still, her pale face serene with eternal peace. ‘Burima!’ the tea cup fell on the floor as Rina shrieked in alarm. A long play record kept playing of Indubala’s Nazrul song,-

‘Mor ghumo ghore ele manohar namo namo,namo

srabono meghe nache natabar, ramochamo chamachamo ramajhamo Shiyare boshi chupi chupi chumile nayan

mor bikoshilo abeshe tonu, nipashamo nirupamo manoramo’

(My greetings to you beloved, you came in my sleep; the dancing Lord, you kissed my eyes in silence. My body and soul blossomed in thrill, dearest, my love)

***  ***  

Note: Indubala was born in Amritsar in the year 1899; her father Motilal Bose the proprietor of The Great Bengal Circus married her mother a trapeze artiste of his circus in a temple at Ujjain. Her mother Rajbala declined to resume her circus job post Indu’s birth that annoyed Motilal greatly. As a result he disowned Rajbala who eventually landed up at Rambagan. Rajbala trained herself as a singer and earned a name in the profession. Indubala declined to be a trained nurse as per her mother’s wish and came into singing world to gain extraordinary repute. She died in destitution at the age of 85 on 30^th November, 1984.

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