Ever since the local municipality office served the notice of eviction, the owner of Bapi Tea Stall was pushed into a state of anxiety. With just a month left to vacate the space where he conducted business for more than two decades, he consulted the patrons comprising artists and educators to find solutions to stave off the impending doom. Though almost certain that the premises would be demolished if he flouted the order, Bapi did not want to give up without a fight. He had full faith in his supportive clientele to come up with effective strategies.
Suspicious that he was deliberately singled out for the eviction drive and offered no compensation package or any proposal to relocate, he was advised by a Chemistry Professor that it was better to seek legal assistance and obtain a favourable court order that would restrain the authorities from taking adverse action against him. He was also informed without quoting the reliable sources that the Municipality was in no mood to offer him any relief though he could reach out to them and exhaust this option before approaching the district court.
Bapi was bogged down by the fear of a direct conflict with the authorities as they would take it up as a matter of prestige, and hire a battery of top-notch lawyers to win the case. With folded hands, he pleaded before the cabal of patrons, who were also representatives of the civil society, to suggest a better solution.
“You are my customers and you have seen me doing business here for decades. I have kept this area neat and clean. I never dumped garbage outside. I sweep the entire stretch outside the stall every day and keep it well-lit after dark as there are no street lights around this corner. Women move around safely. I leave it to your wisdom to bring this to the notice of the authorities through the request letter. I am not much educated but I think this should work in my favour. Consider this case as a plea on humanitarian grounds,” Bapi reeled off a softer line of defence.
Some members of his support group felt this strategy could work temporarily in his favour and get him relief. Bikash Sir, a Chemistry professor, took the initiative in this matter and discussed it with his lawyer wife to gauge what could be the possible ramifications if the legal route was pursued. Discouraged by her analysis, he went and advised Bapi to seek help from the opposition leaders who could rally behind him with their support base and put brakes on this eviction plan.
Unable to understand why Bapi was not being offered a compensation package or another place to relocate to, as had been done in many similar cases in the past, Bikash Sir chose not to rake it up any further. With the drying up of his support base, Bapi decided to fight his own battle. With much hope, he went to the key opposition leader seeking remedy but he refused to provide help to one individual.
“If there were 20-30 people affected by this decision, I would have deployed my cadres to stage a protest and block the main road and made them bend. Since it affects only you, there is nothing I can do for you,” Brindaban Da, the Opposition party leader explained his position.
“Is there anything I can do to save my tea stall?” Bapi asked with genuine concern.
“Except bribe, I do not see any option left,” Brindaban Da gave him a straw, “Try to meet the Vice-Chairman and offer him cash. If he agrees, your problem is solved.”
Taking fifty thousand rupees in a tiffin box, with the intent of doubling it up with another installment of an equal amount, Bapi approached the authority wielding the power to reverse the order.
Fortunate that the Vice-Chairman agreed to grant him an audience, Bapi adopted a transactional mindset.
“Your tea stall is very popular. You have earned lakhs and lakhs. And you are offering just fifty thousand to save that lucky spot,” the Vice-Chairman exploded when he heard the offer.
“I can double it if you assure me of no disturbance in the future,” Bapi spoke his mind.
“It is a strategic spot and your bread and butter, but we need it for -” the presiding authority clarified in a tone of helplessness.
Without letting him complete, Bapi pitched in with his maudlin narrative, “There are many good spots, why choose mine, Sir?” I have a daughter to marry off and my son is jobless after graduation -”
“These are stories to melt the heart. Why don’t you go and buy a proper shop? You have earned a lot. Why do you grab public space to do business? And you expect the civil society to help you in this selfish mission? Remember the customers you discussed the matter with. Some of them came here and told us to take quick action against Bapi Tea Stall. You will be surprised to know that the idea of your eviction was initially forwarded by your patrons. But I cannot reveal those honourable names.”
Bapi returned with a heavy heart – unable to digest that his patrons were in favour of his eviction. Sure that Bikash Sir cannot be a hypocrite, Bapi suspected the less supportive members to be the key culprits. Since the Vice-Chairman disclosed this heartbreaking news of betrayal, it was another blow he had to deal with and he was not mentally prepared for it.
When Bikash Sir came the next day riding his scooter, Bapi was in no mood to offer updates. He had made up his mind that he was going to vacate this spot. With patrons stabbing him in the back, he had lost faith in humanity. Ordering his lemon tea, Bikash Sir sat with the newspaper and scanned the headlines.
Bapi’s silence was not what Bikash Sir was expecting at this juncture. He seemed to be a person who had already given him hope. When he served a cup of lemon tea, Bikash Sir asked him while lighting up his cigarette with the long burning rope suspended from the chipped wall, “Anything in your favour?”
“I am vacating this spot,” Bapi averred without any signs of distress.
“Do not surrender without a fight. You can get compensation if you lose. We are all with you,” Bikash Sir pumped him up without having any idea that the municipal authorities had spilled the beans.
“I do not want compensation or any alternative spot. You have supported me through the decades and that is enough. It was God’s will that I managed it here. Maybe, now it is time to move on. I have to ensure the safety of my family,” Bapi sounded fed up with the scheming ways of the world.
When his other professor friends arrived, Bikash Sir told them that Bapi had made up his mind to vacate. They were aghast to hear his decision and suggested a signature drive to build public opinion in favor of Bapi.
“Your stall has served generations. How can we allow you to disappear like that?” Bikash Sir framed the final response that was bold, categorical, and decisive even though the rest of the members were not enthusiastic to the core.
The futility of such support was a reality for Bapi who knew nothing positive would emerge from this campaign. Bapi was keen to identify the moles but there was no way he would be able to find out the bitter truth. When they clubbed together as supporters, it was impossible to identify the main culprits. He wanted to accuse them all of betrayal and disclose what he had gathered from the Vice- Chairman.
Unable to suppress it any further, Bapi burst forth with a tweaked storyline: “I am told that the residents of this area have written to the VC, demanding my eviction. Some of them happen to be my customers. I cannot imagine them as backstabbers.”
As soon as Bapi disclosed this, Bikash Sir started coughing and stood up to leave on the pretext of an important phone call. He returned a good fifteen minutes later, to discover all his friends had left and Bapi was washing the cups and saucepan.
Unlike in the past, Bapi did not show any interest in chatting with Bikash Sir when he wanted to share an update about the signature collection touching a record 500.
“Your friends have gone to attend the theatre show and they must be waiting for you to join them in the next lane,” Bapi informed him so he could leave quickly.
Bapi suspected Bikash Sir could be the mastermind who reported to the V-C but it was useless to ferret out the name now. Given the suspicious behaviour, his instinct made him doubt that Bikash Sir was linked to the conspiracy even if he was not the prime suspect.
“Bikash Da, your bill for the last three months is due. Appreciate the full clearance soon, before I leave this space,” Bapi reminded Bikash Sir for the first time about his dues.
“Tell me your last day here. I will do it before that,” Bikash Sir promised him prompt clearance. “Don’t lose hope, life holds surprises. Something better awaits you,” Bikash Sir continued to raise his spirits even after he realised Bapi had stopped respecting him as a well-wisher.
Bapi was looking prosperous but nobody knew he was in huge debt for his sister’s medical treatment. He needed to work hard for another five years to clear his loans as his son was not getting settled.
Bapi was ready to vacate the spot before the end of the month – before he was served the second notice of eviction by the municipal authorities. He put up signage stating the closure of Bapi Tea Stall and offered no alternative address.
On the last day of doing business, Bapi mentioned he was happy the end was near though nobody could guess the end he was referring to. When the municipality staff arrived to bulldoze, to get the space vacated, they had to break the lock and enter the tea stall to find Bapi hanging from the ceiling fan.
In the suicide note he had scribbled, no name was mentioned but he cited debt to be the compelling reason for this extreme step. When his family arrived to claim the body for rites, they were met by patrons including Bikash Sir. They were asked to leave the spot immediately as Bapi had disclosed to his son during a recent conversation that his customers were no well-wishers. It remained a mystery for the son who failed to understand why they did the treacherous act.
When the matter subsided after a few months, the Municipality constructed a marble bust at the exact spot where Bapi Tea Stall stood. It was the statue of a literary activist who was shot down by unidentified assailants on a motorbike right in front of Bapi Tea Stall five years ago.
Bikash Sir and his friends were proud that their friend was finally accorded the respect he deserved – after five long years of struggle. It was in front of Bapi Tea Stall that he breathed his last so they wanted a memorial right there but some of them weighed the injustice to Bapi for a few years before achieving near-unanimity in throwing him out. Although the dream memorial had become a reality, they did not want Bapi to sacrifice his life in this manner. Bikash Sir held himself responsible for the planning and execution, and felt remorseful for pretending to be a supporter of Bapi Tea Stall.
The life insurance company made the lump-sum payment to the nominee in Bapi’s family. His son used the funds to purchase a shop in the nearby posh market. He started a new business, named it Cha Bar. It was dazzling with neon lights, with cushioned stools, a guitar, and several exotic flavours of tea on the menu for the young generation, with a small garlanded portrait of his late father who ensured his son was finally settled.
He was a tall man in perhaps his late sixties, not especially handsome. After her initial, unremarkable impression the next thing that struck her was that she should find such a man interesting at all. She was married to someone three years younger than herself who looked like he had not yet seen fifty. She rarely noticed other men, much less found them interesting. Why, then, was she following this one past overnights for toddlers, past analgesics and into a part of the pharmacy she had never had reason to visit before?
He stopped halfway down the aisle and began comparing the labels of various products like a careful accountant with one eye on each side of the ledger. In profile he seemed better-looking than he did during her initial glimpse at the main counter when he had asked the clerk where stool softeners were located. He had an almost full head of long gray hair, a prominent nose and a firm, no-nonsense jaw that refused to capitulate to the slackness time had worked on the flesh of his cheeks and neck. Her husband didn’t have a wrinkle on his face and still had more black hair than gray.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What exactly is a stool softener?”
He seemed neither surprised nor embarrassed by her question, as if it had been just a matter of time until she asked. He explained in a matter-of-fact way the purpose and use of various aids to motility. He spoke in a gentle baritone—she disliked higher voices in men—expounding one brand’s virtues over another’s as though they were discussing her tax return or he were doing a commercial, but one devoid of the usual flimflam. He had quiet gray eyes that never left her own.
“There are two kinds,” he concluded, returning his attention to the shelf he had been examining. “With a laxative, and without.”
She could imagine him in his office summing up a consultation about the best investment strategy for a client. “In your case, Mrs. Brownstein, I advise diversification. Some long-term government instruments along with a high-yield mutual fund that offers good liquidity.”
She reached for the same box he had been looking at, though she had to lower her eyeglasses almost to the tip of her nose to read the small print on the back. Even then she had trouble making it out, aware all the while of his gaze.
“Read the documents carefully, Mrs. Brownstein, then sign and date each copy where indicated.” In school she had always lost valuable time re-reading exam instructions. She was an “A” student in math where matters were straightforward, but what good did a high math proficiency do a girl back in those days?
“I suggest you take a half-dosage at first.”
She peered blindly at the box for a few seconds, then put it back on the shelf and picked up the one beside it, identical except that the brand name was printed in red instead of black.
“The red one contains a laxative. You probably won’t need that much potency, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Probably not,” she said, having no more success with the information on this package than she did with the first. She put it back carefully, almost upsetting the other items on the shelf anyway because her nearsightedness failed her at anything more than a distance of twelve inches.
“At your age, a bowl of bran flakes in the morning was all I ever required. In an emergency I relied on prune juice.”
His eyes were brighter now, the way they must have looked after all the papers were signed and he could allow some levity before shaking hands with the client and sending her on her way. “Till next year, Mrs. Brownstein.”
“Actually,” she said, “I never had any problem at all until I...injured myself.”
“Oh?”
“Not seriously. A minor fissure. My doctor said he could barely feel it.” She glanced his way, but there was still nothing but professional concern in his eyes. “I never had anything like this before and it’s, you know, distressing.”
“Of course.”
“My own fault, really. I tried to carry too many groceries. I should have had them delivered. But I wanted to get supper started, and you know how long the stores can take until they get around to bringing your order. The milk is warm and the frozen food half-defrosted.”
“Indeed.”
“I didn’t realize I had done any harm until a couple days later. Even then I didn’t put two and two together. I was so afraid it was, you know, something else. I was scared to death,” she said, his face suddenly going blurry. She opened her handbag and fished out a tissue. “I’m sorry.”
“Not at all.”
“My mother died of colon cancer.”
He nodded gravely. “So did mine.”
“But you," she said, "you’re not...?”
“No, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
A smile suited him. She pictured him in a bar after a long day’s work, one of those plush lounges that catered to professionals, graciously enduring the latest lawyer joke, a scotch-and-water at his side.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
He made a little bow and moved further down the aisle toward bunion removers. She resumed her search for the suppositories her doctor had prescribed. But she was still upset just from thinking about the possibility of cancer. Her husband had maintained from the first there was nothing seriously wrong with her, most likely just a case of hemorrhoids. He claimed to be just as uneasy with doctors as she was, but he never failed to show up for his annual physical and scarcely hesitated before making an appointment to report any unusual pain. Until the fissure, she hadn’t been to a doctor in two years and still hadn’t gone for the blood tests he ordered.
“People like yourself,” her husband said, “people who almost never get sick, get on my nerves. When the least little thing does go wrong, you become impossible.”
He was right, of course. She rarely got ill and even then almost always carried on with her usual schedule. She accumulated sick days year after year but refused to use them, afraid if she really did fall ill she would have no time available. When she did come down with a cold or stomach virus, she insisted her husband stay home and take care of her. “I don’t like it, Marty,” she whined from a deep mountain of pillows, not allowing him out of sight for the duration of her illness. “I don’t like it one bit!”
She had already suffered a heavy dose of menopause, and she didn't like that either. Cold sweats, hot flashes, no decent night’s sleep for weeks on end. And then a kind of desiccation had set in, as if nature were declaring that her body no longer served any useful purpose, was just a bit of biological rubbish. She felt betrayed by her flesh, and now the fissure made her feel the same way.
At the checkout she stood waiting her turn for the dark-skinned teenager to ring up her items. The girl hesitated before ringing up the stool softener.
“Wrong,” someone in the line behind her said. “You charged for the red label. The black one is thirty cents less. “It’s not,” he added, “as if the price weren’t right on the box.”
His face was colored with indignation. She thought, she would not like to be on the receiving end of that look.
“Thank you,” she said, “again.”
She stepped aside to put her change into her purse while the clerk carefully registered the man’s own purchases. But even before she reached the exit he was alongside her, holding the door just as if they had entered the store together.
They stepped out into the midday sun.
“It’s pitiful,” he said, “the kind of help they hire.”
“I appreciate your speaking up for me.”
“All she has to do is read a figure off a box top.”
As he ushered her through the pharmacy exit she had realized she would have to make a decision: accept his invitation to walk with her and maybe stop somewhere for coffee, or make an excuse why she could not do so and perhaps hurt his feelings. But he was still so preoccupied with the clerk’s incompetence he seemed unaware they were standing motionless in the middle of a busy sidewalk.
“They’re hired because of their color,” he said. “Half of them can’t read or write.”
It hadn’t occurred to her that the young woman behind the register was an example of affirmative action. She had come to expect mistakes to be made at the checkout whatever the complexion of the help.
“I saw the same thing happen in the firm I worked for. Perfectly capable white men turned away in favor of coloreds. One of them is probably occupying my old desk. Or some immigrant who can’t even speak the language,” he said, his eyes focused in the middle distance where the injustices of racial preference were cavorting unchecked. He still seemed unaware of the pedestrians who were having to make detours around them.
She wanted to say something reassuring without agreeing with his views, or at least to get him off a subject about which he had such bitter feelings.
“You’re retired, then?”
“Yes,” he said, and began walking east. Her own destination was in the opposite direction, but she felt she had no choice but to follow until she had a chance to say a proper goodbye. “I do consulting now. Just to keep my hand in. I apologize for blowing off steam back there. That’s a subject gets my goat.”
“It’s quite all right.”
“I’m as willing as the next person to give everyone a fair shake. I just don’t like social engineering at the expense of perfectly capable people like ourselves.”
As they approached the corner she decided this was where she would leave him. She still had to eat her lunch before returning to the office. But he saved her the awkwardness of being the first to say goodbye by abruptly turning toward her and offering his hand. “It’s been a great pleasure,” he said, once again the in-charge professional.
“It’s been a pleasure for me as well.”
He raised his hand as if to tip the hat he was not wearing and raised his index finger in a salute.
She had assumed he meant to turn left or right at the intersection or perhaps hail a cab. But he crossed in the same direction they had been walking, pausing to let a truck make a turn in front of him rather than assert his right of way. When he reached the other side of the street he continued straight on. She watched until he was about a third of the way down the next block, but he never looked back.
Two days later she returned to the same pharmacy, this time to buy sanitary pads. It was a nuisance at her age to again be menstruating, even though they were “faux” periods brought on by hormone therapy she was on and her doctor had warned her could only be temporary. But monthly cramps and bleeding were better than waking up at night drenched in sweat and through the course of the day feeling as if someone had turned up the thermostat to 110 degrees.
She thought often about the man in the pharmacy and even dreamed about him, though she couldn’t recall how the dream went, only that she awoke frightened and with her heart pounding. She told her husband about an older gentleman who had explained the different kinds of stool softeners to her, but Marty’s response was, “Did he ask you to go to bed with him?”
“Are you crazy? He’s my father’s age.”
“That’s the kind to watch out for. To an old fart like him you still look like a piece of ass.”
She replied that she didn’t care for that kind of language and that she was sure all the man wanted was some conversation. But she didn’t miss the implication that to a younger man, perhaps to someone her husband’s age, she in fact no longer looked like “a piece of ass.”
She paid for the menstrual pads and walked a few blocks to the small park where she sometimes went to eat lunch. If she waited till one o’clock she could usually find a bench free. Today, because it was the Friday before a long holiday weekend, she had her choice of several empty ones. She picked a location under the overhanging branch of a tall plane tree and sat down to eat her tunafish-on-whole-wheat.
Twice a week she ate tuna or chickn-salad, twice cheese and one day she had something different like turkey or sardines. In the cooler months she drank hot tea, no milk one sugar. In summer she switched to iced. Over the years she managed to keep her weight steady without resorting to radical diets or a grueling exercise regimen. The estrogen she was taking had added a pound or two, but she absorbed it without looking much different in a knit skirt or jeans. Sometimes when they were making love her husband told her she had a figure most twenty-year-olds would kill for. But she merely took that to mean that he had a keen eye for twenty-year-olds.
A few purple pigeons began collecting near her feet, waiting for a handout. She never ate crusts, hadn’t done so since she was a child when she made her mother cut them off her sandwiches before she would consent to take them in her lunchbox. She asked her husband to do the same thing when he made her toast.
“They eat better than we do.”
She shaded her eyes with her free hand, her mouth half-full of sandwich. A tall male, his back to the sunlit sky, was smiling down at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you at first. How nice to see you again.”
“How nice to see you,” he said.
He sat down beside her. He was wearing a different jacket, something sportier than the dark flannel he had on the first time they met. His tie was a drab maroon with small white polka dots and a width that was popular thirty years ago. He was still hatless.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Please go on with your lunch.”
She had imagined this second meeting in a dozen different circumstances: in this park—the most likely place, she realized with a blush—on the crosstown bus, at a busy intersection or, of course, in that same pharmacy where he had educated her about stool softeners. What remained the same in each imagined encounter was their dialogue. Each time it was he who spoke first, saying, “How nice to see you again,” or something very close, and her reply was, “How nice to see you.” She had carefully rehearsed the exact emphasis she should give that “you.” It mustn’t suggest anything more than the delight of a happily married woman chancing on a recent acquaintance. Given the circumstances under which she had actually greeted him today, she thought she had got it about right, even allowing for their lines being switched. But what she had not accounted for in all the not-so-chance meetings she had imagined as she had lain staring up at the ceiling after her husband was asleep or when she was proofing the corrugated prose of the law firm where she worked was the agitation she would feel when the real thing occurred, a kind of going-to-the-dentist jitters combined with the flush of a schoolgirl being singled out for attention by an upperclassman.
“They’d all die of starvation if it weren’t for us,” he said. She had no idea what he was referring to until she saw that he was staring down at the crowd of pigeons fighting for the bread she had thrown their way. “Completely dependent.”
She pulled the last remaining crust from her sandwich and tossed it to the birds at the outer rim of the crush. “I take it you’re not a bird fancier.”
“Not these kind, no.”
“What would you do about them?” she asked. “Fine people for feeding them? Exterminate them?”
“That’s the same sort of remark my wife would have made.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to sound critical.” She realized she had responded automatically, as she would to one of Marty’s comments. “You’re a widower, then?”
“Me? No, Doris is very much alive. Or was, the last I heard. Lives in New Jersey with a retired dentist. Has Alzheimer’s, I believe—the dentist.”
His expression seemed calculated to convey neither loss nor betrayal. He might have been talking about a bad investment in the futures market. “Actually,” he said with a nod at the swarming birds, “they’ve been dependent on us for millennia, living in temples and other public buildings. People thought they must be favored by the gods. That’s why they started feeding them.”
She regarded the squabbling birds at her feet. All her life she had lived among pigeons, or they with her if what this man was saying was true. When she was a little girl teachers shooed them away from children like herself and forbid her to feed them, saying they caused disease. She had never doubted they did but went on giving them her leftovers nonetheless, though it sometimes meant having her mother summoned to school.
“Nowadays most folks just consider them a nuisance,” he added. “I certainly do.” He folded his arms comfortably. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, He feels the same way about blacks: ‘It’s a sad thing what happened to them, slavery and all, but we can’t let our history turn us into sentimental fools.’”
She asked if that was indeed his view on race relations, but she was still adjusting to the idea that pigeons, her lifelong companions and sometimes partners in crime, were not mere vagabonds and statue-defilers but a kind of nobility down on their luck, despised and unappreciated. And that they might all die if it weren’t for people like herself.
“I suppose you think I’m some sort of heartless beast.”
“No,” she said. “Of course not.”
“I’ve just seen too much abuse. Not enough personal responsibility.”
The pigeons pecked up what was left of the crusts and began moving on to better prospects. A cloud passed in front of the sun.
“Actually, my husband thinks much the same as you do,” she said, splaying her hands across the top of her dark blue skirt. She didn’t wear her wedding ring every day, afraid she might lose it. She hadn’t been wearing it the day they met in the pharmacy.
He said, “Men take a more hardheaded view of these things.”
She gathered together the remains of her lunch and stuffed them into the paper bag.
“Where did they live before they took up residence in...where was it you said, temples?”
“They lived in the woods,” he said, “same as other birds. They’re only a species of dove, you know. Nothing remarkable about them at all.”
“And they couldn’t survive without us? They would all die?”
“Absolutely. They’re much like rats in that regard. No people, no pigeons.”
She thought: A relative of one of the birds milling about her feet was set free by Noah to see if the flood waters had receded. Their ancestors lived and bred in the Temple of Athena when Euripides was writing his plays and the Peloponnesian War was raging.
“I don’t begrudge blacks their due,” he said. “Equal opportunity, et cetera. Some of them are quite capable.”
The breeze had dislodged his thin gray hair and was tossing it in contrary directions. When he talked about race, she noticed, his face took on a sour expression.
“I’m afraid I have to be getting back to the office.”
He stood up, his back less erect than before. “May I walk with you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m already late.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again, here in the park,” he said, his smile a bit forced as if he were trying to cover up a rare but obvious mistake in the text of an important document. “I come here fairly often.”
“Perhaps,” she said, offering her hand.
As she walked out of the park and onto the busy sidewalk, she could feel his gaze in the small of her back like the touch of a stranger in a crowded elevator. She imagined his expression changing from perplexity to affront to finally a little-boy's plea for attention. This last, she knew, would be the most difficult to ignore. But she kept her eyes fixed on the crowded sidewalk and resigned herself to the long afternoon that still lay ahead of her.
The magic of writing the alphabet from right to left emerged as a reality when he saw his father compose letters addressed to his cousins living in Punjab. The smooth flow of words in the opposite direction caught his fancy, making him eager to emulate the style. The young Pritam would sit down with the inland letters received, holding a pen and paper, imitating the calligraphy with a sharp focus on the bends and the dots. Without knowing the script, whatever he managed to copy was nothing less than a triumph, and he rushed to his father excitedly, “Papa, see, can you make out what I have written?”
Sardar Ajit Singh would concentrate hard and try to separate the ignorance and the effort while making sense of what the young boy had intended and scribbled. When he assembled some words, Pritam would be thrilled he had grafted those in correct Urdu after a brief strain. His father was glad that his only son had inherited his love and passion for languages. He was impressed how the school-going boy struggled to pick up a new language – formed words and sentences by copying them from the letters received.
Pritam did not stop at that. He would carry the scribbled page in his school bag, intending to show his friends what he had written and boast of his linguistic expertise. As nobody in his group knew Urdu, not even the sole Muslim boy in his class, it was easy to claim the title of a proficient classmate with felicity for a language gasping for revival. It had seen a glorious era before turning moribund due to waning patronage after the partition setback.
As was expected, Pritam, within a few weeks, expressed the wish to learn the basics. When Sardar Ajit Singh cavorted in a good mood, he would write a few alphabets, and pronounce and identify those in a baritone voice fit for recitation. Pritam began to jot down short words like haq, aag, and daag in his copy. His father rectified the minor errors without scolding him. Afraid this pastime was flaring up to impact his interest in other subjects, Sardar Ajit Singh scouted for an excuse to curtail the random and flirtatious engagement with Urdu.
One fine evening, in an unusually genteel voice, Sardar Ajit Singh averred, “Son, you are in the upper class now, and your board exams are approaching. I assure you that Urdu lessons will resume after you sit for board exams. I don’t want your mother to accuse me that your grades suffered because you took more interest in Urdu. I know this hurts, but you must realise the other subjects are more important for your career building now. The education world and the job market have become very competitive.”
He waited for a reaction from Pritam, who withdrew into a shell after this layered assertion. He was not argumentative before his parents, never the one to appeal for reconsideration, so he meekly nodded and disappeared with his copy. His father’s promise remained unfulfilled as God had other plans to unveil. Just before the board exams were to begin, Pritam had to bear the sudden loss of his father, who passed away quietly in sleep without suffering a painful end. Thoroughly unprepared for the untimely demise, he mourned the parental loss and the concomitant loss of learning Urdu at home in equal measure. His father was not the solitary source he could pick it up from, but the privilege of learning Urdu from him was a treasure – and a pleasure – he had lost forever.
When he told his mother, Surjit Kaur what Papa had promised him, she felt the burden to fulfill it was now on her drooping shoulders even though Sardar Ajit Singh never disclosed it to her. Perhaps it was one of those casual, flippant promises not meant to be translated into reality. Whatever the truth, Surjit Kaur chose to honour it by engaging an Urdu tutor after his board exams were over. It was a predictable repetition of the same rehashed promise so Pritam did not pin much hope on its fulfillment. That he was supposed to perform well in his exams intensified the pressure as education alone was the route to bail them out of the impending crisis. Just as his mother shouldered the responsibility to raise a good son and essay the late Sardar Ajit Singh’s role, Pritam also wanted to be a good son who looked after his widowed mother without raising a spate of demands as a teenager scouting for sensational picks every month.
Bibi Surjit Kaur did not want to make her late husband’s promise remain vacuous. It became her singular priority to engage a good Ustad who would teach what Pritam was keen to learn. She remembered her husband was of the view that a child should be given the chance to bloom the way he likes, without any parental intervention. She was eager to see her son clear the board exams and the first thing she would do immediately after that: hire an Ustad for Pritam. Aside from hatching this plan, she promised to give him access to his father’s bookshelf that was locked with works of Urdu poetry gathering dust and breeding silverfish.
She could not understand why a Sikh boy raised in Bengal was so passionate about this decadent language from a tender age. It was a conundrum for the mother who claims to know her child inside out. She realised it was his natural inclination when one afternoon, she sat with him on the verandah, shelling peanuts, and asked him a very simple and straight question: “Beta, you study English and Hindi in school. Why do you want to learn Urdu and what special do you want to achieve? English can give you good jobs. But Urdu – I don’t think it serves any good.”
Pritam, mature enough to tackle this question, tried to sound honest and convincing, “You know it is a sweet, polite language, Adab aur Tehzeeb ki zabaan. Our Hindi cinema dialogues and film songs have a rich flavour. Can you imagine Hindi cinema without Urdu? It is mixed, woven seamlessly, blended.”
She agreed that she interspersed several Urdu words in the daily conversations without knowing the language - purely based on what she heard from Sardar Ajit Singh. Though she was cagey about letting Ustad ji enter her sacrosanct abode, she relented when she did not find any other person qualified enough to teach her son. Although her fears were unfounded, she was worried that the Ustad might influence or radicalize her son. When she discussed this matter with her brother, he read it as a passing fancy of youth and simplified it as a feeble attempt with the ulterior motive of learning it just to impress college girls. Although it was a crazy inference to draw, she was burdened with the concern that Pritam would tie the knot with a girl from another minority community after learning Urdu.
After telephonic consultations with Guddu Veerji, super senior Sardarji, who had recently relocated to Kapurthala, Surjit Kaur came to know of one Ustad ji he was friendly with some years ago. “I knew 4-5 people in your town who were fluent in Urdu. All have died or left the place. One Ustad is still there. He does not teach individually, but if you request him to consider the case and offer travel allowance, possibly he will agree to come to your address.”
“It is ok, please give me his contact details, but he should come to our house and teach – it is my only condition as Pritam has to study other subjects,” Surjit Kaur held her ground, without thinking much about fees. She also managed to hide her reluctance to send Pritam to a Muslim-donated area.
Keeping his interest alive in Urdu, Pritam took the help of the new-age internet that had raised a veritable storm. Self-tutoring was tough as he wanted to pick up the chaste accent. Sometimes he thought his mother was an expert in Urdu like his father and jumped forth with a query or two, only to realise his folly and the fizz of excitement petered out when she expressed regret.
Ustad ji was signed up and he began frequenting their ramshackle bungalow twice a week. The antechamber, the room where his father conducted his daily meetings and briefings with club members, was allotted for the evening session. There was a slow, whirring fan following its fixed, majestic pace after the regulator conked out. There was a Surahi – an earthen pot filled with water from the fridge – kept with a steel glass on its lid in a cool corner. There were two tube lights on the opposite walls providing bright light to read the standard newspaper font without difficulty. The maid came and served tea and salted biscuits – and the cup and the saucer were washed outside.
Those crockery items were marked with a dot of red paint on the reverse side to identify its usage was exclusive to Ustad ji. The washroom outside was kept unlocked for his use. His entry was restricted to the outside portion of the house. There was initial hesitation that he should not start saying his prayers inside this house. It was better if he came here after saying his prayers – or left early to say his prayers at his place.
Pritam picked up the lessons fast as he was familiar with the rudiments. Ustad ji, impressed that he found a studious student after a long time, invested more energy to mentor him well. As the Ustad grew familiar with the surroundings and his roving eye searched every nook and corner, he noticed the almirah was stocked with Urdu treasure: Diwan–e–Ghalib. It was an old edition dating back to the 60s, and the Ustad, curious to know who bought it, made a guess, “Must your father’s collection -”
Pritam confirmed it with a tinge of pride blended with a faint smile, “Yes, my Dad was an Urdu expert.”
Ustad ji gave a serious and curious expression not seen earlier, “Why do you want to learn this language? A boy of your age and background has a clear goal to achieve. What is yours behind this unusual pursuit?”
“Urdu will find space for me in the film world. I want to make a film like Pakeezah or Mughal-e-Azam. And I want to read Urdu literature – original and not in translation.”
Ustad ji was impressed with the young ambitious boy. He found another reason to teach him well. Like a concerned guardian, he expressed his fears regarding the deep gorge between reality and the celluloid dream without intending to depress him. “But you know, beta, Urdu is dying in Bollywood; it has gone out of fashion. Not a single Muslim social made in two decades.”
“It can make a comeback any time,” Pritam shot back with surging confidence that showed the deeply entrenched roots of his conviction as a budding film personality with a refined sense of aesthetics.
“Please do not take it otherwise. I was just trying to show you the darker side. I do not intend to demoralise you at all. In fact, would love to see how you make it happen. But the dream is very big indeed – and very odd in terms of success. I pray to Allah for you!”
After completing his college levels, Pritam wanted to pursue film direction or something related to that. Bibi Surjit Kaur was upset that he was keen to pursue any odd job to support his dream. Guddu Veerji was consulted once again and he reiterated that this temporary phase would be over soon so it was better to let the boy struggle, grapple, and fail instead of the mother appearing as a staunch villain launching a scathing mission to blast his dreams.
Her selfishness grew and eclipsed clarity. She forgot that her late husband wanted their child to do whatever he liked, without any interference or pressure of any kind. Since Sardar Ajit Singh was not alive, she felt others in the family and community would blame her for not raising a good son. It was more important to safeguard her image now.
“Beta, you first secure a good job, get married, settle down, and then pursue your dream. You have the entire life to do such fancy, filmi things, why this hurry in the prime phase? Be stable with a job at this stage. I am not your enemy and I want the best for you in life. I do not want you to suffer in life like your father did.”
In response to her rehashed piece of advice, there was nothing he could say to add. Condoning her words was the best way to stave off any clash that appeared imminent in such a situation.
He showed some of his poetry musings to Ustad ji who took time before giving his reaction, “Wazan toh hai…your words carry weight. I must meet your mother and tell her that your talent is rare…should be allowed to go to Bombay to try -”
Pritam knew his mother would not buy the appeal made by Ustad ji, but there was no harm in trying this out as an option instead of regretting later. Seeing Pritam so determined to mediate and arrange an audience with Ustad ji, she fished out an old address book from her late husband’s cabinet for something helpful for her son. There was a clear mention of some Narang he knew during the days of struggle. She dashed off a letter to him, explaining the scenario and seeking asylum for Pritam for six months – the best she thought she could do as a mother. But a postcard arrived within a fortnight to crash all hopes with a brief communication: Narang Sir is no more. Sorry, cannot help.
Surjit Kaur mourned that Urdu fuelled Bollywood love. She was worried that her son would settle there and never return to look after her. To divert his mind from cinema, she went a step ahead to flaunt a liberal approach, egging him to explore love and marriage instead, “Guys of your age fall in love and marry. Puttar, if you are thinking some heroine in Bombay is waiting to marry you, forget it. They would marry a hero or a producer – not a poet or writer. When they discover the financial truth, they run away from you instead of running away with you.”
One evening, when he returned home, Pritam found trunks of Urdu books carted away by a junk dealer and his henchmen. There was no sign of Urdu left in the house anymore, quite a sacrilegious act committed by a flabbergasted mother who found no other option to tame her son going astray.
Pritam rushed to his mother, and asked in a restrained but angry voice, ‘Why did you sell Dad’s Urdu collection?”
Surjit Kaur was ready with her reply: “The books that have taken you away from me have been taken away, simple as that.”
She dramatized the matter and shed a few tears not as fake as crocodile tears. She built her case on health grounds and declared she could not bear the burden of family chores anymore. “I am getting old and many health complications afflict me, including limb and back. Do you know I am diabetic? Bollywood se fursat mile toh you will ask about your mother’s poor health.”
Caught in a fix and hammered a raw emotional blow, he told Ustad ji what had transpired when he arrived after a break of one month due to cataract surgery. Keeping himself aloof from stressful matters, he supported her: “She is right. A long struggle follows. Be practical. Settle down and keep trying for some luck later.”
Pritam was not expecting such a cold reply from him. Perhaps the fact that his son did not come from Dubai to look after him had hurt him a lot and he did not want another parent to suffer the same way.
“If I get caught in the well-laid trap, nothing will happen again – the wife and kids will have their demands and my dream will be crushed. I am not willing to give up,” Pritam said to Ustad ji, “My mother is not my responsibility as she has enough for her life. I am not needed to earn and feed her during old age. If I had to make her life secure then I would have given it a thought but it is not like that. My father also ruined his life by listening to his parents. I don’t want to make any such sacrifices. I am selfish just like parents are even though they deny it all the time.”
Finding him stubborn, Ustad ji did not offer any piece of advice. But he insisted on having a meeting with his mother once. Pritam arranged it this time with some difficulty to hear them both.
“Behenji, your son is not a failure yet because he has not tried anything – but if he gets upset he might commit suicide…” Ustad ji began on a serious note that was construed as a veiled threat by Sardarni.
“Did he say this to you? Trying to scare me? Let both mother and son consume poison and die and finish the story,” Surjit Kaur replied promptly while standing near the entrance door to the antechamber.
Ustad ji gauged her mood and took leave without offering any other argument. Before leaving, he gave Pritam the address of a Lucknow-based publication that was followed by various film personalities. “If you get published here, you have a very good chance of getting a break in the Hindi film world.”
Surjit Kaur turned furious at his audacity. She waited for Ustad ji to leave and then folded her hands to symbolize a permanent goodbye.
“Why did you involve your Ustad in this matter? Is he your advocate? You will bring some Muslim girl, not a Punjabi girl, I know. Your tendency is like that, to make my life hell.”
Placing her hand on the wall, she banged her forehead on it, making Pritam come forward to console her and clear the air regarding the litany of accusations to avoid misunderstandings later.
“I don’t intend to do anything such thing as you fear, but I am applying for film courses and planning to shift to Mumbai. If I ever fall in love with a girl, I will marry her even if you suffer a heart attack. I will not consider her religion.”
“How rude this son speaks! Is this why parents raise kids? To suffer a heart attack because of their misdeeds? Is this how you console a weeping mother? Is this the way you want me to suffer? I should have abandoned you and found a new life for myself instead of wasting it as a widow,” Surjit Kaur was on the verge of a collapse on hearing these words from her only son who seemed quite ruthless and scheming, without any trace of gratitude and respect for the only parent God had left him with.
She was a storm unlikely to subside at this stage: “You are planning to give me a heart attack. Hey Rabba, my Sardar puttar will marry someone from the community that beheaded our Guru. You want me to live to see that day.”
“Mother, Urdu is ours, an offshoot of the Persian language Guru Gobind Singh ji knew so well and wrote Zafarnama in it…”
Any attempt to refresh Sikh history was futile in front of her as she harked back to her past and poured forth, “I told your father, when he took me to Agra for honeymoon…the result stands right in front of me. All those graves affected your brain development. I just do not understand how all this happened – from schooldays you have been crazy about Urdu. God alone knows what glue it has for you when so many other languages are there, some previous birth or soul connection. Even today you can’t write fluent Punjabi, be ashamed of that.”
Surjit Kaur classified her son as a rebel now. She sought advice from Guddu Veerji once again even though what he had said the last time was nothing clutter-breaking. What he suggested this time was out of the box, far beyond her realm of imagination.
“I will also go and struggle with you in Bombay,” Surjit Kaur dropped a bombshell with a cheerful disposition. It was a bolt from the blue for Pritam who did not anticipate such a plan. A lady hell-bent on stopping him from going to Bollywood was now ready to pack her bags and tag along.
“You will struggle for me, for what -” Pritam quizzed her, unable to find a suitable role for her in Bollywood.
“I have a good voice and I can sing – I sang shabads and I can sing film songs also. I will get a break ahead of you. I have full confidence. I sang during my college days when your father liked my voice and wanted me to bloom as a singer. Book two tickets – two struggling artists partnering this time – one in the prime of youth and the other one in the golden years – who gets the lucky break early will help the other one. Done?” She offered her hennaed hand for a formal mutual agreement.
It was a done deal and a time-bound contract of struggle for one year. After that, they would come back and lead normal lives without Bollywood dreams disturbing their lives again. It was a win-win situation for Surjit Kaur.
“I am also charged up to fulfil his dream of making me a playback singer. He did this forecast before you were born and I wrecked my life after his death by raising you. Regret I did not focus on my future.”
This is not how a traditional mother speaks. For Pritam, these words were harsh and created within him a sense of alienation as if this journey would be their last together before they split.
It was a done deal but she ignored the tall promises of her son to give her a break as soon as he made it big. Both of them were scheduled to board a train to Bombay. Before leaving for the station, they visited the nearby Gurudwara together and asked the priest to do Ardaas for their success.
As luck would have it, the news of riots in the Western part of India appeared on television and radio. Their plan to relocate was put on hold at the eleventh hour. They came back home with luggage and non-refunded train tickets, wondering how soon the situation would limp back to normal and facilitate their journey to the city of dreams. Surjit Kaur did not read this as Lord’s will to wreck their plans.
Pritam was marooned with no choice except to try out the option he got from Ustad ji. Now was the right time to send in a story or poem. Within a month of despatch, he was intimated by the chief editor that his fiction was accepted for publication in the literary magazine. It turned out to be a popular read, with translations appearing in Hindi and English periodicals. One film producer approached him through the magazine for the rights to film his story on the big screen. Pritam was unable to believe whether it was a genuine offer or something fake. When it was finally made clear that the offer was big, Pritam attached a condition to it even though he was looking for a break. Mentioning that he would sell the story for a rupee provided his mother was given the chance to be a playback singer. Although it was a big-budget film, he was confident the producer would agree to the proposal.
When peace returned after almost six months, he was asked to come to Bombay with his mother to record the opening lines of a Bhajan. Planning to give her a big surprise, he took her to Bombay and reached the producer’s office where he told her everything. Surjit Kaur was unable to believe her dream had come true so quickly, without any struggle. She sang a few lines and the producer gave thumbs up to her voice and finalised a recording date. Pritam disclosed the Bhajan she sang was written by him. All this was nothing less than a fairy tale experience.
When the film got released, the Bhajan number became a raging hit everywhere in the Northern and Eastern states. Surjit Kaur was flooded with a slew of singing offers and she could command her price by cherry-picking projects on the anvil. Though the film was a box office turkey, the songs garnered pan-India popularity. The story of the film was applauded as an offbeat endeavour delving deep to explore the underbelly. Her success confirmed their stay in Bombay and gave him the chance to scout for new writing gigs in films and television shows. Surjeet Kaur stayed busy with her singing sessions here and there while Pritam sat home and wrote aggressively to stay away from depression.
Surjit Kaur wanted to bail him out after observing that his grandiose plans were yet to take off.
“It does not look nice that I am working and you are still struggling, beta. The songs of our first film were hit, and it worked for me, but the film was a commercial dud even though the story was fresh. Is this not fate?” Surjit Kaur wondered. When Guddu Veerji came to know of her mega success, she feared he would create problems or seek undue favours. She also regretted stopping Pritam from pursuing his dreams and prayed to Wahe Guru to grant him success.
God opened the doors of success through Urdu and it played a key role in making Surjit Kaur a household name in the world of playback singing. Both of them stood in front of Sardar Ajit Singh’s portrait and sought his blessings for bigger collaborative success. Ustad ji was invited to visit them in Bombay and dine with them at their residence. Surjit Kaur wanted this interaction to be a veiled attempt to apologise for her bad behaviour and prejudices against Ustad ji – the man who had been instrumental in shaping her future.
One fine morning, when the pangs of remorse made her restless, she said, “Beta, I will learn Urdu. It will help me pronounce lyrics more clearly without accent.”
“Yes, your success without any bitter struggle is because of Urdu. People struggle and fail for years, but you made it so easily,” Pritam agreed and encouraged her to learn the mellifluous language.
Ustad ji was asked to stay there for some weeks and Surjit Kaur took Urdu lessons with great respect like her son did earlier. Her respect for the language bloomed late, and she changed her optics of viewing language as a lethal instrument of the other country that split the great civilization. She did riyaaz and wondered how her voice was still so honeyed that people loved it. “Am I a great singer, son?”
“Of course mother, you sing so well. But you never cared for your talent all these years, partly because of me,” Pritam tried to reassure her that it was her talent and not any fluke success that came her way because of destiny.
”But you never wanted to bring me here, only wanted to come here alone for your career, for your future,” Surjit Kaur charged him. “How can children become so selfish and not think of their parents who sacrifice their dreams for their well-being? It is very bad. You know once I wanted to leave behind all domestic chores and learn classical singing but my father never liked the idea of girls growing up to become singers…Acha, tell me if you have any stories ready to sell. One Khosla ji is looking for a scriptwriter. If you want, I can recommend your name provided you have no ego hassles that I am using my contacts to help you out. Young folks are bloated with ego and self-respect these days.”
Pritam looked out of the window, mumbling a mellowed acceptance as the hidden truth that he was the one who had done exactly what she was planning to do for him now was about to slip out.
“Many years ago”, Shakuntala-didi said, “When I came to this village as a bride, I heard this... well it’s not a story...its true”. We were standing in the grove of silver oaks, just outside the forest. It was always a little dark and mysterious there. My eyes had been drawn to the little abandoned temple almost hidden in the tangled undergrowth and the house that stood across from it. It was the day before Diwali and in contrast to the other houses, the property had a forlorn and deserted air -" no one lives there any more” said Shakuntala-didi. I noticed that she glanced over her shoulder and then turned her gaze away.
“Two brothers lived here once. They owned the house and the temple was consecrated to their family God. The older brother was prosperous but ill-tempered and was generally known as a bad character. Not the marrying kind, if you know what I mean. The younger brother was honest. But he was weak and a drifter - completely under his elder brother’s thumb. The younger brother married and for a while all seemed well. Then disaster struck.
The poor lady died” sighed Didi, “leaving an infant daughter. That was a strange and sudden death. No one knew what happened, whether she was ill or had an accident or what.....Phut! She was gone! No indication! Not a sound from the house, no doctor came; no cars or visitors. No one noticed anything unusual. Just that one evening, on their way back from the forest, people saw the brothers loading a bier onto the back of a small van they used for supplies. You know how we village folk are, a few men and women came to offer help and condolences, but they were brushed aside. They did see a body wrapped in a white sheet, sindoor smeared all over the covered head. The elder brother said they were taking his sister- in-law’s body to upper Garhwal for cremation. Fearing retribution, the villagers didn't dare ask too many questions. Nasty, surly folk”, she added “though we felt sorry for the child.”
Within a year of his wife's passing, the younger brother re-married. The new bride was much younger than her husband and a looker. "Quite unlike us, flashy, wore cream and powder. Silks and satins all times of the day... and her airs! What Shakuntala meant to say was that she had city-bred airs, but refrained out of respect for her listener. “But the bride was the outgoing type. Not much use around the house, though. It was soon apparent that she had a
relationship with her husband's elder brother and that scoundrel moved into their part of the house. Shakuntala didi looked at me questioningly. After all the story was getting spicier in it’s telling. “Quite the Lothario”, I said. She smiled, nodded and continued.
“Lothario was well-heeled and the household was soon flush with the latest gadgets - and the husband reconciled himself to the circumstances. Maybe the new car, television set and gifts helped lull him. Maybe that was his nature. Who can tell?” Observed Shakuntala didi. “After all no one went near the house. What a temper Lothario had!”
“At that time”, Shakuntala didi explained “There were no houses between this one and the one at the far end. Neither did the villagers venture outside after dark. All I can tell you is what the neighbours saw. One day the police arrived and arrested Lothario. None of us were
really surprised. All that money thrown around could only have come from ill-gotten gains.
He had probably ruined many other lives and his sins had finally caught up with him.
It was around that time the younger brother’s wife gave birth to a baby girl. There was some
speculation, of course, mainly because of Lothario. One is never sure, you see, especially since the younger brother was such a weakling. A few years went by. The child was a healthy little thing, although quite uncared for. But the village children liked her and they played together. So we thought, at least there was one good soul in that gloomy house”.
"That family had dark forces working" said Shakuntala-didi. “That child, she was seen playing with the neighbourhood children in the evening and was dead by nightfall. Again it was all very eerie, as if nothing unusual had happened. A tragic death, no tears, no mourning....no one even knows what they did with the body of that little girl! Very late that night people saw bright lights in the forest and were confused and scared. You must remember, Didi said, "this was an even smaller hamlet then, a few houses had electricity and
there was no television. My husband said they were the headlights of a car, but the villagers weren't sure. How would a car go so deep into the forest, anyway?"
“Early next morning a woman went to the forest to relieve herself and came back terrified and screaming. A few young men made a search party and ventured forth. They saw a hideous sight - the younger brother lay under a tree near the stream - stone dead! He had been strangled; there were flecks of foam around his mouth, blood and vomit on his chest. The headman (sarpanch) informed the police and the body was taken for post-mortem. The woman said she knew nothing of what had happened and her step- daughter maintained a stony silence, I told you that family was weird. Most villagers would say cursed.
The young girl had probably been threatened by her step-mother or bribed into silence. Who could tell? No one mixed with them, villagers avoided the house, and soon afterwards the mother and step daughter moved away. Don't ask me where. No one knows or cares”. Shakuntala-didi paused and I wandered towards the dense tangle of undergrowth from which peeped the red chapel spire topped with a glistening steel spike. After a moment’s hesitation Didi joined me. “I wonder which God sits there”, I said.... You know today is Bhoot Chaturdasi – the night before Diwali. Bengalis light a lamp for those who have passed
on, our ancestors...this place is so lonely and dark...Maybe a candle or a lamp....”
Shakuntaladid grabbed my shoulder and firmly turned me homewards, talking in hushed tones. "Light a lamp there tonight? What a hare-brained idea. Don't you dare go near the temple...whatever's in there is waiting for someone to notice the Presence... One that brought nothing but misery to a family. Evil deeds attract evil they say”.
Shakuntala-didi had come to greet us the day before the Festival of Lights. We had gone for a stroll in the early evening and come back to find my husband having tea with a gossipy friend. Veeru bhaiya took up the tale....
“Villagers returning home late at night or on a hot summer afternoon sense a presence that
walks with them; although with lights and people bustling about, who has time to notice? They probably think it’s a new neighbour, lots of those around, eh, Bangali dada? Ask
Panditji, he’s the night-watchman at a factory outside the village. Cycles down every night. He must have sensed that presence. Tough old man, courageous too”.
As the sun went down the village glittered with festive lights. The oaks were tall and the
house crouched dark and brooding in their shadows. The little temple stood ignored and lost amidst the undergrowth.
When you are back in Delhi, will you search for my daughter?”
It was an awkward request. Manali had asked me over for tea at her new Lokhandwala apartment. It was technically not Lokhandwala, but close to it, on MHADA road that leads to the swamp.
She had relocated herself from New York where she lived for over fifteen years. I am sure getting used to Mumbai was quite a task.
I had first met Manali as a part of a field research team that was set up to probe consumer preference for branded teas in the market. Our client, a tea major was planning to launch a new brand which was to be test marketed in Kolkata.The Bengalis were an integral part of what was referred as TDA but preferred to buy mixed flavours from leaf tea shops rather than buy branded teas. The preferred brand, traditionally, was Lopchu’s Orange Pekoe or Makaibari. I thought Kolkata was a wrong place to run the test market since the benchmark would be the tea cocktails which was not the practice outside of Bengal. The client is always right, and they know better, particularly, the Marketing Head of the client knew best!
Manali was just one of the many faces in the group who were being briefed by us as to what was required, who to meet and the usual research logistics. Our research head, Debu da was an elderly person, more a scholar than a research professional though he had attained national fame in the research business. He kept to himself and was always busy doing some mathematical calculations, most of which seemed to me like e=mc2! I was told that he had a brilliant academic career in Stats and should have pursued an academic career instead of heading a research organization.
Debu da hardly spoke to us. If at all he spoke, it was with our bosses. We were quite in awe of him and almost bowed our head when we passed him. He was not the flashy advertising type, despite his position, he traveled to work by a local train from Kalyani where he lived.
Manali was dark, tall, slim with a very Bengali face. But she had dimples. Absolute Sharmila Tagore type.
The research got over, we made our presentation to the client, the response was on expected lines since the bright Marketing Head announced that he knew what had shown up even before the research was commissioned! We had to get the balance payment out and so it was advisable not to ask him why did he commission the research at all! The brand was launched with great fanfare, I flew all over the country for the launch tamasha, stayed in the best of hotels with an extra day thrown in at Kovalam, Goa and Srinagar. The brand flopped.
Though none of the clients in my Group had any research requirement I had nothing to do with our research team but often Utpal, who was an analyst and a very good friend and I went out for lunch, and saw Manali hanging around in the department when I went to collect Utpal.
It was Utpal who administered a pinch of spice in our otherwise dull life.
“Remember the girl with dimples?” “Yup, saw her even this morning.”
“Something funny.We have a built in system that no free lancer is to be repeated for a project and there has to be gap of a month before the person is reassigned. This is to duck some Labour laws by which they can not claim permanent benefits. She is being repeated and under Debu da’s direct orders. What’s wrong with the old man?”
“May be he has got his juices flowing.”
“May be. He has a wife but no children. I met her only once when we were invited to his house for a meal. She is a simpleton, very ordinary looking housewife. They say he was married off in the traditional way many years ago”.
We left it at that but a few weeks later I spotted Debu da driving off in his Standard Herald with Manali in the passenger seat.
I mentioned this to Utpal and he told me that Debu da had been allotted a company leased apartment in Hindustan Road. He was having problems commuting daily from Kalyani.
Debu da’s “affair” with Manali soon became public knowledge. Most of us had a mischievous smile but wondered what the young lady saw in the old man. A few months later, Debu da quit his job and shifted to Delhi where he wanted to start off his own consultancy business. A year later, I got transferred to Delhi.
The Press Club in Delhi was and is a popular watering hole and two of my colleagues had membership to the Club.We would pile on to them to host us a lunch and in exchange, pay for the total bill. On one such visit, I bumped into Debu da, still looking like a sage. He had settled down quite well in Delhi, and was a much sought after consultant for market research. I did not dare to ask him about Manali but was surprised when he on his own invited me over for dinner. He seemed to have loosened up a bit and we decided to make it on the following Friday.
Like all good Bengalis he had rented a place in CR Park and it was Manali who opened the door for me. She looked just the same and since I did not know her well, socially, I maintained my distance. Debu da was a good host, in fact he was also a good cook. There was much to drink and much to eat and when it was time to leave, he suggested that I stay back.
“You have no family, so what is the hurry? Stay back, we have an extra room. Have a few more drinks and tomorrow morning I”ll get you some luchis and aloor dom and you can leave after a Bengali breakfast.”
I took up the suggestion. Not a bad idea. In any case getting an auto at this hour would mean some extra rupees and then sleeping off at my Defence Colony barsati.
Debu da talked about life in Kolkata, how he had almost got a Demand Forecast project correct to the T, the politics that happened in the office. He was opening up but avoided talking about Manali, who by now had retired to her room. Throughout the evening she had maintained a low profile, spending more time in the kitchen, joining us for a drink just before dinner was served.
“You want another drink?” he offered
“No, Debu da. I think I’ll pass out now. It's been such a pleasure to be invited by you. I am sure I’ll talk about it to all my friends.”
Debu da showed me to my room. It was well done up and looked very comfortable. Manali was a good housekeeper. He put on the AC, bade me good night and left. He seemed a little tipsy, but I suppose so was I.
I shut the door behind him and crashed on the bed. Soon, I passed out.
It must have been quite late at night that I think heard a few knocks on the door. First I took it to be a part of dream but the knocks were getting louder. I sprang out of my bed, put on the bed side lamp and rushed to the door. As I opened I saw Manali standing outside.
“I want to meet you. Please help me. Call me Monday after noon,” she whispered.
There was a conspiratorial tone in her voice. “What is it?”
“Please…”
“Alright…”
She left without making noise and went back to my bed.
Next morning I had a scrumptious breakfast that Debu da had organised . Daal puris, alur dom, shingaras and sandesh. He wanted me to stay over for lunch but I declined the offer. I had go back home, organize grocery, wash my clothes. I promised to come back again and keep in touch. Manali, as in the evening before, stayed out, except for joining us for breakfast and serving the tea.
I called Manali from office and she picked up the phone. She wanted to meet me any day after Thursday since Debu da was leaving town for a few days. I was a little nervous but curiosity was killing the cat. I asked her to meet me at Sagar restaurant at Defence Colony on Saturday morning and she readily agreed.
Frankly, I was quite apprehensive. I have always tried to keep my life clean, keep it somewhat private and not indulge in such secretive drills. She reached on time and we settled for some South Indian snacks, Upma, Vada and South Indian coffee.
It seemed she just wanted to tell me her life story. Manali was married to a painter and had a daughter.The painter was a Bohemian type, went and stayed over at his friend’s place or at times went away to some village in Bolpur without notifying any body. He was a little eccentric. He vanished for a month and then returned home and did not leave the house for a minute for three months. All he said that he had lived with the Adivasis in Santhal Parganas. He was erratic money wise. Sometimes he was flushed with money, specially after an exhibition and at other times they lived in penury. This led to Manali looking for a job, ending up doing market re- search. He met Debu da and slowly got in to a relationship. Debu da, she claimed had lost interest in his wife with whom he had no intellectual compatibility. Once her husband found out what was happening, he started beating up Manali. She left her home and her daughter and started living with Debu da, who by now had shifted to Kolkata. Some how, her husband found out the address and one late night landed up at their house. An argument ensued and he threatened to beat up Debu da. He ordered Manali to return home with him and when she refused, he actually raped her in front of Debu da.The situation had gone out of hand and Manali felt it was better that she returned home. Debu da was crest fallen. He felt cheated, naturally. Once she was back home, her painter husband went back to his old ways. He would go away for days and then return for a few weeks. There was a new complication. Every time he returned he would force her to have sex with her, claiming she was his wife and he was within his legal rights to bed her. Manali described them more as rape than love making.
The incident at Debu da’s house made Debu da make up his mind to quit Kolkata and move to Delhi. They were in touch and worked out a plan by which they met at the Howrah station and took a train to Lucknow, from where changed to an overnite train and travelled to Kathgodam. From Kathgodam they took a bus to Ranikhet where an old colleague of Debu da had settled down and stayed with them for a month. Meanwhile, he fixed up the house in Delhi and they shifted to the house in Chittaranjan Park.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked her. I also wondered what she found in Debu da. She was years younger than him and was in no way on the same intellectual wave length with the great man. If Debu da had a problem with his wife as he felt she was not intellectually compatible, what did he find in her? The answer came in her next sentence.
“I am getting tired of being a doll in the house. I am just living like an average housewife. I make his breakfast, pack his lunch, hang round the house, have lunch, organize grocery, join him for a drink in the evening, cook dinner. He drinks a lot and once he finishes his dinner he somehow manages to hit the bed. I have no sex life, no social life, in fact no life at all.”
Debu da was socially a private person. He did not encourage guests in the house. In fact I was the first social visitor to their home.
“Get me a job, something. But not field research work. He wont like the idea of my working for someone else,” she warned.
I promised to help, though I did not know what I could do for her. “What about your daughter?”
“My husband looks after her. I am told he has sobered down after I left home.”
“Don’t you feel for her? How old is she?”
“She will be twelve this December. I have filed for a divorce but it won't be easy.”
We left it at that, though I spoke to a few friends about getting her a job without divulging her identity.
It was my turn to be surprised when a dolled up Manali tapped my back at a regular Press party.
“Hi!”
I was spell bound by her looks. She wore a ghagra choli, looked younger than her age, sported a huge bindi and carried a wine glass in her hand with elan.
“Manali! What surprise!”
“I thought I will meet up with you. I am now working for Zenana, doing background research on socialites who are selected for the cover story.”
“That’s exciting. Good for you. How’s Debu da?”
“The old man must be sitting and drinking at home! Waiting or me to come back.”
She sounded a little caustic. I thought it was unfair on her part to talk like that about Debu da. I tried not to show my disappointment but politely eased out from the party. I admired Debu da as a senior professional colleague. I was not going to take shit from Manali.
I think she caught on to my feelings and called up the next day. “You left early. I was looking for you.”
“I had another party to attend,” I lied. “If you say so!”
“I am saying so. I said so!”
“Look, I don’t want to argue with you, but can we meet up once?”
“ I have a big presentation in hand so it will have to wait.” “ Just one drink?”
A drink? She seems to be graduating very fast. “Why cant you tell me over the phone?”
“No, I must tell you in person. Make time to meet me at Rodeo at CP this evening. 8?”
“Ok, just a drink.”
I think I just wanted her off my back.
The lady I met was clad in a hip hugging jeans with button downed shirt, not the Bengali saree clad Manali I had known. She had a few top buttons open, showing a good part of her cleavage.
“Office wear!” she smiled.We sat on the bar stools which were quite fancy as they had saddle tops. She ordered a Tequila while I ordered my usual whisky. I must say Manali was hitting me hard. Tight jeans, boots,Tequila… was this the same woman I had known?
She kept looking at me. It was a little uncomfortable with her cleavage flashing at me.Was she trying to seduce me?
I sipped my whisky. It was her call. She better say what she has to say.
“You wondering what has got over me, right?”
“Not really. It is your life and you know what you are doing.
But it is difficult for me to take any snide remarks at Debu da.”
“ Fair enough. But I am planning to leave the house. I want my life back.”
“You chose this life, Manali.Why blame him?” “I did but now I want out.”
“You seemed to have found your way out. So be happy!” “Can we go to your barsati?”
“We talk here.What is it that you wanted to tell me?”
The music was blaring with strobe lights flashing away.We were actually talking at the top of our voices. In between the light and shades she came close to me leaning over, almost letting her body touch mine.
“Fuck me!”
A week later I got a call from Debu da. He was taking up a job in Dubai and wanted to meet me for a drink.
“The furnitures are all being packed up. I am sending them to Kolkata. The house is in a mess. Come, I”ll buy you dinner at Moet’s.”
It was a quiet dinner. It was a three year contract. One of our senior colleagues in the business who had migrated to Middle East many years ago had got in touch with Debu da and wanted to join him. He will be coming home every year and promised to keep in touch with me. As usual, he never mentioned anything about Manali. I did not ask.
I was feeling sorry for him. It was not difficult to reason why he was leaving the country. We shook hands at the parking lot before driving off. I walked back to my barsati.
I kept bumping into Manali at various parties. She had different escorts at different parties. I avoided her. In fact, I scorned her. Whenever I saw her approaching me I promptly got myself shifted to an alien group and pretended to make polite conversations. She was running a regular script, just that I happened to know her. Her story would not even make a Hindi film blockbuster, just that I did not want her around.
Debu da often wrote to me, even suggesting that I too move to Dubai. One day I got a call from him asking me to meet him at Delhi Airport as he was changing planes on his way to Kolkata. I met Debu da at the airport and had coffee with him. His wife was very sick, and he wanted to attend to her. He said he will let me know the status after he reached Kolkata and let me know of his schedule.
Two days later he called to say that his wife had passed away
He said he will be in Delhi within a week and spend a day or two. He requested me to keep the dates free.
Once he was in town he called me up and I met him at the old Akbar Hotel where he was staying. I expressed my condolence which I think was in order and held his hands. He looked solemn but composed.
“I have booked a car for the day. Lets go. I have few places to visit,” he quickly changed the subject and we were soon driving off. He went to meet a few of his old friends at their offices while I waited at the reception. We had lunch at Moet’s and then he asked the driver to take him to CR Park. I did not ask him why we were going to CR Park, may be he had a friend he wanted to meet. Once in CR Park he directed the driver to his old house. He asked him to stop in front of the house and kept staring at it. I remained silent. After ten minutes he told the driver to drive back to the hotel.
“Do you meet Manali?”
This was the first time that he spoke of her.
“Well, I bump in to her once in a while. At parties.” He was quiet.
“The next time you see her, tell her that Deepshikha is doing well.”
“Who Deepshikha?”
“Her daughter.”
It was a touchy subject and so I did not probe further.
He was taking a late night flight so we said our goodbyes and promised to meet up again.
I felt sad for him but he had chosen his life.
A month later I got a call from Dubai.The senior colleague who had arranged for Debu da’s Dubai assignment was on the line. I first thought it was the Dubai job offer but what he told me shattered the world around me. Debu da had died in a road accident while travelling to Abu Dhabi. They tried his best to save his life but all efforts failed. His body was being flown back to Kolkata for the cremation.
My sorrow soon turned to hate. And anger. I held Manali responsible for this tragedy. For days I remembered the last meeting in Delhi. It seemed like just the other day.
I called up the Zenana office and asked for Manali. The operator said she had quit her job but suggested that I try a number she had left behind. The person on the other side could not help me as she had been with them for a short while and could not direct me any further. I called Utpal at Kolkata and informed him. He had heard about the news and was preparing to go to the airport to receive the body.
Manali seemed to have disappeared without a trace. No one seemed to know her whereabouts. She was never again seen in the parties.
Good fifteen years had passed since Debu da died. He was forgotten, as was Manali. I had moved up the corporate ladder and my current responsibility included supervising the business of our Delhi and Kolkata offices. I was doing my Kolkata round when my Secretary told me that a lady has been seeking an appointment with me.
“Job?’
“No, sir. Seems it is personal.”
Did she give her name?”
“One Ms Palit.”
I asked her to give her a time slot.
Ms Palit walked into my office at the appointed day and time.
As I took the first look at her, I broke into a cold sweat.
She had an amazing resemblance to Manali. Dimples intact! I asked her to be seated.
She had poise.
“I look like my mother, do I?”
“Well, very much.Your mother looked just like you when I first saw her.”
“I am Deepshikha…” she stretched out her hand.
“Where is your mother?”
“In New York. Living in with a Punjabi NRI. Mr Lall.”
“When did you last meet her?”
“When I was ten or eleven.”
There was silence in the room. Christine had come to check the usual “Tea or Coffee” and went out.
“I and my husband are shifting to Delhi. I am a teacher, I teach English at a local college. My husband is a IT guy.We have a three year old daughter.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I have applied for a job as a Research Scholar at a Central Government institution. I have given your name as a Referee. Since you don’t know me, I wanted to meet you.”
“I will do anything to be of any help. Just send me a short note about you.”
She had carried a small folder listing her profile and her achievements.
“You must be wondering as to how I thought of you as a referee?”
“Well, actually, I am.”
“You know our family story.After my mother left me, my father brought me up. But as you know, he was financially unstable. However, a year after my mother moved to Delhi, he started receiving a fixed amount every month from an anonymous person. It took care of our expenses and my education. While still in school, my father died. It was then that I received a letter from one Debdatta Roy, identifying himself as the person who has been sending the money. The letter said that the funding would continue and that I should be comfortable and that I should pursue higher studies if I wished to. Then some time later I got a call from a lawyer informing me that Mr Roy had passed away in a road accident and that he had left his entire assets for me.The lawyer also said that you were the only person I should contact to share this information and seek any help that I may require.That’s why I am here.”
I didn’t know what to say, how to react. My eyes welled up. I just got up from my seat and walked towards her. She too stood up. We hugged each other like long lost friends. And wept.
“From now, you are my responsibility, my child,” I assured her.
Deepshikha moved to Delhi within a few months and I regularly kept up with the family. One day she asked me to take her to the house in CR Park where Debu da and Manali stayed. It was history re running but I escorted her. She too stood in front of the house and stared for long. I remembered Debu da so much!
As we sat in the car Deepshikha held my hand and asked me for a promise. I would never divulge to her mother her whereabouts.
Nothing.
“I don’t think I will ever meet her.”
“You will. She is returning to India.To Mumbai, where Mr Lall has an apartment which he is gifting to her.”
“How the hell you know all this?” She just smiled.
“My husband got a call from her recently. I have no idea how she traced him. She wanted to know where we were staying but thankfully, my husband avoided the question. He knows of everything, I have hidden nothing. She also said she will be contacting you.You are now a head honcho. It is not difficult to trace you.”
Yes, I got a call from Manali. She wanted to meet me the next time I was in Mumbai. I wanted to meet her to speak my mind which I had been holding back since Debu da died.
I went to meet her, but before I could say anything, she announced she was down with cancer and it was terminal. I could not bring myself to tell her what I wanted to for so many years.
I never got back to her about Deepshikha. May be she wanted to meet her once before she died but I had given my word to Deepshikha.
For her, Manali had died years ago.
The wet market was the happy hunting ground of Rabibabu. The daily chore of going to the bazaar warmed the cockles of his Bengali heart. He was an ace at his craft and being with him in the bazaar was an education. Sometime In the mid-fifties, when I was a ripe 14-year-old, I was lucky to learn the ropes from him. He would never buy a ladyfinger if he could not snap it into two. It was his acid test to determine freshness. When it came to choosing a banana flower—mocha in Bengali-- Rabibabu would deftly tear off a floret and bite the tip. If it tasted bitter, it was instantly rejected.
His genius peaked while buying fish. A gleaming hilsa had caught his fancy. “A Diamond Harbour catch,” was his first, admiring observation. But after due inspection, including lifting the gills and smelling the inside deeply with eyes closed— like it was French cologne- and then pressing the stomach, he shook his head, declaring that it had too much roe and won’t taste that good. But the fishmonger, hotly debating the verdict, sliced open the fish. And lo and behold, dollops of roe came oozing out. Feeling defeated but only for a second, the fishmonger shrugged and told Rabibabu, “How could I tell what she was up to, under water? Only Ma Ganga knew.” My belly quivered with concealed laughter but I kept a straight face. Had to. Rabibabu was my father.
A gloomy day with dark looming clouds lending a greyness to a picturesque landscape. The huge expanse of trees, flowering shrubs, a meandering dusty track with a mansion looming ahead. A wooden gate shut out the mansion. Single storied, with large glass windows overlooking the river. A large open space unkempt, overgrown with weeds with the promise of a beautiful garden which it once was.
A woman wrapped in a crimson shawl a bright blob in the dreary horizon trudged towards the mansion. The nameplate on the gate was a faded stone etching. “Laha Hall” it said. A hall? It was probably the house of an erstwhile genteel Bengali family influenced greatly by the Europeans who ruled the country. The woman carried a large bag, her hair in a bun, a blue saree and she wore gold rimmed spectacles which gave her the air of a school teacher. She sighed and pushed the gate open, marched up to the house and rang the bell. A resounding sound from a gong filled the environs and a husky voice shouted “Enter”
She opened the heavy door and peeked in tentatively. The door opened into a large room interestingly stacked with bric a brac. Bookshelves lined two walls up to the ceiling. And the profusion of colours of the spine announced names which were a mix of literature, the classics and modern writers, some thrillers. There were shelves of beautiful hard bound leather backed collections. Tagore, Vivekananda, Dickens.
The empty spaces were crammed with curios and mementos. The usual Indian Terracotta, and Dokra, there were some valuable crystal pieces too. Masks that were tribal from Africa, South America, New Zealand lined a wall. The room was sparsely furnished. A large oakwood table cluttered with papers, strangely had no electronic gizmos. A laptop, an Ipad? There was a wooden carved sideboard with some cool labelled mugs on a tray, a decanter with an electric kettle to heat the water. On a salver beside it was a half empty bottle of Scotch and some glasses with dregs. It appeared that there had been others here recently.
There were two large comfortable Chesterfield sofas, plumped with bright Ikkat cushions and a wooden chest doubled as a table. The Sofa had a guitar on it, plugged in. A huge gramophone with a horn and turntable had a record playing a soulful ballad. Sinatra was crooning My Way and the room was echoing the same. In fact it was loudly proclaiming. This is me.
A stunning woman stood before her. Tall, slim, with an olive complexion, dark smouldering kohl lined eyes, high cheek bones, shoulder length wavy hair. She was languid, almost feline in her demeanour. An author, the writer of the epistolary bestseller “Life and Love and In Between”. Sheena Laha. She was invited by Sheena for an interview for the Local Newspaper “The Herald” from Chandannagar where she lived. She had travelled almost 100 Kilometres to meet Sheena at Taki.
Taki is a town which has seen better times. Situated on the banks of the Ichhamati river it borders Bangladesh and is technically a part of the Sunderbans, the Mangrove forests to the South of West Bengal where the river meets the sea. Before India attained independence the rich Bengali zamindars (land owners) from Jessore and Chittagong made their holiday retreats here. Beautiful stately mansions modelled after the homes of their colonisers, lavish and opulent with marble and crystal and furniture made of walnut, oak teak in classic European styles. All aristocratic families from Bengal owned one such home in a remote location. With a cool temperature and pristine surroundings it was the ideal family getaway. Going “Paschim”, going West for the Bengalis meant going to a holiday home no further than Madhupur or Deogarh in Bihar.
Sheena stood before her in a gorgeous Kaftan of Habutai silk in Indigo with intricate Shibori stylishly patterned with birds in flight. A metaphor? Of wanting to escape or flights of fantasy? Perhaps! Indira, the journalist was being a little presumptive. Yet, the novel she had come to interview the author for spoke of angst, of separation and intense conversations on love, longing, religion, politics, society, relationships.
Indira introduced herself and iterated the appointment. Sheena silently pointed to the sofa gesturing her to sit and switched off the gramophone. An uncomfortable silence filled the room and Sheena walked over to the high backed carved wooden chair by the sofa and sat upright. The cigarette holder dangled seductively between red lacquered nails and she said “Ask”?
Indira pulled out a notebook from the voluminous bag and asked for her permission to take notes. She tentatively started the conversation and asked her about the place in the book, a nameless town but the description fitted her home, Chandannagar. “The local school, the Church, The river, it is a vivid description of the town I come from. Have you been there?” Sheena drew on her cigarette and smoke billowed upwards. Lazily nodding she said that she may have visited the place but she knew nobody. Would anyone read her books or even know about her in a small town like that she queried indifferently.
Indira interjected and said that she was a famous author and had written 30 books all of which were best sellers. Yes, many had read her books, few were taught in the local University. She had read them all and had known her very well through her books. Now she wanted to know more about Sheena the woman, the woman who dreamt, aspired, her hopes and insecurities. Sheena brushed this aside and said almost derisively that she was comfortable with herself and had never been unsure of her life and its decisions. Her voice faltered and Indira picked the cue. Did she never regret any of her choices? Of living here in this mansion in almost near solitude except for her occasional lavish parties which were widely written about.
Her aloneness was her muse. Alone, not lonely she purred. She had space to stare and lived life on her own terms. Who needed to be tied down? That would be boredom, a life monotonous and mundane. She lived in nature’s bounty. Anything she wanted was delivered within a couple of hours and she had no need of people who were generally hypocrites, and loved her because she was famous. Her parties and the conversations among people when tipsy were amusing and provided her insights into human character. With their guards down they were far more valuable specimens, grist for her writings than having them around all the time to observe the falsettos, the pretence or sham. It sickened her. She wanted to be real.
The sky darkened, and the clouds rumbled. Sheena offered her tea and strolled over to the sideboard to get some for her. She handed Indira a mug and Indira began with the man whom she had corresponded with. The letters were replete with incisive conversations yet they were love letters for a beloved. A passion that transcended space and time and barriers. It pulsated with life. This intensity had to be from a real life experience. Was it anyone she knew? Was it the person she had dedicated the book to J.R.?
Sheena turned around, clenching her fists, her eyes were dark embers as she lashed out against Indira’s judgemental, middle-class morality. She believed in love and desired good looking men , she got what she wanted. Relationships and commitment weren’t her mojo. Her love was about immersing herself in another completely. To talk of art, literature, philosophy, films. She had been in love but was helpless and enslaved. The passion and the interlaced affection, caressing, fondling, seducing with a rhythm like the Tango. Slow and fast. She was scared of losing him and consequently herself. Moving away, living separately, their communication became richer with less pain. The anticipated pain of separation.
Indira persisted. In her home town there was someone who was a fan of her writing and had read all her books and his initials were the same. Could it be him? Sheena interrupted her brusquely and said that she had written the book herself. Imagined both the characters. Indira haltingly said Jayanta and Sheena went white. She fumbled and feigning ignorance said who? Who was Jayanta? Indira stood up walked with firm strides and facing her said Jayanta Roy. Sheena demurred and asked how she dared to assume. Indira with a measured voice replied that she knew because she was married to him. Sheena fell to her knees in disbelief weeping, muttering.
When, when? She screamed, he had written to her a short while ago. When Indira said a decade she ran to her table and pulled out a sheaf of hand written letters and waved them at her. These were written some months ago. How could he have written these paeans if he was married to another. The marriage could not have been love; it must have been a compromise.
Indira said that she had always known of Sheena. Jay and she were best friends at University when they decided to get married. Their marriage was about solace, comfort and togetherness. The relationship may seem routine but it was real not fiction or imagined like the letters. They shared happy and sad moments, moved ahead sure footedly. Falling in love and living together was true love. They had trust and faith in each other which Sheena did not have ever.
Sheena bent forward on the chair clutching the letters to her heart. Broken she murmured that these letters were the elixir of life and kept her going. And he had stopped writing to her, there was no communication at all. She was too proud to go to Chandannagar and had contacted The Herald to send someone for an interview. She had to know the reason why he had stopped?
Indira turned around and said the reason was simply because Sheena had thoughtlessly published his original letters, the world knew about them, some faintly recognised the characters. The moments shared had literally become an open book and Sheena had lost the privilege of this relationship. In fact Indira did not wish to continue with the farce anymore. And Jay would not have either. Sheena recoiled, stood up and angrily asked Indira why she had spoken in the past tense. Were they separated, she shouted again almost gleeful at the sudden ray of sunshine. She would undo the separation she thought wilfully. She would never leave him again.
The clouds roared outside the window, torrential rain lashed at the window and Indira calmly said that he was dead, he had died a few years after they were married. The letters, Sheena pointed them at her, these letters, they were written by him. He couldn’t be dead. These couldn’t have been written by anyone else. He pulsated in those written words that he sent her regularly.
The rain had stopped outside and it was almost dawn The sky a lighter ash grey had tinges of vermillion and golden as the sun was about to rise. Indira went across to Sheena, hugged her and said that she had written them to keep his memory alive. To save Sheena from the pain of loss. She knew Sheena was impetuous. She wrote for him, his deep love and caring for Indira, she loved him enough to accept the past and had married him with full cognisance of the “other woman” in his life. She loved him enough despite that, unconditionally. They both hugged each other and wept and then sat holding hands. Quietly side by side. Two women who had loved one man. And lost him. One loved him with the ferocity of the thunderstorm and the other was the calm aftermath. A balm for the soul. True love. Both!
Neel Biswas was hurrying on his way back from office on Monday. For the last ten years of his life, after office he would rush to the bus stop where the No. 469 bus would take him home. But his hurry was not to catch the bus. For the next No. 469, according to his estimate, was half an hour away. And anyway there would be another one in another 20 minutes or so after that. He was actually hurrying to meet his friend Anton Gomes at the bus stop.
For the last nine and a half years, ever since they had met on No. 469, Neel and Anton had become fast friends. Before their bus came they would perch themselves on the seats of the bus stop. And this half an hour or so had become really precious for the friends and neither wanted to miss a minute of that time. Though, at times they were known to become so absorbed in their chat that they had let the first bus go and had taken the next one, reaching home nearly one hour late to the annoyance of both the wives.
And what chats they would have! Neel after he got to know Anton a little better decided he could share with him his one secret passion without being ridiculed. He told him of his lifelong desire to go on a motorcycle trip across South America, which sparked off in his heart when he had read “The Motorcycle Diaries” of Che Guevara when he was barely out of college. Over the years he had found out all the details of the trip from the age of 25 years onwards when the idea of the trip had taken hold of him. He had decided on the type of motorcycle that would be the best for the trip and that the Royal Enfield 350 cc Bullet won hands down among all the Indian bikes. The kind of biking equipment and clothes he would need. He had mapped out his route meticulously. Then researched each of the countries he would pass through – its terrain, the weather, the places he could stop for the night, the availability of petrol and food, the local culture – in fact it had been a lifetime assignment for him. However like many before him, the pressures of making a living, raising a family and being a part of the system had kept his plans just that, just plans. Now at 52 years he knew that it was too late, but the overriding passion of his life was still planning for the trip and practically every day he would discover something new, especially now with the internet that his 13 year old son had made him familiar with. All this he shared with Anton and every time he made a new discovery, he rushed to tell him at the bus stop.
Mr. Gomes on the other hand was even more ambitious. Since his teenage years he had wanted to travel the world. Not as a tourist or even as an adventure enthusiast like Neel. He had wanted to travel the world but taking his own time, working his way in various countries, which would not only pay for his journey but would let him know the countries and their people intimately. To this end he too had researched all the countries he wanted to visit. The visa rules, the possibilities of working, the underground illegal work available, and of course the countries themselves, their cities, countryside, weather, people, culture, language, so on and so forth. Apart from desk research, he visited various embassies; meeting people from these countries whenever they were willing to talk to him outside the embassies and saw all the documentaries he could get hold of and read everything about them he could find in various travel magazines. Like Neel Biswas, this had also become his overriding passion and entertainment and was the one bright spot in an otherwise mundane world of mind numbing routine and shrill never ending demands of the family. Needless to say, all this along with his latest findings he would share with Mr. Biswas, his one friend who would understand his passion and not laugh at him and call him crazy. Though in his heart of hearts he knew that at 54 with a family dependent on him, there was little chance of ever making his dream a reality, however much he might tell himself that one day he would do it and start with at least one country.
Over the nine plus years the two friends had also got to know all about each other’s families. About their wives and their natures. Their children and their achievements and shortcomings in school, the low standard of teaching by arrogant teachers, the unfairness of the Principals. They even shared intimate marital details as to how Mr. Biswas’ wife used to be quite a beauty with a high sex drive, but had let herself go over the years and was now a stout mama with not much interest in sex and how Mr. Biswas had to literally cajole her in the marital bed and was lucky if he got it twice a year on his birthday and on their anniversary, a ritual, reluctantly agreed to by his wife!
Mr. Gomes on his part shared how he would have to buy his wife a present every time for her to consent to have sex and how even then would lie like a rubber doll as he desperately moved on top to climax before he lost his desire and went limp. “It would be better if I got one of those rubber sex dolls that you get abroad” Mr. Gomes was fond of saying, “At least it would let you do it when you wanted, without winging and complaining and would be a lot less expensive, for all the enthusiasm she has for sex!”
No wonder Mr. Biswas and Mr. Gomes were such good friends. Both with a secret dream which gave both of them the sustenance to face the frustrating mechanical life they lived and probably the only thing that prevented them from sinking into depression.
Today, however, as Mr. Biswas hurried towards the bus stop he had something quite different to report to Mr. Gomes from the usual talk. It was something that he never could have imagined happening to him and which was at the same time so uplifting that he was sure that it would blow Mr. Gomes’ mind. That is why he did not want to miss even a minute of their bus stop time.
This life shattering event had happened to him the evening before on Sunday. He had gone to the district market about 5 km away from his house on his motorcycle to buy a riding helmet as his current one was worse for the wear, after a satisfying mutton curry and rice lunch followed by a siesta - a sacrosanct Sunday tradition in most Bengali households. He made his purchase after examining over a dozen helmets and as he stepped out of the shop and turned into the corridor, he came face to face with Miss Ruby Shaw, his colleague from office who worked in the finance department.
Mr. Biswas had noticed Ruby in office, and chatted with her a few times at the water cooler, for she had a quality that had a subtle yet strong attraction for the male sex. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, she was about five feet six inches tall, with dusky complexion but which had a soft silky sheen, dark wavy hair that rolled down to her shoulder, full curved lips which seemed always with a faint smile, a pert nose over which were two limpid expressive eyes which always seemed to reflect her current emotion. Her figure was well made, with round firm breasts that thrust against the top she usually wore, while her hips swayed with a languid rhythm that was like a magnet to the male eye. But above all she had a friendly and warm vibe that more than any physical attribute was truly appealing to men. It was difficult to guess her age which could be anywhere in the late thirties or early forties.
Right now her expressive eyes were lit up with recognition and pleasure at seeing Mr. Biswas.
“Hi Mr. Biswas! Fancy meeting you here. Do you stay close by?” her soft slightly husky voice called out, “I live just round the corner.”
“About 5 km away, Miss Shaw” Mr. Biswas replied, “I …I… come here always… when…when… I cannot get what I want in my colony’s market”, he slightly stammered.
“Oh, it seems to be my lucky day,” Miss Shaw trilled back, “I am dying for a cup of coffee and I was just thinking how boring it would be to drink coffee all by myself! So what say Mr. Biswas, want to join a colleague for a coffee or tea break? My treat.”
“Would like that very much,” Mr. Biswas was recovering fast, “But only on one condition.”
“And what might that be?” Miss Shaw asked
“That the treat is mine and we have cookies with our coffee too”
“Agreed to the second and we will see about the first”, came Miss Shaw’s reply.
That settled, they turned towards the café down the corridor, with Mr. Biswas helping her with some of the packets she had purchased and matching steps with each other.
When they entered the café, Mr. Biswas was acutely conscious of all the eyes that turned towards them as that’s the effect Ruby had whenever she walked into a room. The last time I walked into a café with such an attractive woman, apart from my wife immediately after marriage, was when I was in college, Mr. Biswas thought to himself. Thinking of the much sought after beauty in college that he had once managed to take to the University café after days of planning, in the face of stiff competition.
As they sat down in a corner table and ordered their coffee and cookies, Ruby, to fill in any awkward silence took the lead and said –
“So Mr. Biswas, apart from working in marketing what do you do? I mean what do you do with your spare time?”
“Not much”, Mr. Biswas replied, “On weekdays by the time I get back home, do any shopping that is required and at times help my son with his home work, there is only time for dinner and sleep, to get up in time to go to office the next day. And on Sundays there are so many little, little things to be done …”
“OK. But surely you have some hobby,” Ruby said, “Reading, music, traveling on your vacations … something. I love to go trekking on my vacations, and that was one of the reasons I relocated to Delhi from Mumbai. There are so many lovely mountain treks close by. I would go crazy if I did not look forward to them. And I like going a bit crazy on my treks – going off alone, at times without a proper route plan, getting lost and finding my way back by sheer instinct, and having unique experiences on the way.” She ended her little monologue with a musical laugh.
By now Mr. Biswas was feeling quite comfortable with Ruby and whatever awkwardness he had felt had disappeared. Especially as he sensed that she was a kindred soul from her description of the offbeat treks she went on.
So now Mr. Biswas decided to take the plunge. “I too have a secret passion or a hobby you might say,” He hesitatingly said, “But I don’t know if you will laugh at me if I told you.”
“Do I seem to be the kind of person who will laugh at crazy hobbies? I am a bit on the crazy side myself you know. So do tell with no qualms”. Ruby assured him.
“OK, but I have another condition.” Mr. Biswas smiled, “If I am to unburden my deepest secret then you need to drop the Mr. Biswas stuff and get on to simple Neel. For that will make us friends and not just colleagues and that’s what friends call each other – by their first names”.
“Done” came the reply, “And I am Ruby and not Miss Shaw anymore.”
“OK, here goes”, said Neel, taking a deep breath, “Don’t say you have not been warned if you cry with boredom!”
With this he launched into his most favorite topic in the world. His dream of a motorcycle trip around South America. As soon as he mentioned his motorcycle trip, Ruby held up her hand.
“Here I must tell you Neel, in college in Mumbai I used to have a 250 cc Honda myself and was quite an enthusiast. I have done several trips – to Lonavala, Khandala and other shorter road trips near Mumbai. Then with the pressures of a job, commuting on a bike was no longer feasible. So had to sell it”
Excited to find a fellow biking enthusiast, Neel went into minute details of the trip. The equipment, the clothes, the visas and permits. Then the details of the route.
How he planned to take a ship from Trinidad and Tobago and land in Guyana. Then ride to Georgetown and then on to French Guyana and Suriname, then ride south into Brazil. In Brazil he had planned to take in Sao Luis, Salvador, Rio De Janerio and Sao Paulo …and then cut across to the vast plains of Argentina.
In Argentina the route would take him to Asuncion, Santa Fe and Buenos Aires. After which he would ride across to Chile … to Santiago, and Valparaiso. Then he would start going north up the continent where Bolivia awaited him.
And after the long ride to La Paz he would cross over to Peru. Where after Lima and Cusco, he would ride up to the base of mount Machu Pichu and climb up to the temples especially the Temple of the Moon where he wanted to go on a full moon night all his life.
From there he would enter Ecuador, just above Peru, swing across to Quito and then on to Colombia – and hit Bogota and Medellin, the home of the legendary and dreaded drug lord Pablo Escobar. The last leg of the journey would be Venezuela and he would reach Caracas via Merida. In Caracas he would wait for a ship, preferably a cargo ship if he could get a cheap passage in one with his bike and then start the long trip back home.
With his lifelong planning, reading and watching documentaries and videos Neel really made the trip come alive. With graphic details of the countries and their terrain. The little tabernas he would stay nights. The food, the wine, the hospitable simple country folk. It all came alive as for once he found a receptive audience, instead of the bored indifference and ridicule of his relatives and wife, whenever he tried to tell them anything of his dream. His wife usually cut him short with something like, “Ok, OK, stop these idiotic dreams, you are a teenager no more. We are running out of rice; go to the market now instead of South America!”
But now as he looked up he saw a pair of shining eyes drinking up his words, and lips parted with excitement. He became aware of the waiter hovering near their table for in his enthusiasm he had lost count of time and they had been in the café for quite a while.
Suddenly Neel was conscious of a soft feel on his hand. And looking down with surprise he saw that Ruby had reached out and was covering his hand with hers! He felt an indescribable thrill and warmth course through his body right to his brain. Never before he had felt a woman’s touch that conveyed so many things – admiration, friendship, excitement, sympathy … in fact for fifteen long years he had not felt a woman’s warm touch at all. His wife would just about tolerate his touch on their bi-annual ritualistic sex and would never touch him with any warmth or love.
“If you …if you finally do go on this trip”. Ruby was now saying, “Remember I am game if you want a second rider to spell you or maybe someone to ride along on another bike!”
“What?!” Neel nearly choked, “You seriously think I could really do this trip? I had given it up long ago, and all this was just a hobby!”
“I don’t see why not. You are still young enough and fit enough. So why don’t we go to my place that’s just around the corner and discuss this further,” replied Ruby, her eyes sparkling, “The waiters here are getting antsy with us occupying this table so long.”
Neel felt he was being swept forward by a force over which he had no control, like a river – gentle, soothing, warm but with mysterious currents that was slowly taking control. But the experience was so unique that he willingly surrendered himself to it.
So soon he was parking his bike as Ruby climbed off with her bags from the pillion and he helped her carry them up to her second floor, tastefully decorated two bedroom flat where she lived alone.
As he settled down on the living room couch, Ruby called out from the kitchen –“Would you like a glass of red wine, for I am pouring myself one.”
Neel, under the spell of this unique evening that he never thought could happen to someone like him at this stage of his life, could only say yes.
Soon, with wine glass in hand they were back in South America. Now Ruby took the lead, detailing all they needed to do. The finance they would have to get together, the bikes and equipment, the visas, permits and paperwork, the time frame …till it seemed to Neel that he was actually going on the trip with this wonderful adventurous woman the likes of whom he could not imagine in his world.
As they got more and more involved Neel was conscious of a great intimacy spring up between them. After years of being starved of a woman’s appreciation, interest and sympathy, this emotion overwhelmed him and suddenly tears came to his eyes and he choked in mid sentence.
“What Neel, what’s the matter, are you all right,” he heard Ruby’s voice softly through the blur of his tears.
“It’s just that nobody before you took me seriously. Even my wife bites my head off if I so much as mention the trip. And not only ridicules the whole idea but gets her friends and relatives to ridicule it as well” Neel blurted out while trying to cover up and wipe his tears.
“Oh you poor man, you have really been hurt I can see” came the soft comforting voice.
Then before he knew what was happening he felt a soft arm wind round his neck and gently pull his head on to soft shoulders. – “Let me heal your deep hurt.” Ruby’s soft voice said. And he willingly clung to her comforting embrace. He felt soft lips against his. Her warm body against his. Felt her hands draw his face down to the comfort of the twin mounds of her lovely breasts. It was as if all the frustrations of his now loveless life were being filled with warmth and understanding as if a magical wand had been waved.
Later in Ruby’s bedroom with the soft glow of incense candles throwing shadows on the mystery of the valleys and undulating hills of her soft firm body, Neel’s hurt was washed away, and he once again could not stop the tears of gratitude rolling down his cheeks.
“I love a man who is not afraid to show his emotions or to cry,” Ruby said as they lay spent in each other’s arms. “But let’s get something out of the way. I hope you don’t get possessive and clingy, as many men do. What happened between us was beautiful. And I would still love to go on the motorcycle trip with you across South America. But let’s keep our relationship like friends with benefits, shall we? We both go back to our lives and then plan for our trip. And maybe we will have many such wonderful times, sometimes.”
Neel could only agree feeling as if he was living in a dream. His whole being was in a whirl as he rode back to his cold home in the late evening, the only bright spot being the smile with which his son greeted him.
Now as Neel Biswas hurried to meet his friend Anton Gomes at the bus stop, he was bursting to tell him of this cataclysmic event in his life. So when he did not see his friend at the bus stop he was mildly irritated. But he perched himself on the seat sure that his friend would soon arrive. But today the minutes kept ticking away, that relentlessly crossed the half hour mark and then started marching towards the hour but there was still no sign either of his friend or Bus No. 469.
Then finally when it had crossed an hour he looked at another commuter who had taken the seat next to his and asked – “Do you have any idea what happened to Bus No. 469? Why it hasn’t come for the last one hour?”
The man looked at him strangely – “You must be new here if you don’t know! Bus No. 469 had a terrible accident 5 years ago and everyone in it died. So they retired the number after the tragedy. You have a real long wait if you are waiting for it. Better take a different bus.” With this the man got up, climbed on to a bus that had just drawn up and disappeared.
Neel sat stunned and muttered to himself – “The guy must be crazy, I take 469 with my friend every day.”
At this a couple of youngsters who were leaning on the railings and had heard the whole exchange said – ‘No he was absolutely right. You must be crazy if you think you take 469 everyday!” and they snickered as people are wont to do at people who are mad.
Neel did not know what to think any more. Had he been talking with a dead man all this time?! Did he imagine his talks with his friend all these years? Were even the bus stop and the people real? Then carrying the thought forward it suddenly struck him, did he dream up the entire episode with Ruby the evening before? Then again, was he also on that ill fated bus and were he and Anton still clinging on to this world and their unfulfilled desires. Was Ruby real or a lovely phantom that had come to fulfill unfulfilled desires?
As these thoughts whirled through his head, Neel looked down and got another shock. Were his hands getting transparent and slowly disappearing? Or was that a figment of his imagination!
It was powder puff time, the slick sticks of eyeshadow and blusher tucked into the nooks and crannies of suitcases, cradled against clothes and wrapped in stocking rolls. Not that they wouldn’t be there in Kathmandu. We would probably get them double or treble at the Thamel shops. It was a show at one of the 5 stars, flamingo plumes and all – well not necessarily flamingo plumes though Sunny had suggested plucking a few peacocks in case for the emerald tulle sequence, one of his stupid jokes. Escape time out of the country because that was a time ago when Nepal was abroad, not that place next door to India, but Levis kingdom, electronics kingdom. Most of the girls were debating, fill the suitcase or run over to Thamel and stash away new clothes after losing the price tags? I was arguing about the customs – they saw models and came running for things to duty. “Why’re you being a bore?” Celina said. “It’s party time!”
No, I didn’t see it as that. It was work time. But then the others outvoted me. Jeri was leading because she’d fixed up the acco, the Everest Hotel, then in the process of renovation, because the owner’s second son Prabal was her boyfriend. They swung half empty suitcases against their legs. My ex-husband was running the show and he was hassled about the empty suitcases but couldn’t say much. We took our cases with clothes in them and he was carrying the money for expenses. I thought I’d go for a Swatch in Thamel if I couldn’t do the clothes.
All in all it was party atmosphere and the old rooms that we got at the Everest didn’t take away from any of it. They’d given us rooms on the first floor which hadn’t been renovated, though Jeri swung a fifth floor room for herself courtesy Prabal. Shok and I got room 101, patchy ceiling with faint brown splotches where the damp had got in, busy yellow carpet and HUGE beds, two huge beds like a football field. Shok fretted around wondering where to store the suitcase with the money in it. It was a lot of responsibility for him because he was running the first ramp model agency in the East and he liked to be there with the money when it was needed. Next to one of the beds was a space by the window – you couldn’t see it from the rest of the room which was pretty big in itself to match those beds. I suggested we slip it there. In any case he knew I’d be in the room most of the time after shows since I wasn’t the six glass partying kind – two and I’d mutter I was going for a moonlight smoke and slip out, knowing they’d have those glasses glued to their lips or decide that they’d take off for the nightclubs and forget that I’d ever been there. Celina had caught me once and given me a shake, “You are not going to be boring,” she’d said clearly, stumbling over the English – Celina was always better in bangla, especially after a few glasses. I’d taken my shoulder away, pulled out the ciggies and muttered something about finding the Ladies.
Jeri was on a hair trigger hysteria bend about not burning holes in the carpets. Easy for her, she had the fifth floor room with her boyfriend. Was anyone going to notice a burn in that fussy yellow carpet? However, everyone was doing what they thought best with or without their partners. And then the men would go off to the casino and leave the girls to their partying. Shok had gone off with Sunny who was still muttering things about plumes after all his martinis, so I went to bed.
Those beds were really lumpy old beds – if someone sat on them or turned over the whole thing rolled like it was water and not cotton stuffed mattress. I’d curled up and was half asleep, moonlight slipping through the window in stripes, sliding across my face. After a long while I heard a key turn in the lock and footsteps stumble across the carpet. Shok back from the casino drunk, I thought and slid down lower under my covers. He hit the bed and the mattress rolled. Then everything was still.
Fifteen minutes later, the same thing happened all over again. Well it could have been more than fifteen minutes because I was sliding back into sleep and the moonlight had almost reached my toes. There was a click and the sound of the door opening again, footsteps shuffled across the carpet and then the mattress rolled next to me, the window side. Someone touched me and shook my arm, “Come on, come on, don’t be boring”. I started a slow burn because I thought someone had got the key out of reception saying that this was their room and they were locked out – they always did things like that on show trips, thought it was part of the fun. Celina must have sent someone just to bug me. I reached behind to push the person away and my hand hit air.
There was just the silver strip between the curtains. No silhouette on the bed. I tried to say something but my throat closed. Shok was snoring two breaths away but I couldn’t make a noise. Somehow I got through the night. In the morning I looked to see if the suitcase with the money was still there, the first thing I thought of. It was exactly where it had been left. Shok staggered up with his headache and, looking at him stretching and groaning, everything that had happened in the darkness just seemed stupid.
I thought I’d keep it to myself. After all I didn’t intend any harm. Perhaps whatever it was would sense that and continue with whatever it had to do and leave me alone. In any case after that first night, I wasn’t scared or anything . I’d let myself into the empty room and watch TV. Occasionally something didn’t work and I’d call up reception, “Room 101, problem with the TV” and they’d send someone to come and fiddle with the remote or the TV and wonder aloud why it wasn’t working, sliding their eyes at me and sliding them back again. Just the usual hotel nonsense which, on the whole, we were being spared because of Jeri. Not a whisper that they knew there was anything unusual about the room. There probably wasn’t, I thought. I probably dreamt it. One thing was different though - and it turned out to be important later – I refused to sleep in the bed by the window, lumpy mattress I said, so we’d moved to other one.
Then the show happened, gold oiled skin, dagger sharp stilettos, the works, with the ballroom cheering and flicking lighters like a rock concert, and afterwards they had to party even harder – though I’m not quite sure how you do that. They were partying hard enough as it was. I stayed out of it and watched TV and Shok, who had more money to count into the suitcase after the show, was too tired to party some more or even drag himself across the corridor to Sunny’s room. After he’d finished counting, we went to bed.
Sometime round midnight well who knows, what time round midnight, there was a shuffling kind of thump on the door, followed by two more. Shok was snoring, so I dragged myself out of bed wondering what it was now. Jeri was outside in tears. She’d had a fight with Prabal and wanted to sleep in our room. I pointed her to the empty bed by the window and went back to my lumpy side of the mattress next to Shok. I went to sleep, so I don’t know what happened after that but the next morning Jeri was in hysterics.
She was huddled up facing the window, trying to sleep, she said, occasionally sobbing because of Prabal and the fight. Footsteps shuffled over the carpet and lay down next to her – she felt the mattress sag under the weight. Then a hand started shaking her shoulder, “Come on, come on…” she thought it was one of us and turned her head ready to detonate whoever it was. And then….and then her mouth went dry and whatever she was going to yell stuck in her throat. There was no one there – just the shadows falling flat on the empty bed.
“I couldn’t call, I couldn’t shout, I could hear Shok snoring and I knew you guys were in the next bed but…” Shok thought it was a new kind of hangover and kept pacing up and down and wanting to call Sunny who kept all the uppers and downers in a secret compartment in his suitcase – that I think was when I first realized that our marriage wouldn’t last. Anyway, I made her drink more tea, ignored the Sunny bit and held her shaking hand wondering why I hadn’t been more hysterical when it happened to me. But then, I was never the partying kind. Nor was I at a flashpoint between love and loss -Shok and I were yesterday’s news.
It was Room 101 of course. Everyone knew it was haunted, but no one talked about it – even Prabal hadn’t thought it worth mentioning to Jeri, though he knew. Usually 101 was never given to a guest. An Italian had been in it, Mafia or something everyone in Kathmandu said. He’d lost heavily at the casino and come back and blown his brains out. Those dirty patches on the ceiling that I thought were brown stains from damp, they were his blood. In the mess of the renovations and the people coming and going for the show, they just shoved the room at us along with the others on that floor and kept quiet about the rest. Jeri wasn’t even meant to have been there.
Later I think she made up with Prabal. There are things more important than lipstick stains on shirt collars that don’t match yours. Like shadows falling on an empty bed.
Back from office, Narasimhan had just sunk into his sunken corner of the sofa, with the pages he kept aside from the local morning paper, when Mangala trotted in.
“Bitch!” He spat out. The very sight of her irritated him! He picked up the still burning stub from the ashtray, aimed, flicked…and missed. Sore luck.
His wife, Malati walked into the room. “Don’t you ever get tired of going after that poor bitch? Nothing better to do or what?” In the corner, the missed stub glowered.
It wasn’t Narasimhan’s fault that he hated the bitch. Ever since his ailing mother had brought the whimpering street mongrel home, things had taken a turn for the worse. For one, his son Narsimhan Ravichandran, or Ravi, studied far less than before. Taking Mangala out for a timely, twice daily constitutional seemed to have become his one passion in life. Come rain or shine.
Then again, his old mother, poor soul, considered the bitch to be the panacea for all her ills! ‘Mangala’ is the name she gave it. Meaning, good omen.
Narasimhan, on the other hand, was certain it did Amma absolutely no good, worrying her frail self to death over a no good bitch whose only aim in life seemed to be to eat her painstakingly made laddus, sleep with her in her bed, and get fat, Hmmph.
His wife, Malati’s case was, of course, a bit different. She cared two hoots for the bitch. But she was up against him, for one reason or the other. And didn’t somebody say, the enemy’s enemy is your friend? So there. Whichever way you looked at it, there was no peace for Narasimhan. And somewhere at the back of its scheming mind, the bitch knew it! Or so Narasimhan believed, as he now watched it curl up in the corner regardless of his preference.
On Monday, when Narasimhan entered office, the news was out.
Narasimhan’s office was a typical small-town PWD establishment. Old and high-ceilinged with creaky DC fans… and plenty of inertia, His section had just four other employees. Two women and three men, Narasimhan included. So, even while he slung his coat over the back of his chair, his friend and colleague, Ranga, offloaded the latest.
The typist’s three-year old daughter had disappeared over the weekend. One moment she was playing in the fields at the back of their quarters and the next, she was gone! The local police were on it, he said. Maybe they would seek the help of the district headquarters? Ranga opined. “The man’s wife’s brother-in-law was a policeman, they say.”
Narasimhan sighed. What could the man have done in his past life to deserve this! Everyone agreed. The typist was a good man after all.
It was only around afternoon, after tiffin time, a practiced snooze and coffee that Narasimhan suddenly remembered the news report.
Twenty-five days ago. A five-year old girl and her two-year old brother were returning in the early winter dusk from the fields around these parts, when they disappeared. No trace. Just like the typist’s daughter. Strange. Narasimhan felt a shiver run down his spine.
The local police were hard put to explain it. Besides, the children’s parents were very poor share-croppers. No wonder soon after everything was forgotten. Sad.
Narasimhan discussed it, first with Ranga, then with everybody else. It certainly called for another cup of steaming coffee. The others didn’t read the local tabloid every day like him, but they remembered.
That night Narasimhan managed to land Mangala a solid kick, when she came in search of scraps while they ate. Everyone was angry with him for that. But nothing much ensued because by this time everyone in the family was still full of the new story that Ravi had brought back from school that afternoon.
Bala was Ravi’s best friend in school. Even though, in Standard III he was a year junior. Like every other morning, that morning too they had met at the corner of the Tank and then walked together to school. During tiffin time Ravi had suggested that they cut across the fields to Bala’s house, a kilometer away, and get his football so that right after school they could play. Naturally Bala had agreed.
The little bounders half ate, half gobbled their tiffin and as soon as they thought no one was looking, they slipped away.
Near Bala’s house Ravi had the brilliant idea of stealing guava’s from Muthuswamy’s orchard. He knew exactly on which tree a juicy crop of early winter specials were ready for the picking. The sheer thought of it made the boys’ mouths water.
The grove was a little way away from Bala’s house. Through the main path, on the right.
To save time, they planned that Ravi would go for the guavas and Bala for the football. They agreed to meet where they now parted.
That was the last that Ravi saw of Bala.
Minutes after waiting for him at the agreed spot, Ravi started back for school a little perplexed. He couldn’t figure out why Bala had not waited. He had been a bit late, true, but…maybe he wasn’t as brave as he, Ravi, was! After all, he was a year younger. He, Ravi, wouldn’t have bothered if he found that classes had already begun. He would have slunk away without entering.
And, that’s precisely what he did that afternoon.
He waited with Bala’s share of guavas under the peepul tree on the way home from school. When the bell rang, Bala was not among the boys from Standard III.
In fact, Bala was nowhere to be seen. A breathless Ravi raced back to Bala’s house to be told that Bala had not come back. Not even for the football during tiffin time.
Deep, dark fear and a nameless guilt struck Ravi. He burst out and told Bala’s parents everything.
After that there is nothing the boy remembers, except that there was mass hysteria…wailing, shouting, torchlight searches and somebody kind enough to bring him home in a tearful mess.
From that night onwards it fell on Narasimhan to take Mangala out for her nightly toilet.
Amma and Malati were firmly of the opinion that a gang of child-lifters were on the prowl. Under no circumstances could Ravi be left alone, especially after dark. Narasimhan would reach him to school and Malati would bring him back. That is what they had proposed. Narasimhan had agreed readily. It was his own son after all. But walking the bitch in the bargain…well, that was something he swallowed with distaste. He had first suggested that she take a walk on her own – secretly hoping that she would never come back. After all, the streets were where she belonged, in the first place!
The suggestion brought a rain of outrage from his mother and such a tearful rejoinder from his son that Narasimhan hurriedly accepted his lot.
Now, out in the dark, as he tightened the leash deliberately around Mangala’s neck and heard her faint whine in pain, Narasimhan himself winced. What luck. He was the one who hated the bitch the most and now he was the one promenading with her on a moonlit night…sheesh!
A small distance away fat Lingaiah was closing his porota-and-meen curry shop for the night. He nodded as Narasimhan passed. A pariah darted in, hoping for one last morsel…and yelped as its emaciated rump took the full force of a well-oiled heel. Serves it right! Narasimhan heard himself sneer. Only if you have committed a thousand sins in your past life are you born as a dog. Hmmph.
His thoughts returned to Ravi’s story and then made an aerial survey of the other news reports. Hmm… Very close to each other. Must be the work of one gang. Things like this never happened here before. Of course he had heard of such things happening quite often in big cities; especially in America and England. But here? Why on earth would someone want to come all the way to this godforsaken town when Mumbai and Delhi had so many more children… and rich kids too. Besides, a gang that didn’t exist around these parts before would be noticed so much more easily, wouldn’t it? If you counted the press reports the gang should have been active for nearly a month now? Narasimhan scratched his oily head.
In the distance, a cacophony of barking street dogs in which Mangala too heartily joined, brought him to earth. He cursed her and with a rough jerk turned her around and began retracing his steps. “Pariah dogs seem to be increasing day by day in this town!” he spat out angrily.
“We housewives are organising a Manch to protest against the authorities’ inability to arrest the child-lifters”, Malati announced with a flourish one evening. Five days had passed since Bala had disappeared. Neither he nor the other children had been found yet and Narasimhan had just that day heard from the typist in office that a Taluka committee was going to approach the District authorities to press them for some definitive action.
“It’s a good idea”, Narasimhan told Malati, as he turned the pages of his newspaper. “The sooner lazy dogs like them are brought to book, the better.”
The old woman was collecting dried sticks and twigs in the scrub jungle on the edge of town. She did that every daybreak. That’s what her widowed daughter who lived with her told the police, on the day she didn’t return.
The whole town was simply buzzing with the news. It was over a month since those nasty kidnappings…but this? An old woman! The kidnappers were still at large, but this latest had put a new spin on the whole situation. The townspeople were bewildered.
Why would child-lifters be interested in an old woman?
“Certainly not to become surrogate nanny to those children!”, quipped Narasimhan, only to realise from the shocked expressions around him that it was a joke in very bad taste.
Nonetheless he did roll that question once more in his mind while settling in for the night.
Malati was still washing up. Idly, he listened to the clink-clank of utensils as he smoked his cigarette in the dark. In the distance he could hear a sharp commotion from adjoining streets. It came nearer and just as he spat out the words, “Nasty, low down curs!”, Mangala joined in the fray from under the bed.
One leap and Narasimhan was out of the bed. Pulling the bitch out with one hand, he brought the umbrella he had grabbed, down on her plump body till she yowled in pain so violently that he had to let her go; and also because his whole family, had come into the room and begun howling back at him, his mother lending her voice from below the stairs.
Narasimhan held his temper until he couldn’t take it anymore. The extra hours of sacrifice every day – going to office early because of the boy, of taking the hated bitch out for a walk twice a day, of worrying to death about maniacs – told on him. He shouted back at his family like never before.
“Do you know why I beat that bitch? Go out every night and you’ll see why! The whole town is full of its kind. Not allowing people to eat, sleep or even walk in peace on the roads. And you expect me to tolerate one under my bed!”
“Come, come Sir, you must suspect something by now! Why, the last time in that missing tiffin-box case in office, you were the one who caught the culprit!” Narasimhan’s colleagues were hell bent on lightening the mood in office by indulging the man’s ego.
Narasimhan, looking important, continued perusing the air beyond his entwined fingers, while resting his chin on them. Ranga, the wily old chap, was working really hard on him! He made it seem as if he was convinced that Narasimhan must have already guessed who the culprits were.
“Then again, during the strike by the town conservancy staff, you certainly had us, with your clever deduction about the real reason why.” Ranga continued…
“This isn’t the same thing, Ranga!” interrupted Narasimhan, irritably.
The lives of little children were involved. And old folk. Truly, an unspeakable tragedy had hit this town. It was no time to joke.
“I think it is a case of evil spirits.” Ranga continued with finality. “A lot of bad things must have happened in this town in the past, which we don’t know all about. Don’t tell anyone, but when I was a year old my father had to once take a dog’s heart while it was still beating, to a witch so that she could cure me of a continuing fever which wasn’t going even after a month! They said it was due to evil spirits who had taken possession over me and there was no other recourse… Eventually, for whatever reason, I got well.” He admitted guiltily.
“How disgusting!” remarked Narasimhan, as he picked up his coat and left.
From the next Saturday, the remains started appearing. A chewed up piece of humerus here; a scrap of barely recognizable, blood-spattered clothing, there. Mostly under dense scrub in the outskirts of town. Some under culverts in paddy fields.
Little Bala was found very much inside town. Near a guava grove.
His stomach innards, legs and parts of his face missing. Unbearable stench had led people to what remained of the boy whose school uniform was visible all around.
“…Now that we are absolutely sure that it is a case of wild animals, we will consult the forest department and call in professional hunters. They will lay traps and finish them off!” With these few words, the District superintendent of police ended his speech with aplomb, in front of the frightened gathering who heard him out in the market square on Sunday.
Amidst cries of “Please don’t delay Sir!” he drove away, heading a convoy of jeeps, gesturing reassuringly.
Narasimhan walked away slowly. Like almost everyone else present, it was hard for him to believe that even a single wild animal still remained in the vicinity of the town. All that was over, when his forefathers first set up shop in these parts. He had heard from his grandfather and people too said that the man had killed a leopard once, in these very parts, with a pickaxe that could still be found in the house. Gone were those days.
Suddenly he felt the world closing in from all sides. It seemed as if he was being watched. He needed fresh air and the calming sight of vast openness.
“I’m not panicking,” he found himself mumbling. With effort, he steadied himself, left the main road and began walking in the direction of the fields.
Before long, he was far, far away from town.
The moment was almost magical. The same sunset, the same silhouette of the rock outcrop and the same scraggly scrubland dotting the landscape. Just like it had been in his childhood days when he came with his Appa...
Taken all together, they calmed his senses, down to the core of his being.
“I must bring Ravi along, one of these days before all these disappear under buildings.” he mused, as he turned on his toes to go home. It was getting dark.
Something was making a gentle scraping sound. He thought of glow worms and nightjars preparing for the night. Suddenly, a human form came into view. It seemed to be crawling flat on the ground.
Ghost! For a second, Narasimhan’s mind went blank with fear…
Until the form emitted a horrible, long-drawn groan and went prone across the path. Narasimhan cautiously drew closer.
It was Munniswamy, the old PWD Bungalow gardener! Blood and mud had caked his skinny body on which there was not much of clothing left. His mudu had come off and was lying torn and dirty a little way away. He groaned as Narasimhan bent over him to ask… “Wolf-like creatures…” crept from his trembling lips, which tightened over a trickle of blood and spittle, “…fled as soon as you came.”
It was not before midnight that Narasimhan returned to his worried family, from the local hospital. Blood and dirt now soiled his own shirt and trousers. Muniswamy was no more. Blood loss and missing organs, they said.
And, he, Narasimhan, was dog tired.
Humiliation and deprivation… Didn’t they drive even the most civilised men mad?
The germ of an idea first crossed Narasimhan’s mind right after Bala’s disappearance. But to tell the truth, he never gave it a serious thought. Until the old woman who was collecting dried twigs disappeared. That was the time he really started thinking. In fact, it was the same day Ranga had interrupted him with his questions.
There have been cases of men behaving in one way by day and another way by night, have they not? Shocking, incredible changes in behavior, he had read somewhere.
Slowly and steadily pieces of a weird jigsaw-puzzle began falling into place. The remains; the selection of victims, Muniswamy’s dying statement… It was unbelievable! Something even Malati would never believe if he confided in her. He would be called a mad man by everyone.
Narasimhan shuddered. Man’s best friend indeed! He was returning from Muniswamy’s cremation.
Nearing the dimly-lit market square he saw a group of street urchins screaming with glee as they chased a mongrel on whose tail they had tied an empty tin can. “Stop it!” The shout came out of his throat before Narasimhan even realised it.
A little way on, near the garbage dump he heard the mongrels.
An irresistible curiosity came over him. He stopped. They were dragging something away from him into the shadows. He thought he saw Mangala. Absurd. In fact, they all seemed to look like her! Narasimhan stumbled and fell. He picked himself up, and began running.
Once home, he felt relaxed. What in heavens had gotten into him? Malati had been at the doorstep with the customary oil lamp and margosa leaves. Any evil spirit that still lingered from the cremation grounds had to be dispelled by their dual powers...
He washed, changed into his spotless white mudu and banian, and felt grateful for all that he had.
It was only after he had sat down to eat that he disinterestedly enquired where the bitch was. “Why the sudden attachment?” said his wife, sarcastically. “You were not here so, like the previous night too, she had to be let out on her own. Come to think of it, it’s strange she hasn’t come back yet.” …
Narasimhan didn’t remember hearing anything anymore. He had got up, he had picked up the nearest rod he could find, and he had left.
After a search that had taken him far from home, he now faced what he had feared all along. The pack.
The night was once again moonlit. Spellbound, he watched as Mangala touched noses with her new master and moaned ever so softly. This wasn’t the same bitch! The whole pack stood behind, melting into the shadows. She sniffed the air warily in his direction, and emitted a soundless snarl. Then, hackles raised, she sprang towards him.
Narasimhan had just enough time to raise the rod before the pack was on him.
P.S. Late in May 1985, there was a report in some south Indian newspapers about the menace around Udhagamandalam, created by local dogs turning feral and developing a taste for human flesh. Briefly, the report said, that in 3 or 4 outlying villages in the Nilgiris, dogs had taken to the peripheral scrub jungle, hiding in it all day and coming out at dusk to hunt children & the weak, dismembering & dragging their remains back into cover. The authorities organized squads to shoot the dogs. A good number were killed…
The matter should have ended there, but since the 2nd half of 2022 news reports have surfaced once again, from states as far apart as Kerala to UP of similar events. Is it a callout to our treatment of animals?! One wonders.
Business is booming at Motherly. When Meryl Varghese started her rent-a-mom company 15 months ago, she had no idea how much Mumbai needed mothers. This morning, her phone hasn’t stopped ringing.
She needs to hire but recruitment for a business like this isn’t a joke. Meryl couldn’t count on LinkedIn profiles that could hold their own against 21st century's greatest fiction masterpieces. The only thing that mattered was work experience. And in this case it meant real life.
Meryl herself was an empty nester. Reason why she started this business in the first place. She had too much time and no teenage son to obsess over. College had taken him 12000 miles away to a different continent.
Her husband, Mr. Varghese had found love again, and then died in the arms of a 26 year old Moldovan chess coach and background dancer, who incorrectly administered the Heimlich maneuver while he was choking on a T-bone steak.
Meryl suddenly found herself with all the freedom in the world and none of the responsibilities. As human beings predictably do when a situation is too good to be true, she went ahead and got busy.
Strictly speaking, her business idea was an accident. The outcome of a series of news headlines.
'Man falls into a gorge while taking a selfie with monkeys.'
'Man orders 128 Swiggy deliveries in a day.'
'Father Cheats While Playing Ludo, Daughter Moves Court.'
Meryl said to Diane Mathews next door, “Tell me, Di, aren’t these problems a mother can fix?”
“She should be paid to fix them,” said Di.
"Paid? You don't mean that," said Meryl.
"Of course I do. Enough of this sacrificial Mother India nonsense. We lose our sleep, our youth, our sanity with nothing to show for it? How's that fair?" grumbled Di.
2 weeks later, in the living room of her Bandra apartment, Motherly started with two founders and two employees.
Meryl. Diane. And identical twins with non-identical dispositions - Pearl and Enid.
In the last 15 months, the company had handled 368 cases.
Some were monthly subscription jobs. Some were by the hour.
Their reputation was gaining solid ground.
They had a privacy policy for sensitive cases, but reports were duly filed and learnings were shared in weekly meetings.
Today was one of them.
Enid Fernandes said, “2 PM Tuesday, I have a meeting with a college principal - a kid was caught cheating in his Physics exam. Scribbled notes backwards, all over his arms, and tried to pretend it's a tattoo. Is that clever or stupid?'
Without waiting for an answer she continued.
On Friday, there's a high school annual recital. A girl wants to rent a mom because her own mom is too critical and it makes her nervous. She's the lead in the school play.”
“Dole out compliments like candy.' added Meryl.
“That's my girl! Watch out, Hollywood! Does that sound convincing?” asked Enid.
Pearl cleared her throat and rattled off her own list, “I am meeting a young man's girlfriend…vetting her actually before she meets the real parents. It's a lunch meeting. That's on Wednesday. On Thursday I have to help a neurosurgeon find his missing socks, hoodie,and mayonnaise bottle. And on 5th Road, there's a brat who only eats veggies when they are arranged to look like animals, so I have to pack Pinterest perfect Bento bear lunchboxes every day of the week. On Sunday, I have a toddler babble lesson with a dad. He still can't tell the difference between oooglebooga and oogaboogle.”
“Lucky you,” said Meryl.
“I have to work on a school art project - Mona Lisa with rotating eyes…in mixed media. Can you believe it? This is 4th standard homework! No wonder moms are renting a mom too. I don't blame them.”
Diane was in charge of the cash registers, bookings and corporate meetings for the week. Mothers were needed at company off sites. World weary executives often forgot how to behave themselves after one too many cocktails.
To deal with all the extra bookings flooding their inbox, Diane had hired an intern.
Pasta Braganza was the first man to work at Motherly. Meryl wasn’t so sure this internship would convert into an actual job. So far, Pasta had managed 1 and 2-star ratings on the cases assigned to him. But she didn’t want to be accused of gender discrimination. Surely, a man could be motherly. The last thing she wanted was an instagram backlash. That wouldn’t be good for a growing business.
Accidents seem to happen with startling frequency every time Pasta handled a case. In his second week, he was given a simple babysitting job in an upscale neighborhood. Parents going out for a dinner party, 6 year old had to be fed and put to bed. Nothing could go wrong with that you’d think.
Well, at half past nine, the building security cameras recorded footage of a small figure keying Mickey Mouse ears on the shiny bonnet of a BMW. And a tall figure watching the artistic masterpiece coming to life.
The parents returned home to hefty damages and neighbours screaming blue murder. That was strike one for Pasta.
Then there was the case of the alleged Assamese chicken curry. Pasta claimed he’d followed the YouTube recipe down to the T. He’d also thrown in a complimentary Assamese lullaby. But Ashit Borghain, nursing a 102 fever, a headache that felt like Thor’s hammer, and desperately in need of wet compress and a mother’s care, disagreed. He insisted Pasta’s chicken curry had too much coconut swimming in the warm embrace of a sea of chilli that would create a lava lake in his stomach. His head massage felt like a pro wrestler’s grip and his lullaby sounded like an incantation to invoke malevolent spirits. Ashit Borghain wanted a refund. Strike two.
There were minor infractions even after that.
Pasta called a client by the wrong name for eight hours straight. Hardly motherly conduct.
After a horror movie night, when a client woke up in the middle of a nightmare screaming ‘Mammaaa!’ Pasta wasn’t just fast asleep. His snores pierced the silent night like a Royal Enfield Bullet.
Every time he baked a mom-made Christmas cake, more rum went into him than the cake batter.
Meryl Varghese was keeping score.
One time, a client wanted a mom to accompany him to the dentist’s for a tooth extraction. The dentist had issued prior warnings about the possibility of feeling “a little pressure”. The dentally disadvantaged know what that means. While Pasta had held the client’s hand reassuringly through the ordeal, his lips had curled upwards and a grin had escaped when the client sobbed all the way home in the car, his jaw swollen like a squirrel hiding nuts in its cheek. Pasta had considered throwing in a kiss for good measure, and he would have, if the client wasn’t a 55-year old banking pro who frequently made it to stuffy listicles in business magazines.
Maybe it was the lack of a motherly kiss that earned Pasta another 2-star rating.
Cases like these were highly confidential. Everyone needed a mother - economists and lawyers, movie stars and college kids, spiritual leaders and the morally bankrupt. No one however wanted to admit it.
Pasta did have some redeeming qualities. A faint glimmer of motherly potential that was hard to ignore.
He gave good hugs. He could drape a saree 12 different ways. He had talked teenagers out of impulsive decisions that eventually took the shape of regret - dubious tattoos in Sanskrit that said ‘death to patriarchy’, septum piercings with a bovine charm, or an obsession with avocados that would cause certain economic ruin.
He’d developed a sixth sense for sickness. Arguably his most motherly quality. He’d know when a client was sick and send a message that would warm their chest like Vicks Vaporub. Attention was often a better cure than Allegra.
It was things like these that made Meryl offer what could be a tricky case to Pasta. If he could handle this, maybe he was ready for a permanent position after all.
“There’s a party. Pali Hill apartment. Parents going out of town. High school kid wants to rent a mom, just in case….Are you up for this?” asked Meryl.
“Just in case what?’ asked Pasta, a little unsure.
“Just in case the kids go overboard. You know how these parties are,” replied Meryl.
Pasta nodded and said, “Yeah…right.”
The truth was that he didn’t have a clue. The only parties he could think of had cakes, piñatas, soggy samosas and kids doing the Birdie dance. The only coke he was familiar with was of the cola variety.
“If you don’t mind…what exactly do you think could go wrong?” he asked.
Meryl paused for a second. She couldn’t tell if he was playing dumb.
“We don’t want a police raid and a dozen kids having to take a narco test, heads shoved in black bags, paraded in front of TV cameras…that sort of thing,” she said.
“Oh…that,” said Pasta, feeling his hands grow cold. Cold feet would follow. But he really wanted this job. He couldn’t give up this opportunity, nerve-racking as it was.
“If a mom steps in at the right time, the police won’t have to. But of course it can’t be the host’s mom. She's in Seychelles diving with sharks. So it has to be you,” said Meryl.
Pasta had never wanted anything in life. He had never been bitten by the bug that makes people want to be more than themselves. His father had left him a bungalow and an inheritance that would let him live like an average salaried person. Without having to go through the daily struggles of an average salaried person.
He never got married. A wife was like an extra piece in a jigsaw puzzle that already fit perfectly. And then women have this habit of treating you like a personal project. They adopt you like you are a mongrel and want to groom you into a show dog of pedigree.
Pasta had no need for that in his life.
But he'd always liked kids. In the same way that some people like kittens. They were amusing. He didn’t feel like an idiot in their company. They never talked about boring things like cryptocurrency.
So a job that let him spend time discussing football and dinosaur eggs seemed more palatable than jobs in general.
Then one day he saw a poster saying 'Interns Wanted' stuck on a wall next to A1 bakery. It wasn't an easy decision to start interning at 51. Something invisible pushed him to do it.
What he expected the job to be and what it turned out to be was vastly different.
He didn't imagine he'd have to babysit the newly divorced, wipe a 40-year old real estate agent's tears or lecture an investment banker who had developed a taste for day drinking. It wasn't easy trying to be a good mother. You had to be firm yet gentle, intimidating yet approachable, comforting and calculating in equal measure. But it was worth it. In all his life he hadn't experienced the high of a triumph over something difficult.
Motherly gave his life purpose.
As he smoothened the invisible creases on his shirt and straightened his tie, he thought to himself, “You’ve got this Pasta. What are you afraid of? Some rich kids and funny brownies? Whoever gets in the way of your dream is bolognese.”
Then his hands made a gesture that worried Meryl.
“All good?” she asked.
Pasta flashed his thumb in the air.
If indeed there were mountains of white stuff at the party, it would be his personal Everest.
If someone popped too much acid or peed on a Moroccan silk carpet after their 9th beer, he would remind them of the pitfalls of flirting with the long arm of the law.
He would bring back order to a city gone Gotham.
Pasta was about to break some glass ceilings.
He would be Motherly Pvt. Ltd.’s first male mom.
Spot on Casting Director sitting stage right on a high stool. Late middle-aged, frumpy.
CD: Next!
Spot on Maggie/Margaret. Young, pretty but not too. Shy.
CD: You are...?
M: Maggie...de Finieris [deh fin-er-is].
CD: [Writing.] Small dee, capital F?
M: Yes.
CD: Eff aye enn, aye ee are aye ess?
M: [Diffident, apologetic.] Aye ee are...aye ess.
CD: [Writing.] Okay. And you are here for the part of...?
M: Margaret.
CD [Writing.] Of course. [Looks up and considers her with interest.] You have no previous professional experience on your CV.
M: No.
CD: Just out of college?
M: Yes.
CD: No problem. [Writes.] Equal opportunity and all that. [Puts down clipboard. Crosses his legs.] Relax. [Smiles.] None of us gets out of this life alive.
M: [Looks confused, then realizes it's a joke and smiles nervously.]
CD: From the top, Ms....Maggie.
[M straightens up, takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, takes another breath.]
CD: When you're ready.
M: [Opens her eyes. In a stilted but energetic manner.] It's over, Sedgwick. Over! Do you hear? I've had all I can take of your carryings on. We're finished. Done. Do you...
CD: Hold it.
M: [Weakly.] ...hear me?
CD: Why are you leaving Sedgwick?
M: You mean, why is my character leaving him?
CD: [Stares at her with amusement.] Yes, Ms....Maggie. Why is Margaret leaving him?
M: Because he's cheated on her.
CD: Quite. And she's... How would you describe her mood?
M: Sorry?
CD: How does she feel toward him at the moment? At the moment this dialogue is taking place.
M: [Thinks for a moment.] Angry?
CD: Yes. Angry. Very angry. Fucking homicidal maybe?
M: [Stares back at him fearfully. In almost a whisper.] Yes.
CD: And, given her rage and her being one step from putting a fork into his right eye, would not the tone of her voice indicate that anger? Perhaps by way of her raising it? Shouting the bloody house down? Maybe? Perhaps?
[Maggie nods.]
CD: Glad we agree. So. Shall we try again? This time keeping in mind Margaret's inner state. Whenever you're ready.
M: [Closes her eyes. Keeps them closed.]
CD: No rush. [He waits several seconds.] Ms. Maggie? [Her eyes remain closed, a pained look on her face as if she has something stuck inside her. He stares at her with calm curiosity.] Miss.. de Finieris?
[Maggie starts as if woken from a deep sleep.]
CD: It's okay. You've just had a bit of stage fright, The jimjams. It happens to the best of us. Go home. Have a nice cup of tea. Take a walk. Someday you'll laugh when you think back on this moment.
[Maggie hangs her head in shame. Nods, turns slowly and walks offstage. CD looks down at his clipboard, writes on it. Glances toward where Maggie has exited, takes out a cigarette, puts it in his mouth but makes no move to light it.]
M: [Reenters.] Excuse me?
[CD regards her calmly.]
M: There's nothing there. I mean, nothing but...darkness.
CD: Sorry?
M: No off-stage area. No way out. Just darkness.
[CD nods.]
M: I don't understand. How can that be?
CD: True.
M: Sorry?
CD: It's true. There's nothing there.
M: I don't understand.
CD: Who does.
M: [Frowning.] When I got here two hours ago, there was an entire backstage area. Dressing rooms. An entrance door. Now there's nothing. Even in the dark I can tell that. Steps forward. It's not even darkness, not real darkness. It's...more than that.
CD: Or less.
M: [Staring.] Yes. A kind of...
CD: Nothingness.
M: You know?
[CD nods.]
M: What's going on?
CD: It's okay, Ms. Maggie. That's just how it is. [Smiles. Nods toward center stage. Spot - image projection - on a small bedroom decorated with posters, a feminine bedspread with a cat napping on it.]
M: My bedroom! What's my bedroom doing here?
CD: Like I said, you should lie down and take a nap.
[Maggie approaches the bed. Notices some photos in frames on top of a dresser. She picks up one of them.]
M: How did you get these? [Then, in a stronger, self-assertive voice.] What's going on?!
CD: That's better.
M: [With rising anger.] What kind of game are you playing? I came here for an audition, not a job in a magic show.
CD: It's just how it is, Maggie.
M: Just how what is?
CD: [Shrugs.] "It."
M: Jesus! I may not be much of an actress but I'm not a complete idiot. If this is some kind of casting-couch thing, forget it. I don't need a part in your frigging play that bad. It's not like I don't have a life... [Nods angrily toward the offstage area. Then, softly.] ...out there.
CD: Of course you do.
M: [Steps aggressively toward CD.] I could call the police. [Takes out a cell phone.] I mean it. Illegal Imprisonment. [Taps the keypad, puts the phone to her ear, waits, looks at the screen.] There's no signal. [Waves the cell phone in his face.] What are you up to, you dirty old shit?
CD: I take that personally.
M: Do you know what I think of men like you?
CD: Which men like me?
M: Sick, sorry-ass scumbags that prey on young women desperate for a part in your shitass plays. Men who think they can buy an hour in the sack for a crappy part in an even crappier play like this one.
CD: I can imagine.
M: Can you?
CD: It's my job, you could say. Yours too!
M: [Frowning in confusion. Spits.] That's what I think of you and your kind. I don't know how you found out what my bedroom looks like.... [Turns to the set behind her.] Right down to the photos of my mom and dad. [Turns back to CD.] Breaking and entering. Class A felony. You could go to jail for twenty years.... [Pauses.] What do you mean, It's your job?
CD: Why don't you have a seat? [Spot comes up on stool behind Maggie. She looks at it but remains where she is.] You've got the part, by the way.
M: What?
CD: The part of Margaret. It's yours. Signed, sealed and delivered.
M: What the...
CD: In fact, you're perfect for it. Couldn't hope for better. Congratulations
[Maggie shakes her head in disbelief. Steps backward, bumps into the stool, sits down.]
CD: That worked out pretty well after all. I knew you had it in you. You just needed...motivation. Most of us have trouble getting into our parts. We need something to shake us up, bring out the real us. Now the part is all yours. No one else will ever play it.
M: What? Of course other people will play it. The play's an old warhorse. Been around since the 1920s.
CD: [Smiles.] Not that play. This one.
M: "This one"?
CD: Yah.
M: Why are you playing games with me? If it isn't a quick roll in the hay you're after, what is it you want?
CD: Never disparage a roll in the hay, quick or otherwise. Makes the world go round. Literally.
M: [More calmly.] You know, if I couldn't pinch myself, I'd swear I was dreaming.
CD: Bad line. "Pinch myself." Hackneyed. You can do better than that.
M: "Line"? What are you talking about?
CD: We all have an obligation to be as original as possible. We only go around once.... Well, that wasn't very original either, was it. "Only go around once." Language is like that. Each word's a kind of prison. It takes a lot of effort to break out. Not many do. Which isn't to say we don't feel the urge, at least now and then. We all see and feel things we can't find words for. Which doesn't mean we shouldn't keep trying. To break out, I mean. Although, I suppose "Good fences make good neighbors." Now, there's an example of someone who doesn't like to think outside the box -- to use another cliché. But original to Frost. If a cliché can be "original." [Giggles.]
M: Robert Frost?
CD: [Nods.] Underrated. Simple Yankee farmer. Not on a level with T. S. Deep Thinker. "In the rooms the women come and go..." [in singsong] and come, and go, and come... Did you see that bit as an old German whore on Saturday Night Live? No, of course you didn't. You're too young.
M: Who are you?
CD: You mean, what's my role? I'm a casting director. Of course I'm other things as well. Failed husband. Bad father. Mediocre playwright. Way back when. But now I know my natural role. Got it down pat. Took a long time, though. "Most men live lives of quiet desperation." Well, maybe. But most men -- and women too of course [with a deep nod] -- don't ever find out who they are, what their "role" is. They just keep trying out different parts, or play whatever shtick is handy for the moment -- angry parent, outraged lover, one of the boys.... It's only on rare occasions they forget themselves, their artificial selves, and play the role they really are. But then the moment passes and they go back to being just bit parts in the dramatis personae. A pity. I mean, when you realize that's all we have: our selves.
M: Is it?
CD: Think about it. We're all universes, each one of us. Don't you ever feel like all of creation, the whole shebang, is just something we make up as we go along?
M: No.
CD: [Regards her benevolently.] Why should you. "Ours is not to question why"...or if, or how...anymore than it is a red geranium's.
M: I have a red geranium. I keep it on the window sill.
CD: I noticed. Nodding toward the bedroom set that comes lit again, this time with a red geranium on the dresser.
M: How did you...?
CD: I didn't do anything. You did.
M: I did?
CD: Uh huh.
M: Just by mentioning it?
CD: By mentioning, yes. By imagining. For both of us. I see it too, you know. Not sure, of course, if what I see is exactly the same as what you see... But, close enough.
M: [Looks around the dark stage, then in the direction of the audience.] Suppose I mention something else. Will that appear too?
CD: Try it.
M: [Maggie walks around center stage, hand on cheek, thinking.] There was an old mill. Back in Kansas. We used to play in it even though our parents told us not to. They said it could fall down on us any day. [Projection of an old mill comes up gradually. She starts.] Jesus. Do you see it too?
CD: [His back to the projection.] Not like you do. I see one, though. Actually, it looks more like a windmill, come to think of it.
M: But you're not looking.
CD: I'm looking alright. In my mind's eye. But what I see is generic, a kind of calendar art. I'm a city boy. Not too many mills in East Paterson. [Turns around.]
M: See it now?
CD: No.
M: [Walking toward the projection.] Right there, clear as day.
CD: I'm sure it is. Maybe if you could take me back to Kansas I would see it then, or something very like it.... Now it's your turn.
M: How do you mean?
CD: An old row house in the smelly armpit of northern New Jersey. [Projection comes up where Maggie's had been. CD nods toward it.]
M: I don't see anything.
CD: Red brick. Or used to be, two generations earlier. No color at all now. Soot. A hundred years of smoke-stack effluent. A rusty three-wheeler in the concrete areaway between house and street. A dead bush in a ruptured wooden bucket. My mother tried to grow something beautiful in it, but it died of suffocation. She didn't have the heart to remove the corpse.
M: I see it! I do!
CD: Smiles. Must have been the metaphor. Now you appreciate the power of an original phrase? I believe you do see it, or something like it. Between the two of us we create a couple worlds, or maybe just one.
M: [Stares at him eagerly.] Let's do some more.
CD: Your turn.
[Maggie paces center stage again, hand on chin. Puts up her hand for attention, then shakes her head and goes back to pondering.]
CD: What.
M: Not that one.
CD: Au contraire. That is the one.
M: Uh uh.
CD: You're not playing fair. What's the point of recreating -- or creating -- old mills your parents told you to stay out of. It's the memories we don't want to bring forth that matter. The ones that hurt. Bliss is ineffable. Pain is something we can share.
M: I've always wondered what that word means, "ineffable."
CD: What were you thinking about?
M: [Takes deep breath and exhales.] It's so trivial.
CD: All the better.
M: Really?
CD: Now you've got me dying to know. You're a much better actress than you think.
M: This morning.
CD: Go on.
M: Waking up.
CD: Happens every day. To most of us.
M: The empty bed. On the other side, I mean.
CD: You live alone?
M: [Nods.] Not just empty. Rumpled. Slept in. Empty now.
CD: I see.
M: [Nods.] The smell too.
CD: Smell is a very powerful sense. We remember smells.
M: It was hard to believe anyone had been there a few hours earlier. If it wasn't for the way the sheet and blanket were folded back so neatly...
CD: He was trying not to disturb you. Or she.
M: Now, there's a cliché for you. Single girl. One-night stand.
CD: Single woman.
M: Picks someone up in a bar. Sleeps with him, knowing full well he's almost certainly just there for the nookie.
CD: “Nookie.” That's an old one.
M: Then she feels like slashing her wrists when that turns out to be indeed the case. [Stares at CD with tears in her eyes.] The way those bedclothes were so neatly left. They made him more real than if he had still been lying beside CD: "Had been." Thank you. Does nobody know the past subjunctive anymore?
M: Do you understand?
CD: I do. And that's poetry. The stuff of poetry, at least. Tragic poetry.
[Maggie sighs.]
CD: Want to hear what I woke up to this morning?
M: Sure.
CD: I have no idea. Can't remember what I had for breakfast. Or if I had breakfast. I guess that's one consolation of age: Everything recent is a blur. It's only the deep past that tortures you. That dead plant of my mother's that she refused to remove. An unkind word from someone you thought loved you.
M: You're not that old.
CD: I'm very old. And very young. And everything in between. So are you, by the way.
M: I'm twenty-three.
CD: An eternity.
M: [Maggie laughs.] I still have to show ID to get a drink.
CD: Before you were out of the womb you had lived an eternity.
M: Oh, come on.
CD: Picture yourself in there. Your imagination going a mile a minute. Where the hell am I? Where's the exit door?
[Maggie laughs.]
CD: Well, maybe not exactly like that. But there must have been some kind of awareness if there was life. And that means you were imagining some kind of time, putting your experience floating around in that warm little sea into some kind of sequential context. We can't help it. It's built in.
M: That's not what eternity is.
CD: Maybe. But even a day of being alive, even an hour -- you see, I can't escape the prison of words, words for things we can't comprehend because we don't need to.
M: We don't?
CD: All we're obliged to do as a species is get on with it. Live. "'The rest is gloss.'"
M: [Comes closer to him.] Who are you? I mean, really.
CD: Just another Joe Schmoe. Same as yourself. Well, in your case Jane...or Josephine Schmoe.
M: How old are you?
CD: Ancient. Born April 29th, 5:00 p.m. Eight pounds, two ounces. Shall I go on?
[Maggie turns away, looks at projection of her empty bed. It fades away.]
M: Why is there nothing but darkness out there when I try to walk off this stage? Where's the world I woke up to this morning? However depressing.
CD: Right where it always was. Always will be.
M: Which is?
CD: [Taps his head.] In here. [Touches his chest, indicates the rest of his body.] Here too. And here. Haven't you heard, "All the world's a stage..."?
M: Come on. He didn't mean...
CD: I don't know what he meant. But he got it right.
M: He was referring to the way our lives are like the roles of actors. Here today and gone tomorrow.
CD: That's not what he said, though. He said "all the world." I'm taking him at his word.
M: That we make it all up? Everything?
[CD Nods.]
M: Out of?
CD: Thin air. Imagination. "Imagination." Now, there's another word-prison. But what other one is there to describe the way we put together a world and then live in it as if it were as real as...well, you and me.
M: [Shakes her head.] You've left me way behind. [Looks offstage.] All I want to know is where everything has gone. [Turns abruptly toward him.] Am I dead? Is that what happened? Did I die somewhere between getting out of the cab (I overslept) and coming in that stage door?
CD: If you were dead, there would be nothing at all.
M: So, where has it all gone?
CD: No place. It's right where it always was...is.
M: Which is?
CD: Right between your ears. And the rest of you. Why do we keep thinking we're minds with the all the rest just a kind of support system to keep our gray matter functioning?... Listen to me. What else should we think.
M: Look. I'm not interested in your philosophizing, okay?
CD: Say that again?
M: Say what.
CD: That word you just said. The very last one. Oh. Kay. Ay. Why.
M: "Okay"?
CD: Again.
M: Okay.
CD: You're not from Kansas.
M: Sorry?
CD: You were raised right here in Manhattan. Lower East Side.
M: What?
CD: Nobody else uses a triphthong when they say that word.
M: A who?
CD: Three different sounds in one syllable. "Oh-kah-ee?"
M: [Stares at him defiantly.] What if I was.
CD: Why did you tell me you were from Kansas?
M: What difference does it make where I'm from?
CD: Did you think I would be more inclined to give you the part if I thought you were from the Midwest?
M: Why would I think that?
CD: That's the stereotype, isn't it? The Hollywood version. Corn-fed, unspoiled, starry-eyed, dedicated to making it in the Big City.
[Maggie continues to stare, but now only half-defiant.]
CD: Say "Tom" for me.
M: No.
CD: Just for fun. I know I'm being a prick. I've already told you you've got the part. This detail, where you're from and your concealing it -- though it's really more than a detail, isn't it. Whatever you call it, it enhances the role.
M: Where I'm from?
CD: Not so much where as why, why you told a...an untruth about it. There's a story there.
M: There's always a story.
CD: Ah!
M: Tahm.
CD: No, no. The way you said it before you started taking speech lessons.
M: How did you know I took speech lessons?
CD: Please. As a personal favor.
[Big sigh from Maggie.]
CD: Never mind. I'm just being a pain in the ass.
M: If I say it, will you let me walk out of here? I mean, into the world as it was before I came in for this audition?
CD: It's not up to me. Who do you think I am, God Almighty? I'm getting hungry myself, and I don't see any sandwiches lying around.
M: Okay. I mean, "Oh-kah-ee."
CD; Yes, yes, that's it. And, "Tom"?
M: "Too-awm."
CD: Again?
M: Too-awm.
CD: [Lowers his head. Whispers.] Thank you.
M: [Approaches CD, touches his arm.] Are you...alright?
CD: [Wipes his eyes.] Sorry.
M: Was it because I said...that word?
CD: [Nods.]
M: Is that your name? T... Tee-oh-em?
CD: [Nods.]
M: Somebody used to say it like that?
CD: [Nods.]
M: Someone you cared for.
CD: [Nods.]
M: I'm so sorry.
CD: Not at all. Tears aren't always from pain. Though it's usually a mixed bag, isn't it. The pain and the pleasure.... So, it turns out we have something in common. Which side of 14th Street?
M: 17th.
CD: [Nods.] Me, Avenue B and 4th Street. After we said good riddance to East Paterson.
M: My grandfather told me he and his friends use to fight with boys from that neighborhood.
CD: That's what my father told me. And nobody went above 23rd unless they were looking to have their head split open.
M: [Laughs.] Was it your mother said your name like that?
CD: Yes. She was born and raised there. So did the girl I was in love with.
M: Ah.
CD: She... Well, let's not beat about the bush. It was a he.
M: Oh.
CD: Hence the tears. [Looks upward.] Actually it did work out, for a while. Gloriously. [Smiles.] I didn't think happiness like that was possible. I thought there had to be a catch, a reckoning. A tab for the good times.
M: Was there?
CD: [Smiles.] Not really. Nothing tragic. That sort of thing only happens in plays and novels. We got involved in the gay scene. This is...what...well, a long time ago. There was a lot of promiscuity before AIDS. Then the party stopped. Half the people I knew died. He and I survived.
M: Why didn't you stay together?
CD: I could give you an answer. It might even be true. In fact, I could give you several answers. Maybe most of them would be true. [Pauses.] We were young, very young. At least it seems very young now. He was my first love. And I his. We both had lived sheltered lives. Ashamed of what we were right from the first day we suspected it. Then all of a sudden it was cool to be gay. Everyone was "out." Gay Pride. It seemed like half the population of Manhattan was gay... or lesbian.... You have to remember, we were barely into our twenties. We had never slept with anyone else.
M: Sounds like my parents. Married at twenty and twenty-one.
CD: Did they stay together?
M: Yes. Unfortunately.
CD: The bright lights. The "sexual revolution." Well. That's one way to explain it. I try not to anymore. But I still think: If we had been a little older, a little more experienced. If it hadn't been the first time for both of us....
M: I guess that's still ahead of me.
CD: Or something better.
M: [Regards him intently.] What you said before.... About our making it all up....
CD: It doesn't help, does it. Doesn't make any difference when it comes down to "matters of the heart" if it's all a play or a dream. We have no choice but to live it.
M: "Each man in his time..."
CD: Shakespeare. Yes. He knew a thing or two, didn't he. But I suspect he only revealed some of it. Still, I think he meant it. The play is the thing. The only thing.
M: Why didn't he say more, then? How we make it all up out of...you say, nothing?
CD: Out of the same forces that caused the Big Bang. We are those forces. Imagining themselves. Shakespeare tells us that in words even a philosopher or a scientist would be happy with.
M: [Walks around, head down.] Sometimes I sit in front of the window in my bedroom, just me and the red geranium. And I talk to it. [Looks up to check CD's response.] Do you think that's crazy?
CD: You tried to walk out onto the street a few minutes ago and nothing was there. And you ask me if I think it's crazy for you to talk to a flower?
M: Well, I do. Talk. And I don't just do a stream-of-consciousness thing. Or pretend I'm talking to another human being. I really talk to it as a flower. Which is weird, I guess. But the really weird part is...I know she understands me.
CD: It's a she.
[Maggie Nods.]
CD: What's so weird? People talk to stranger things than geraniums.
M: But I believe she really does understand. Just as you understand what I'm saying now.
CD: Okay.
M: She's my best friend.
CD: Does she…talk back?
M: Sometimes she seems to. Not out loud. Inside my head. But as real as if it was out loud.
CD: [Nods.]
M: I'm not crazy, you know. I know flowers can't talk. But...
CD: This one can.
M: [Nods, then shakes her head.] But that's not the point. It's not so much what I say to her or what she says back. It's what goes through my noggin while all this is going on.
CD: Which is?
M: I think, why shouldn't we be able to communicate? I mean, if I'm alive and she's alive... Well, that's about as far as I get.
CD: And you hear her. Inside your head.
M: Uh huh. And I know I’m not my making it up. She says things that would never occur to me. I mean that I couldn't make up. I'm not that imaginative.
CD: Well...
M: [Frowns.] Why am I telling you this?
CD: It's a propos.
M: Who?
CD: To what we've been talking about. You're lucky. I've talked to flowers too. I used to talk to that dead plant my mother couldn't bring herself to give a decent burial. I felt sorry for it. I wanted to apologize for its having to live in such a crappy neighborhood where even a weed would have trouble breathing... Never mind, I know plants thrive on carbon dioxide, but not on the poisons we had to breathe in that neighborhood.
M: How old were you?
CD: When I talked to the plant? Five or six.
M: Did it ever say anything back to you?
CD: Not a word. It was dead. I knew that, of course, but I must have thought it could hear me anyhow. I used to weep for it. Mostly when I was alone and the lights were out. My older brother would hear me.
M: What did he say?
CD: He told me to shut the eff up.
M: I would cry if my geranium died. It would be like a friend died.
CD: I guess a shrink would have explanations for all of this -- our talking flora. Imaginary friends. Post traumatic something-or-other. Maybe if Shakespeare had a good therapist he would have gone into the dry goods business.
M: Did you ever go to one...a therapist?
CD: Nope. What about you?
M: [Shakes her head.]
CD: Which is not to say it wouldn't have done me good. A willing ear. Non-judgmental. Could have used some of that.
M: [Change of mood, straightens up, regards him sternly.] So, what about this business of everything disappearing. I mean everything not on this stage. Is that going to be permanent?
CD: As if it's in my power? My name is Tom, not Merlin.
M: Goddammit, we can't spend the rest of our lives under a couple spotlights... [Shades her eyes and looks up.] Who's working those things?
CD: [Squints in the same direction.]
CD: Beats me.
M: Jesus.
CD: Ouch.
M: Come again?
CD: I'll never get used to someone saying that word in anger.
M: "Jesus?"
CD: Bingo.
M: Sorry.
CD: Not your fault. You can take the boy out of the parish, but you can't take the parish out of the boy.
M: Well, will I? Get out of here? What if I have to pee?
CD: As if I didn't. At least you don't have to contend with a prostate. Now, there's a good argument for a Creator who had a bad day. Well, it was the end of the week. I guess we should cut Him some slack on that account.
M: [Laughs.]
CD: There you go. Laughter. Mankind's - humankind's - revenge on whatever perverse thingamajig is behind all of this. Of all the possible universes, with all the possible, or impossible, laws that govern them, why did ours have to end up with one that required so much suffering and death? And a conscious mind to experience it, right down to the [quote from Shakespeare].
M: Stares.
CD: And not just us. It's only a fool doesn't see that what we call animals have their own forms of consciousness, not to mention feelings. Everything alive must. Mind is part of the scenery, as inevitable as fingernails or the petals on a flower.
M: My geranium too?
CD: Everything that lives. How could it be otherwise? [Sighs.] Oh well. Whatchagonnado.
M: I do, you know.
CD: Say what?
M: Have to pee.
CD: Me too.
M: And I'm hungry. All I had today was a cup of coffee. I was afraid I'd throw up.
CD: I could use a bit of refreshment myself.
M: So... Nods towards the wings.
CD: Why not? Maybe between us we can create a world.
M: It's worth a try.
CD: The optimism of youth! Slides off his stool. God, I can taste it already. A big bowl of linguini alfredo. With a cool white vino from sunny Tuscany. Now, there's a place worth imagining.
M: I'd settle for a grilled cheese and a Coke.
CD: And no living creature harmed in the process! Well…
[They slowly walk off stage together. After several seconds they reappear.]
CD: Well, that didn't go well, did it.
M: What happened?
CD: More like, what didn't happen. I suspect we've convinced ourselves there really is nothing outside our own heads. Now we can't restart the process. Kind of like repeating a word over and over until it has no meaning.
M: Well, I'm not convinced. There was a world out there when I came here a couple hours ago. And there's still is as far as I'm concerned.
CD: Good for you.
M: [Steps toward him hands on hips.] I don't happen to think this is a joke, Mr....Tom. I don't know about you, but I have a life. It may be a pretty crappy one, but it's all mine.
CD: Right you are.
M: And I'd like to get back to it.
CD: Perfectly reasonable aspiration.
M: Stop fooling around! Put things back the way they were. Who gave you the fucking right to meddle with reality?
CD: As if.
M: [Stares as if about to throttle him, takes a deep breath.] Shit!
CD: [At first cautious, then shamefaced.] I guess I did meddle. Kind of. Just a little.
M: "Just a little"? Just a little?!
CD: I suppose I did put the idea in your head… [Sitting up straighter.] No, I didn't either. It was there already. I just summoned it up.
M: Like a ghost.
CD: If you like. Maybe I just woke it. Maybe that's because it's me who has no life, none worth living. No life worth the imagining.
M: There you go again.
CD: But even if I'm stuck on this stage like a criminal doing a life sentence... Ha! "Life."
M: Get on with it.
CD: No, well. What I was going to say is, maybe I've stopped imagining everything except what happens on this stage.
M: What about me? You're imaging me too, if your cockamamie idea is correct.
CD: Well, sure. I'm the Casting Director, aren't I? I need someone as a foil.
M: You've never heard of one-man shows?
CD: True. But even they need an audience. And there's no audience out there at the moment. [Strains to see into the darkness where an audience would be.] None I can make out, at least.
M: Maybe they all left. Asked for their money back.
CD: Possibly.
M: And what about that Alfredo-something-or-other? You seemed to think that would be real enough.
CD: You're right. With clam sauce. Did I mention the clam sauce?
[Maggie takes a step toward him.]
M: You know what I think? I think you don't want there to be a reality beyond this stage.
CD: And why should that be?
M: I don't know. Despair?
CD: Like in the cardinal sin?
M: Come again?
CD: Do you remember that prelate, the top man in the Philippines. Way back in the '80s it was, or the '90s, I can't remember. During the Marcos regime.... What am I saying? You probably don't even remember the first Bush administration.
M: Well, what about it?
CD: The head of the Catholic church there, in the Philippines. His name was Cardinal Sin. His real name. [Laughs.]
M: [Not laughing.] And?
CD: [Sighs.] Just makes me laugh. You know, Cardinal Sin.
M: [Takes a step toward him.] What happened with you and that guy you were talking about?
CD: Like I said, we drifted apart.
M: But you're still carrying a torch.
CD: "Carrying a torch"? There's an oldie. Don't tell me anyone in your generation uses that word. They wouldn't know what it means.
M: It's true, though. You've still got him under your skin.
CD: Another one! You're right out of an old song book. Next you'll be saying twenty-three scadoo.
M: [Steps closer.] Do you ever get serious? I mean, about serious things. That boy broke your heart. That's not a laughing matter.
CD: [His grin slowly vanishes.] No, it's not.
M: And for the rest of your life you've been miserable.
CD: "Miserable"? I can't claim that much drama. I'll leave that sort of thing to the Bard. Even "quiet desperation" would be a bit over the top. Who doesn't have such heartaches in their life?
M: But you're not someone else. This one is your heartache. Your personal tragedy.
CD: [Moves his head from side to side as if reluctantly conceding the point. Takes a deep breath.] I do remember one moment. My first brush with eternity, you could say.
M: Now it's "eternity"?
CD: We were sitting in the loge of the Palace. They had such grand names for movie houses in those days. The Palace. The Paradise. I can't remember what movie it was. Which of two, I mean. There were always two on the bill, plus the news and maybe a cartoon or two. Except in the so-called art houses. But they only showed “dirty,” foreign movies. The nuns used to post a list in the hallway of Holy Name each week with the titles of the forbidden films on it. Mostly Swedes and Frenchies…. “The Legion of Decency,” you should pardon the expression.
M: What about what happened in the loge. What's a loge, anyway?
CD: Ah. That's the part of the theater that's in front of the balcony, Hangs over the back of the orchestra. Best seats in the house. A buck and a quarter, no less.
[Maggie regards him with a patient smile.]
CD: What happened? Well, nothing much. Just an intimation... No, it wasn't an intimation, it was the real thing. In my humble opinion. IMHO, as they say now. Text, I mean.
M: And...?
CD: We were sitting there like we always did, careful not to put our hands on the armrest between us at the same time. It wasn't kosher in those days to be gay. Maybe in the West Village, but not in that neighborhood. We could have had the...you-know-what beat out of us.
M: Really.
CD: You bet. Anyway, there we were, eating popcorn and watching Kim Novak or Mongomery Clift fall in love, or break up or whatever. And I reached over and took Pablo’s hand in my own. I wasn't even discreet about it. He was too surprised to react.
M: That's it?
CD: And that was when I experienced eternity.
M: Eternity.
CD: [Nods.] Nothing more and nothing less. I felt, I knew, that moment would last forever. Or, rather, that it already was forever, outside time. Whatever happened to me or Pablo, or between me and Pablo, that moment just was. Permanent... This is not easy to put into words, you know.
M: You're doing fine.
CD: You see, I already had a thing about time. Not because I'd thought it through logically. I just knew it. I realized time is an illusion. But till that moment I hadn't experienced timelessness. Pablo’s hand in mine. It was and always would be there. We would always be in that moment, no matter what, and even - I mean, especially - if I didn't feel it again like I did at that moment. Like now. I can't recall it as if it were still happening. But I believe it is. Right now, then, forever.
M: Wow.
CD: Which proves nothing, of course. I mean about time or reality. But I knew it was true. I still believe it was, is.
M: All the world's a stage being, well, what you were saying before.
CD: More or less.
M: That's a very beautiful story. Thank you for sharing it.
CD: You think so?
M: Imagine. Eternity.
CD: You talk to that plant.
M: Sure. But...
CD: I think most people have such moments. They must. Well, more than we think they do.
M: Everything since that moment must have been an anticlimax for you.
CD: “Anticlimax.” Well, that would have been a rather ungrateful attitude to take.
M: For Christ’s sale, the heavens parted. You experience eternity. And then, what, back to ordinary life...homework, clean your room... How old were you when this happened?
CD: Seventeen.
M: How do you follow an act like that?
CD: [Laughs.] You don't. Not that there weren’t plenty of others. Just nothing quite like that.
M: You mean...the "reality" thing.
CD: The reality thing, yes.
M: When did that one happen?
CD: Actually, it came on gradually. First those “intimations.” Over the years. Many many years. Then, one day, just recently in fact, it hit me. I actually saw those forces I was talking about. I saw them becoming stars and galaxies, and then hard stuff like rocks and then, inevitably, plants and other living things. And then how it imagined itself into what we call reality, or Reality, capital T. It was all so obvious.
M: “Obvious.”
CD: As obvious as you are standing there. How those forces and the stuff that resulted from them had to negotiate their ways into that reality, imagine it (though “imagine” doesn’t really do it justice, does it), the reality that was them. And then how it, how we, all did so according to how it best suited us, "each according to their needs," you could say. An oak tree no less than us.... I'm sorry, I can't reproduce what I experienced at that moment. And for a few days or weeks after, I saw that time was also just one more creation we put together, a tool, you could say, to make sense of things. Trees do time their own way, fruit flies theirs...cats, dogs, humans.
M: You've lost me.
CD: Sorry. It would take a better man than me to describe it. A poet, probably. A scientist might see it, some probably do. But they can't seem to express it. Not in words. Maybe in math. For each other.
M: So, where has that reality we spent the last two billion years creating just go to? The world beyond this stage I'm standing on. If you don't mind my asking. I do really have to pee.
CD: I'm afraid I don't know.
M: You don't know.
CD: Right.
M: You say that as calmly as if you weren’t sure what time of day it is. Or what the weather report is for tomorrow.
CD: [Looks at his wristwatch.] It's exactly...two forty-six.
M: Pulls out her cell phone. I have a signal!
CD: [Smiles sadly.] There you go.
M: God, I can't wait to sink my teeth into that grilled cheese.
CD: Bon appetit.
M: You're not coming along?
CD: Gotta work, actually.
M: What are you talking about? The universe just disappeared for half an hour. Now it's come back, and you “gotta work”?
CD: A man's has to make a living.
M: [Stares at him incredulously. Shakes her head. Then fluffs up her hair, pinches her cheeks.] Where's the ladies? [Glances apprehensively toward the wings.] Never mind. I'll wait till I get to the diner. [Turns back toward him.] Are you sure I can't bring you back something? I mean, assuming you're...still here.
CD: You think I might disappear? [Laughs.] It should be so easy, Miss Maggie.
M: [Rubs her skirt down. Checks her shoes.] I look okay?
CD: You look great.
M: You're not just saying that?
CD: You look like you just landed the starring role in the best play ever.
M: Really? You mean...
CD: Rehearsals start tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock sharp.
M: [Still taking it in.] Right... Ten o'clock.
CD: Make sure you know your lines. Margaret's lines, I mean. If there's one thing I won't put up with it's actors not knowing the script. Get a good night's sleep. We open in less than two weeks.
M: And you think...you really believe I can handle it? The part?
CD: Margaret's? Absolutely. You were born for it.
M: [Frowns, then smiles.] Right. Okay, then. I'm off.
CD: See you in the morning.
M: Right.
[Maggie starts to walk off, turns, walks over to CD, kisses him on the cheek.]
CD: One more thing? Since you're feeling so friendly?
M: Yes?
CD: Say it again.
M: Say what.
CD: My name. You know, in your real accent. Like you did before.
M: Too-awm?
CD: [Nods happily.] Thanks.
M: [Stares at him, smiling but a bit apprehensive.] And, you're sure... [Nods toward wings.] There really will be...you know...?
CD: The world? Reality? I expect so. Of course, you won't know for sure until you try it, yes?
[Maggie moves toward the wings stage left. Stops. Looks back.]
CD: Keep going. You're a star now, Maggie. No one has ever played the part like you will. No one ever will.
M: [Nods.] Right.
CD: Be good.
M: [Nods but still hesitates.]
CD: Off you go, then.
[Maggie turns back toward the wings, squares her shoulders, strides dramatically in that direction and exits.]
[CD watches her leave. Then looks up at the dark rafters as if gathering himself, looks down, a sad smile on his mouth. Raises his head, turns slowly toward the audience. Squints into the darkness. Then, in a booming voice:] Next!
PART I
I.
Sunderbans: Khulna 1919
She heard the sound of thick hard sticks thudding on the ground, the strident rough cruel voice she had come to fear, saw the light from the blazing tapers making the darkness crowding the canopy of trees near the house more like a huge deep black welt and she dragged her bleeding body nearer to the oozy slimy wet marsh, where she knew crawled the slithering creatures and a thousand other bugs and insects she was scared of but that was the only way out, her escape—from the torture.
Blood oozed from her head where the skull had cracked, she had probably lost the baby, blood was smeared all over her thighs and was still trickling down. She had been kicked mercilessly till she was gasping for breath and then looking at her abuser, like the wounded dogs on the street whom people kick whenever they get a chance. No, she wouldn't think anymore. She was just another animal trying to die in peace, without the hands of the abuser putting her through the fire of torture.
She tried to sit up from her near supine posture and her head spun. Bile rose to her throat. In the dark, her gaze went to the oozing black mud and marsh of the mangroves.
A dog barked in the distance. He had brought the dogs in. They would smell her blood. She stuck her left foot in the mud.
So, this was what death seemed like. Something slithered round her left ankle and she nearly pulled her foot out. But the dogs’ bark grew louder. She could hear his sneering voice again, cold and metallic. And amidst her tears and fears, she he could hear her grandma's voice—"Focus, child, focus! Tell your hands to stop shaking. You are strong and tough." Well, she would be with granny soon, safe and happy. The lights of the taper were becoming brighter, the sounds of sticks, the voices of men and their cruelty nearer.
"Drop down. It's a better way to die than in the hands of these monsters." She dug her feet in the marsh, feeling the bugs immediately attach themselves to her bleeding legs, the muck crabs nibbling at her toes and she screamed—or so she thought—hoarsely and helplessly, but it was no more than a croak. In a half delirious state she prayed to a God who had never answered her prayers, hoping for a quick and quiet death.
The water and marsh swathed her as she sank in, clams slashed her palms open ,the under brushes scratched her legs. A waterfowl stared at the half sunk woman in its terrain and flew away. The voices of humans faded into a raucous laughter. What sins! Whom had she hurt to suffer like this?
The mud and marsh oozed, popped around her. She just hoped she wouldn't be bitten by the Krait as something slithered up her arm and slid off into the greater depths. "The marsh was like another man,” she thought, another living beast waiting for her to succumb like her abuser. She dodged painfully as the twigs of the Goran trees scratched whatever remained as skin on her face. She was dying, it was that simple; but when would the ultimate time come? She could still feel the pain, the bruises, inside and outside. Wasn't death supposed to be preceded by a numbing feeling? A numbing of the mind, body and of the world around her. But here she could still feel her fragile limbs too delicate to carry the weight of her torn body finally giving up.
Images of the yawning blue sky and the Baleshwar river suddenly popped up in her mind. In half her delirium, she thought she could hear the swishing of oars. Was he coming again to hit her with the oar? She sunk a bit deeper, dodging her head against an invisible enemy.
The sound grew louder. Amidst the maze of roots, trees, shrubs of the Sunderbans lay endless nooks, channels, known to only those who navigated the brackish waters. Flies and mosquitoes were settling on her face. She croaked again for a little water. The sound of the swishing had stopped.
Somebody whistled a tune she had never heard before. "Help!" she croaked to herself, before losing consciousness and sinking to a watery grave.
A strong hand clasped at her fragile wrist and somebody dragged her broken body into the boat. He threw away the stilts on which he had crossed a few yards of the marshy land to save the woman and pulled her on to the boat.
From a small container he poured some water on her face hardly visible beneath the blood and mud and insects. She was still alive. It takes a lot to kill a woman he thought wryly as she opened her eyes.
“W-w-who are you?” she faintly whispered.
“I am Abdul," said the dwarf.
“Thank God!” she said before losing consciousness again.
“Don't thank God because you are alive. Thank God if you are dead…” muttered the dwarf and swished the oars down the creek.
II.
Alfina woke screaming and shrieking, sweat pouring down her face, tangling her hair into a mass of hateful wetness. The dwarf was sitting by the bed, patting her head. “Is it the same nightmare again?”
Yes, she nodded, holding on to his hand and weeping.
He wished he could send a servant to call the warrior, but he had gone away somewhere and it had been nearly a month since he had visited them. Men and their promises he knew very well and sighed.
The playwright, he thought would only weep more if he saw his muse like this. No use calling him. He couldn’t take care of two weeping children.
He applied some eau-de-cologne to her temples. She loved the smell. It reminded her of happy times, she would say.
The dwarf looked out of the window. He was tired, too. Getting old. He had been protecting this elf like woman ever since he had found her dying in the treacherous marshes and had, with the help of his good friends, ultimately brought her to the house in Mymensingh where his father had worked. The old patriarch had arranged for the treatment of the woman. and it had taken 8 months for the bruises to heal and for her to talk. The inner bruises he knew would never heal.
She couldn't even say her name, but stared helplessly through dark ringed eyes and only after the Old Man had arranged for them to leave for Calcutta, had he seen a ray of light in her eyes.
He looked at the sleeping child-woman. Why had the man done this to her? Surely she didn't deserve such a life of torture. But then life dealt with people in a comically tragic way. He sighed. He was just a caretaker of the house, but he loved Alfina like his daughter, fiercely, and would kill anyone who would ever try to harm her again.
He got up. It was time to instruct the cooks and chastise the sweeper for neglecting his duties.
He drew the curtains, shut the door and went downstairs whistling a tune.
PART II
I.
Calcutta. Late Spring (1920–1922).
Two devils plagued the British in India. One was the rise of the Extremists in Bengal, the other was the rampant, uncontrollable corruption of the British themselves and the affluent Indian zamindars, which created a society largely intolerant of social mobility. Soon, the British would see to it that when Islam met Hinduism according to their dictates, the result would be a collision leading to catastrophe after catastrophe. Amidst such a society, which had diluted its own fibre, rose the raging young rebels welcoming martyrdom for the sake of freeing such a society.
It was in such a time of political and social ferment, that Alfina had arrived in Calcutta with the dwarf in tow. The Old Man had arranged for one of his lesser used houses in an area far away from the southern hub of the city, where the smell of the blue waters of the lakes mingled with the smell of the mango, jacaranda, gulmohar, tamarind, mahogany and cinnamon trees—and amidst such beauty which often leads to ecstasy in saints, Alfina had started to heal. At dawn, she would open the windows, lured by the call of the cuckoo and think of the callousness and opaque life she had left behind. Calcutta soon became a source of life and light for her—not just a city, but a legend invented by the British.
The Old Man treated her as the daughter he never had, but his sons did not. They would hover round the house, and often emboldened with drink and opiates, they would bring in embroidered rugs, armchairs which looked like thrones, and golden silks and orange satin which glowed like fire in the dark. And while Alfina, with her beautiful, delicate figure and grace would enchant them with her singing, the dwarf would see to it that the young men did not lack in tumblers of drink. Before they could whisper sweet nothings, they would all be sleeping and snoring like logs.
“This is the only way we can sustain ourselves. We have neither education nor money of our own,” the dwarf used to say. “The path to truth from hypocrisy and lies is long and tortured,” he continued. “Learn the wiles to tempt and lure a man, but keep him at arm's length.” And Alfina had been obedient a learner. When the British or the firangis came, they drank even more, bragged of their exploits and often even gained suggestions from the dwarf regarding certain policy matters. And as Alfina listened, gradually she too became conversant in the language, though falteringly, and often she would speak of her perspective of the fighting, the war, the condition of the natives.
And as the country desperately tried to free itself and progress, society saw to it that the pull of regression continued silently, but surely.
Alfina and the dwarf stood on the balcony watching the foreign goods being thrown into the fire and burn. The dwarf had gone and given some of their old stuff though reluctantly. “It is lamentable, the state of these idealists. They are short of everything—of men, of weapons, ammunition, strategy, money, and yet they ridicule me for my stunted growth,” he grumbled after returning. Alfina never knew where his sympathy lay, but in a moment his ill-concealed hostility towards the screaming natives was revealed, as he roughly said, “I support the British. They come to visit you but are refined, cultured and speak politely even when drunk.”
Alfina nodded her head. She supported these young idealistic rebels. She knew only one Britisher—the man whom she had come to adore and love, but who seemed far away and distant, more occupied with the political colour the country was changing into.
Calcutta. March 1923.
Alfina had plunged into the expensive array of books her home had been filled with. She read all through the day, into the night, clapping her hands in joy as she learnt, mispronounced and then repeated correctly words like absorbed, delighted, touched, lost, amused, enchantment, saddened, scared, frightened. Words, though common to all, could recreate a new planet to each one as each word created a new sweep, an extraordinary depth and dimension for each individual. They were the transition between reality and the unreal, flights of fantasy and fantasy which the dreamers of the world cannot maintain. Alfina, however, loved being swept off into the huge ocean of learning and her mornings were spent in poring over books. It made up for the solitude of her life without him. Sometimes she would look out of the window hoping for the faint clip-clop of horse's hooves; but the sound was never heard. She steadfastly avoided the public eye, sparing herself the risks and caricature and resentment of the socially upward and the detractors. She wished she could write. None of the pleasures like cooking, embroidering could bring back or recreate the moments of life that flowed away so quickly without warning, as writing could.
The dwarf used to share his wisdom with her. “We choose people and situations by which we can prove what we desire to prove. If we are happy, we tune in and find events and people we can be happy with.”
“What about destiny then?”
“There's nothing called destiny. Not in my religion,” said the dwarf.
He sighed and went to light the lamps. Times had changed. So many new people visited their home now and they were the nouveau riche, their attitude and temperament spoke of a frightening arrogance. He didn't like the short man with his slick black hair, an Indian with shifty eyes and the cunning look of a fox.
He too wished for the old times, but he knew they were not allowed to wish for anything good. The periphery of the society was for them and thinking beyond that brought emptiness and a meaninglessness. The vile, depraved nature of these new men who would saunter in scared him. He was growing old and could no more fight the cruelty of a violent world with cruelty and violence. He pushed aside the curtains, lit the lights—when a knock sounded on the door.
A man stood there, his face masked in black and as the horrified dwarf got knocked off his feet, the cleaver turning him into a half dead corpse swimming in his massive pool of blood, he screamed out Alfina's name.
The dwarf's cries made her run across her room to open the doors which were flung aside and a cruel hand grasped her flowing chestnut hair, while she fought and screamed her hands tearing away at the mask. The mask torn away, she stared into the eyes of her abuser before the hammer fell on her head and she fell on the floor, the pearls of the gold bracelet scattered all over the floor. The short man with slick hair now entered the room and looked up at the murderer. It was a silent shout of victory of completing what had remained undone five years before.
The cruelty of life haunts us all. Do we all die at the right time?
Sounds of music came from the streets below as the two men walked out.
Sounds of drums.
Sounds of flutes.
Sounds of conches.
The Easter celebrations had started. Christ had been resurrected.
Life, if you understand it, is always suave and balanced.
Calcutta. April 1923.
Alfina woke up to a luminous light streaming through the open window. The light hurt her eyes and she lifted her hand, her fingers finding an uncomfortable, thick, gauzy material round her head. A searing pain ran through her as she touched the temples of her head. She let her hand drop and let out a low sigh and turned right and nearly swooned. The man was sitting on a couch, his legs spread langourously in front. He was asleep, she could hear the rhythm of his breathing regular and light; but his face had become gaunt and lean, his hair which seemed uncombed was sprinkled generously with white and even his beard was what the English called ‘salt and pepper’. She wanted to run to him, but her body felt heavy and lethargic and devoid of strength and all she could do was to whisper his name and stretch out her hand, her fingers resting on the edge of the unknown bed.
Tears welled up in her eyes and a choke escaped her throat. “What had happened to them? Where was she? Stop painting time!” she ordered herself.
The man had heard a slight gasp. He opened his eyes and saw Alfina looking at him, tears flowing down her eyes.
Sitting on his knees, he gently kissed her cheek and wiping away her tears, he muttered, “Don't ever scare me by nearly leaving. Never, never, never leave and go.” And as she started to sob, he buried his face in her neck, holding her. She held on to him, her sobs racking through her body like a trembling ladder which finally falls. They stayed like that, both the man and his woman, till the door opened and the rosy-cheeked, smiling doctor entered, followed by a large-boned, heavy set woman with fair skin and reddish-brown hair.
“The lady can continue with her ‘theatre of hysterics’,” he said in a loud cheerful voice, but the man had to return to being the rock solid anchor that he was known for.
The Man stood up grinning, his fingers rakishly running through his unkempt hair.
“Welcome back to life!” blustered the Doctor, as the nurse felt her pulse, noted her temperature, handed her a glass of water, while the Doctor went about removing the bandages.
“A part of your lovely hair had to be cut,” rued the Doctor. “But you still remain magnetic and beautiful.”
Alfina had thanked him coyly, her eyes searching for him and finding him standing by the open window, his thick spectacles back in place.
“She will be well in a month or so. You, Sir, please go home and rest. The catastrophe is over. There’s no need to fall back on a self-destructive pattern.”
The man smiled wanly. The last ten days had nearly paralyzed him emotionally—the silence of the fragile, vulnerable woman who lay on the bed, not answering his pleas, his calls. He was taken aback by how he had seen a different ‘himself’—a revealing of the self to his own self, utterly different from what he was even a few months back.
PART III
Calcutta. Mid-April 1923.
Alfina could sit up on the bed now. The colour had returned to her cheeks and the room filled with pink, red and yellow blooms smelled of the freshness of spring in summer. She shyly sipped on the spoons of soup being ladled out of the bowl by the man.
“I can…I can now eat on my own,” she said embarrassed at such attention. Her English had improved, he noticed approvingly.
A rude burst of laughter made her turn to the door.
“Better the man feeds his woman,” cackled the dwarf. “See what happened after Eve fed her man an apple? They all fell like nine pins…” and he cackled some more. The man put aside the soup bowl and threw back his head and laughed. “Abdul, you are incorrigible! Leave our religion alone.”
Only Alfina couldn’t smile. She looked with horror at the dwarf. What remained of his left arm was a mere stump. “Abdul! Abdul!” she had started to cry.
The dwarf merely shrugged, but his eyes shone with a strange sparkle. “The revenge of time will come, little one. Time will give them his due.” And with a swagger, he went out of the room. Alfina looked at the man. “Ssssh!!” he said. “I will take care of things. Now, complete your dinner and then we will talk.”
He told her, the woman looking at him with frightened eyes, that the police had suspected quite a few men and had rounded them up for investigation. She held his arm tightly, scared like a doe. He looked at her enormous eyes—brown and full of helpless anxiety—and yet he felt she glowed, lighting up the room. He laughed at himself. He was turning into a poet from a warrior. That would be a destructive decision indeed he knew, but one does not always fight life, especially when it provides you with joy and hope.
Calcutta. May 1923.
It was 8 pm in the evening and the roads of Calcutta were nearly empty. Bowbazaar, however, had awakened to its life of night-time revelry. The man casually strolled into the police barracks tucked away in one corner of a quieter part of the neighborhood. The Boro Babu and Mejo Babu already informed of his arrival, but flustered at his early entry, forgot their rehearsed lines and saluted instead. The man waved them aside and strolled into the Inspector’s room. He sat comfortably in the chair of the Inspector, a smile curving his lips, his legs spread out casually in front. Nobody noticed another shadowy figure enter the barracks.
Boro Babu, in his nagging voice, continued with, “Tea, Saar? Good tea, Sahib!” till four constables brought in the abuser and the side-kick.
“Sahib wants to know why you wanted to kill your wife?”
“The bitch…” started the man, his betel leaf-red lips breaking into a twisted smile, but that was all that he could come up with.
Nobody heard the slight click and then a thundering shot rang out and in front of the gaping officers and hawaldars, the abuser’s head blew apart into smithereens of blood and viscera.
His companion was screaming not at the sight, but because his legs in one shash had been ripped apart along with his genitals. The dwarf wiped his bloodied hand on the dead man's shirt. The circus knives had finally come useful.
“Throw the bodies in the canal east of the city,” ordered the man. “Your Inspector knows of this.”
The two men walked out. Two shadows. One tall, lean, with a patrician nose, who believed that the true nemesis lay not in the court of law, but in the clinical power of the bullet. No unprepared tragedy in the form of the abuser would harm his Alfina ever again.
The other, a one-armed dwarf who had for reasons unknown to him, sworn to protect his Lil’ Alfina.
Strength in man is not of one kind. One is the strength we see in making others submit and bringing out their weaknesses.
We see that every day.
Greater strength lies in where a man brings out the strength and confidence of another through his words and actions.
The two men looked at each other. It was a silent look of victory for a woman they both loved in their way.
What should have been done five years back was now complete.