Debraj Bhattacharya's Blog

I. A Worried DM 

The District Magistrate of district Ajeebpur, Mr. Hari Sachdev IAS, looked worried. He had just received a letter that a high-profile delegation from the UN would be visiting his district to see the present condition of planning in the district. Hari was new in the district and not sure what the situation of planning exactly was. He was hoping that if he did well for a couple of years then he would be transferred to the state capital. Hence it was crucial that the high-powered team leave the district mighty impressed.

DM Saab therefore decided to call a meeting of his close officers. Mr Salil Chaturvedi, one of his ADMs, gave a rather grim picture of the situation of planning in the district. He said that the district was lagging behind in terms of training, in terms of raising awareness, in terms of convincing the people of the villages that they should participate in the planning process for their own good. “It is a dismal situation, Sir. Everything is backward in a backward district, Sir.”

The other officers present looked bored; they were least interested in the future of the district or the future of the District Magistrate or the team that was about to visit.

However, there was one enthusiastic young officer. Mr. Surjeet Singh, one of the Assistant District Magistrates, He said, “Sir, can’t we cancel the meeting saying that there is some urgent disaster, flood for example?”

DM Saab looked at him in disgust and asked, “How can I say that when there is no flood? Do you think the state government does not know?”

Mr. Singh said, “I mean Sir, if there is no flood, can’t we create a flood?” The other officers laughed aloud. DM Saab was not amused though. He said, “Surjeet, this team is coming after doing their research. They have a retired civil servant with them who knows all the tricks you are talking about. Try to think out of the box. Besides they have researchers, UN officials. If you show them a fake situation, they will know. That will be even worse.”

One of the bored officers looked at his watch just to check how long he would have to wait before leaving for home. DM Saab then looked at Surjeet Singh and said, “I am counting on you. They must go back with a good impression. But don’t try to fake the situation.”

Now, this is the advantage of hierarchy. DM Saab had no clue as to what needed to be done to manage the situation. But being the boss of the district, he could simply order one of the subordinate officers. He was, of course, taking bit of a risk . But given the situation, he thought, Surjeet would arrive at a solution. The rest of the team were useless.

“Tomorrow, I want to see the plan of the visit, hour by hour.” DM Saab said and concluded the meeting. The officials left nodding their heads.

 II.  The Delegation Visits Ajeebpur

The UN Delegation consisting of state level UN officials, country level UN officials and experts from one of their partner organisations, met DM Saab. The DM had told them that there was an urgent meeting at the state level for which he will have to leave within half an hour, but his deputy, Mr. Surjeet will coordinate the tour.

It was important to be busy. If he stayed long enough, his lack of knowledge on planning issues could be revealed. Nor indeed does it look good if the top officer of the district is not busy with some urgent issue.

He quickly showed a power point presentation to the team about the progress the district was making. Power Point is a wonderful thing. What you present is more important than the truth. It must look convincing with lot of graphs and quantitative data. So, DM Saab presented the overall development scenario of the district and offered tea and snacks to the visitors. He quickly gazed at the retired civil servant who was part of the team. He looked quite bright, but not really the aggressive type who would suddenly start asking questions. He was enjoying his tea. He then looked at the researcher sitting next to him. This person also looked intelligent but did not seem to be keen on raising tough questions. Mr. Surjeet was sitting next to him while the other officers were sitting at the back with files and papers, to be called if necessary.

Since the delegation was from the UN, the presentations were also made according to the themes that are close to the heart of UN – Children, Sustainable Development Goals, etc. There were other presentations for the Government of India, World Bank, so on and so forth. Same data, different package. Experience has taught our DM Saab that a smart power point presentation can make all the difference in a meeting. Who is going to check whether the data is correct or not? What is important is that the statements must be told with humour and confidence. Some Economics or Statistics graduates can be used to make these presentations. They also find it an opportunity to associate themselves with the mighty government and get the blessings of the DM.

Thus, truth has a new name – power point.

DM Saab figured out that the foreigners did not know much about India, let alone his state and district. So, he let out a sigh of relief. He texted Surjeet to keep an eye on the two Indians from the partner organisation. The UN agencies usually do not take the risk of speaking against the government since they have to work with them. But one cannot be too sure about the consultants from partner organisations.

Surjeet replied to the text – No worries Sir, there will be no problem. Everything under control.

III. The Field Visit

The Gram Panchayat where the delegation was to visit was nicely decorated for the occasion. There were plastic bottles of “mineral water” for the VIP guests. All members and staff were informed by the President to attend the occasion. There were some thirty odd people waiting for the delegation to come. The President and the Secretary had also prepared a power point and were going through the last-minute details. Gram Panchayats are also these days very keen on showing that they are not lagging behind the city dwellers and hence they also like the power point. The Secretary, who is a government employee, has carefully prepared the data to be shown.

After a while, the cars arrived. The delegation was received with garlands by the chosen women of the village. The foreign staff of UN were very happy to see so much colour and vibrant flowers. They sat down for a round of discussion and were served refreshments. One little girl came and sang a song to inaugurate the discussion.

The retired civil servant, Mr Agarkar, and the young researcher asked a few questions, mainly to understand how the Gram Panchayat carries out their planning activities. The Secretary explained that everything is done according to the Guideline sent by the state government. Local people do their own planning for their own benefit but according to the guideline sent by the state government. The discussion continued. The most important activity, the Gram Panchayat Secretary explained, is building roads. Everybody wants concrete roads. Someone asked whether health and education were also a priority for the local government. The Secretary explained that the guideline is not giving them any opportunity to spend on such issues but some school textbooks are distributed. Health and Education are the business of the Health Department and the Education Department respectively. One of the foreign delegates, Mr. Owenaka Akintola, was a little puzzled. He said, “But as local government, you should be looking after agriculture, health and education also, no?” The Secretary was now a little puzzled. He said, showing the guideline, “But Sir, we can only spend according to the guideline. It clearly says that…” The inexperienced foreigner looked confused. He asked, “But aren’t you the government?” Now the Secretary looked confused. He could not understand the question.

At this stage, the veteran civil servant broke his silence. He explained to the foreigner that although the Constitution of India says that a local government is a government it is actually not a government but something that carries out orders from central and state governments. “What do you mean?”, Mr. Akintola asked. The veteran Consultant stood up and said, “Sir, this is called decentralisation. When there is a local government, but it is not really a government. It is like a banana republic run by the CIA.” The foreigner immediately understood what the veteran consultant was saying. “Ah, banana republic. Now, I understand. My country is also a banana republic. But tell me, why then are people doing participatory planning? Can’t the higher-level government simply say what to do? Makes it simpler, no?”

The veteran consultant smiled and said, “No Sir, that would not be decentralisation. When you do decentralisation, people must feel that they are participating, but you must pull the strings. What you are saying is simple top-down approach. That’s not sophisticated enough. What you need to do in a democracy is to do top-down but make it look bottom-up.”

The foreign delegate looked puzzled. The mischievous veteran consultant said, “India is the land of maya Sir. You understand maya?” The foreign delegate nodded his head. He didn’t understand the concept of maya but he was ashamed to say no. After all, he was holding a prestigious chair in his office. The visitors took some more time, visited some more households, especially the poverty-stricken ones, asked some questions and then got into the car.

IV. The Final Briefing

ADM Surjeet Singh asked the delegates, “Was everything alright? Any problem?”

The delegation was somewhat tired but they said that everything was well-organised. The official who had come from the “banana republic” said that he had a few questions. Singh once again grinned as widely as he could and said, “Yes Sir.”

Mr. Owenaka Akintola, said, “I was happy with your local government’s dedication to its work, but I could not understand why they do not take decision on their own? What do you think Mr. Singh?”

Mr. Singh grinned once again and said, “You are absolutely right Sir. Such an acute observation Sir. Please have your tea Sir.”

Mr. Akintola said, “Thank you but I didn’t get the answer.”

Singh grinned once more. Then he said, “Things are moving in that direction Sir.”

Akintola was not impressed. He looked at the veteran Consultant, Mr. Agarkar, and asked, “what do you think?”

Mr. Agarkar looked up from his mobile phone, where he was busy playing a game. He said, “Mr. Singh is right Sir. Things are moving in that direction. The local governments are now getting lot of funds which they can, formally speaking, use as they wish. This is called, ‘untied fund’. However, at the moment, there is a guideline as to how they will be using the money. This is tied untied, you may say.”

Ms Aimi Ozu, another delegate, who was originally from Japan, said, “But why not give them the money to do what they want to do?”

Mr. Singh grinned once more and said, “Things are moving in that direction Madam. Under the careful guidance of our PM, CM and DM. We call this handholding support, Madam. Very soon the people of the villages will be making plans on their own and spending money as they wish.”

Ms Ozu asked, “And how soon do you think that will take?”

Mr. Singh said, “Actually, there is a meeting with the State Government today on this because of which our DM has gone to meet the Chief Secretary. It is top priority Madam. However, a lot of capacity building is necessary.”

Ms Ozu asked, “What do you mean? Could you explain a little further?”

Mr. Singh said, “You see Madam, ours is a backward district. People are poor, they are uneducated and they are lacking in exposure. So, we have to build their capacity. Our PM, CM and DM are working tirelessly on this. But there is a shortage of funds.”

Mr Agarkar, the Consultant, once again looked up from his mobile phone and said, “That is true Madam. You can think of supporting the district administration in this regard.”

Mr. Singh once again grinned and said, “Thank you Sir.”

Mr. Akintola was still not convinced. He said, “But I saw some really poor families, who were not aware of anything related to planning. How could this happen?”

Mr. Singh grinned once again. Mr. Singh said without losing his composure, “Very big problem Sir. Very difficult to make them understand Sir. But we are not giving up. Under the able guidance of our PM, CM and DM we are soon launching an Information-Education-Communication campaign. This will start from next month.”

Mr. Akintola said, “What are you proposing to do?”

Singh was bluffing. There was no such plan. But he continued, “Actually, the guideline will be prepared by next week. After that we shall issue a tender for Public Private Partnership with reputed NGOs. Till then Sir, I cannot divulge anything. But our DM is closely working on it, Sir. Radio, television, posters, folk art, facebook, whatsapp – everything will be used Sir.”

Mr. Agarkar once again looked up from the mobile phone, and said, “There are lot of interesting projects coming up it seems Mr. Singh.”

Singh grinned once again and said, “Yes Sir. We have found a Very Dynamic DM or VDDM Sir. This is his brainchild Sir.”

Madam Ozu smiled and said, “Let me go back to office, and see what kind of support we can give to Ajeebpur district.”

Mr. Singh said, “Our DM Sir will be very happy to receive your support Madam. He is always full of ideas and enthusiasm.”

The delegation left.

The next day, the DM congratulated Singh and told the other officers, “See, he understood everything I wanted him to do. Remember that the art of governance is walking the fine balance between the possible and the impossible.” His officers didn’t quite understand what that meant. Not their fault as the DM himself didn’t know the meaning of the profound statement. It meant nothing, but sounded good. Then he looked at Singh and said, “But Singh, you must not become overconfident.”

“No Sir. Your guidance will always help me to grow Sir.” said Singh, carefully oiling his boss’s ego.

Hello!

Join me in a Q and A platform named Ask Me Anything. Received an invitation a few days back.This particular session will be on my short story collection, Tales from the Margin. You can ask any question in the link over next three days. It's your chance to ask the really tough questions :)

Here is the link:
https://authorsama.com/my-book-of-sho...

 

I

Grey, cold London. Susan and Gloria were having coffee at Russell Square. Andy had texted a message that Susan thought she should share with her best friend. Yes, nothing interesting, indeed terribly boring. So boring that Susan needed a conversation to revive her faith in humanity. Or at least the fifty per cent of humanity known as men.

Gloria read the text. It said, in a matter of fact manner, that Andy was moving to Shanghai for professional reasons and it seemed that it would not be possible for him to continue the relationship as he believes that long distance relations do not work.

“What a jerk.” Gloria said. “Didn’t even have the guts to meet and say good bye.”
“Makes me wonder whether I can at all understand men and what they want.” Susan said, hiding her tear behind her dark sunglasses.
“Oh, don’t be so philosophical. I knew Andy. Didn’t expect him to do something like this either.”

Susan, dressed in bright red, to compensate for her gloomy mood, wiped her tears, and said, “I really wanted to settle down. I told Andy that I have had enough experiments; I am thirty, it is time to build a home and have babies.”

“And what did the jerk say?”
“He said, ‘Oh yes. Totally.’ You know what is terrible? I am disgusted with myself. That a text message like this can create so much damage to me. I thought I am a strong, independent type.”

Gloria squeezed her arm and said, “Ah, well, why don’t you take a break and do something different? May be some other place? May be get out of this gloomy, foggy London to begin with.”

Next three days Susan took leave from office and stayed inside her small apartment and tried to come to terms with the meaninglessness of her life. Should she try to fix an appointment with the shrink? Should she go on an alcoholic overdrive? Should she write a diary like Bridgette Jones?

Three days later she again met Gloria. She sat down on the sofa, took a sip at the glass of white wine and said, “So you think it will be a good idea to take a break?”

Gloria still busy with household chores and said, “Yes, absolutely. Besides you are in the development sector, you have the opportunity to go to other countries.”

“That’s true”, said Susan. “That’s why I went to Sussex to study development. Then this moron came into my life and I thought of settling down, having babies, decent job in an international NGO, and all that shit.”

“You should not be apologetic about that, come on.” Gloria said, finally finishing her chores and picking up her glass of white wine.

“Well, perhaps no. But will I get a break?”
“Have a word with your boss. She’s nice, no?”
“Oh yes. But you know, boyfriend dumped me is hardly worth talking about. Not a serious issue anymore.”

Gloria did not answer her directly. She smiled and said, “Let’s go for lunch.”

Susan’s boss, Liz, turned out to be an angel. She said, “There’s an opening at the British Council, Calcutta. I can fix it for you. Teaching English to street kids. How does that sound?”

“That sounds good. Thank you.” Susan said.
“I was there for a couple of years. Wait till you face the heat, the dust and the traffic jam.” Liz said. “But maybe you can go up to the Himalayas when Calcutta gets on your nerves.”

II

It took Susan a couple of months to settle down amidst the heat and humidity of Kolkata. The big relief was that there were plenty of people who knew English and who were familiar with British life. She started to develop a special interest in the colonial past of the city – the monuments which still stand in the city such as the ones at Dalhousie Square. She had never heard of Job Charnock before, the guy who apparently founded the city. There were plenty of experts too on the history of the city, lot of books, and it seemed that the only thing that was missing was the pub. Besides she could be in touch with Gloria and others on a real-time basis thanks to the internet revolution. She settled down at a small apartment at Salt Lake, a satellite town to the east of the city. She found it to be  leafy and quiet. “Thank you, Gloria”, she said in whatsapp. “it was a cool suggestion.” Gloria said that she was missing her already.

Susan’s work took her to the Sealdah railway station and its environs where a local NGO worked. Kolkata has two stations, an old one named Sealdah and another smaller one called Kolkata. There is also the Howrah railway station, across the river, in the city of Howrah which is often informally seen as part of Kolkata. The two stations, Howrah and Sealdah, are nerve centres of the city, connecting it to rest of India on the one hand and the suburbs on the other. Susan knew about “population density” as a concept but to actually see the Sealdah station during rush hour was a numbing experience. How could so many people squeeze together in shabby local trains which were not even cleaned properly? She was surprised to see that people were hanging on within those trains and somehow also managing to smile and play cards. Vendors, known as “hawkers”, were selling all sorts of goods and incredible discount prices. Beggars were singing songs. “Sea of humanity” is a cliché, but she could not find any other expression to describe the scene during rush hour.

Watching local trains was not of course what Susan’s job was. She was supposed to teach English to a group of young boys and girls who were looked after by a local NGO. These children, she read in reports, had left their home and lived in and around the station. There were various reasons for leaving home – violence by parents, neglect by step mother, sense of adventure, false ideas about exciting life in the stations, so on and so forth. Once they start living illegally at the station, they fall in love with the trains, make money as porters and beggars, enjoy various forms of substance abuse and sex. It is a life they get addicted to. However they also love the care and attention that they receive from the local NGO’s drop-in-centre. The NGO looks after their health, gave them training on various issues, tried to introduce a certain amount of routine discipline, negotiated with the parents with the hope of reintegrating them back into the family. Different organisations working with such children have different methods, Susan found out.

What came as a surprise to her initially was that the children preferred to live in the platforms rather than in the safety of the NGO’s shelter home. They, at least most of them, preferred to retain a certain amount of independence from the NGO, Child First. This was common to the experience of all such organisations. The children got used to a certain kind of freedom, which included sex and addiction to glue sniffing, and therefore did not want to become subservient entirely to the routine of the NGO’s safe shelter. It was always the endeavor of the NGO to attract the children towards a disciplined life but some inevitably remained stubborn and fiercely independent.

Sultan was one of them.

III

Within a week of starting to visit the NGO, Child First, Susan became a popular teacher. The young boys and girls, about twenty of them, of various age groups, loved the novelty of learning English from a proper English lady. She was vivacious, she was enthusiastic, she loved to be with them. The children were initially somewhat shy and apprehensive to see this new lady who looked different from what they have usually seen, golden hair and white skin, but soon they began to feel comfortable in the presence of Susan didi (elder sister). Susan did not know their language, either Bengali or Hindi, and they didn’t initially understand what she was saying. Hence Susan had to start with the direct method of teaching and use lot of gestures to explain what she was saying. She also made the group speak aloud. Once they started to speak aloud, and get some rudimentary words and expressions right, the children began to feel more confident and started to enjoy themselves. There was a girl named Shefali and boy named Arjun who were particularly bright and managed to pick up the language.

Susan wrote to Gloria – “all my depression is gone…I am feeling great…super busy…hugs…”

Gloria wrote back – “so happy…enjoy…hugs…”

Few days later she found that there was a teenager sitting in one corner of the class. He was quiet, had intense but somewhat blank eyes. It was his first day in the class. He didn’t participate as much as others did, seemed to be somewhat aloof. He had thick, curly hair and somewhat exaggeratedly long nose. Susan wasn’t sure whether he was listening to what she was teaching. However, since this was his first day, she didn’t say anything.

After the class, the head of the NGO, Mr Alokesh Sen, told Susan, “You have achieved a miracle. Sultan attended your class and kept quiet for the whole period.”

Susan was surprised. “Why? Why is that a miracle?” she asked.

“Well, he is the wildest of the lot. We have failed to bring him under any kind of discipline. He is intelligent, manages to earn some money. But he is also into glue sniffing and other things. We are worried that he may become a criminal and go completely in the wrong direction. But you seem to have cast a spell. Let’s see whether he comes tomorrow or not.” Mr. Sen said.
“That’s sad. Where did he come from? I mean what is his story?” Susan asked while sipping her tea.
“We are not sure. We have no idea. He is the only kid who has not disclosed his background. In fact, although he calls himself Sultan, we do not know whether this is his real name or not. He is intelligent and can clearly survive. He has leadership quality, which is why we are worried that he may end up in crime soon.” Mr. Sen said.

Susan was surprised initially but then she thought that indeed that is a possibility. She remembered watching the movie City of God on Brazilian favelas.

“Can I be of any help?” She asked. “Unfortunately, I am not an expert in these issues.”

Mr. Sen looked at her, smiled and said, “Let’s see whether he comes to your class tomorrow or not. If he does, then we shall start thinking further.”

“I hope he does.” Susan told herself, as she returned home, tired and exhausted. She was also missing London.

 

IV

Three months passed. In the meantime, Susan picked up a fair amount of Hindi and Bangla. She was surprised by her talent for picking up the languages. Sultan also became a regular student, much to the surprise of Mr. Sen. He was of course delighted and told Susan that he didn’t know how he could thank her. Susan said, “You have no idea what a difference this class has made to my life. Trust me, I am doing this for my own selfish reasons. Can’t remember the last time I felt so good.” Mr. Sen smiled.

Sultan not only started to attend the classes, he in fact began to do very well. Mr. Sen had told Susan that he is intelligent and Susan could see that once he put his mind to it, he started to pick up the language very fast.

Learning to speak in English, for these boys and girls from the gutter, was not just about picking up another language. It was also about empowerment as in Kolkata English was the language of the elite, the bhadralok. Traditionally only they knew how to speak in both chaste Bangla and proper English. To be able to talk to the upper class in English was a dream that the poor always nurture but never manage to fulfill.

Susan paid special attention to Sultan, not just because he was a good student but she remembered what Mr. Sen told her about him. He was difficult to discipline and there was a chance that he would drift towards a world of crime. Susan found it challenging to bring him towards a respectable life. May be, just maybe, she thought, he would be a changed person before she leaves. She dreamt of seeing Sultan joining the hostel of the NGO and taking vocational training and finally getting a decent job with the help of the NGO. Who knows one day he might even become an important staff of the NGO, bringing more children like him into the fold of respectable life.

One day Sultan requested Susan to come with him to see the station with him. After a brief hesitation, Susan agreed. Sultan used to call her “Teacher”. She used to laugh and say, “I am Susan”, trying to be non-hierarchical.

He had his way of convincing the Railway Police Force to go to places where normally outsiders didn’t have access to. He took her to show where the trains are garaged, where they are washed, how the engines come and join with the compartments, and constantly explained to her in a mixture of Bangla and English how the station functioned from morning till night. He took her to show how the signals work, how the station starts to prepare for the major train, the Rajdhani Express from Delhi, coming in the morning. He introduced her to the different kinds of people who lived in and around the station – the coolies, the vendors, the police, the guards, the ticket checkers, the “hawkers”, the magazine sellers, the fruit sellers and even the prostitutes who had their kothis not far away. He also showed her around Sealdah area, the many kinds of retail shop, and then not far away the College Street, the city’s book market, and the thousand and one small eating joints. She was amazed to see how much detailed knowledge Sultan had. He even knew the pickpockets. They went around for a whole day and Susan didn’t knew when time flew. Yes, there was something special about Sultan’s smile.

At the end of the hot day Susan was completely exhausted but also very happy. She went back home, took a shower and came out to see that there was a call from Sultan. She called him back wondering whether something has gone wrong or not. She said,

“Hello, Sultan, did you call?”
“Hyan, yes.”
“Why, anything wrong?”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then Sultan said,

“I love you”.

Susan did not know what to say.

 

V

That night Susan could not sleep properly. It was partly because of the sudden and unexpected phone call from Sultan. She should have dismissed it as teenage nonsense and gone to sleep quietly. But she could not. The really troubling part was that she actually liked what Sultan said. It was unexpected but not shocking. She had to admit to herself that she was also in love. Yes, in love with a seventeen-year-old street kid.

She skyped Gloria. Gloria was excited to receive her call.

“Hello, hello, what are you up to? What’s happening? Is it very hot?”
“Ah well yes.”
“Why not go up to the hills?”
“Yeah well…may be…”
“Is anything wrong? Are you ok?”
“Well, I think I am in love Gloria…”
“Oh! That’s great! Who’s he? Bengali intellectual?”
“No.”
“Then who? Suspense, suspense.”
“Sultan.”
“Sultan? Who is he?”
“A street kid. He is in my class. He is seventeen.”

Gloria’s jaw dropped. She could not speak for a few seconds. Then she said:

“Listen, Susan darling. We have to talk. I am coming down as soon as I get the visa. Please don’t do anything silly till then.”

Susan didn’t get the chance to do anything silly. That night an express train ran over Sultan who was sitting in one of the tracks, intoxicated and dreaming about Susan. His crushed body was discovered by the Railway police.

 

———-

Since we are in the season of love. A love story from Tales from the Margin.

I pressed on the button “G”.

Inside the elevator, there were three of us. Mrs. Sen and another fifty-plus man who was probably a visitor as I have never seen him before. Mrs. Sen said “hullo, how’s everything?” Usual small talk. I said, “Fine, how are you?” She nodded to mean that she was fine. Fortunately she did not start a conversation straight away. I was not in a mood for one.

I finally told Indrani the truth today. I had struggled all day, in fact last few days. I looked at her unsuspecting face. And told her. Indrani, it is over between us. I am sorry.

I somehow hate these closed elevators. “Lifts” as they are called here. These closed lifts are so claustrophobic. This guest in the elevator, this outsider, has a smell in his mouth which I could not stand. Probably some kind of pan masala, chewing tobacco. It was irritating but I was not in a mood to think about him.

I could not resist from thinking about Indrani. My wife. Whom I have just told that our relationship is over. She sat in one corner of the sofa and kept quiet, her face looking towards the floor. She was dressed in a yellow handloom Sari. She had just come back from school. I didn’t go to college today. Shreya, our daughter, was with her grandparents.

I was expecting her to say something. May be shout at me. May be break a few glasses. May be start crying and ask me how I could be so cruel and break up not just the relationship but also this beautiful home which she has so painstakingly created.

She said nothing. She kept silent, looked at me and then looked downward at the floor. I could not understand what she thought. But I could not bear the silence. So I decided to leave. Not sure where to. But I needed to get out. I had lost my right to stay in that apartment. That was no more my home.

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. A slightly irritating mechanical voice told us that it was the fifth floor, in an American accent. I was hoping that this man with chewing tobacco in his mouth would step down. He didn’t. Instead a young couple got in. I think I have seen the girl before. One of those daddy-has-spoilt-me types. The young man with her was a friend; going by their looks probably an intimate friend. I withdrew towards the back of the elevator.

I could feel a sharp pain inside my head. Shouldn’t I feel relieved? That I could finally tell her what I wanted to say for the last few months? Yes, Indrani, we had a wonderful time, so many memories, so many difficulties faced together, our marriage, our first holiday, the books we bought together and wrote our names on them, our child, our fights over how to decorate our small little apartment…all that…yes, Indrani that was wonderful. But…but…but…Indrani…somewhere, something snapped…I wish I knew when. Shouldn’t I feel glad that it was finally over and I did not need to do any more act of deception?

II

Actually, I know when. I mean when it snapped. Last year, ten years after our marriage I met Rachel in London. Over a pint of beer after a talk I gave. She was a PhD student looking for an opportunity to come to West Bengal to study the changing political economy of the state following the fall of the Left Front. Rachel was young, slightly built, pale complexion with bright eyes and curly red hair. Rachel was full of energy. She asked me one question per minute. She kept apologizing, “Am I speaking too fast?” When I said no, she promptly asked the next question.

We met again the next day. There was a demonstration and Rachel took me there. I was initially hesitant, thought maybe it was not what a scholar from abroad should be doing. But then I did. I could not resist the opportunity of spending time with her. Nor did I want to give her the impression that I was a coward.

I felt young once more. I shouted with students almost half my age. The demand was not important. The shouting was. That moment when the fear of the policemen surrounding us melted away and we joined hands and we found our voice. I could feel the burden of routine existence temporarily removed from my soul.

Yes, that was the moment it snapped. I could feel that it was gone Indrani…gone. Indrani and Shreya were my responsibilities, Rachel made me feel young. I didn’t know when the love in our relationship… Indrani… had melted away. When Rachel smiled at me while singing “we shall overcome” I could feel my heart pumping faster, dangerously faster.

III

I got down from the elevator as it had reached the ground floor. I didn’t know what to do. Took a cigarette out of my pocket and took a puff. I went out of the gates of the housing society and started to walk aimlessly.

Indrani and I met in college. She was serious, methodical, attentive. She painstakingly took class-notes while I painstakingly finished my packets of cigarettes. She perhaps felt attracted to my ability to write beautiful prose and raise awkward questions while I was drawn towards her discipline and rigour. She stood with me while I was trying to finish my thesis and get a job. She took a job in a school instead of trying to pursue her higher studies.

I was selfish. Yes, I was. I dumped all my responsibilities on her shoulders pretending to be otherworldly and scholarly. She also perhaps enjoyed mothering me. Shreya was born and I hardly did anything for her. Except to do what I had to do. The terrible stress of the first few years was borne by Indrani alone. She sacrificed herself for us. Only at the very end of the day, before going to sleep, Indrani read a book; that was her time. But we stopped communicating except for the daily necessities. Groceries. Shreya’s homework. Social visits.

IV

Rachel and I kept discussing my work and the work she was planning to do and time flew. Yes, my selfish self forgot about all that Indrani had done for me because I was at that moment enjoying myself. I was feeling drawn towards the warmth of her wheatish skin. I wanted to run my fingers through her thick red hair. I wanted to lock my lips with hers. I knew she was igniting the devil inside me.

I told Rachel about Indrani, about Shreya. She kept quiet for a while. Then she said that I should take a call. Whatever I decided she would respect. I was supposed to leave next day.

Rachel and I went for a walk across the Waterloo Bridge. Then we went to a small second-hand book store. We didn’t buy anything, just browsed through. We came out and she said with a smile, “Bye.” She probably didn’t want to hope.

Someone sensible inside me told me to end it there. “End it now, it happens, end it now.”

We kept in touch. We couldn’t resist. We tried to pretend that it was purely academic. Her thesis, my ideas, books, methodology, footnotes. Yes all that but also, but also something more. Something I could not push aside.

After a while I knew I was pretending before Indrani. Pretending when she was talking about our holiday plans. Pretending when we tried to make love. Pretending when we went to see Durga Puja pandals with Shreya. Pretending when we discussed saving money for her higher education. My mind was elsewhere.

Message from Rachel – “Hi, how r u doing?” I looked at the screen for a moment and then replied – “I told her. This evening. Sitting alone. ”

She replied – “r u all right?”

I told her that I will talk to her later. I wanted to be alone.

V

As I sat in front of the water, the darkness swallowing the old tree in front of me, I thought of Indrani once more. That moment when I told her. Why was she so silent?

Was it possible that it came to her as a relief? Was she trying to say the same thing to me as well? May be she was also looking for the right moment to tell me – It’s over…I am sorry…but it’s over…?

I felt I needed to go back and talk to her again. In any case I needed to go back even if I wanted to move out. There were so many things to sort out.

I took the elevator. Fortunately this time it was empty. I pressed the button “10”. I was hardly able to think while the elevator moved upward.

I stood in front of the door. I rang the bell. Silence. I rang again. Silence. I couldn’t understand what was going on. Should I try to break the door? Did Indrani fall asleep? Is she all right?

I rang the bell again. There was no answer.

Sharmila took her usual seat at her favourite drinking hole at Park Street and ordered rum and coke. The waiter, affectionately called “chacha” or uncle, knew what she wanted as she was a regular in the first floor of Oly. Nonetheless he asked her once – rum and coke? She said yes, rum and coke. She also ordered a plate of fish finger as she was feeling hungry. It was a bad day in office with her insufferable boss once again throwing tantrums at a rival television channel getting higher TRP. Ranajit, the creep, has recently come from Mumbai, and he is so supremely confident that he hardly bothers to listen to others. At 45, after twenty years in the industry, this is hardly what she needed in life. If she didn’t need to pay for her housing loan she probably would have resigned today.

Watching a group of young boys and girls, college kids, in front of her chatting away, she felt nostalgic. College days…there were so much to look forward to. She made the first terrible mistake not going to Oxford even though she was among the finest students of English literature. Sohini, her arch rival who also had rich parents, went to Cambridge and did not look back. She is now teaching somewhere in the US. She comes every winter before Christmas and spends a few days with an NGO working among tribal children. Selfie with Santhals before flying off to some critical theory conference. Arundhati, her other friend in college, but also rival in terms seduction games, chose the marriage line, got married to bright young kid from IIT and is now a CEO’s wife. Two kids, holidays abroad, diamond necklace for anniversary. Sharmila ended up neither here nor there, chose to enter the media world of Kolkata, which was never ever going to produce anything worthwhile. She was sexy and efficient, therefore she did well, but of late she increasingly felt bored, tired and old. And the new boss was just the prick she needed when life was already unambiguously meaningless.

It was so different then. She was nineteen, in college, her confidence bordering on the arrogant. Within a year or so she knew that she was the best in the class in the best English literature department in the country. Writing crisp, cogent essays came naturally to her while others were struggling to impress the formidable faculty of the department. But what came easily to her was not what she was after. She was looking for something other worldly, something pure, something transcendental. She was not convinced of the “do these in order to get that” approach to life. Life should have a higher meaning, she felt, otherwise why live?

So Sharmila Banerjee, daughter of Justice Pramodranjan Banerjee, resident of Ballygunj Place in posh south Kolkata, fell in love with Moloy, budding poet from suburban Kolkata. Technically a student of Mechanical Engineering. Moloy lived in the hostel, hardly ever took a bath, thought about revolution in the morning and dreamt of poetry in the evening. His dreamy eyes caught Sharmila’s fancy during a certain college agitation. He was different from most of the young men around Sharmila. It was almost as if he was from another generation, when sacrifice and idealism were considered normal, when poets somehow survived rather than prospered, when they drank country liquor to drown their angst and then created poems that were pure gold, as beautiful as a rainbow in the sky. Sharmila knew that Moloy would one day write great poems. But he was also a vulnerable little child, and it was her responsibility to protect him. The mundane issues of survival in a cruel world. She decided to look after all that, get a job, and be the lover and the mother for her idealist poet genius. By the time she was completing her Masters, Moloy was already beginning to make a mark with his poems, and she knew that it was time to get a job. The electronic media was expanding at that time and it was not very difficult for Sharmila to get into one of them that paid reasonably well. She was young, sexy and smart and hence it was not difficult to impress the middle-aged male recruiters.

Justice Pramodranjan Banerjee, Sharmila’s father, was a liberal man. But he was shocked by the choice of his daughter. “So you want to waste your life, do you?” he asked. Sharmila didn’t say anything at first. Then she said, “Do you think Dostoyevsky’s wife wasted herself?”

Justice Banerjee heard what her daughter said and could not say anything. He quietly poured himself a glass of scotch and took a sip. He understood that it was pointless to tell her to get real. After a couple of minutes he said, “It’s your life. We wanted to see you as a scholar. But you have chosen your life. Just remember that my bank balance is limited.”

Sharmila did not like the last sentence. She said, “I think I will never need it.”

Sharmila and Moloy got married in a marriage registrar’s office. No special ceremony. Justice Banerjee said that he would meet the son-in-law after he has published his first book of verse from a reputed publisher. Moloy’s parents understood that their son was not going to become an engineer and their daughter-in-law was too westernised for their liking. So beyond what needed to be done for the sake of social respectability they didn’t do anything.

Moloy and Sharmila began their married life in a small one-bed room flat at Bijoygarh, a lower middle-class neighbourhood of South Kolkata. Sharmila loved the purity of the struggle.

II

“Can I take this seat?” Sharmila was surprised to hear the voice. Moloy. She nodded. “What a surprise, I was actually thinking about you.” She was however feeling a little embarrassed to sit with him in as public a place as Olypub.

– “Are you waiting for somebody?” Moloy asked.

– “Yes, a colleague, fellow alcoholic.”

– “Oh”.

Sharmila was meeting Moloy after a long time, although every now and then she heard about him. After all he was leading poet of the city, bit of a celebrity. He has put on a little bit of weight, well, it may be better to say that he was no more a thin guy who hardly ever took a shower. There was a certain glow of maturity and success in his appearance. The beard was still there but it was carefully trimmed. The old funny looking glasses were replaced by new stylish ones. The Santiniketan jhola had given way to a leather bag.

– “Are you all right Sharmila?” Moloy asked while pouring his whiskey.

– “Usual office shit. Bad day.” Sharmila said, trying to keep it short. Moloy smiled.

– “Why don’t you quit this job? You can go back to your studies, your PhD, no? Or is it too late?”

– “I don’t think it is feasible any more. Anyway what’s happening in your life?”

– “I am going to US for, you know, the usual Bengali Non Resident cultural festival”. Moloy smiled. “Another book coming out in a few months time. I am also writing a television serial. Couldn’t say no to the producer who is a friend of mine.”

– “Good.” Sharmila said, trying to hide her disappointment.

– “I know you didn’t like that one. But I needed to buy a place for myself. Not getting younger you know.”

– “True.”

– “Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you take leave and come with me for a holiday to the US? You have some friends there, no? San Francisco will be great during this time of the year.”

– “What do you mean?” Sharmila was a little surprised by the offer from her ex-husband.

– “You know, nothing really. Just a break for you. If you do not detest my company that much of course.”

– “Thanks for the offer. I don’t think my boss will allow that. And since I have a housing loan to repay…”

– “Think about it. And listen, call me if you need something. OK?”, Moloy said, before leaving the table to join his friends.

Sharmila called Dibyendu and told him that she was leaving. Not feeling well. She paid the bill and left. Got into the car and told her driver to head towards home. In a way she was happy to see Moloy successful, a celebrity poet. That’s what she had always dreamt of ever since she met her. When they got married Moloy used to wake up with Neruda and go to sleep with Ghalib. She used to work hard and at night after dinner she lovingly ordered him to show his work. It didn’t matter if they didn’t get published. Sharmila wanted to hear the purity of a revolution in every sentence written by Moloy. She heard his lines, and then they made love and went to sleep.

After a couple of years however Moloy began to mature. He understood the reality of the world that the most important quality of a poet is not the ability to write poems but the ability to sell them to the influential literary circles. Once he understood this he began to succeed and doors began to open for him. He understood that he needed to change himself as well. So he changed, slowly, but surely. He became more disciplined, more careful about his public relations, and poems spoke less of revolution and more of sentimental middle-class nostalgia. He began to write beautiful lines with rich imagery, which sounded good but did not offend.

One day he came home with the first proof of his first book. He told Sharmila, “Now may be your father will meet me.” Sharmila felt a deep sense of loss looking at the poems. This was not Moloy. This was someone else. This was not the stupid, otherworldly, dreamy eyed, silly revolutionary poet she fell in love with. This was a hungry animal that had tasted blood and was willing to bend before authorities to have more success.

Sharmila broke up with him after that. Was she harsh? May be. But she could not be dishonest. She didn’t love him anymore.

But why was he proposing to take her to US for a holiday? Sharmila opened the shower. Was he trying to get back to her? Should she become a little more pragmatic? After all, she was not getting younger, and as one grows older one needs company, someone to rely upon, someone to have a cup of tea with.

But then, she thought, would that be love?

On an impossibly hot and humid May afternoon, Malabika suddenly came to understand the feeling she was having. She was jealous. She was jealous of her daughter-in-law.

For the last few days she was unable to understand why she was feeling a little irritated, a little distracted, a little angry. There was no apparent reason. Her home was running smoothly, a fact that she took particular pride in. The servants were working as they should, the groceries were neatly stacked in the refrigerator, the clothes were ironed, delicious dinner was served on time, not a single cob web to be seen anywhere in her two-storied house. She never gave her husband, Saradindu, any scope for complain. The only household activity he was expected to do was to go the market to buy vegetable and fish. Saradindu knew that Malabika loved the power she had in the household and as long as she was alive and healthy there was nothing that he needed to worry about. Malabika managed the household with such consummate precision that would put an army officer to shame. She knew precisely how much mustard oil was required every month and had an uncanny feel for servants stealing from the kitchen. She showered her blessing on them but at the same time treated them ruthlessly if they were negligent in their duties. Saradindu used to tell his friends that if there is ever a Nobel Prize for home making the award should go to his wife. When Malabika heard this for the first time she was more than a little pleased inside but maintained her unperturbed exterior and said, “Dinner is ready, don’t forget your medicine.”

Yet, for the last few days her usual assured self was more than a little disturbed and she could not figure out exactly what was wrong with her. When she realized that this was nothing but old-fashioned jealousy she was hardly able to accept it. She felt disappointed with herself. She – the jealous mother-in-law? Like one of those characters in cheap television serials? For someone who is steeped in the music and writings of Tagore, who was brought up in the finest liberal tradition, was it possible to have such low, narrow emotions? Wasn’t such an emotion typical of the semi-educated and the uncultured and the unsophisticated? How could she be jealous of a woman married to her son when she herself gave her approval to her son’s choice? It was she who convinced the entire extended family that this girl would be ideal for their son. Wasn’t she the woman who made his son’s wife feel comfortable and at ease in their home? Wasn’t she the first person to tell her son and his girl friend that if they wanted they could stay in another place of their own choice? Didn’t she say that times have changed and the daughter-in-law was no more supposed to think of the mother-in-law as her boss?

When Sulagna first came to see Abhijit, Malabika’s son, when Abhijit was ill, she was introduced as a colleague. Abhijit was in fact a little surprised to see her. Sulagna was on her way back from office and had dropped in at his place to check how he was recovering from his jaundice. Malabika took less than three minutes to understand that she was not just a friend. There was no special hint, but she had her sixth sense. Abhijit later tried to explain that she was a colleague and friend whom he had met at work and they shared a common hatred for the superficialities of the IT sector. Abhijit and Sulagna were both more into cinema and novels than into latest opportunity to go abroad and make some money. “We are friends.” Abhijit explained when asked teasingly by Malabika who she was.

Malabika liked her first appearance. She was of course dressed in office wear so it was not possible immediately to understand whether she was a little too daring in terms of her clothes or not. But there was an element of good taste in the way she dressed. A confident elegance flowed through her body but she didn’t look like a snob either. Nice smile and honest pair of eyes. Malabika also liked the fact that she touched her feet when introduced. She always believed that those who have class invariably respect tradition. Malabika was soon happy to know that Sulagna was not from one of the upstart families who were too keen to move up the social ladder. Her father was a well-known advocate at the High Court. Malabika was indeed happy that while she was on the one hand a computer engineer she could also talk about Tagore’s novels, at least some of them. Once she heard Abhijit and Sulagna discussing the recent trend of “re-mix Rabindra-sangeet” and Malabika was delighted to know that Sulagna was very much in favour of preserving the original flavor of the songs rather than playing around with the music arrangement. Abhijit was strongly in disagreement. He argued that Bengalis have become too conservative and not open to experimentation and this is why they were also not able to do much in industry and enterprise. “What do you think, Mashi?” Sulagna asked Malabika. “I am more worried about preserving what we have, all that is great about the Bengali culture rather than allowing cheap vandals to destroy them.” Malabika said. “Thank you”, Sulagna said, “my words exactly, but you said it so much better.” Abhijit wisely gave up seeing the alliance between two women. He was also secretly happy that the two were bonding.

Malabika and Saradindu wanted a lavish wedding for their only son but Abhijit refused. Malabika tried to explain there are social compulsions; she has been to so many weddings herself and a minimum standard had to be maintained otherwise people would say that they were being miserly. Finally a compromise was reached. Abhijit and Sulagna won the right to have a civil marriage and Malabika won the right to have a reasonably posh reception at the Calcutta Club. Sulagna’s features particularly suited the traditional bridal make-up and everybody the guest came to Malabika and said “Mrs Mukherjee you daughter-in-law is such a stunner. Thank you for a wonderful evening.” Malabika said to Mrs Chatterjee, who was known to have trouble with her daughter-in-law that after all it is amusing how times have changed and she preferred to think of Sulagna as her friend rather than as a daughter-in-law. It was perhaps a not-so-subtle jibe at Mrs Chatterjee, that upstart socialite with medieval ideas of what a family should be like. Saradindu’s friends were particularly delighted with the quality of the mutton and the Sandesh from Nakur. The food was not a typical mish-mash but finest example of Bengali cuisine including the long-cut begoon bhaja and the topshey fry. There was of course a separate arrangement for the strictly vegetarians. The bride and the groom looked young, radiant and perfectly suited to each other. Malabika and Saradindu were busy with looking after the guests but in between hectic socializing with the guests Malabika looked at the couple sitting in the podium and felt proud of her ability to organize the wedding with clock-work precision. She also had flashes of memory of her own wedding, the elaborate never-ending ritual from selection of the bride to the moment when she first looked at Saradindu’s eyes to the moment she reached the in-law’s house, her new home.  Life after marriage never had the free-as-a-bird feeling of the college days but Malabika adjusted to her new role, slowly becoming an expert in managing the household. Ever since she has been a great believer in the word “adjustment”, which she felt is the key to a harmonious life.

Malabika made herself a cup of tea and sat down in the cane chair in the verandah. The Gulmohar tree in front of the verandah was full of red flowers which brought some relief to her eyes in the midst of the intensely hot and humid weather. Kolkata’s weather has changed so much recently. Earlier there used to be the nor’westers, thunderstorms known as kaalbaishakhi, every other day and that would bring relief in the evening. Now they have become rare. The city has become overcrowded, more polluted and chaotic. Law and order has deteriorated, the cultural world has become shallower. All the talented people have left. Saradindu sometimes jokes that the city is slowly returning to its rural origins, “Kolkata is once again becoming Sutanuti”, referring to one of the three villages which was transformed into a city by the British when they landed in this part of the world. Is the rustic shallowness all around her also getting into her mind? May be, she thought.

Two years have gone by since the marriage of Abhijit and Sulagna. After spending a year in Kolkata, they left for the US. They live in California now. It is not clear whether they would be coming back or they would settle there. Abhijit has recently written that he is missing his neighbourhood addas, facebook is somehow not his cup of tea. However he also said that Sulagna is really enjoying her life, even though life is tough there without the domestic helps. She enjoys the international environment of her office. “She has become a world-citizen,” Abhijit wrote, “while I remain a typical north-Calcuttan.” About three weeks back Malabika saw some photos of her daughter-in-law in the California beach with some of her white friends. She looked comfortable and happy in her beach wear. It was hardly possible to distinguish her from her other western friends.

Malabika couldn’t resist being jealous. As she sipped her cup of tea, she looked at the Gulmohar tree and for the first time in her life felt that she has become old. Inside Saradindu was still sleeping. She could hear his snore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Strange indeed. After so many years. How many? Almost twenty I think. Suddenly two pairs of eyes met each other at the Gariahat Junction. Once again. Summer heat, burning skin, the eyebrows desperately trying to hold on to the sweat. My white shirt half wet. Noise. I was heading towards panwala selling cold drinks.

-Arijit?

The voice came from behind. Confusion in the channels of memory. Recognise, recognise! Long time ago, a really long time ago. Rapid flow of images. Exclamation. Sharmistha Dutta. Question mark. Exclamation. Affirmation. Head turns around.

–Sharmistha?

Eyes hidden in sunglasses, but still we know that the eye balls have met each other. Some kind of a strange intuitive sensation from within. A few more lines on the face. But still that same lovely oval shape, may be a hint of a double chin. Hair cut really short, no more the old long flowing one. Makes a lot of difference to the superficial appearance, but for me the decisive element was the slight smile around the lips, the right side of the lips stretching somewhat to make the smile, a thin curve from the nose to the lips and beyond. The same slightly shrill voice.

-Handsome as ever!

The panwala’s eyebrows twitched. Another customer turned around, took a look at her, especially her arm flowing out of a sleeveless blouse and then towards me and then again concentrated on the bottle of coke. Flutter in the moral codes of the street corner.

I didn’t reply. I wanted to tell her that in spite of a slight addition to her weight she probably looks even better than before. This is something that I can never utter. Something that cannot quite be expressed in words. Words are after all such limited little boxes that can contain only a small amount of meanings. May be my eyes told her something. May be she read nothing. Surprise, disturbance, pain, déjà vu, all of these plus something more.

– Cold Drink?

I asked. Partly to say something, partly genuine question.

She was clearly not comfortable standing in front of the paan shop. Too many eyes, looking at her. As ever she couldn’t care less, but still there was the instinctive unease. Movement of the arm to cover up the neck line with the sari.

I finished the cold drink as soon as I could. It wasn’t necessary for her to tell me. I was surprised that I could still understand her body language. The eyes were covered in sunglasses but I could see the slightly twitched eyebrows. The panwala’s teenager assistant was looking at nothing but her breasts.

Besides it was really hot.

– Let’s go.

I said, finishing the cold drink. She smiled. Once again that half smile. Slight sigh of relief. She turned around to take a step forward. She has acquired a little more weight than before, a slight sign of less attention on her body than before, maybe she has reached that kind of age where the shape of her body is not a crucial part of her identity. A kind of casual elegance. The cut of her blouse however still made it clear that she can take a thousand voyeurs.

I followed her. But then our steps went in different directions. Mine were instinctively heading towards the bus stop. She stopped me by pulling my shirt.

–  This way.

She said softly. She is not the kind of woman who speaks a lot. Hence the tone matters a lot. I understood that she was trying to say that she has a car with her. She wasn’t sure how to handle the obvious difference in social status that lay between me and her.

I tried to make it easier. I reverted back to my old absent minded self. As if I knew that there was a car waiting but I forgot.

I said.

We turned towards the left. It was about three minutes walk. I almost asked her where exactly we were going but I stopped. It’s true that I had something to do, specifically to buy some medicines for my mother, but we had met after such a long time and yes there was that disturbing charm. Light yellow handloom sari. Moist smooth brown skin.

Nice upper-end car. I mean nice colour, dark olive green.  Sharmistha looked good on the steering wheel. Nice and comfortable. Experienced hands. Casual glance towards the back, slow push of the back gear and the car was on the move. Blast of the AC. Almost another world. On the other side of the tinted glass Gariahat Road looked like distant memories.

– Where are we going?

I asked, almost apologetically. Such a mundane question to ask Sharmistha when she is in this kind of mood. May be I was imagining things but if she was not in one her arrogant moods she would have taken off her sunglass, asked me a few obvious questions like what was I doing at present so on and so forth. May be she will. But at the moment she wanted to hide her eyes behind the sunglass. I wasn’t complaining. Made her long beak like nose come out in sharp relief.

– I have an apartment nearby. Bought it a couple of years ago. I stay there when I come to Kolkata.

Information. The crucial question was not where we are going but why. Why are we going where we are going? I once again vaguely thought about the medicines I need to buy.

– Fuck!

Traffic jam. Chaos. Autowallah and bus driver fighting with each other. Sharmistha brought out a CD and started playing it. Jazz. Almost hilarious situation. Outside – chaos, unbearable summer heat, two men fighting like street dogs. Inside a sense of order, everything pleasantly arranged. Sharmistha tried to stay calm listening to the music. Can the serenity of the music wipe out the chaos outside?

Sharmistha always hated traffic jams. A kind of instinctive gut feeling. The traffic jam for her was a kind of symbolic representation of everything that she hated about Kolkata’s third world status.

I looked out of the window. Trip down the memory lane. It was a quarrel over a traffic jam that finally broke down our relationship. May be even before it could actually take off. So brief. So small. Yet memories remain.

She argued that I tolerate such chaos and that is why things are as they are. I represent all of those who are comfortable with our third world status, stupid romantics who hate success. Bengali babus who do not want to live better.

It was quite a scene. Twenty years ago. Right in the middle of a crowded bus. She flared up all of a sudden. I was just joking, don’t you think that it is wonderful to have traffic jams?

She got down at Minto Park. Three days later she wrote me a letter telling me that she is leaving for IIM. She wanted money and leave the bloody third world shit that I was so much in love with.

What happened to me? I am still searching for a language of my own, my own distinctive style of artistic expression. For her the last twenty years in all probability has been one of rapid conquest, of moving up the ladder. Twenty years. Success in Mumbai, important responsibilities, increasing salaries, a flat in South Calcutta, where she stays if and when she comes to the city. Do I know this woman?

Still the same body language. The same “fuck”. The same understated colours. Is she therefore still the same, or is she a different person?

-Here we are! Welcome!

We entered her apartment. Sparingly decorated drawing room with cane furnitures. Barren walls. Neat and clean. Meticulously organized except for a few books and CDs lying on the drawing room carpet along with a laptop. A small dining table in one corner.

– Do you like the interior decoration?

– Good. Pretty impressive in fact.

I said.

– I like staying here for a few days every now and then. Alone. Away from my job and career. Away from fucking capitalism.

The sunglass came out. The same old flashing eyes. Slight wrinkles underneath. She pulled out a pack of  cigarettes from her bag. Pulled one to her lips. Lighter came out as well. A quick puff.

– You still don’t smoke? Still that good boy? Aren’t you?

I smiled.

– Why don’t you have a beer from the fridge while I take a quick shower, change and come back.

She disappeared inside. A long distance between the outside drawing room and the interior, the bathroom, where she would be undressing, opening the shower, having a  bath.

Such a long distance.

The terror of memories. One body wrapped in another. Synchronizing heartbeats. I wasn’t sure but I probably wanted to be in that shower with her over there. Was it carnal passion, just a desire for an attractive naked body or was it old love? I wasn’t sure.

The fact that I was actually unable to join her in the shower was not as painful as the realisation that twenty years have gone by. The difference between me and her was palpable, right there in front of me. I was still searching for my line, my own language on the canvas. Something that will come out from the inner core of my being. Something that will be mine. My own self reflected in colours, fragments of the soul slowly taking shape through paint. But I haven’t found it yet. There is no guarantee that I ever would. A touch of anguish, a slow sense of rottenness was seeping in. When would I get something that is truly mine? And what was I doing here anyway?

Sharmistha has reached many milestones, found a lot of tangible things that are hers. All of that put together makes “success”. One step at a time perhaps. But tangible, measurable. Something to feel happy about. At least satisfied. Was she right when she indicted me a long time ago? Was I really not interested in being successful?

– You haven’t poured the beer as yet? Do I have to pour it for you?

The same old anger. She had come out of the shower dressed in a white salwar kameez.

– You are looking good.

I said, completely ignoring the beer issue.

– I look after myself. Half an hour of yoga every day.

She poured the beer and came close to me to give it. Looked at my eyes. Then quickly moved away, towards the side table. She took the sunglass and wore it again.

-I bought it in Rome. How do I look?

-Nice design. Brings out your nose.

-Do you like the beer?

-Nice ring as well.

She didn’t have anything to say as such. I was sipping the beer. Silence.

– Strange isn’t it, the way we met?

She asked.

– Yes, but then not that uncommon an event is it. In fact quite familiar. If you think in terms of a plot.

– Still it is. Strange. I saw you from a distance and couldn’t quite believe myself. Very odd.

There is absolutely no point in asking why she found it so odd. She found it odd and therefore it is odd.

-You still get angry when you reach a traffic jam.

I said, partly laughing.

Her face suddenly became grim. She looked away towards the window and said,

– You still remember. I almost forgot.

Forgetting. It shows that a lot of things have happened to her since then. The angry idealistic debate that we had with each other a long time ago that led to end of love, the end of a beautiful relationship, was gone. I kept quiet.

May be we were locked in a strange grey zone between wanting and not wanting to stay with each other.

She lighted a cigarette once again.

-I was young then. And for fuck sake that was twenty years ago.

She paused. Took a few puffs.

-Now the only thing I look forward to is this. My own little nest. In fact you are the first visitor.

I was surprised.

-Why me?

-I don’t know. Why do I have to explain? Are you uncomfortable? It wasn’t anything planned!

She lost her temper slightly. I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond. It did make me somewhat uncomfortable. I hope that it wasn’t planned, I certainly do not want to be an honoured guest.

– Well, I like the beer.

I tried to make the situation lighter. I didn’t want the conversation to drift towards a long post mortem of our old relationship.

She didn’t respond the way I thought she would. She kept silent for a few moments, staring at a blank wall.

– Do you have a painting that I can hang on that wall? I think I can afford a painter like you.

I stood silently for a while. Was she trying to preserve some memory of me and pretending to be very professional or was she using me to fill up the wall of the room that was her own? Was she in a way trying to give me some space inside her nest, or was she just using my professional failure to get a good painting cheaply? It was impossible to know whether I was entering her own space or simply adding to it like those who did the interior decoration. May be she herself didn’t know.

– How long would you take?

– May be a month. But you don’t have to pay.

She smiled.

-Why?

I didn’t have an answer. Rather I couldn’t answer. Instead I asked something else.

-Can we meet again? I have to rush to buy some medicines for my mother.

She looked at me. Came a few steps closer. And looked at me again, straight at my eyes.

-Meet again? For what?

Was she a little sarcastic?

– Well, I have to deliver the painting! No?

That’s not what I wanted to say. I wish I could tell her that I wanted to drown in her hot red blood.

 

 

 

Mr. Tarun Tapadar is as ordinary a person as you can possibly imagine. Every morning he takes a bus to his office, which is a branch of a public sector bank, he sits in his counter either clearing cheques or giving money to the customers. A clerk and as typical as one can possibly be. He is about five feet four, has a nondescript face with a double chin, is clean-shaven and has a hairline that is receding almost every day. He is forty-five and wears minus four point five lenses.

You must have guessed by now that I am about to mention something strange about Mr. Tapadar. May be he has some sort of a secret talent, maybe he is actually a detective, or maybe he had the largest collection of matchboxes in the world. Surely he is something quite extraordinary in some way? Well he is, but not really in the sense that he is especially talented at something and maybe it is by no means something very exciting either. It is just that once in a while Mr. Tapadar is visited by ghosts who stay with him for some time and then they disappear.

As I said earlier Mr. Tapadar is now forty five and ghosts have been visiting him for quite some time now, ever since he was a child of about six or so, so there is nothing very unusual about ghosts visiting him. Contrary to popular belief a ghost visiting is nothing extraordinary, it does not make Mr. Tapadar suddenly behave in some strange way – it does not make him grow a beard or nurture secret ambitions of killing his wife or any other gory acts. Just a mild headache on the upper left side of the skull, nothing more. As long as you are willing to talk with the lonely ghosts they are happy, at times they are frivolous but hardly ever rude. Ghosts are a vulnerable lot. They need humans more than humans need them. Tapadar never had any problem with them, he enjoys talking to them and knows very well that they are going stay inside him for a while and then leave. So if you see Mr. Tapadar in a bus on his way to the office the only unusual thing that you will see when he is visited by a ghost is that you would see his lips moving, not really a pronounced movement at that. You will probably feel that there is nothing unusual about it as there are lots of people who have the habit of talking to themselves.

Sometimes Mr.Tapadar felt that he would keep a diary of the ghosts that had visited him over the years but he was too lazy to do that. There has been a few interesting ones for sure. And needless to say some were somewhat boring. A mixed bag you may say. The first one, who visited him when he was about six or seven, was indeed quite interesting. He was a boy of about six or seven as well who died in a car accident some thirty years ago. He stayed with Tapadar for a while, well about ten days or so. Tapadar was somewhat puzzled by his presence as he was also of the same age and therefore he had become somewhat confused as to who he really was. When the ghost told him that he was a ghost then Tapadar’s confusions were cleared up. This boy was quite a character. Tapadar was a quiet, shy, sickly boy, whereas the ghost was a gregarious character and up to all sorts of tantrums. Tapadar’s parents were surprised to find that Tapadar was all of a sudden talking to himself. Otherwise there was no external manifestation of the visit of the ghost. For Tapadar also it was not much of a problem except for a mild headache. After all carrying a ghost in your head can be somewhat heavy at times. On the other hand the advantage was that he could close his eyes and talk to another person, visit the world he lived in, share the life of another person living in another place at another time. Not much fuss involved, quite a good deal actually. Thanks to the ghosts who had visited him he had visited strange places on the planet during strange times, for example there was once a pirate who was the terror of the North Sea some five hundred years ago (actually he was quite a vulnerable person, quite nice in fact). Similarly there was a revolutionary from Paris whose head was chopped off and he in fact didn’t have a head but being a ghost he didn’t have a problem. The only problem that Tapadar had with him was that he used to crack nasty jokes which were not always Tapadar’s cup of tea.

Tapadar sometimes wondered why the ghosts visited him so often. The answer probably was that he didn’t ask too many questions, did not mind them staying with him for a while, and didn’t get too excited about the whole thing. After all it was nothing earth shattering, only some ghosts visited him once in a while, taking a little bit of rest and then pushing off. For the ghosts it has always been a very pleasant experience.

This time however it was slightly complicated. After all she was young, perhaps about 22-23 and she was a memsahib. Quite attractive in fact. Tapadar could feel that he was slightly tenser than he usually is. He woke on a Sunday a little early, his wife was still lying beside him, came out of the mosquito net. He could feel a somewhat disturbed digestive system. The problem was that there was no way in which he could decide who would enter his head and who wouldn’t. Till now it didn’t bother him much but if he had the choice then he would have preferred not to allow this woman inside his head.

Tapadar tried to ignore the whole issue. He went through the usual morning rituals but he realised that he was nervous, he was unnecessarily preoccupied with the new visitor.

Ghosts are however pretty good at reading minds. It is almost impossible to hide anything from them. The Memsahib had managed to read Tapadar’s mind. As he was shaving his face tilted upwards, his razor trying to negotiate the complex area under the jaw, the memsahib suddenly appeared in the mirror and asked him, “Do you want me to go away?”

Tapadar was so surprised that he cut his skin and ended up saying “No”. It was a moment of pure horror. It was a very surprising appearance, completely out of the prescribed norms, in broad day light; in fact there was a chance of someone else actually getting a glimpse. He turned around to see if his wife was around or not. Fortunately she was not. Recovering slightly, he took care of the cut in the skin by rubbing some antiseptic.

He sat down on his chair in the verandah trying to read the newspaper. This is grossly irregular, he thought, ghosts normally never make such public appearances. They stay inside him, he talks with them usually just before he goes to sleep and then after he falls asleep they usually take him to some remote time in the past when they were alive and he spends some time with them. Next morning he takes his bus to the office and watches television in the evening. In other words leads a normal life. Then after some time they go away. A very neat arrangement. Why all of a sudden this strange disturbance? Being used to keeping ledger, he didn’t like it at all. Besides there was a strange problem here. Even though she was a ghost she was still a woman, and a pretty attractive one at that and after all he was a married man.

That evening Tapadar sat at the Dhakuria Lake and gave it a serious thought. On the one hand he had a wife who did not care much for him, on the other hand he was a married man. Then again no one has said anywhere that a married man cannot have a fling with a young female ghost. He was confused. Ledger keeping was so much easier.

“Are you afraid of me?” The memsahib ghost suddenly asked.

Tapadar was once again startled. This is one of the problems of having a ghost in your head. You don’t have any privacy whatsoever. He realised that this memsahib was definitely a very intelligent ghost. Perhaps very well educated as well. So there is no point in trying to be clever.

“No madam, I mean madam, just a little nervous”.

Don’t be nervous Tapadar, am I not your guest? But if you want me to go away then I will go away. But it is so pleasant to stay inside you. You are such a nice man.

Tapadar blushed. Fortunately it was dark at the Dhakuria Lake and no one was able to see him.

“Would you mind if I come out of you and sit beside you?” The Memsahib ghost asked.

“How can you do that? You can’t come out of my head and just sit beside me like any other person!”

“No, you are right I can’t but you can imagine me sitting next to you and if you imagine me sitting next to me then I would be there.”

Tapadar could feel that there was sweat on his forehead. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Any way he tried to imagine that the memsahib was sitting right next to him. He made a quick calculation of the possible dangers. He felt that there was a risk involved but it was worth taking. After all no one would be able to see her sitting next to him.

“So here I am, Tapadar, sitting here right next to you. Do you like it?”

Tapadar couldn’t say that he didn’t. After all a beautiful young memsahib was sitting right next to him. And the best part of it was that the corrupt policemen who regularly bully couples sitting there and extort money from them did not understand that he was not sitting alone. Otherwise they would have charged at least five hundred rupees.

Yes madam, he said.

Tapadar, please stop calling me madam!  I am Celestine. Do you like my name?

Yes madam, no I mean madam I wanted to say yes.

Oh, Tapadar you are so sweet!

Tapadar felt a kiss landing on his cheek.

Within a couple of days Tapadar managed to get rid of some of his inhibitions. He worked out that not only was he enjoying the fact he was going around with a beautiful memsahib, but on top of that there were certain definite advantages to the situation. First, he did not need to buy her anything which in an age of inflation was important. Second, no one could see that he was sitting with a memsahib and that again was of great help to him being a married man.

He took a casual leave from office and took Celestine around for a tour of Calcutta. He showed her the Victoria Memorial, The Indian Museum and the Marble Palace. At the end of a long day they sat down at the Coffee House at College Street. Once again he realised the advantage of going around with a ghost, he needed only one chair, getting two would have been very difficult. The waiter was somewhat puzzled when he ordered two cups of coffee instead of one, but then the Coffee House is frequented by all sorts of weird people.

After finishing two cups of infusion and two Chicken Afghanis, Tapadar became reflective. It was one of those moments in life when you feel like pouring your heart to someone. The advantage of being in an crowded Coffee shop is that you can keep talking to yourself and no one would notice. Tapadar told Celestine that his secret ambition was always to become an intellectual. You know write in journals and little magazines on important issues, do film reviews, comment on the political condition of the state, that kind of stuff. But then he got married and a lot of time was wasted. And today the situation is such that even his son does not respect his intellect.

“Don’t worry, Tapadar, may be in your next life you would be able to become one.” Celestine said.

“Who knows! Life is strange you know Celestine”.

“Yes it is, but you know, you can become one in your next life! If you put in an application early enough, then there is a chance that you would be able to become an intellectual.”

“Really!” Tapadar said. “No, you must be joking”.

“Oh! Tapadar, do you think I will crack such nasty jokes on you?”

Tapadar blushed.

“I will see that your application gets processed quickly.” Celelstine said in a very caring voice. “And I shall let you know when you have to apply. But you know application for becoming an intellectual is very common among Bengalis, so it takes some time. At times there are so many applications that things are resolved through lottery.”

Tapadar’s eyes lit up. “Are you a Memsahib or are you Ma Durga?” he asked.

Tapadar’s imagination started to run wild. He saw himself giving lectures, writing books, visiting Oxford, visiting Cambridge, then when he would die there would be obituaries and memorial lectures, may be even a street in Calcutta would be named after him!

Tapadar wasn’t sure whether to hug Celestine or to touch her feet.

Suddenly he realised that within a very short while he had come very close to the memsahib ghost. She had become extremely important to him, almost as if life didn’t make sense without her. For the first time in his life he met someone who really cared for him.

Next day Tapadar took another casual leave. He and Celestine went to the Park Street Cemetery where Celestine showed her where she lay. ‘Here lie Celestine Maria  Rothchild 1752 – 1775.’ That’s all.

“How did you die Celestine?” Tapadar asked, his eyes full of tears.

Celestine said, “Oh I was the wife of one of the Company servants.  We used to have wild parties, you know, lot of wine, lot of dancing, lot of food. One evening I had too much of it and fell off the Balcony”.

“How sad Celestine! Tapadar was trying to hold his tears”.

“Well I don’t regret it you know. Life can be a lot better if you hang out in Calcutta as a ghost. You don’t feel the heat at all. Besides I am enjoying my job as well although I have to say that I have enjoyed my vacation a lot this time”.

“So you are a working ghost. How wonderful! What kind of job is it?”

“Well, I work for a welfare agency started by a certain Lord Macaulay. During his life time he became famous for making clerks. After he died he decided to set up an agency that would transform clerks into what they want to be. We offer several attractive packages, but the most popular is the one that I told you – helping clerks in one life to become intellectuals in the next.”

Tapadar didn’t quite understand everything she said. But he was trying to come to terms with the sorrow of Celestine’s inevitable departure.

Next morning, it was cold and misty and Tapadar went to the Princep Ghat to bid Celestine farewell.

As she was about to disappear into the morning mist gliding across the river Hoogly, Tapadar asked her, “How long do I have to wait Celestine?”

She smiled and said “Relax.”

Subodh was a dutiful husband. But after all he had his animal instincts.

He looked after his wife and daughter, bought a car, a LED TV, ensured that her daughter went to an English Medium School, and even promised his family to take them to a tour of Singapore some time soon. Subodh’s wife, Kalpana, was once a beautiful young girl but by the time she became forty she was unable to excite Subodh. She had also lost interest in pot bellied Subodh and showed interest only in her daughter’s studies and television soaps. Once in a while she secretly fantasized Shah Rukh Khan. A hard working salesman, Subodh needed something more in order to forget the pressures of fulfilling his monthly targets.

Manju was exactly what he was looking for. His colleague, Ashish, gave him the tip. After a couple of drinks at Chota Bristol, Subodh told him that life is no more exciting. Ashish smiled briefly and said, “Don’t worry yaar.” Subodh understood what he was trying to say but he knew that escorts were beyond his pocket. “No, no, I am not as rich as you are.” Ashish looked at him like an affectionate elder brother. “Arrey, no,no, not one of those sophisticated over priced farts. I will take you to good old Sonagachi. And I will take you to someone who is nature’s gift to mankind.”

That is how Subodh first met Manju. Manju was a twenty plus hooker and she made Subodh feel on top of the world. Ashish was right, she was a natural. She gave him so much pleasure that he could only wait for the day when he would again go back to her. Manju was a girl from a village near the Sunderbans which regularly supplied girls to the Sonagachi brothels. The parents were usually happy to get rid of their daughters in return for a decent sum of money. Manju was similarly handed over to one of the aunts of the village when she was fourteen. She knew nothing about city life and was delighted to know that she would have a mobile phone of her own and very soon she would be able to buy her own television if she did well in her job. By the time she understood what was happening to her, it was too late. So she cried for a while but then slowly began to believe this was her destiny. And she was talented at it. The babus, some rough, some polite, were all satisfied and showered her with praise and some of them even wanted to marry her. She refused. Who knows what will happen to her once someone took him away. At Sonagachi at least she was safe.

Manju not only had an attractive body, she was also capable of acting. Different customers wanted her to play different roles – a mother, a nun, a news channel anchor, or a film star. She would imitate them and they liked that. The only problem she had was that of language – she could only speak in her own dialect of Bengali. So she preferred to speak as little as possible and concentrated on her performance. Gradually she came to believe that the goddess Ma Shitala has given her an exceptional gift to please the carnal desires of her customers.

Subodh, thanks to Ashish, finally found happiness. A proud husband and a satisfied lover. With two different women but that is another matter. Every Saturday evening he booked Manju’s time. He told his wife that he is reviving his interest in playing Bridge and therefore he would not be available on Saturdays.

Manju found Subodh somewhat funny. All her customers had some strange aspect to them, some indeed quite frightening, but Subodh had a very strange passion. He wanted to educate her. For example, Subodh was delightfully surprised that Manju has never seen a map of India or even Kolkata. He brought out his tablet and showed him a google map. Manju started laughing. “Stop giggling, you fool.” Subodh said. Then he showed her images of the Taj Mahal, the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. He also tried to teach her a little bit of history by showing images of Lord Clive and Mahatma Gandhi. Manju looked at them with wide eyes; she vaguely remembered some lessons of her school days but never had the chance to see such wonderful images. He also showed her videos of famous film stars. She loved to see dance numbers of Bollywood stars. But what attracted her most were the images of distant countries and strange places. “How much will it cost to go to Amazon forest?” she once asked in her rural accent. “Where?” Subodh asked while taking off his clothes. “That place, Amazon, you showed, no?” Subodh laughed aloud. “Ore baba re, several lakhs. I am planning to go after I retire. You are such a child.” Manju’s feminine ego was hurt and she then made it a point to show him that he was a woman whose energy in bed was a lot more than what Subodh could handle. “How was it like to sleep with a child Subodh babu?” she asked sarcastically while putting on her clothes. Subodh was still gasping for breath and kept silent.

So this is how time went by. In between memorable moments of carnal pleasures Subodh tried to teach her how to speak in cultivated Bengali and even taught her a few basic words in English – thank you, how are you, I am fine. She could never really get the chaste Bengali pronunciation right though. Not able to pronunce the R sound in “Brishti”, she continued to say “Bisti”. Subodh said in frustration – “b-r-i-s-h-t-i, roll up your tongue and say it, why is it so difficult?” Manju kept silent, feeling insulted. Then she said, “Ma Shitala has given me only one talent, Subodh babu, and why should I speak like a lady? You come here to have fun with a whore, no?”

In a way she was right, thought Subodh. He therefore decided not to teach her how to speak chaste Bengali or English for that matter. Indeed he secretly loved her rustic banter, the dialect sounded so much more straight from the heart. None of the artificiality of the society ladies. She was a wild flower; there was hardly any point in turning her into a well-trimmed garden rose.

Then one day, Subodh’s good days came to an end. His boss called him and told him that he will be transferred to Noida. They were winding up from West Bengal and a good salesman like Subodh is more required in Noida area than here. His job will be to coordinate the sales activities in the Tier Two and Three cities of north India. Subodh tried to say that his daughter was still young and it was difficult for him to move till she had finished class ten but luck was not on his side.

So he went to meet Manju for one last farewell. Although he said that he will be back after three months or so yet he knew that something was coming to an end. Inside him he felt that a story was coming to an end. Manju also could not hide her tears. She didn’t know that she had fallen in love with Subodh babu. For the first time perhaps they made love.

Time flew. Subodh didn’t have time to come to Kolkata. He became busy with settling in a new city and coping with the challenges of his new assignment. Every now and then she called Manju but Manju was never that interesting on the phone. Her harsh rustic voice did not appeal to him. The love that seemed to be blossoming did not manage to survive the distance. Also there were other attractions. Sex, unlike love, was never too hard to find, especially for a price. It seemed that Manju’s place was now firmly in distant nostalgia.

That however was not to be. After five years, one day, Subodh came to Kolkata for some work. Subodh felt nostalgic and once again remembered Manju. He searched his contact list and found her secret number. The secret number given to him when he left. In the afternoon he called Manju. After three beeps Manju picked the phone. Manju’s voice has matured and she was no more speaking in her rustic dialect. After the usual niceties, Subodh asked whether he could come over.Manju remained silent for a few seconds. Then she apologized and said in chaste Bengali, “Sorry Subodh babu, I am going to Bangkok tomorrow. AIDS conference. I have to pack my bags. I am going abroad for the first time. You will see one day I will travel round the world.”

Subodh could not believe his ears. Manju, that rustic girl, that bloody whore, is going abroad? She explained that over the last two years she has become an activist. She was now fighting for the rights of sex-workers. She explained the difference between a whore and a sex-worker.

“Songrami obhinondon” she said in chaste Bengali meaning roughly “Salute Comrade”. The “R” sound was perfect this time.