Blue Are the Far Off Mountains

A Collection of Short Love-Stories by

Ratan Lal Basu

Copyright 2011 Ratan Lal Basu

Smashwords Edition


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Contents

Chapter-I: Blue Are the Far Off Mountains
Chapter-II: The First Rain
Chapter-III: The Tale of Two Cities
Chapter-IV: Jasmine
Chapter-V: The Magic Marble
Chapter-VI: Strangeness Is Beauty
The Author


Chapter-I: Blue Are the Far Off Mountains

I
The car turned around and screeched to an abrupt halt and I could stretch out my hands in time to save my head from crushing against the driver’s seat but got my thumbs bruised in the process. I pushed open the side door and came out. The Nepali driver was watching the deep decline that the front wheels had missed for a few centimeters and as I got alongside he displayed an apologetic stupid smile. “The wheels skidded on the stray pebbles at the shoulder of the road” he blurted out and looked up with puzzled eyes at my comment, “A thrilling adventure after all” and squinted to decipher if I’d been serious or simply joking and remarked in an undertone, “Could’ve been fatal sir.”
“Certainly, but we may always relax and enjoy in reflection while out of danger.”
My comment made the driver burst out in wide guffaw revealing all his yellow-stained teeth and the charming simplicity which only the hill people possess. I looked around and was marveled at the away off deep blue mountain adorned with patches of sooty clouds capping the tops and the lush green vegetation with islands of thickets and swaying bamboo groves that spread in mild slopes from the foothills and dipped into the distant horizon to the right. Ahead lay a grassy narrow path barely passable by a car, bordered by stiff declines that curved into the green and a foot track at the middle, battered bare by constant walking. Some thirty yards ahead the road turned sharply to the right and lost behind a row of thickly foliaged tall trees and there was no sign of any house or shop. The passage was narrow and unsafe for the car and after the driver had parked the car safely at a niche right below the shoulder of the high road we started off on foot down the passage and turning the corner came upon a few wooden houses off the passage and nestling amidst plots of vegetables, blooming marigolds, banana groves and a few shady trees and the desired paan shop was there jutting out into the passage raised on wooden poles from the lowly field.
The day before at the travel office I’d asked for a Mahindra Max but the Bhutia owner, fair, tall and with a large square face, back-brushed thick black hair, aquiline nose uncommon for hill people and a golden denture that glistened each time he smiled or talked, assured that the roads were good and the Chevrolet Tavera would give a safe and swell ride and I booked it right away without further argument in the first place owing to the nostalgic appeal of the name of the manufacturer that reminded me of the days of huge cars when fuel was not so costly. The car was cozy indeed and drove smooth even on bad patches and we traversed along zigzag streets lined on either side with tall trees in full blossom or embellished with multi-colored orchids hanging from the branches, through dense forests, across green vales and glades irrigated by tiny streams, and waded right through military installations and undulating tea plantations. We had a stopover at a tea garden and the manager enthusiastically showed me through the factory demonstrating how different grades of pekoes are being manufactured and the tea he served was brewed from second flush flowery orange pekoe rich in excellent spicy flavor. On a flat rock above a small stream kept alive by a galloping spring straight from the heights we had our lunch brought along from the hotel at Siliguri. I lighted a cigarette and offered one to the driver and then discovered with dismay that I had forgotten to bring zerda-paan for which I felt badly and when I queried if there was any paan shop around he laughed out and said, “There’s none in these uninhabited hills, but I know one a few kilometers down close to the foothills and we may drop off on return journey if you could wait that long.” I told him to do what he thought fit.
The small shop that rose a few feet in front on sawed saal poles had wooden walls and an asbestos roof and the racks and planks inside were squeezed tight with all sorts of groceries, stationeries, toys, cigarettes and stuff like that in gunny sacks, jars, bottles and polythene packets and to my delight there were also sweet betel leaves and choicest zerdas along with other paan things on the ledge at the front. The shopkeeper, a young Nepali boy in mid twenties with drooping moustache, inwardly drawn small eyes, longish hair and sideburns curving down a fair yellowish cheek toward the nasal folds, was seated on a small wooden stool amidst the medley of wares. He stood up and grinned with questioning eyes as I walked over to the shop.
I directed him to make three paans and spelt out the specifications and he reached for the betel leaves, rubbed them clean in water from a tin bucket and started smearing them with lime from an earthen container. Suddenly a boy raced in trots up the brick laid narrow track that led gingerly to the dwellings and breathed something to the driver who followed the boy toward the dwellings below. I stepped aside and noticed a Nepali woman beckoning the driver from under the shade of the bushy tree that fronted the house and I felt a bit disconcerted while this unknown woman whispered to the driver pointing out at me. I reached for the paans, tucked the open one into mouth and shoved the packed ones into my pocket. The driver returned and told that the woman desired to talk with me if I were the youngest son of late Anil Choudhury, the landlord of Bhatpur. I nodded yes and went down the track over to the woman wondering all the way how this woman had known me and watching intently my nervous countenance with beaming eyes she giggled and gesticulated like a teen age girl,
“He-he-he, I’m Tan-dra, daughter of Birbahadur Pradhan, the darwan of the raj-kachhari close to your father’s garden. Don’t you remember me?”
“My God, You’re Tandra! I was then ten and you fourteen. How could I recognize you?” I blurted out in utter astonishment.
“I had come out to drive off the goats and noticed across the field someone walking down the road with Paban and at once it occurred to me that it was no body else but you.”
“But how you did, I am now grown up in age and changed too!”
 “How could I tell?” She wore an enigmatic smile.
 “Are you very busy now by the way?” She queried.
“Not at all. Just having a ride seeing sights around.”
“Then come in and be rested for a while. You too Paban.”
“I should better be with the car. You know thieves are around now-a-days.”
Paban, the driver left off.
“Do you know this driver?” I queried.
“Yes, he’s some distant relation of my husband and resides in a nearby village.”
Tandra, now a heavily built short woman with sun-burnt fair complexion, fluffy cheeks still centered with crimson circles paled by accumulated dust and grey specks, chapped protruding red lips, wavy creases on forehead and a lengthy line of deep red vermillion parting her grey hair, showed me to the verandah of the wooden house with cement floor and corrugated tin roof. The boy who had been hanging around with the loose end of her sari in his mouth, glancing occasionally at me with amazement, hurried to the room to bring up two cane-chairs and placed them on the verandah.
Tandra motioned me to seat on a chair herself seated in front and began fingering the disheveled hair of the charming boy who’d now come close to her again holding her hand and casting sidelong glances at me.
“My grandson of elder son and the younger son in the shop is yet to be married. By the way, have you already paid?”
“Why not!”
“You should not. Piku go get back the money” and the boy hurried off.
“Where’s his father?”
“He runs a small hotel close to Mahabirsthan at Siliguri and my old man is now staying with him for treatment. There’s a flyover now you might have seen and the place is completely changed. They’ve rented a house at Kalibari road near New cinema and come home once a month.”
Plots on either side of the track, fenced by thorny bushes, were sulfur yellow with marigolds and mustard blossoms and while watching the butterflies and dragonflies of variegated hues roaming around I felt the past reeling off in unending streams.
II
It was Sunday high noon and everyone in the house was deep asleep and I sneaked out the backdoor, rode over the locked outer gate and raced up to the railway godown attached to the minor platform for the siding track. Seated on springy thickets under the shade of the opening that partitioned the structure at the middle I noticed a goods train passing by at slow speed along the side track and I at once ran over to the edge of the platform and started thumping the wagons as they glided past and was immensely delighted at the resonance booming around at each stroke. The thrilling game ended as a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me around abruptly and I noticed with awe the tall demonic pointsman waving a green flag in his free hand and he burst out in a rude angry voice, “Naughty boy, like to be killed!” I felt my nerves giving way and forgot even to cry out. After the tail of the train had crossed the signal post the hefty devil with military moustache, reddish cruel eyes and thick swarthy upper lip bulging with tobacco wad inside, grabbed my right wrist painfully and dragged me down the platform and across the tracks to the stationmaster’s office. As he pulled me in, the station master seated on a wicker chair with stacks of decrepit files on the table in front, turned back and burst out in sudden anger, “Rascal, how dare you do this to the child?”
Flummoxed at the unanticipated outburst of the station master the Behari pointsman cringed and stammered out, “Sir, sir, this boy was handling the running wagons. Could’ve slipped off and killed.”
“So what?” The station master roared in.
“This mere child ought not to know things. You should have persuaded him. You’ve handled this delicate one so roughly? Do you know who he is? The son of Anil babu, the philanthropist planter.”
The bespectacled lanky white-shirted station master, with pointed chin and the face strewn with stubs of grey beard, pulled me close embracing my waist and examining intently the reddish scar on my wrist made by the strong grasp of the Behari and queried in an affectionate tone, “You’ve been hurt badly I suppose.”
I now felt pity for the cowering pointsman and smiled, “Not at all.”
He then explained to me the danger in such inadvertence and I promised not to play the dangerous game ever again. Our conversation got interrupted as my father rushed in and queried in a grave menacing tone,
“What’s up Biren babu, what has my son done?”
“Just a mistake of this foolish pointsman.” He put in politely.
The poor pointsman fell right on to the feet of my father and after the station master had explained the matter, my father helped the terrified pointsman straighten up and said admiringly, “Don’t worry, you’ve done right. I should rather reward you for having saved my son’s life. What a naughty boy! He sneaked out when we’d been asleep!”
The station master glanced at me with affectionate eyes and said, “My son who’s his teacher says often that he’s overwhelmingly brilliant.”
“That doesn’t give him right to do whatever he likes even risking his own life. His mother’s spoiling him.”
The atmosphere was all easy and relaxed now and we departed and all the way up home I wondered how come father, who was deep asleep when I’d sneaked out, had learnt that I’d been taken to the railway office.
Upon entering the gate I heard wide laughter and as soon as I’d gone over to the house my elder brother hugged me and laughed out convulsively, “Celebrate our great Devdas.”
The shrill giggle of elder sister pierced through my ears and mother too laughed out loud. “But where’s Parvati?” Queried my sister sporting mock innocence. This made even my grave father laugh and he said, “Bahadur’s daughter had been outside the office but I found her no where afterwards.”
“Parvati must be sleeping home peacefully now that her Devdas is rescued safe.”
Sister put in raising another roar of laughter. So they had nick named me Devdas and Tandra Parvati. I could not know the meaning as I had yet to read the childhood love story in Sarat chadra’s fiction titled ‘Devdas’ though I guessed something vile and nasty in it but ignored all as I was quite relieved that father did not punish me belying my apprehension.
I learnt later on from mother that their sleep had broken at Tandra’s loud cry at the gate and as soon as my brother had unlocked the gate she splintered through right over to father and gasped out, face soaked in tears and phlegm, “Babu the wicked pointsman is beating Samir and dragging him toward the railway office.”
My brother and sister used to rejoice calling me by the nasty nickname and it angered me so much that I showered them in return with all the nasty obscenities, learnt from the tea garden laborers.
III
The boy returned and handed over the money to Tandra who at once shoved it into my front pocket giving me no opportunity to protest and the feel of her fingers on my chest sent thrilling ripples down my spine. The boy left off dancing lisping “I’m going to the car to gossip with Paban uncle” and Tandra kept watching him with affectionate eyes till he vanished at the turn.
“He has bent for cars and I’ve told my son to put him to driving school. Formal education is no use for our family.”
She paused a while and deftly put back the lock of hair from her forehead while I surveyed the blazing fields around.
“I’d learnt from dactarbabu (doctor sir), your elder brother, that you’ve the highest education from best places and a big job in a bank. I felt so happy.” Tandra blushed and looked sideways to avert my eyes.
“Yes I was the branch manager at a government bank but now taken voluntary retirement.”
“Oh hoh, you left the big job? Why?”
“I got some good money at retirement and am now free to loaf around and see places.”
Tandra giggled, “Maiji (revered lady), your mother, used to call you pagla (crazy), and you’ve not changed.”
“By the way, how did you happen to meet my elder brother?”
“When my son’s father was ill for the first time, sort of breathing trouble, we took him to Garodia nursing home and called upon dactarbabu who advised government hospital and wrote a letter to his friend therein mentioning him as an old employee of your father’s estate and admission was no problem and they treated him well. I also went afterwards to dactarbabu’s house with some vegetables grown in our garden, and his wife, a very good looking lady, gave me a recently taken picture of you and dactarbabu.’
“So this is the mystery of your recognizing me so promptly! You asked her for the photograph I suppose.”
“Patakkai hoina” (not at all). She swayed her head as if in protest and then laughed out loud and we laughed together the way we used to whenever in childhood. I blurted out for fun the awkward Nepali words.
“Is your hubby not fully cured yet?”
“Asthma is never fully cured dactarbabu says. He had been well for a while but this winter it got bad again and he’s been under treatment now.”
The clouds had now floated down to devour the sun and the cool breeze from the northern heights was pleasant and exhilarating.
“Where are Bahadurda and Kanchhidi?”
“Both died a few years back. They were old enough. Karna, the younger brother, works at Torsha tea garden and Sweety, the younger sister, is married at Kalimpong close to elder sister’s house and they have a foreign liquor shop at the market place. Your parents had died early dactarbabu told.”
“Yes, father had high blood-pressure and he fell sick while reprimanding an employee and was found dead while taken to hospital. Mother got hysteric at the shock and died a year after of heart failure. I was unfortunate to be in Calcutta both the times and could come home only after I got telegrams.”
“Married yet?” Tandra asked with keen looks.
“Not yet and have no intention either.”
“It’s very bad”, Tandra put in with an apparently admonishing tone though I felt she was not serious and was happy within. She ought to be.
IV
The wife of the jute officer paid a visit with her daughter to our village during puza vacation and stayed on in their quarter for a week before Darjeeling tour and they paid a visit to our house in the second afternoon after they’d arrived. The daughter, studying in a Calcutta convent, was my age and extremely beautiful like a Chinese doll with large dreamy eyes, hair cropped in semicircle over the forehead. We got on well soon and she told me about the great city of Calcutta while we roamed through our garden and while picking ripe guavas for her from the tree close to the fence bordering the kachhari (landlord’s rent collection office) I noticed from the tree top Tandra standing on the other side and watching the girl with burning eyes and ran away as soon as our eyes met. The girl invited me to her father’s quarter while departing.
Next day Tandra took me aside and whispered, “Have you seen the large mole on the right cheek of the girl? It’s an ominous sign of witches and goblins. In my father’s village a boy had friendship with such a girl and while found him alone she turned into a ferocious black cat and killed him by sucking out all his blood.” I had a bad dream that night that the girl, head turned into a cat’s with protruding long teeth, grunting like a tiger and chasing me through a forest track. I got terrified and never met the girl again.
I was very proud at all the teachers calling me child prodigy and had no friends at school and Tandra was my lone friend and we used to explore together all the places around. Our house was a vast area taking almost the entire northern side of the bye road that led from the main road to the railway station and to the western flank of our compound opposite the railway office building across the tracks was the kachhari of the large estate that embraced almost the entire district of Jalpaiguri and it also included the timber rich Baikunthaput forest.
The borders of our garden and the kachhari were fenced by barbed wire fastened on saal posts by u-shaped nails. To the north and north-west were the vast jute and paddy fields dotted with cluster of trees, bamboo groves and straw-roofed peasant shacks and dissolving into tea gardens flanked at the north by dense forest that rose in height in a curve into the Darjeeling hills crowned by the majestic peaks of the Kanchenjunga. About two kilo meters to the west the plain was cut north-south by the river Talma fed by hundreds of tiny streams that galloped down from the Sikkim glaciers, meandered gingerly through the forest and irrigated the tea gardens.
Tandra’s father, Birbahadur Pradhan, was the security guard of the kachhari and lived with his family in the small hut behind the office premises of the kachhari and beneath a giant mango tree not far from the fence of our garden. Tandra’s mother was called kanchhi as she was the youngest among her sisters.
We’d struck loose the nails with stone slabs and battered down the barbed wires at places, covered from vision of others by tall ferns, to make passages which we could sneak through at ease.
On holidays and Sundays we used to slip out over to the fields and talk out all sorts of things of our dreams, imaginations, ghost stories, fables and superstitions while racing along the elevated foot tracks cutting through the fields, at times resting in shades of bushy trees and thickets and throwing pebbles at the silvery water of Talma and in winter it was thrilling to pluck wild plums from bushes that lined the bank of the river in wavy semi circles.
At times Mofiz, the strongly built herd boy would join us. He was always clad in only a loin cloth and had well set ivory teeth in a rounded face and dense black hair cropped small to give the look of a tightly fitted black cap. He used to entertain us with blood chilling stories of bad zins and witches. Tandra had a good collection of phantom stories learnt from her grand mother and I told them of places learnt from my geography book. Mofiz forbade us to go near the cabbage like large tamarind tree at the corner where the rail track had crossed the river by a wooden bridge and below which the Muslim cemetery lay alongside the Hindu cremation ground and the river too, he warned, was unsafe at high noon when the mean gods of the Rajbansi’s used to play in water with their wives and mistresses.
V
There were more clouds at the mid sky which now wore a murky look and I asked casually, “How much land do you own?”
“Only this house and the plots lining the track you’d come through. We grow vegetables here for family use and flowers for beauty. We at times distribute vegetables to neighbors but never sell. Each of the dozen houses around owns small plots and the wasteland, marshes and thickets are properties of tea gardens and ones close to the high road are owned by the government. We have a pond inside and I’ll show you something interesting.”
Tandra straightened up and brought up a mug full of fried-rice from the kitchen that jutted out from the far end of the verandah with an opening on the verandah. I followed her across the room and the inner courtyard to the pond and as she told threw a handful of friend-rice into the still water and in a moment there was commotion in the water and a large number of blackish fish floated up to the surface jostling rhythmically, fighting among themselves and somersaulting while gulping the floating food.
“I recall you loved fishing very much but had strong aversion to cooked fish and you had to eat with spoons after fishing as soaps could not remove the fishy smell from your hands. He-he, a true pag-gal (crazy boy).” Tandra giggled out frantically.
Returning  to the verandah Tandra was still giggling and I felt drowsy and asked her for tea and she, end of the sari on her mouth in an effort to control laughter, walked over to the kitchen and I heard the clanking of the utensils. I looked ahead and watched the enormous ball of pitch-dark cloud sliding down the folds of the mountain in slow pace and now the forest at the slope broke into islands floating on an inclined dark sea.
VI
The jute office that year had distributed chemical fertilizers among poor share croppers free of cost and the jute field bordering our garden grew dense and tall. Tandra and I crossed through the opening and battered down jute plants to make a ten feet long narrow track and the plants on either side curved down head to head to give the opening the look of a cave. At the far end we pulled down plants to create an elliptical haven large enough to accommodate both of us and seated on the battered bushy plants we felt great at having made our own secret niche.
 “We’ll now play a thrilling game.” Tandra whispered and looked a bit nervous.
“I’m not in it if it’s bidi smoking again. It hurts my throat and the odor does not go even after soap-washing and chewing bunches of tulsi (sacred basil) leaves.”
 “No, it’s a new game. It’s baby feeding game and you’d enjoy it.”
She lisped conspiratorially and pulled the frock over her head and drew me close with her hand on the back of my head.
While departing, she proposed a more thrilling game, the husband-wife game, she’d seen her parents playing and I assured her I’ll steal out next noon the required mat and bed sheet.
The game we’d already played was thrilling no doubt but a guilt consciousness lingered all through and coursed through me to make me sick. At night I had bad dreams and next morning I’d bad headache and high fever. I recovered in a few days and dared not query if Tandra had come during my illness as this might provoke my brother and sister to bring up again the loathsome Devdas-Parvati stuff.
In the evening I with my brother and sister sat on a mat outside the gate gossiping and watching the blazing dots of fireflies on the dark canvas around and we got up as a jeep honked and turned into our lane. My uncle, with his familiar detective cap and majestic gait disembarked with bags full of ripe mangoes and sweets pasted with poppy seeds. He’d business meetings at Jalpaiguri and would be back to Maldah by road after a few days’ halt at our house.
During his stay we three used to gather around him after dinner and he entertained us late into the night with stories of his adventures in Africa, Amazon and Philippines and we enjoyed much although aunt had warned us not to believe him as he’d never stepped out of North Bengal. On the day before his departure uncle proposed that I could accompany him for a fortnight’s tour of Maldah as about a month of my summer vacation was still left and I leapt at the proposal. Father was reluctant at first but uncle could eventually get his consent on condition that I would take my books along and uncle would take care of my studies.
I spent a swell time at Maldah with my loving aunt and the smart and jovial cousins and upon return I learnt that Bahadur with his family was gone, to where no body could tell. The estate had been vested in government under Zamindari Abolition Act and the kachhari would now be converted into the Forest Range Office for Baikunthapur division and all the erstwhile employees of the kachhari had to vacate the premises at short notice.
VII
The tea brewed from Doors brand broken orange pekoe was strong and enervating and I noticed Tandra surveying me intently while I sipped through the tea.
“Can you recollect the childhood?” I queried.
“Better cut it all off. They’re all stored deep in my mind and I should not let them out. I was then an innocent child and ignorant, but now I know things. You’ve a large heart none else do possess I believe, but the world around is different and it’s a grave sin to disobey the rules and custom of the society we’re in.”
She paused for a while and said in an under tone,
“You should have been married and there’s still time. You are so nice, any woman would love you.”
“Not ‘any’ woman. Only a few have the hearts to love and the lucky few who are being loved truly are God’s favorites.”
The driver came over gasping, “Sir the sky portends bad. We are to leave off right away.”
I bed goodbye and followed the driver to the car and in back glance noticed the sad eyes of Tandra from the distance that was now and had ever been between us. 
Halfway through to the national highway the downpour caught us and I peered ahead to decipher only the head of the driver and the wipers frantically fighting off the lashing torrents and the carefree driver, well accustomed to wading through foggy hills, tuned the CD player on letting the joyous Sarchopa song of dragon festival boom in.
May be I’m among the select few who are being loved and can love too.
The downpour had now raced ahead leaving us behind and turning around I watched through the hind glass the receding line of trees and away off, the deep blue of the mountain glistening in slanted sun rays from the west. I felt great and happy.


Chapter-II: The First Rain

I
I looked expectantly at the lump of nimbus gathering in the north-western sky and observed below the hazy silhouette of hills and further below the dark line of forest arching majestically the vast undulating field dotted with scatters of straw cottages, bamboo groves and clusters of trees. The setting sun was now peeping bashfully through the translucent lining at the lower end of the pitch-dark bulk of the cloud that looked like a gigantic serpent waiting viciously for its prey. The scattered sun rays had tinged orange on the multi-shaped cirrus floating away as though fleeing in fear of the monster hanging above motionless. My eyes brightened momentarily with hope although I felt at heart that it was the same false hope of the first rain tempting me every afternoon for the last few days and I knew well that soon a strong wind would drive away the nimbus leaving me alone with utter hollowness under a clear sky and mocking stars and the moon.
To the east, the institution with its majestic buildings, adorned with exquisite lines of pines, jaruls, cryptomarius, saals, teaks and magnolias, now looked like an antique castle. The trees inside the campus were watered with deep tube wells making a striking contrast of healthiness to the famished paddy fields outside like the magnificent Indian cities encircled by despicable slums. The owners had revealed excellent business foresight by establishing this institution, offering engineering and management courses, at this rural milieu by the highroad, midway between the towns of Jalpaiguri and Siliguri. Bus transportation being easy and frequent it was now attracting plenty of students from both these towns and rural and semi-urban areas in between. Two majestic hostels, one for the girls and the other for the boys, had enabled students from Darjeeling, Sikkim and Bhutan, Coochbehar, Maldah and even Kolkata to join this institution of high academic standards. The institution amidst shabby rural ambience had now become a perfect epitome of the world with majestic cities juxtaposed with despicable slums, and prosperous countries with famine ridden neighbors.
I turned my vision again toward the field languishing with moribund crops and the grass on the muddy raised partitions of plots all turned yellow as though infected with malignant jaundice. It was the second week of June and rains had been denied since the last spell of monsoon in October. April and May had come and departed with their usual cyclonic spells but scanty rain. Environmentalists had ascribed this hazard to eco-damaging human inadvertence and the rural people had started worshipping gods, apparitions and spooks presuming the mishap to be the outcome of curses and displeasures of these celestial entities. My expectant eyes were drawn again to the nimbus and I started consoling my mind that it was different from the earlier ones and it would rain for sure that night and then again the moroseness took possession of my heart.
This vast field, bordered on the north-western side by the highway and spreading to the south-east beyond the border into the Panchagarh and Dinajpur districts of Bangladesh was used to be irrigated by innumerable trans-border rivers and water courses with origins in glaciers high up in the Himalayan ranges in Sikkim and Darjeeling ensuring free flow of water all through the year that had made the cultivators of both the countries free from dependence on rain water. The plantation craze to convert paddy and jute fields on the upper courses of the rivers into small tea gardens radically changed the situation. The major rivers were blocked with barrages and most of the water was diverted into canals irrigating the tea groves and the rest of water through Maldah canal to irrigate scantily rained areas in the districts of Maldah and the Indian part of the Dinajpur district and soon the rivers at the lower courses dried up depriving cultivators in Bangladesh and border region of North Bengal where soil was not fit for tea plantation.
The poor peasants in this region were incapable of affording tube-well irrigation and they had to fall back on the mercy of the rain god and fortunately till the last year the god had provided adequate rains facilitating continuation of paddy cultivation. Now the god had turned away its face. The god too seemed to be rich-friendly and poor-averse as they had unleashed the curse on the poor cultivators for the eco-damaging mischief of the rich.
I started traipsing along the narrow raised partition of the paddy plots toward the south-eastern corner where the river had taken a distinct U-turn and flown gently down across the border into Tentulia of Bangladesh and the barbed wires marking the international border were distinctly visible. The gentle breeze made the summer heat tolerable now and I paced down leisurely being absorbed in the half-hearted expectation of the first monsoon rain that would not only moderate the unendurable summer heat but also rejuvenate the jaundiced crops of the fields. I picked out the camera from my side bag and started taking snaps of the moribund crops and cobweb like cracks on the dried-up plots. These along with the other snaps I had already taken since my arrival here would enrich my article on the effect of indiscriminate diversion of water of the major rivers around here to the Maldah canal. This had been the basic cause of Indo-Bangladesh dispute over trans-country water resources. The Mumbai-based journal I had been working with took serious interest in the matter and I was entrusted with the task of making a thorough survey of the real situation in the region. I had at first checked in at a good hotel at Siliguri but shifted later on to my bachelor friend’s quarter at the North Bengal Institute of Technology and Management situated at a place that would offer me proximity to the actual spot of my survey.
I approached near the river bank and was amazed to hear a stentorian female voice declaiming some poem, seemed to be of Rilke. She was leaning on an emaciated tree on the bank of the river and her tousled long and thick hair was fluttering in the gentle breeze. I at once recognized her, ‘the crazy girl’. An inexplicable exhilaration coursed through me.
Rustles of dried leaves made by my foot steps gave her a start and she stopped reciting and looked back and was immensely elated to see me.
‘Oh it must be telepathy, I was thinking of you all through and you’re here now. Where had you been for the last few days?’
She seemed to have little interest in my reply to her query and I was flummoxed and got affixed to the spot as she suddenly stood up, rushed toward me and catching hold my shoulders hard tried frantically to reach for my lips. Sudden reflex prompted me to shove her aside forcefully and in an extremely harsh tone I admonished her,
‘What the hell are you doing, you shameless crazy girl!’
She now came to senses and said apologetically,
‘Believe me I have not done it intentionally, I like you so much and discovering you here I simply lost my head.’
‘Do you know I’m thirty plus and you’re barely eighteen?’
‘I like you anyway, but what a horrible thing I was going to do!’
She blushed and closed her eyes in utter embarrassment.
II
I happened to come upon this girl only a few days ago. Alok, my friend, was busy taking classes and being utterly bored reading books and watching trashy T.V. serials I had come out into the porch and traipsed along the tarmac path, lined on both sides with flower bushes and exquisitely designed cypresses, to the café of the institute. Multicolored polythene chairs were laid under chhatim trees, the bushy tops cut neatly into the shape of vast umbrellas, in front of the café and all the chairs but one were empty. I got seated on a chair and looked sideways at the other occupant at the extreme corner, a smart looking beautiful teenager dressed in black jeans and checkered top, the vast chignon knotted tight with butterfly-shaped white clips and she seemed to be engrossed in a book looking like the paperback edition of some English novel.
I ordered a cup of strong black coffee without sugar. The girl looked up and turning her eyes toward me exclaimed, ‘You too prefer raw coffee like me,’ and my vision got transfixed on her enchanting countenance with large luminous eyes, sharp chin, aquiline nose and large earrings. She closed the book, got up and to my utter surprise trotted over to me and dropped on the chair right beside me. She giggled to watch my puzzled countenance and uttered in an ecstatic tone, ‘I know you sir, but you don’t know me, how funny!’ She now started laughing loudly. I got alarmed as she seemed like the cheap girls of questionable morality. I asked gravely, ‘How come you know me? I don’t reside here.’
 She stopped laughing and said in a serious tone, ‘Yes I know it. You’re a journalist from Mumbai, aren’t you? I have seen you talking with A.M sir and overheard your conversation with A.M. in the park.’
‘I think eavesdropping is an unpardonable offence.’
‘I’m not in that habit sir, I’m really sorry,’ she fumbled and looked embarrassed. ‘I was just passing by and your description of the rivers, forests, flora and fauna of this place was so enchanting that I could not resist temptation to listen to your discourses.’
I was now convinced that my apprehensions about her designs was quite unjustified and asked casually, ‘you too are fond of nature I suppose.’
‘Certainly. I love nature from my very childhood.’ Her eyes brightened up and the candid looks made me reassured about her harmlessness.
She continued, ‘you’ve added a new dimension to my power of vision and henceforth everything around this place would appear with deeper significance to me. How long are you staying here, by the way?’
‘Only ten days more, enough to complete the assigned task, but from the standpoint of quest of knowledge, I would have to remain dissatisfied, especially in connection with the origins of rivers like Chaowai, Talma and Karala deep inside the forest. I’m afraid I would never have any opportunity to visit this place again and meet my unfulfilled desires.’
‘I may help you if you like.’
‘How?’
She said enthusiastically, ‘I would undertake to discover the origins of the rivers and report along with photographs to you by e-mail. It would indeed be a good adventure and I’m frightfully fond of adventures.’
‘I think you are attached with some student adventure team?’
She laughed out gently, ‘No body except me is interested in adventures here. They are all out and out careerists, cannot think of anything other than good jobs and money.’
‘I don’t think it would be possible for you alone to undertake so many hazards to trace out the origins of these rivers. Do you know it’s extremely risky?’
‘Can’t you trust my courage and guts sir?’
She looked hurt and to console her I said, ‘O.K. I’ll give you my e-mail ID.’
She looked satisfied now. However, I knew fully well that the momentary enthusiasm would soon pass off and she would never send any report of her adventure as it would never happen. I had to struggle hard to suppress laughter and to divert away from the topic I asked, ‘which book were you reading?’
‘Poems of Rilke, my most favorite poet. Have you read him?’
‘Only some of his poems.’
‘Is not he great?’
‘Unquestionably.’
‘Samir what are you doing here?’ Loud voice of Alok startled me and our conversation was interrupted abruptly. He rushed over to us and looking at the girl said in a polite tone, ‘I’m sorry Susmita for intrusion, but I’m to show my friend a very interesting thing. You may talk later on.’
 He pulled at my hand, paid my coffee bill ignoring the burning eyes of the girl and after walking over to an inaudible distance from the girl said laughing, ‘I displayed this acting simply to rescue you from this crazy girl.’
‘Crazy girl? I don’t understand.’
‘Susmita is no doubt one of the most attractive girls but she’s extremely proud and crazy too.’
‘Is she mentally unbalanced?’
‘I in fact did not mean that. She’s a brilliant student, a good singer and an excellent classical dancer and she writes good fictions too. She is the lone issue of a rich owner of food processing factories at Maldah and various other places. She’s whimsical, at times dresses gorgeously and occasionally she’s also extremely careless about garments, she’s intrepid and walks alone in the lonely fields and even inside the forest and above all she’s extremely proud, does not like friendship with the girls and hates morbidly the male folks. Many students, even some professors had fallen in love with her and were miserably humiliated as soon as they attempted to be intimate with her. I’m afraid you may fall in love with the girl and meet with the same fate.’
I was extremely surprised to hear this account of the girl which could hardly be substantiated by my own experience and I said in a protesting voice.
‘But it’s she who initiated the conversation today and she seemed extremely polite, simple and friendly all through and she never appeared to be like one you’ve just described.’
‘I think it’s her new game and before long you’d discover her true nature. So look out and don’t be carried away,’
I did not reply Alok and had to suppress anger with painstaking efforts and it dawned on me that Alok himself could have been one of the victims and therefore hated the girl.
Alok fell asleep in time that night but I could not sleep for a long time and the thought of the girl started assailing me. I tried hard but could not drive her out of my mind. Beautiful girls from rich families are proud and snobbish by nature but this girl hardly gave any such impression, she was so cordial, simple and friendly and there was no trace of flirting and game playing in her behavior. Yes she might be whimsical and her enigmatic behavior too was not unnatural for a girl of her age.
Next morning I woke up late and found that my cigarettes were almost exhausted. My choicest brand was not available at the local stalls and so I decided to buy some from Siliguri. I was waiting for the next bus and an inexplicable sense of elation coursed through me as I heard the sweet voice, ‘hello sir, what are you standing alone by the road side for?’ She started giggling frantically and raced over to me. She looked like a morning rose and there was hardly any trace of pride and snobbery.
I could not repress the spontaneous joyous feeling and replied in a soft tone, ‘waiting for the Siliguri bus, I’m to buy cigarettes of my choicest brand.’
‘Oh. I’ll also accompany you and show you beautiful sights you’d like for sure.’
I got horribly irritated and panicked too but felt helplessly that it would be impossible to prevent this fluky girl from accompanying me and spoiling the journey. My apprehensions, however, were dispelled in course of conversations with her in the bus and at Siliguri and I could not but be grateful to her for accompanying me to the northern part of Siliguri with the picturesque hotels fronted by congested stalls, travel offices, awkwardly parked vehicles with the backdrop of the majestic Himalyan ranges of Darjeeling and Sikkim. We had our lunch at a posh restaurant and we gossiped on various topics and I was astounded at her variegated interests and range and depth of knowledge. My curiosity about this enigmatic girl went on increasing in course of our conversation and I at last asked, ‘you’re so jovial and friendly, you’ve plenty of good friends here I suppose.’
‘Not a single one,’ she scowled and smiled sadly.
‘Why? Don’t they like you?’
‘I care a fig if they like me or not. I myself simply dislike them.’
‘Why?’ I was really confused now.
‘They are too practical, nothing but materialistic robots. They cannot dream for a single moment and I don’t know how a human being could live without dreams.’
I smiled sympathetically and said, ‘you seem to be fond of dreaming.’
‘Very much,’ her eyes brightened, ‘in fact I like much to live in the dreamland.’
‘But how could you live ignoring the real material world?’
‘Material living and dream both are real and I never disregard the mundane reality notwithstanding my dreams.’
I ignored the rest of her silly talks and in bed at night I felt Alok was at least partially right. She’s an extremely quirky girl and problematic in this sense and for the next few days I did my best to avoid meeting this girl. But suddenly someone within me queried, ‘aren’t you too crazy?’ And in a moment torrents of nostalgic imageries started assailing me.
III
During my adolescence, young girls used to appear to me as creatures of an unknown mysterious land. This was haply due to my upbringing in a rural conservative family of Midnapore district and my congenital shy and introvert nature. I, however, frankly admit that during my adolescence, girls of neighboring houses and ones I happened to come across occasionally at various places, raised within me some queer feeling, some inexplicable sense of charm; the enchanting features that made me, very secretly, feel an irresistible longing to have communication with them, to explore the unknown world of those uncanny creatures. But I failed miserably every time I attempted to make my secret longings come to fruition. Even if some of them took initiative on their own, they ultimately had to be utterly disappointed because of my inbuilt shy and shaky nature, which was generally misinterpreted as loathsome pride. The order of things changed very little even after I got admitted to the most sophisticated college of the great city of Calcutta.
As I got rid of initial shyness, some girls belonging to our class approached me simply for friendship, and to my own surprise, I could freely talk with them and did not hesitate to gossip in groups, containing both male and female batch mates, in the coffee house. My notion about their uncanny charm started wearing off as soon as I got accustomed to the company of the girls. Thus the acquaintances with the erstwhile uncanny creatures remained casual as all the girls I came upon appeared drab and unattractive having no semblance with the marvelous creature of my mysterious dreamland I had been visualizing since my very adolescence.
But soon the things changed. She was a south Indian girl, swarthy complexioned and features quite dissimilar to the Bengali girls I had come across so far. She was all the more unique for her peculiar way of speaking English with distinct Malayalam accent – as I could not speak Malayalam and she Bengali, the only communication medium was English. Notwithstanding her complexion, her physical features, particularly her eyes, made her extremely attractive. I had been promoted to the second year when she got admitted to our subject as a first year student. The first encounter was accidental and very brief. I was then reading some book in the library. She suddenly stood up and came over to me and asked casually if I could suggest some text books for the beginners for the first paper. I immediately jotted down a few references on the subject and she left off for the catalog stand. The slim figure disappeared between the clusters of almirahs, but I was nonplussed as if by sudden exposure to high voltage current. I could not concentrate on the book I had been reading, but did not have the nerves to approach her and help her in tracing out the appropriate catalogues. I did not see her for about a week but her memory lingered like something glued irremovably to my entity. Then gradually the memory started fading off.
But the miraculous happened after a few days. About a week after my first encounter I had just stepped out of the college and was looking for friends to gossip with at the coffee house. My gaze suddenly fell on her standing outside the college gate and she greeted me with a sweet smile to acknowledge recognition. Then she beckoned me and coming close by asked forthrightly, ‘like to have some coffee?’ In a moment my heart bit became uncontainable sending me to the seventh heaven and I became speechless for a few moments. Gathering myself after a while I replied in a choked tone, ‘I would be glad to’. She smiled affably, ‘O.K., help me find some second hand book first. I cannot speak Bengali or Hindi and the stall owners do not speak English”. She was looking for a book by J. S. Mill. It was found at the sixth stall we tried. After tedious bargaining we settled down to a reasonable price and I asked the stall boy to check up the book and pack it. As soon as he dragged the book out of the shabby rack, the girl shrieked and bumped on me, the touch of her soft boobs on my chest sending tremors through my spine. ‘What happened?’ I asked after regaining composure. She replied still gasping, ‘oh the nasty cockroach, it’s gone now.’ The stall owner had already crushed the innocent insect by his sandal.
On our way to the coffee house she apologized, ‘sorry, I could not help it, don’t mind’. Suppressing the turmoil within me I replied jokingly, ‘why should I? Contrarily I feel immensely grateful to the insect as it presented me the heavenly moment’.
‘Oh naughty boy you look so innocent!’
The company of the girl gave me real thrill but only for a few months. She soon started revealing her drabness like all other girls I had got acquainted with earlier. I had later on friendship with a few more girls but was disappointed again and again and eventually got down to the conviction that all real girls are mechanistic and drab and the girl I had been cherishing was but the creation of my wild imagination.
A few months ago my elder sister had insisted me on marriage as it was high time according to her and my aged parents were desirous of seeing me established in life according to their aspirations. I agreed right away, said that I had no girl of my own choice and I’d marry the girl she would select for me. I thought marriage has nothing to do with romantic love; it’s but a practical relation based on mutual respect, friendship and fellow feeling and necessary for some biological and other practical needs and in this regard my sister with her age and experience would be a better judge than me. Soon my sister showed me the picture of a good looking girl, gave a lengthy description of her qualities and asked if I could afford time to have frank talks with her at any appointed place. I selected Calcutta Coffee House and the girl and their parents consented about the venue. I assured them that I would fix a date of mutual convenience right after my return from the North-Bengal tour.
IV
I returned from the past and glanced steadily at Susmita who had now started fumbling for words to express apology and I was amazed to watch her awkward countenance out of embarrassment, and could barely manage to suppress laughter at her stammering and disjointed sentences. All of a sudden the onslaught of lightning that slashed the sky from end to end blinded our eyes and the horrible rumble that followed startled both of us. Clearing my eyes I peered at her in the semi darkness caused by the vast cloud invading half of the western sky and found her clutching hard at the tree and trembling in terror. She blushed to discover me watching her helplessness, steadied herself and said with a smirk ‘Sorry’.
Suddenly a strong wind showered us with barrages of dust, dead leaves and tattered twigs. She turned ecstatic and lively again. I could not join her ecstasy as my heart sank to realize that this wind would soon sweep away the rain cloud but my moroseness perished as soon as the coolness of heavy drops of rain assailed my cheeks mercilessly. The girl now started dancing frantically and reciting from Rilke:
“Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
And the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing name
And the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
Fall; again and again the two of us walk out together
Under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
Among the flowers, face to face with the sky”

Her voice became almost inaudible owing to the frenzy of rain and wind and relentless rumbling overhead. She was now undaunted and looked like a mythical goddess displaying her cosmic dance. I was amazed to discover myself dancing frantically with her. We then started running aimlessly along the riverbank and we had to stop for breath after a while. The rain went on unabated with increasing intensity with the accompanying vehemence of lightning and the blood chilling rumbling of thunder. I took hold of her hands and felt the tremors. The four luminous eyes met and torrents of bliss sprang up from the depth of our hearts. Time got dissolved into eternity and we got lost in the downpour, the First Monsoon Rain.


Chapter-III: The Tale of Two Cities

I
Notwithstanding the dingy roads, nerve rending traffic congestion, the sweltering heat, the nagging humidity, the relentless power cuts, horrible mosquito menace, suffocating smoggy atmosphere, the nauseating filth scattered all along the streets and alleys, footpaths over-congested with shabby vendors, the traffic damaging political processions and the free play of ballot-box hoodlums, a sensitive dweller of Kolkata may visualize the inner niceties of the great city, its life sustaining force in spite of all the overt or covert complaints against the natural and man-made hazards encountered in the city.
It nevertheless misses something and a vital one, the romantic thrill, the fancied ambience where one may float leisurely in the mystic world of imagination and a Kolkata dweller may at times get some respite in a sojourn at another city of West Bengal, the queen of the hills, Darjeeling; he may get immense pleasure in the foggy uncertainties, the hide and seek game of fog and sunshine, intrepid adventure in a world where the borderlines of visibility and nothingness overlap, the overpowering mysticism that transcends his soul to an uncanny world where Kolkata, the very source of his existence, is relegated momentarily into complete oblivion.
II
A surge of uncanny feeling suddenly took possession of Avik. He felt as though floating in air, in the dreamland of supreme bliss. Commuters of the busy M.G. road went on flowing through him in unending torrents. The sensation was so novel, so unimaginable that it benumbed all his senses. He could not make out what exactly had happened to him and how. He could not at first realize it but as he started surging through the crowded footpath the sensation suddenly triggered him, first as a streak of queer sensation and then it started snowballing until it engulfed his entire entity.
It was not to happen if the saying “morning shows the day” has any real connotation at all. Last night he had a bad sleep and the reason was deep chagrin for the audacity of the craftsman who had been continuously harassing him for the last few weeks. It would be the fifth time today. All through the sleepless night, tossing from side to side, he planned again and again how to greet the man whether he delivered the metallic seal or not. Last year he had borrowed one from a senior professor, but he was not satisfied as the initials were not his own. The university clerks told that it did not make any difference at all. Avik too had forgotten the matter. Then while walking toward Sealdah he suddenly came upon the signboard “all kinds of rubber stamps and seals are made here” at the Amherst Street crossing. The cost was moderate. So, this year he would be able to seal the scripts with his own initial “A.R”.
While approaching the shop on the agreed delivery date, this sort of inner comfort started playing through his mind. But it was only short lived as the craftsman politely expressed his apology giving him another sure date. But Avik was to be greeted with three more sure dates and this time he resolved not to remain polite. To his utter surprise and confusion, he could not find any trace of the ill feeling that he had nurtured all through the torturous night. The unexpected spectacle had dissolved everything and only an uncanny sensation of enthusiastic emotion forced Avik to hurriedly take delivery of the seal (this time the craftsman did not fail), make payment and leave without uttering a single unpleasant word to the craftsman.
Only half an hour back, wading through the jungle of pedestrians, Avik had felt languid in the summer heat and rested for a while under the shade of a stall encroaching into the sidewalk. He had looked up and came upon the fragment of the sky that showed through the small triangle etched out by the foliage of three drooping trees – a chhatim, a krishnachura, and a banyan, fortunate yet to have escaped the choppers of the loggerhead politicians who seem to have resolved to make the city tree-less. He was overwhelmed to watch a bunch of cloud floating across and forming multiple designs, a vast sooty canvas edged whitish and untiringly fragmenting into shapes and forms. He could not remove his eyes from the spectacle never experienced before in the dingy city. He looked at his wristwatch and hurried off to reach the craftsman’s shop on time lest any delay may give him some excuse if he failed this time too.
Since he had returned from North Bengal he felt utterly morose and dejected. The Marwari travel agent at Siliguri had warned that Darjeeling would be unsafe because of Gorkha movement and there was little likelihood that the intricate issue would be resolved in near future – they would not budge an inch from their demand of Gorkha Land and the government would never open up Pandora’s Box by acquiescing at such unjustified demand. As soon as he had stepped down the narrow staircase a Nepali boy approached him and asked if he was looking for a trip to Darjeeling.
‘Is it safe?’ Avik asked.
‘Why not?’ The boy expressed surprise.
‘The movement?’
‘Oh it’s politics and nothing to do with tourists. You know sir we would starve if tourists are frightened off this way by these kaiya buggers. There’s still a vacant seat in the land rover. Come with me, quick.’
It was a back seat, likely to jolt at every sharp turn, but Avik did not mind as he would be able to have the panoramic view both from the side and through the open backside of the vehicle. At the last moment, however, his hopes were shattered as a bulky Bhutia was thrashed into the little space remaining to his side and at every turn, which was very frequent, he had to endure the weight that almost crushed him and the stench from the unwashed clothes and body of the giant with a large mouth, tiny eyes and creased forehead, was morbidly sickening.
The stopovers for tea at Kurseong and Ghoom gave him some relief and he could freely stretch the strained legs and finally the stinking demon alighted at Sonada. His left side all the way from shoulder down to the toes was painful due to the relentless thrashing of the bulk of the Bhutia, but his heart leapt up as soon as he realized that he was going to be in his dreamed city in no time.
As the vehicle turned off right to bring to clear vision the cloud smeared dwellings that sloped gently down the hills taking the outer flank of Darjeeling Avik was seized with ecstasy and closed his eyes to float in imagination in the dreamland that he would encounter in a matter of minutes. The chilly wind through the open window greeted him and relieved all the accumulated chagrin in course of the torturous journey. He asked the driver to stop at Chawk bazaar and got down with his side bag strapped to his shoulder. The place as usual was busy and dingy and he moved sideways down a narrow lane to a tea stall and ordered tea and biscuit getting seated on the half broken bench propped up with a stone slab. It was not at all cold as there was no fog now and the sun was shining bright on the distant hills visible through the opening of the maze of dingy shops down ahead; and he need not open his bag to bring out the sweater. The forty-past Nepali woman with a puckered face and wearing a dazzling sari and a heavy silver ring dangling from her nostril, greeted Avik with a charming candid smile defying her age and said,
‘There are good momos, both chicken and veg. Like to taste a plate sir?’
‘No need now,’ Avik smiled back. ‘I’ll have it later on while I feel hungry. Please serve the tea hot and fresh from flavor leaves. I’ll pay the reasonable price.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve already put the best tea with me for brewing.’
Avik watched with amazement Nepalis of all ages, mostly laborers, moving hither and thither, Bhutia women carrying on their backs, attached with stripes fastened across forehead, heavy luggage beyond the capacity of even the stoutest coolie at Howrah station and overhead luggage trolleys gliding up and down leisurely along the ropeway. Memories of the past returned to his mind and seized him with nostalgia. Now the most beautiful segment of the city would open up with all its marvels as soon as he would move up toward the mall. The tea was good; these Nepali women never tell lies unlike the slickers at Kolkata shops. He lighted a cigarette and looked up to have a glimpse of the sky which was clear and azure and he thought soon fog would make it all different. This is the mystery of this hill city.
He moved ahead and started climbing the first path that led after a few bends to the straight road sloping gently up toward mall, the paradise embellishing the city. As soon as he crossed the dingy market place and turned off to take the road toward mall, the shock came, slowly first and then it engulfed his heart and made him feel morose and hollow. All the way up he could not get any trace of the dream city. All charm gone, it was lousy and seedy with smutty buildings, hillsides overgrown with shrubs and monkeys merrily loitering on the passage with the cubs playing with the dirt scattered around; congeries of mucks, shards and pieces of crumpled papers heaped at every corner with the nauseating fetor. ‘Is this the dream city? Or I’ve come by mistake to some other place, or it’s simply a nightmare?’ Avik said to himself. The mall too was lackluster, vapid and utterly disappointing. Avik hurried down to the bus stand and returned by the first bus he got.
All the way back he felt painfully what the movement had done to the glamorous city and he also realized the falsity of the outward gloss that so far had befooled him. It now truly looked like a place devastated by heavy bombardment. His uncle used to say, ‘Don’t take anything at firsthand appearance. The first gloss may as well be deceptive.’ He had this wisdom from a bitter experience. He had been one of the most ardent fans of Sonny Liston; he rated the boxer above Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano and even Sugar Ray Robinson. Then the two bouts with almost unknown Cassius Clay conspicuously proved his worthlessness hidden below his deceptive prowess. This is the way things go for those who fly into ecstasy at the glimpse of anything that appears enchanting at first sight and without any scrutiny as to the perpetuity of the outward sheen, Avik thought.
The audacity of the seal-maker had added to his agony; but now he felt free from all ill feeling. The fragment of the city sky peeping through the crevice made by the trees had done all these and the spectacle took possession of his thought.
III
The next Sunday he attended, as pre-planned, a get together at Behala to the south of the city, of old friends at college and most of the friends at Kolkata turned up. It was a lively meeting and they enjoyed lively nostalgic gossiping, singing, listening to music, playing card games and the lunch with fried rice, roasted chicken and pineapple chatni was sumptuous. All the friends except Avik and Timir were from the south. Timir’s house was at Shyambazar, only a few paces from Avik’s. So the two hailed a taxi which got slower due to traffic congestion after racing fast up along the Diamond Harbor Road and eventually got stuck up in a traffic jam; but they were not worried as they had no need to hurry back home so early.
Avik looked through the windscreen and his eyes stuck at a fantastic view – an uncanny palace emerging above the dark line made by the trees beside the race course. It was golden yellow in the glow of mercury lights flowing gently down the dome and the dark humanoid figure above the dome projecting right toward the sky endowed it with weirdness. Avik got befuddled and could not make out what it was. Is it real or figment of imagination, he thought. He turned aside and saw Timir too absorbed in the spectacle. ‘Oh, the Victoria Memorial,’ he commented without looking at Avik. ‘Have you ever seen it like this?”
‘No,’ Avik replied. ‘In fact we never had opportunity to see it from this angle and at these hours.’
‘So we could rediscover things we’ve seen hundreds of times,’ Timir commented with the seriousness of a philosopher.
‘Certainly. As a matter of fact, we ought to change our attitudes,’ Avik too turned a bit philosophical.
The traffic commenced moving up like a giant getting out of slumber and then the taxi picked up gear and the spectacle zoomed in fast and lost into oblivion as the taxi turned off toward the Red Road. They left the taxi at Hatibagan, had dinner from a restaurant and went home on foot.
Upon returning home and getting into bed after undressing and the usual chores, his mind got engrossed in the spectacle he had encountered in the evening and he felt himself floating into the golden palace beyond the tree lines and up above into the sky. His dream got interrupted at the music of the door-bell. ‘Who the hell has the audacity to ring the bell at these hours?’ He said to himself in deep disgust.
Avik tidied his night dress and languidly opened the door and Mrs. Sur ushered in Nira, dead drunk. Nira surged ahead like a zombie and made the bed and fell asleep without even putting off the sandals. Mrs. Sur, the elderly lady, looked up apologetically.
‘What the hell have you brought her here for?’ Avik could not resist anger.
Mrs. Sur said meekly, ‘She’s no where else to go. All doors are closed on her.’
‘Mine too would be closed in no time.’
‘My son, I share your feelings. Give her shelter for the night at least. I’ll talk with you tomorrow and see what I can do.’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘My hubby had office meeting that ran late into night and returning home our driver, who knows her, noticed her seated drowsily outside Trincas bar. The driver stopped the car and my hubby sent the car for me and I forced her into our car. Mr. Sur wanted to take her home but it would have bad impressions on my grand children and my daughter-in-law hates her. So I had no alternative but to bring her here. I don’t find words to apologize for causing you so much trouble.
‘You need not aunty. Sorry for offending you.’ Avik said in a placatory tone.
‘Not at all. I would’ve done the same if I were in your place. My hubby is waiting in the car. I’ll talk with you next morning. Until then.’
‘Good night.’
Avik returned to his room and could not sleep for the rest of the night. The hussy had taken up a new job at Bangalore and left and Avik thought she would not return again. Now, she was here again, boozed to the brim to soothe out the wounds of rat race. Had she lost her job there, would she again opt for staying here? ‘I’m through with her and must do something to rid her’, Avik was determined.
IV
To avoid encountering Nira, Avik left bed early next morning, did the usual chores and instructed the gate keeper who had risen early as usual and was washing teeth, to keep watch on her till he returned. The morning breeze was pleasant and removed all the weariness of the horrible night.
Cornwallis Street was almost desolate now; only a few vehicles and commuters, mostly porters and transport operators, moving languidly, some footpath shoppers were laying their make-shift stalls and shutters of some shops were opening. Soon the road would reverberate with the din and bustle of city life. He waited at the tram depot and took the first tram for esplanade. He relaxed himself on a bench at the Curzon Park and fell fast asleep. He woke around eleven. The sun was high up and the city was now bristling with life. He took tea and bad tasting cakes from a mobile stall and started strolling northward along the Old Court House Street.
Avik teetered through the congested lanes and alleys around Canning Street, pushing and being pushed by the unending flow of pedestrians, coolies and pushcarts carrying heavy loads, watching the variegated wares stacked in shops and footpath stalls, the dirt scattered around, hollering urchins, buyers bargaining hard with the shop keepers, shabbily dressed menials taking tea on stone slabs and the city unfurling itself with all its life force and clumsiness. These apparently disgusting stuffs have their charms too; he had to go deeper and rediscover, Avik thought with amazement and felt delighted, all ill-feelings and chagrin around Nira’s return gone. He had lunch from a shabby hotel congested with riff-raffs and enjoyed it for the first time in his city life.
He lighted a cigarette and cruised along the Brabourne Road steadily till he reached the Howrah Bridge, rested leaning against the railing of the bridge and he felt the relentless vibration caused by the free flow of traffic along the bridge as the evening rush and traffic-jam were yet to commence. The Vidyasagar Bridge showed clear in the bright sun shine with its network of chords and towers like a gigantic scorpion. Below to the left nude boys were wallowing in the mud and diving into the Ganges which was now flowing low due to ebb-tide and wrestlers in loin cloth were exercising with maces, their bare bodies smeared with mud; boats were sculling leisurely and a launch chugging across toward the Howrah Station wharf. Only a few months ago Nira was not like this and she loved Avik for sure. Then she was superseded by a smart girl, a favorite of the boss and took to drinking. These things are natural in private firms and Avik was surprised how such a simple failure had overturned her heart. ‘Lay the stuff off. She’s past and I’m to start anew, to rediscover,’ Avik said to himself and he stomped ahead for the Howrah Railway Station.
V
Office rush was yet to commence and he got a side seat in the local train which still had vacant seats. In a few hours it would be plenty different and the doors would bulge with intertwined passengers barely missing the electric posts lining the track. It was afternoon when he alighted at the suburban station and getting out the gate he could not recognize the place and he thought momentarily if he had landed at the wrong place but the name of the station clearly displayed on a board at the outside gate reassured him.
The large rain-tree lining the station compound was gone and there were clusters of housing in the erstwhile open space in front. ‘Can I find out the house now? There must be new constructions and old identifying objects might be missing. But I can find out anyway by asking local people and at least from the groceries or ration shops. Tapan Datta is well-known in this place.’ Avik thought. He moved slowly on to the rickshaw stand and asked the first puller that came up if he knew Shitala-tala. The puller, a teen age boy with tousled hair and large eyes, nodded assent and added, ‘It’s not far off but the road is broken and difficult to pedal along. You are to pay ten rupees. This is the rate. You may ask any one, I’m not charging beyond rate.’
‘No need to ask anybody. I’ll pay you ten anyway. Move along.’ Avik rode the rickshaw and rested himself against the back of the seat.
The rickshaw at first moved slowly struggling through the jumble of rickshaws, pedestrians, autos and luggage vans and after getting clear off the congested station area it started jolting steadily along the fractured road, devoured at random by rains and wheels of heavy vehicles. The narrow road was lined on either side with houses, complete and under construction, tall coconut and betel nut trees, banana groves and large trees bushy at the top. The cluster of distant trees ahead, dark against the slanted sun dropping leisurely down toward the western horizon, had made a semi-circle and Avik could hardly recognize the place and he doubted if he had ever come to the place earlier. The rickshaw turned off right to a narrow lane and Avik could recognize the Temple and the banyan tree in front reassured him. He alighted and the familiar house not far off made his heart flutter. He paid the rickshaw puller and proceeded for the house. A few old men were seated on the cemented circle around the trunk of the banyan tree and to be confirmed Avik asked pointing out at the house, ‘Is it Tapan Datta’s house?’
‘You mean the contractor? He has sold it out and moved with family on to his new house.’
Avik felt disappointed and his heart sank.; “Do you know the address of the new house?’
The old man with bald head and sharp eyes smiled. ‘Oh it’s only a furlong from here. You may take the rickshaw or even go on foot.’
The rickshaw puller was already gone and Avik hurried on following the direction of the old man. The sun had already glided far down and it would be dark in no time. At the place mentioned by the old man, a few young boys were gossiping on the bench of a tea stall and Avik asked them if they could give him the direction of Tapan Datta’s house. A boy replied promptly, ‘It’s barely a minute’s walk. His is the only three storey house here and you can easily recognize it. Just a minute.’ The boy looked across the road and called aloud, ‘Shibu,’ and beckoned a boy around eleven by waving his hand. The boy crossed the road and came over. ‘Guide this uncle to Mithu’s house.’ Avik’s heart leapt to hear the name. ‘So they are here’, he felt an inner comfort. He thanked the young boy and proceeded ahead alongside his tiny guide. Avik felt indecision surging through him and his nerves gave way. ‘Should I go with him or go back? But now I’m at least to go up to Tapan’s house, let the boy off and rethink what to do.’ Avik said to himself. He braced himself up and to ward off shakiness started conversing with the child.
‘Is your house close to theirs?’ He asked the boy.
‘Only two houses in between Mithu is my friend.’
‘You read in the same class I suppose’.
‘Same class indeed but not the same school. He reads at an English medium school, Don Bosco. You must have seen the large beautiful building. His mama (maternal uncle) is rich but my father cannot afford a good school like that. I read here at a Bengali medium school and it’s not good.’
Avik felt relieved that Mithu’s studies have not been hampered. Suburban Don Bosco is not as good as Calcutta Boys’ School but nevertheless a good one.
‘How come Mithu is your friend?’
‘His mother teaches me privately.’
Avik felt a sudden jolt at his heart and blood rushed up toward his head. He struggled hard to control his quavering voice and asked in a thick voice, ‘Is his mother okay?’
‘She had jaundice last month.’
‘Fully cured now?’ Avik could not conceal worry.
‘Cured but she’s become weak and sadder. Who are you to them uncle?’
‘I’m his father’s friend,’ Avik lied.
‘You too stay in America like his father.’
‘Who told you his father is in America?’
‘Mithu told me his father has gone abroad on a highly paid job and would come as soon as the contract there terminates.’
‘How does he know this?’
‘His mother told him. They would get back to their house at Kolkata as soon as his father returns.’
So she has done well with her story to save the boy from emotional turmoil, but for how long? Avik felt remorse.
The boy showed the house and ran off saying, ‘I’ve home tasks to do.’
VI
Avik now was alone and sensed the depth of his loneliness. The beautiful three storey building stood majestically in front and the wicket of the grill gate was open. The sun had now turned crimson casting orange tinge over the cluster of clouds drifting across the placid mid sky. A sooty nimbus was rising gently up the southern horizon like the ugly head of a demon. It would rain for sure this night, Avik thought. He stretched out his hands and reached for the wicket and withdrew irresolutely. His heart sank as soon as he thought of confronting her. The great city of Kolkata has encountered many stormy movements far more violent and turbulent than the Gorkhaland movement that at a single stroke has peeled the sheen off the glamorous hill city. And Kolkata not withstanding the cyclonic turmoil is still there with its majesty and hidden beauty. Ananya is tolerant and patient indeed but you cannot carry these attributes beyond limit. She’s after all a human being with mind, intelligence and sense of dignity and not a city which has no soul of its own. He resolved to return.
The station was not far off and he could walk back and get a return train. He turned around and went a few steps back. It would not be justified to return after taking so much trouble to get near to the place only a few steps from where may lead him on to the world he resolved to rediscover only a few minutes back. He again turned for the door and looked intently at the wicket. Just open it, take a few steps and ring the door bell. No I cannot face her, better go back, he thought. But why not try, she may accept me; no she won’t, she cannot after so much injustice and humiliation. But why not face her to see to the end; she may as well forgive and forget, at least considering the future of the child. I can at least get a glimpse of Ananya and above all the sweet child. You ought to have courage to rediscover and to be ready to face whatever comes that way. But things would never be the same; the chasm would never be closed. A ceramic cup cracked could never be repaired. I cannot, my heart is sinking and nerves giving way, I must return. But then what? I must return anyway. The chiaroscuro cast by the bushy kadam tree against the mellow dusk light opened before his eyes a seamless pit of loneliness.
‘Mithu, stop your games and sit down to your studies. You’ve plenty home task for tomorrow.’
The voice floated past Avik’s ears like the sweetest music he’d ever heard. Torrents of reminiscences of the past coursed fast through his mind and all seemed charming as he now was rediscovering. From the knolls and dells of memory, her last words before she had left home struck him like lightning, ‘I strongly believe your illusion around the girl would wear off one day and you’d fall back on me.’ Avik stood motionless and irresolute. The nimbus was now high up; spread around like a dark blanket unfolding and taking up a quarter of the sky and a humid wind blew hard. It would commence raining very soon.


Chapter-IV: Jasmine

The morning breeze was cool and refreshing. Soon the summer sun would go high up and it would be intolerably hot all of a sudden. This is why the lawyer Mr. Sen wakes before the day break and finishes off his morning walk before the sun sweeps down with all its vehemence. Walking at these hours is also free from the hazards of vehicles and the jumble of pedestrians moving in clusters and randomly. Notwithstanding the serenity of the ambience Sen felt disquiet surging up his mind. This always happens before he is to do the unpleasant and sacrilegious job pertaining to divorce case. He is to take up these cases unwillingly as a part of his profession. Lawyers in the criminal branch are to take up more unpleasant cases. He in fact decided a few months back not to entertain these cases any more and refused some cases thereafter, but this a special case and probably the last one. He always feels unhappy at the breaking up of sacred marriage and it at times seizes him with the same gloom that inflicts on a hangman after hanging a convict. Why do they break off on flimsy grounds? Can’t they have a little bit more tolerance and patience? There are undeniably cases which cannot be lingered because of the depth of acrimony and bitterness and divorce is the only way out. But most of the cases happen on the spar of the moments and could have been repaired with a little bit efforts to compromise. He too had quarrels and disagreements with his wife. At times they stopped talking with each other for days and once she had gone to her brother’s house for a week. But every thing got easy in all the cases and they even could not dream of separation.
Married life is sacred and should be based on love, pre-marriage or post marriage. Is there something wrong with the love of these couples, pretension of love? It may not be like that. They love each other all right and break off at moment’s anger and misunderstanding and when they come to senses, there’s no point of return. Here’s the tragedy of most of the divorces and this is what hurts Sen the most as he’s to play the medium of the tragedy. This is the last case and he’s not going to take up any more such unpleasant cases but he would have nevertheless to go through the ordeals of completing this case.
This last case has some special significance as both of them are known to him from their very childhoods and he has always treated them as his own children. They have decided to break off mutually as they can no longer tolerate each other and their relation has cooled down without any open fight or quarrel. Sen had talked with each of them separately and both said that for reasons unknown to them the warm relation has dissipated and it is intolerable to linger. So both opted for signing the divorce form in his office and he is to present it to the law court meant for separation. Considering the future of the ten year old child he had requested them again and again to reconsider but they are adamant and said categorically they had gone far beyond the point of reconsideration. Even the persuasions of relatives on both the sides have failed. Sen knows both of them from their very childhood. They were neighbors and childhood friends and seemed to love each other deeply. Sen had interfered and dissuaded the parents of the girl when they had gone ahead for her arranged marriage with an accomplished groom. Now after twelve years of marriage the love has worn out. Was their anything wrong with the love itself? It’s, as a matter of fact, very difficult to understand human mind. ‘Debah na jananti kutoh manushya’ [Even God does not know, let alone humans] so goes the saying.
Sen thought of his own conjugal life. It was an arranged marriage and their love that grew in course of conjugal life has stood the trials and tribulations of half a century. Two months from now it would be their 50th anniversary and the son from USA and daughter from Mumbai are coming home to celebrate the golden jubilee with pomp. How happy he feels about his conjugal life and this is the only resting place at the old age. Now he is to be the medium of the nasty job of breaking off the marriage of another couple. Sen felt a pain deep inside his heart.
Upon entering the gate of the house, he noticed his old woman watering the plants. Hearing his footsteps she looked up and cast a charming glance defying her age and glowered at him, ‘oh, today too, you’ve not worn the cap! Who cares? You catch cold and the trouble is mine.’
Sen as usual feigned a naïve smile. Now she creased into a charming smile and said, ‘Go upstairs and I’m coming in no time to get your tea ready.’
Even at this age the old lady prepares tea and food of the household. He came close to her and watched closely the jasmine creeper she was now watering. Only a few months ago she had brought the small sapling from a neighboring house and now it has reaches the roof of the two story building and got adorned with heavenly scented white flowers. She loves her plant like her own children and takes care of them with utmost attention. She gets morose whenever any plant dies as tough some close relative has passed away.
After breakfast Sen scrutinized the details of the divorce form very closely, corrected at places and thereafter passed on to papers of other cases. Next week he has a hearing of an embezzlement case relating to succession of paternal property. He yawned and felt drowsy. Closing the files, he lied down in the sofa and dozed till the computer operator and the junior rang the doorbell at eleven. He handed over the divorce paper to the computer operator and instructed him to scan a copy of the papers. Then he sat with the junior, who was to appear at the next hearing, about the cheating case and gave him the references for the precedents relating to the case. The young boy laid the ladder and climbed to look for the volumes from the racks high upon the wall. He left off for his bed room and seated on the easy chair his mind again was haunted by the divorce case and was tormented by the unpleasantness of the impending case. In order to divert his mind he started reading a novel but failed to concentrate.
After lunch he soon fell asleep and had a sweet dream of his conjugal life. He slept till late afternoon and no sooner than he got ready with the papers they came.
She was accompanied by her brother and sister in law and he by two friends. Both had dressed simple and looked gloomy. Their woe-be gone looks made Sen morose and thoughtful. All the visitors were well known to Mrs. Sen and she offered them tea and biscuits. She too was very sad as she new both the husband and the wife from their very childhood and used to treat them like her own children. She took the brother and sister in law aside and asked them to dissuade the breakers. They were morose too and told that their best efforts had failed.
The sun had now gone down and the trees were casting flickering shadows against the streetlamps. The junior arranged all the papers in order and handed over to Sen. Sen wiped his glasses clean by the hanky and leaned over the papers and started talking about the sanctity of marriage and conjugal life without lifting his eyes from the papers. His voice seemed croaked and he coughed off the lump rising in his throat. He proceeded to unravel the bliss of mutual love, respect and fellow feeling, the adverse effects of separation on children and the destructive effects of intolerance in all spheres of social life. Then he looked up and asked the wife and the husband in turn, ‘you still stick to your decision?’
‘Sure’ both replied.
Sen handed out the form to the husband for signing.
Suddenly he felt dizzy and breathing trouble and blubbered out, ‘wait a bit; I’m feeling sick.’
everybody in the room rushed worriedly toward Sen and laid him on the sofa. Sen protested in a barely audible voice, ‘this fuss is unnecessary. I’d soon recover.’
The junior sprinkled water on his face and forehead and Mrs. Sen rushed in screaming.
‘Get me a glass of water.’
His wife handed him the glass and he took a draft.
‘Why are you masking all these fuss? I’ve told you this is nothing, just weariness and I’d recover in no time. In fact the room is stuffy. Go open the windows.’
The junior hastened to the far end of the room and started opening the windows and a gust of cool breeze greeted all of them. Sen now felt o.k. and slowly made for the table. He once again handed the papers to the husband and said apologetically, ‘sorry, I’ve delayed the process.’
Amar, the husband, smelt intently the air and holding the papers in his hand hastened to the open window. ‘Oh, it’s jasmine!’ He exclaimed. ‘Have you got it Rama?’
‘Certainly,’ the eyes of the wife brightened and in front of the bewildered eyes of everyone she strode across to her husbands side, snatched the papers from his hands and tore them to bits.


Chapter-V: The Magic Marble

I
It rained in torrents with stormy wind all the day sweeping off the sweltering summer heat and the trees wore fresh and gay look, cracks on roads formed poodles and the bare bodied urchins hollered in the muddy fields in revelry and when the rain had subsided at night the golden-frogs reverberated the air with monotonous cacophony inviting the mates and the crescent moon peeped through the floating clouds like a newly wedded bashful bride.
Lambu-Jagu, clammy and groggy in the dank shanty of illegal country liquor, stooped out the lowly door and the fresh cool breeze exhilarated him and he started dancing along in tune with the love songs of the frogs. As he teetered to the narrow track leading to his room a glint from the thicket amazed him and prying closely he came upon a marble stuck in mud underneath the thicket. He got down on haunches and shoving aside the mud picked up the marble and washed it clean in a poodle. It was a large bluish marble and he held it to one eye, keeping the other shut and was bewildered to come upon an enormous space within and multi colored effulgent dots darting around.
He waddled down the track to his tiny room at the back of the large building that housed the gaddi at the ground floor and the residence of the owner at the upper two. He changed dresses, did toilet works, lighted a candle switching off the electric light and after gulping a few draughts of chhaang that burnt all the way down, he held the marble to his eye in the candle light and the marble now started inflating fast like a balloon and in utter horror Jagu discovered himself skating down a slippery track at ever increasing velocity and eventually he closed his awe-struck eyes as he stumbled into a fathomless pit. The downfall ended at last as he struck a spongy ground and was relieved to feel he was not hurt and opening his bleary eyes he noticed around a large brightly lighted enormous hall. He straightened up and felt an uncanny force pulling him ahead and a small white speck curving slowly up in his direction.
The speck grew larger and larger assuming a humanoid form and as it was close enough he observed with awe that the holographic entity in a snow white cloak looked exactly like him and wore a mystic smile that Jagu had never come across. It drew near, looked sharply into Jagu’s bewildered eyes and dissolved into him sending waves of tremors down his spine.
His sleep broke by knocks at the door and he heard the servant boy shrieking, “Jagu sir, boss is calling you to the gaddi.”
Jagu leapt out of bed, got ready in a few minutes tucking the marble into back pocket of the trouser and as soon as he walked into the gaddi, the Marwari snarled in “I’ve told you not to drink much if you have important assignments. Singhji is waiting at the hotel. Take delivery of the sweets right away.” The Marwari handed him the bag containing money and Jagu hurried to the car and sped right off.
II
Jagdish Parsi, fair-complexioned with smart looks, sharp nose, large eyes and six feet in height, was known as lambu-Jagu. His grand father, a very poor porter at Katihar of Bihar, had walked all the way up to North Bengal in quest of work and got settled at a village near Siliguri. Jagu’s father taklu-Chulai was swarthy, had a shining bald head, and always wore a dhoti and a shirt, pale by multiple washing and the gossip ran that they had been bequeathed by his grandfather through his father. He was simple, submissive and had a naïve demeanor and used to sell fried ground nut and dainties to school children who often tried in vain to tease him by calling him ‘taklu chullu’.
Jagu’s mother hatkata-Tepi was a fair beautiful woman and rumor was that she was fathered by Mackenzie sahib, the Scotch tea garden manager, when her mother had been a maid servant in his house. Tepi would stand close to the rail track stretching out a five rupee note fastened at the top of a stick when the steam engines approached the station at slow pace and the firemen in the engine, after collecting the note, would drop down raw coal slabs which she would burn out to coke and sell to the households at good profit. While collecting coal slabs her left hand by accident had caught the wheels and cut off at the wrist and she survived a life-and-death struggle at the hospital. She was cantankerous and used to beat Chulai who returned every night soused with haria, the rice-fermented cheap liquor.
Jagu, though not brilliant, was not a bad student but at class six deto-Haru, the elephant toothed son of the mason, spoilt him by luring him to the charm of chewing wild bhang and hashish leaves that grew in plenty along the rail track and taking him along to the moll girls at the tents of the nomadic Iranis.
Mechho-Bhola, the fish dealer, used to return home drunk every night across the dark football ground. Jagu and Haru according to plan remained hidden in a ditch and as soon as Bhola approached the dark field, they flashed the torch into his eyes and Jagu shoved his hand into his pocket full of money while Haru held him tight. But Bhola, a wrestler, was too strong for them and kicked down Haru who ran right away and grabbing at Jagu’s hand started beating him randomly and Jagu returned home at mid night with torn shirt and beads of blood dripping down his nostrils. Early next dawn Tepi started shouting at the gate of Bhola’s house. Bhola’s wife, maida-Fulmani, whose fair skin looked white like flour owing to anemia, opened the window and shrieked back. Then a lively shower of obscenities in Bhojpuri and Bengali ensued between the two crabby women.
 A crowd gathered around taking sides and encouraging them to carry on. Suddenly a gruff voice roared in.
‘You nasty fellows, don’t you have any shame; enjoying the filthy game along with children?’
Beholding pecho-Narayan, the headmaster, who always wore a sullen owl like face, trembling in rage, the crowd dispersed in a moment, Fulmani closed the window, Tepi departed with drooping head and the lively display ended in a melodrama.
Jagu got plucked twice at class six and Tepi pleaded billi-Bhanu, the high school teacher who had a large number of pet cats, to take her son in his coaching class at half the fee and Bhanu agreed at once. A few months later the village reverberated with the hot news that Tepi had eloped with Bhanu who had already resigned from the school job after getting a new job at Raiganj and whose wife was then at her father’s house for childbirth. Tepi, however, returned after a few days and was found hollering at a frolicsome congregation at the market place, ‘if I find that bastard, I’ll drag him back tying a napkin around his neck.’
The news was that they had put up in a hotel at Coochbehar and his brother-in-law, an influential promoter, rushed over to the hotel one morning and Bhanu left with him never to return again.
The uproar quieted down soon, Tepi returned to Chulai’s family and their usual chores were restored. Jagu was now happy that he was free from the ordeals of school and study and he soon got a job at Das’s laundry shop as the helper of the washer man, tikki-Raju who had a long thick tuft at the middle of his shaved head and who used to sleep every noon after taking opium.
Jagu planned with langra-Santu, who limped because of a short leg and while Raju was in deep slumber at midday, they stacked all the undelivered garments along with Raju’s utensils in two large bags and took a bus for Jalpaiguri town and sold the wares to a buyer of stolen goods. The money, by prior agreement, was to be divided equally but while Santu was busy taking tea at a nearby stall, Jagu went out to buy cigarettes and took a rickshaw right away for the railway station with all the money with him and boarded the Darjeeling Mail bogey of the evening train.
He disembarked at Barsai of Bihar at mid night, slept at the waiting hall till morning and then looked for mota-Jhatu at a tea stall the latter used to frequent and could easily recognize the fat dwarfish bootlegger as described by the stolen goods buyer at Jalpaiguri and produced the letter of introduction brought from him. Jhatu, helpless since the arrest of his trusted assistant, welcomed Jagu and soon made him his assistant and permitted him to stay at his shabby den. In a few months Jagu discovered the secret place where Jhatu hid his money and one night while Jhatu was deep asleep after strong drinks, Jagu decamped with the money and boarded the Darjeeling mail, disembarked at Maldah and returned by bus to Siliguri next day.
He rented a small shanty at Deshbandhu para, bought costly garments and started spending money on gambling in order to be rich but the opportunity never came his way and when he was almost broke he chanced upon in the country liquor shop tyara-Biru, the squint-eyed smuggler, who introduced Jagu to his employer bhuri-Om, with a huge pot belly, chubby face and shrewd looks. Omprakash Jajodia liked Jagu’s appearance and assigned him the job of trafficking smuggled goods. Jagu, with his courage and ingratiating attitude, won confidence of the Marwari in no time and was offered to lodge in the backroom of the gaddi and he soon got driving license from the motor training school of the Marwari.
Jagu had an assignment at Matigara and he took the window side seat in the bus at Siliguri town station. The bus got packed up except the seat beside him in no time and a few minutes before start a Bhutia girl boarded the bus and noticing the vacant seat moved down to Jagu and asked in a polite tone in Hindi, ‘May I take this seat?’
“Certainly” Jagu replied with alacrity and the girl got seated. She was tall, voluptuous with a round fair face, deep pink cheeks, red enticing lips and small but intelligent eyes.
‘I’m Sherab Wangmo, from Bhutan, employed at Siliguri and now going to meet my friend at North Bengal University. Please alert me at the stop.’ She displayed a candid smile.
‘No problem. I’ve some business around there and you may get down with me at Shibmandir and take a rickshaw for the university.’
At Shibmandir Jagu bade goodbye to the girl and left for his destination but hurried back as he heard a known Rickshaw puller demanding exorbitant fare from the girl.
‘Bugger, demanding double the rate from my friend?’ Jagu was furious.
The bare bodied gaunt man cringed and mumbled out meekly, ‘Maap kijiye babu (forgive me sir), how could I know the pahari (any hill-race) lady is your friend?’
At the university the rickshaw puller declined to accept the fare and all the way to the girls’ hostel, the handsome suave boy took possession of Sherab’s thought. What a nice chap, he called her his friend! An ecstatic feeling enlivened her and she started blaming herself for forgetting to note down his mobile number.
Next Sunday Jagu was gossiping at noon in a bag shop at the Bidhan market and he looked up to hear a sweet voice calling out “hey” and was intrigued to see the sexy girl close by with a sweet smile.
‘Recognize me?’ She was beaming.
‘Certainly, you’d been in the bus to Matigara. By the way, did the wicked rickshaw puller accept correct fare?’
‘He’s a good person and declined to accept the fare altogether. Don’t blame these poor fellows for charging higher rates from new comers. They earn too little to run a family. By the way, can you help me buy some authentic Chinese wares from Hon Kong market?’
They had coffee at Air View restaurant after shopping and took a rickshaw for the Siliguri Junction station. They talked for hours on end seated at the newly built government bus stand and strolling along the bottle-palm lined driveway to the railway station and across the Mahananda Bridge along Hill Cart Road. Jagu fabricated a story and displayed with emotion like an adept actor that his fifty five year old father was a bank officer at Kolkata and Jagu left home in disgust when he married a teen-age typist immediately after Jagu’s mother had demised. The gullible girl heard him with deep attention and sympathy and she narrated her own story too.
With the hot girl Jagu always felt horny but took care not to elicit any suspicion in her mind. He had not been with girls ever since he contacted syphilitic chancre from the Irani sluts and heavy doses of anti-biotic drugs had to be taken to cure the filthy disease. He should be patient and earn the confidence of the girl and trick her to some hotel of ill repute and enjoy her. The thought made him hot and hard and he hurried off to the bath room to jerk off.
III
Sherab’s father Tengyel Wangmo was a poor laborer at Dotang village near Thimpu and her mother Tshiryang worked at a crafts workshop and they were both devout Buddhists. Sherab was the youngest among three sisters. The eldest sister Kuenley was married to a laborer at the Druk fruit processing factory at Samsi and Dolma, the next, to a shopkeeper at Phuentsholing. Like most of the Bhutia girls Sherab was honest, modest, upright, simple and innocent and also a good student and the philanthropist orange trader of the village, Orongpa Wanchuk, undertook to pay all her expenses at a secondary school at Thimpu. Sherab had a bent for languages and besides her mother dialect Sarchopa, she learnt to speak Dzongkha, English, Hindi and Nepali fluently and also some Bengali. After secondary education she, at the advice of her brother-in-law, took admission to a private computer training school at Phuentsholing staying at her sister’s house. The training was completed in one year and for jobs higher training in India on government scholarship was necessary. She sat for the test for scholarship and dreamt of a bright future but when the results came out she was disappointed not to find her name in the list and all her dreams crumbled in a moment like a house of cards.
That night she genuflected before the image of Lord Buddha and wept for hours and eventually her peace of mind returned while she could surrender her fate to the Tathagata. Next day she was seated at the bank of the river Amo-Chu (Torsha) with her friend Chador Thinley who too had failed to qualify at the test and they noticed an aged Bengali with long beards, grey hair, sunken cheeks and thick glasses walking thoughtfully in their direction. He looked like a dignified professor and they greeted him with bowed heads as he got close by, ‘Namaste sir.’
‘Best wishes daughters. I’m the Botanist of an Ayurvedic Company and looking for some herbs. Have you any idea where can I find these herbs?’
He unfurled a roll of paper and placed before them the picture of the bushy plant they had seen growing in the bank of the river.
‘Yes, look ahead and here they are’, replied Chador pointing at the thicket downstream.
‘Oh my god, they’re here and I’ve been searching for them at wrong places!’
The scientist exclaimed and hurried down to the sand and in a few steps he was caught in quicksand unawares and shrieked in panic while his feet began to be pulled down in the slush. The girls hurried to the spot and Sherab stepped right into the quicksand, jerked the scientist out and fell on her back on the bank with the befuddled scientist in her embrace as Chador pulled at her waist.
Recovering from the shock Dr. Banerjee, the Botanist, looked at the girls with admiring eyes and said, ‘I don’t find any words to express my gratitude; you’ve saved my life by risking your own. I would never be able to repay the indebtedness.’
‘This is just our duty sir.’
‘What are you doing now daughters?’
‘Have taken some computer training and looking for jobs, but it’s very difficult to get jobs without knowledge of programming and we cannot afford that training in India.’
Dr. Banerjee noted down their bio-data and they gave the fax number of the computer center. Next week appointment letters as computer operators at a transnational Ayurvedic company were faxed to them and Sherab was posted at Siliguri and Chador at Coochbehar. Sherab got a one room quarter with attached bath and kitchen at Shevak Road and the pay was good and she started sending money to her parents every month and her dreams came alive again. She would save money and make the lives of her miserable parents free from drudgeries.
She was elated to think of the boy – handsome, smart and courteous and unlike most of the males he is not lewd, never leered at her with lustful eyes, nor did he insinuate at mischief. By the grace of the Lord she’s got her true life mate. Sherab spent hours sleepless and fidgeting in bed as nuances of his company, his miserable life, his struggle to eke out a descent living on his own and above all his sad eyes flashed across her mind.
IV
The passage to the small hotel, fronted by a huge edifice housing travel offices and fancy stalls, was congested and it was difficult to wade through the jumble of rickshaws and pedestrians. Singhji was at the counter and ushered Jagu right to a small room where they exchanged bags and Jagu checked up the polythene packets containing brown sugar and opium while Singhji counted the money.
After he’d crossed the Mahananda Bridge, Jagu felt a nudge at his butt and he sensed the marble portending trouble and swiveling around, as though in a hypnotic spell, he espied a black car behind and taking detours randomly he found the car still behind and was confirmed it was a police car pursuing him. He made up his mind in no time and contacted over cell phone khaini-Billu, the truck driver and instructed, ‘Cop’s is after my car. Keep your truck ready in five minutes at the middle of the first connecting lane between R. R. Road and R. A. Road and block it as soon as I cross over.’ The Maruti sped along Sevak Road, diverted off to Bidhan Road and accelerated to sudden speed to increase the distance between the two cars before taking a sharp turn to Rammohan Roy Road and Billu at the wheel of the truck, tobacco wad on his palm, grinned and waved as he passed by. At a desolate corner of Rishi Arabindo Road he stopped the car and changed the number plate and contacted the boss, who in a worried tone muttered out ‘Drive right to my Shaktigarh garage avoiding the main roads and wait till my car picks you up.’
In the evening the sky was overcast again and the weather was pleasant and Jagu met the Sarchop girl at the appointed place at Hill Cart Road. Sherab was in tight jeans highlighting her heavy buttocks and the crimson Bhutia outfit glued close to her narrow waist and flat belly, and curved up the two sharp hillocks diving sharply down to the vale sporting the enticing pinkish flesh. The Saluza bar displaying a dreamland in romantic reddish glow, springy carpets and the rhythmic music in subdued tune, was already crowded but the table at the corner was saved for them keeping the request over phone by Sherab. They ordered tandoori with chili chicken and Jagu swallowed the rum raw while Sherab took only a beer.
The girl left off in a rickshaw and Jagu took a short cut down the Bata goli and as soon as he turned corner he was startled by a grave voice, ‘hello boy’ and a hefty lama in deep red robe emerged from the dark corner like a phantom and Jagu felt his legs giving way. ‘He must be a cop’ he thought and stood nonplussed in panic. He followed the lama silently like a programmed robot to a dark nook and got seated beside him at a slab jutting out a closed shop. The lama placed his hand on Jagu’s back and assured him in a polite tone, ‘Relax my boy, I’m not a cop. I’ve some business deal with you.’
Jagu was alarmed that it might be a trick to make him speak out and he gurgled out,
‘Business deal?’
‘Yes my boy. Who’s that Bhutia girl?’
‘How do you know her?’
‘I’ve seen you two roaming around.’
‘She’s just an acquaintance.’
‘But the girl loves you, her looks tell it. You don’t. Am I right?’
‘She’s sexy.’
‘So you’re after sex only, I suppose.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You could get plenty of sex if you are rich.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You could be. I’ll make you. Here’s my deal. Next Friday is holiday and she’s Saturday and Sunday off. Propose her for a trip to Darjeeling for three days and she’ll consent for sure. You have no assignments for this week. So, you could be absent for the three days and may later on invent some pretext and the Marwari who trusts you would buy it.’
‘But what has the trip got to do with myself being rich?’
‘I’m coming to that. At Darjeeling bus stand my men would guide you to a hotel and after checking in you would leave the girl in the room and slink out under the ruse of buying cigarettes and I’ll pay you two lakh (hundred thousand) rupees. You may leave right away with the money or if you like you may accompany my men to Kalimpong where with your looks you could seduce another girl and earn more and if you could lure out girls for me from different places you’d soon be a millionaire.’
Jagu could not believe his ears. So his long cherished dream was going to be fulfilled. It might be some trap though he thought but shook off the idea. One could not be rich without risk.
The lama squinted and displayed a shrewd smile,
‘Don’t hesitate my boy and accept the offer right now. Think of the huge money; you could buy anything in the world – houses, cars and all that stuff; travel places, frequent five-star hotels and posh bars. So you agree?’
Jagu cocked his head skeptically, ‘If you cheat me?’
The lama laughed out loud. ‘How would I gain by cheating you? So I’d be waiting for you at the hotel next Friday, O.K.? Go home and have a good sleep.’ The lama disappeared in the darkness.
Sherab leapt at the proposal of Darjeeling tour over cell phone. She felt as though her heart would burst out in joy. She started singing a festive ga-glu song and dance ecstatically.
V
Thursday evening, the day before their tour, Jagu packed up the suitcase and handbag with essentials, especially woolen garments and while in bed on his back fantasizing the world of opulence, he felt a nudge of the marble and it dawned on him that early morning no rickshaw would be available and he got dressed up in no time and walked over to the road with the luggage. He had not to wait long for the rickshaw and depositing the luggage at the cloak room of the Tensing Norgay bus stand, returned home after having his meal from the drivers’ canteen in a jovial mood lisping Hindi film songs. Returning home, he felt too sleepy to change dress.
At midnight his sleep broke by a sharp nudge on his butt, the marble again. He jumped up and an uncanny force made him leave out the door and walk toward the banyan tree across the field and as soon as he got near to the huge trunk of the tree he was startled by honks and shrill whistles and peeping out the corner of the trunk he descried police vehicles surrounding the house.
The quiet night sky turned alive with announcements on loudspeakers, hollering of the cops, thumps and thuds of rummaging through the rooms and eventually Jagu observed with consternation the cops stacking the jeep with boxes and sacs full of smuggled goods and leading the Marwari in hand-cuff to a black police van. The weird force now pulled Jagu through lanes and alleys for hours and when he was at the bus stand he was relieved at the cawing of the crows and the gold on the eastern horizon.
He got refreshed at the toilet of the bus stand, took delivery of the luggage and while taking breakfast from the snacks stall he saw the girl turning corner with a rucksack on her back and a swaying bag dangling from her hand. He greeted her shrieking, ‘Hey Sherab.’
‘Having breakfast alone, selfish naughty boy?’ She giggled with gusto and trotted over to the stall.
VI
As the bus lurched to a sharp turn unraveling the magnificent hazy valley far bellow, after climbing uphill across the dense forest, Sherab, in excitement, elbowed Jagu out of doze. ‘My god, you’ve been sleeping; look around and watch the fantastic view.’ Jagu smiled meekly and drew a prolonged yawn and wobbled out, ‘Couldn’t sleep last night and feeling drowsy and a bad headache.’
Sherab was a bit disappointed but she soon made friendship with the teen age boy and girl from Kolkata at the seat in front and the three started hollering, whistling and singing as series of enchanting imageries emerged and dissolved in an unending stream. They alighted at Kurseong and had tea with momos. It was foggy and chilly and they put on warm clothes and as the bus geared to the uphill journey a dense fog encompassed them and they got engrossed in dreams of luminous future, she of the happy family with her parents, loving hubby and chubby kids and he of luxury cars, posh bars and hot horny girls.
At Ghoom the driver permitted twenty minutes for tea and it was still foggy and biting cold and they tightened the jackets and woolen caps. The bus honked on time alerting them and Jagu felt numbness coursing down his waist. Sherab tried to help him up but he was too heavy and the bus left off after the last warning and she hastened over to the counter asking for the doctor’s number but Jagu could now straighten up effortlessly and forbade her to call the doctor.
‘The bus is gone along with our luggage and how could we go to Darjeeling or retrieve our luggage?’ She looked disconcerted.
‘No problem madam, you’ll get many buses on the road and you may travel the downhill journey standing in case you don’t get vacant seats. You may collect your luggage from the bus depot at Darjeeling, or better contact the driver right now. Here’s his mobile number.’ The counterman wrote down the mobile number and they thanked him.
They got seated to a roadside slab waiting for the next bus and suddenly Jagu broke into sobs.
‘The pain again? I should have called the doctor in.’ Sherab looked worried.
‘No it’s a sciatic pain and would not return in months.’ Jagu lied.
‘Weeping then?’
‘The police arrested my boss last night and I’ll lose the job.’
‘It’s God’s will. I didn’t like you working for that notorious smuggler. You need not worry for the job. The Royal Government had advertised inviting applications from computer operators with work experience in India for highly paid permanent posts. I’d applied and got the appointment letter yesterday. You may accompany me to Thimpu and I hope you’ll soon get a job there.’
‘You are such a good girl Sherab, but I’ve cheated you.’ Jagu blubbered out in fits of weeping.
She was perplexed and could not make out what he meant.
‘Hello boy, my car followed your bus all the way up from Siliguri.’
They looked up at the resonant voice piercing through the fog and peered ahead to decipher the robust lama emerging like an apparition from the translucent veil. Sherab bowed her head in reverence and Jagu’s heart fluttered as he gaped at the shrewd grin of the demon.
Only a few hours back the lama appeared as the messiah who would fulfill his long cherished goal of being rich. But now he appeared like a demon from the hell. Jagu felt remorse as though his heart would break. No doubt he wanted to be rich and for money he had cheated many people. But selling this innocent girl to a whore trafficker? But the die had already been cast and there was no point of return. He thought of the candid girl and a deep pain pierced through his heart. Never before in his life had he experienced such prick of conscience. Why had he become such a knave? His grandfather and father were both honest and naïve; his mother, though garrulous, never did harm to anybody. But why, why had he been inflicting harm on people, who had trusted him, without any remorse all along his life?
He gazed sharply at the lama only a few feet ahead, sporting his blood thirsty teeth, like an infernal creature waiting for his prey. Jagu felt deep hatred and anger rousing him up. He must save the innocent girl from the clutches of this wicked whore trafficker even at the cost of his own life.
‘Sherab, flee right away from the devil to the tea stall. He shrieked out.
‘Oh my god, he’s a sacred Buddhist priest and not a devil. Haven’t ever seen a lama?’
Sherab giggled out loud.
What a silly girl! But how could she know his trusted friend would ruin her life or guess that her grim fate was lurking beneath the sacred robe?
‘No Sherab, you don’t know him. He’ll harm you, run right away.’ He implored.
‘Calm down my boy.’ The lama put his hand on Jagu’s head. ‘All my talks of business were but fabrications and I concocted the stuff to trick you over to this place and here you’re now.’
He paused for a while and continued. ‘You’re changed now my boy. God and devil reside in the same house and your God has now overpowered the devil. The marble did it all.’
Before Jagu’s hazy gaze the lama got transposed to a winged angel and Jagu fell to his feet.
‘I’m a great sinner.’
‘No my boy, you’re now contrite. There’s a monastery not far off. Confess to Lord Buddha and he’ll wash away all your sins.’
‘I’m a Hindu.’
‘My boy, religious differences are man-made and in the kingdom of God we are all his sacred children. Now return me the magic marble.’
The lama reached for the marble and disappeared into the dense fog.
Sherab contacted the driver and instructed him to deposit their luggage at the tea stall on return journey and nudged at Jagu’s hand, ‘Let’s look for the monastery.’
Jagu turned around and was enchanted to watch the lock of hair curving down her pinkish cheek and the blissful smile adorning her candid face.
‘I love you Sherab, trust me.’
‘I’ve trusted you ever since I met you.’
They strode along the foggy path, hand in hand and chanting,
“Buddham sharanam gacchhami
Dhammam sharanam gacchhami
Sangham sharanam gacchhami.”


Chapter-VI: Strangeness Is Beauty

I
The sun was high up in the mid sky and the noon was desolate and serene. They were seated at the steep bank and the shallow river flew below glistening silver in bright sun shine. Wild flowers were dangling from the thick bushes overhanging from the edge of the bank. A small blue bird was dancing joyously from one branch of a tree to the other and an insect was making a monotonous creaking sound. The river flowed down, in overlapping S-curves, across paddy fields, bamboo groves, cluster of trees and crossed the international border to flow through Bangladesh. To the distant north snowy mountain peaks were covered with thick cirrus and the blue beneath wore an enchanting look. Dollops of small clouds were drifting across the sky as though children playing merrily. ‘Let’s play the funny Ramayana episode,’ Manas proposed to Ramesh who assented gladly. He would play Lakshmana and Manas, Rama as they used to do. The funny episode, a parody of Ramayana episode, was like this. Everyday before the episode begins, the actor who used to play Lakshmana, asked for a biri (native cigarette) from the actor playing Rama. Eventually Rama got fed up with this meanness of Lakshmasna and refused to offer him the biri in the dressing room and said harshly, ‘if you’ve so much craving for the biri, buy it with your own money.’ The actor playing Lakshmana did not say anything and planned to avenge this humiliation.
The episode started as usual. Rama’s wife Sita had been abducted by the demon Ravana. Rama entreated Lakshmana, ‘brother Lakshmana, rescue my Sita from the clutches of the lusty demon.’ Instead of rushing out with his bow and arrows to chase Ravana, Lakshmana said angrily, ‘I can’t. Why do you seek my help now? I’d asked for a biri and you declined flatly.’
Rama again entreated his brother, ‘oh brother, rescue my Sita and I’ll give you a bunch of biris free.’
Playing the comic episode up to this point, they could not hold any more and both Manas and Ramesh broke into uproarious laughter.
II
Manas was delighted to get the job of assistant teacher at his childhood school. After getting his masters degree, Manas had applied for the post of assistant teacher at his childhood rural school in response to and ad in a daily and was called for interview in which he was selected and asked to join immediately. His father had been the Block Development Officer (BDO) for a long time in the block that included the village in which the school was situated. Manas had been a student of the rural school from class V when his father was transferred to that block. Later on when he was in class XII, his father got a promotion to the post of Director of Small Scale Industries and was transferred to Calcutta. But Manas had to stay with his mother at the village to complete his Higher Secondary Examination, the last public examination at school. Thereafter he got admitted to a Calcutta college and along with his mother returned to their house at Calcutta.
The school authorities were delighted to get a brilliant student like Manas as a teacher but the head master said gravely, ‘would a brilliant student like Manas stay on in this rural school for a long time?’ The bald headed aged teacher of mathematics said to Manas jokingly, ‘many of your erstwhile batch mates are still in the school being plucked several times in each class, may be out of love for the school. Be careful they should not call you by name in the class.’
Manas got a school quarter which was vacant since the retirement of the teacher who had occupied it, and he also got a cook cum maid servant who had served for several years when his mother had been here.
Being reprieved from the din and bustle of the congested city to the serenity of the rural life mind of Manas was filled up with ecstasy. Every day after school, he started visiting houses of old friends who were still in the village and natural sights with nostalgic memories of his school life. At times he would walk alone along the narrow path through the paddy fields to the river and seated on the bank watch the natural beauties around and at times, closing his eyes, enjoy the sweet music of the river dancing down the pebble bed, chatters of birds and murmur of the breeze in the tree tops. ‘Life is a mystery’ he thought and wondered where the end of it is. He at times recited poems in a stentorian voice in the lonely river bank and it echoed in the cluster of trees.
All delicate days and pleasant
All spirits and sorrows are cast
Far out into the foam of the present
That sweeps to the surf of the past
Where beyond the extreme sea walls
And between the remote sea gates
Waste water washes tall ships founder
And deep death waits.’
All of a sudden he came upon Ramesh at a sweet shop. Ramesh offered him a few large sweets, a specialty of the village. After taking two he said to, ‘I can’t eat any more; my stomach is already full.
Gaunt and bent bodied Rohini uncle, who was gossiping with friends occupying a bench in the shop, said, ‘take them along Manas, you’re a young boy. At your age…’
Manas did not let him finish and retorted laughing, ‘those days are gone uncle. I’ve heard that at my age you had four married wives and five concubines and I’ve not yet managed to get one girl.’ Everybody present in the shop burst out laughing but Rohini became grave and said in a grudging tone, ‘these urchins don’t have any respect for the aged.’
In fact Rohini had at least one concubine at his young age. Manas had heard that he had secret affairs with a tribal sexy girl who used to work as a maid servant in his house. His wife used to complain about this to Manas’s mother sobbing. Bad people in the village used to say that the youngest son of the tribal girl had similarities in features with Rohini.
Leaving aside the uncle Manas got into pep talks with Ramesh whom he had met after a long time. Ramesh now worked in the Army at Hyderabad and had come home on a fortnight’s leave. It was settled that Manas would visit their house the next Sunday.
III
They remained seated in the shadow of a tree on the river bank for a long time in perfect silence. The sun had now gone far down in the west and slowly gliding down far into the clouds which had now turned orange. Small clouds tinged orange were engaged in their color games. The snowy peaks at the away off north were now peeping through the cloud, sparkled in the last rays of the sun and like naughty girls hid their heads bashfully into the blanket of the cloud as though to play coquet with the smaller clouds.
Ramesh looked up at the sky and said hastily, ‘oh we‘ve been here for such a long time. I’m already feeling drowsy and it would be dark in no time.’
They hastened to their feet and proceeded for the house of Ramesh under the lengthy shadows of the trees against the setting sun. The path went zigzag through trees, bamboo groves and scattered cottages of straw. The trunks of the trees fronting the straw cottages were plastered with cow dung cakes to be used as fuel. The hayricks looked like turreted temples and in the vegetable fields, cucumbers, gourds, pumpkins and other vegetables were dangling and swaying in the gentle evening breeze from the lowly bamboo-made platforms to support the creepers. Birds forming curvy lines were returning to their nests across the murky sky.
They approached near the ‘goblin-swamp’. In their school days, they used to sit there in moonlit nights and swap ghost-stories and enjoy the eerie sensations that coursed through them. Chandan, a candid boy, had once shrieked out loudly being horrified by the Dracula story told by Manas.
They soon reached the house of Ramesh whose family had now become well to do after he had got the Army job. Their straw cottage was now replaced by a brick-built two storied house. Parents of Ramesh were delighted to see Manas. Purna Roy, his father, said in a jovial tone, ‘I was immensely happy to learn from the head master that you’ve joined the school. How are BDO sahib and your mother? Being accustomed to Calcutta life would you like this rural ambience any more?’
‘My parents are okay and about liking this place I can’t commit anything until I stay here for a few months.’
Ramesh’s mother said, ‘you look emaciated. Weather of Calcutta is not good for health and food in the city is always pernicious for health.’
From the back room of the house Ramesh’s grand mother asked in a metallic shrill voice, ‘who you’re talking with?’
She was now above eighty five, could not move out of bed, but still feisty.
Ramesh’s mother said in an irritated voice, ‘the old woman always talks, quarrels and piques me.’
While Manas was taking tea a girl entered the room portly and noticing Manas, burst into ebullience, ‘oh. Manasda, you’re here.’
Manas looked up and gave a start to see the naughty girl he had encountered in class XI. a few days ago Looking at his bewildered countenance the girl giggled out and said, ‘guess who I am.’
‘You’re Fuchki, Ramesh’s sister for sure,’ Manas replied with confidence.
‘But you failed to recognize me in the class.’
‘You’re now grown up and so changed and I did not know your good name. So I could not guess anything from your name in the attendance register.’
‘In my childhood you used to tease me by singing a song that includes my name Kamala. Admit frankly that you’ve forgotten my name.’
‘Why were you sporting naughty in the class?’
‘I just could not help laughing to see you as a teacher and for that trifle you humiliated me before the eyes of so many students by sending me out of the class!’
‘Next time if I find you doing this stuff in the class, I’ll force you stand up on the bench.’
‘Eh!’
Kamala was now a full-fledged beautiful young girl with round Mongoloid face, longish hair and looked charming in the pink sari.
She got fresh in a few minutes and started gossiping with Manas, reminding him of the long forgotten past days of his intimate association with the girl when she had been but a mere child. Manas’s mind too, drifted back to the past with nostalgic recollections.
The moon was now high up in the sky and pouring down its uncanny rays on the field visible through the window. The ambience looked eerie. Manas said to Ramesh, ‘Let’s go to the goblin-swamp and swap ghost stories.’
Kamala intervened, ‘never go there at these hours.’
‘Why?’
‘There are goblins and female spooks guising as beautiful girls.’
‘Would they kill me if I go there?’
‘No, they would captivate you, take you to their dens inside the swamp and force you to marry all of them and remain captive there for ever.’
Her mother intervened, ‘is this the way to talk with your teacher?’
Her father retorted, ‘this is the fashion of the day.’
Kamala replied glumly, ‘you please mind your own business.’
She then said to Manas, ‘I and some of my friends at school have problems with the subject English language and the present private teacher is not competent at all. We have decided to take private coaching from you in the subject from the next month.’
‘You’ve already taken decision without consulting me!’
‘Why, have you any problem coaching us?’
‘No problem as such, but unlike private coaches in general, I cannot accept any fees from you in exchange for coaching. Tell your friends categorically that I may coach you but it must be free of cost.’
IV
Manas started coaching them from the next month. He was amazed to discover the intelligence and quick wit of Kamala who learnt to write correct English in a few weeks. As Manas did not take any fee from the students, they compensated with gifts of vegetables and fruits from their gardens regularly and the benefit went to the maid servant as Manas himself had no use of the gifts.
Autumn stepped in with all its charms never experienced in the city life. The sky became deep blue with rafts of small white clouds wafting across, fields became white with flowers of kash-grass, sthal-padma trees adorned orange with large flowers, sheuli flowers filled the air with enchanting aroma, and in the morning sun rays scintillated on silvery dew drops on the leafs of the trees and everybody became joyous with the approach of Durga puza, the greatest and most gorgeous festival of the Bengalis.
Manas returned to Calcutta during the vacation. The city was mad with the festivities and Manas started rediscovering the city and realized that it has its own charm. He enjoyed the puza visiting pandals and watching with friend gorgeous images of the goddess. He also enjoyed the series of festivals that closely followed Durga puza and enjoying a month’s vacation to his heart’s content he rejoined school.
Soon after the school reopened, the students had to face the ordeal of the test examination to select the students to be sent for the final examination. Kamala did very well in the exam and raised hope in the minds of all the teachers of the school that with a little bit effort she could come out with exceptionally brilliant results in the final school leaving H. S. Examination.
Pressure of study increased as the final examination got closer day by day. Kamala had now turned very serious and introvert and occasionally keeps gazing at Manas as though she wanted to say something. Manas took it to be the nervousness and lack of confidence caused by fear of the public examination. He resolved to do everything to restore her confidence but he was a bit embarrassed when the aged maid servant told that there was something else in the looks of the girl and Manas ought to be cautious. After all he was the son of a government officer and she, the daughter of a peasant. Manas laughed away the suggestion and he was angry that a maid servant had the audacity to make such remarks. He was confident that it was nothing but the fear of examination and started coaching her more intensively, always suggesting her to take the examination easy as though it was a school examination.
The final examination came and Kamala appeared at it confidently and discussion of the question papers indicated that she had done well and was likely to have the desired result. After the final exam she chose to spend her time till the results to her maternal uncle’s house in Bangladesh.
Her maternal uncle was a landlord there. She was elated to see that there was no religious bigotry among the Muslims, the majority there. She soon made friendship with Amina, a Muslim girl from an educated family. They started spending time by wading through the fields, swimming in the rivers; singing, dancing and playing indoor games. The two sons of her uncle aged eight and ten, joined them at times. Time went on merrily, but when alone, she suddenly felt morose as memories of her association with Manas returned to her mind again and again. She at times crooned a melancholic song of lost love.
V
At last the results came out. It was announced by the All India Radio, Calcutta that within a few days, results of the H.S. Examination of West Bengal would be published. Kamala hastened back to home and felt tensed over the results. She, however, had not to go through the agony of waiting for long. Only two days after her return, the results were published and mark sheets sent to schools. The task, of noting down the results before distributing the mark sheets among the students, was stupendous and the school served the notice that the list of students with aggregate marks would be displayed on the notice board in the evening that day and mark sheets would be distributed from one p.m. the next day.
Kamala did not have the nerves to go herself and check up the list and she sent her father for it. Her father returned in an ebullient mood. Kamala had secured highest marks among the students appearing from the school and the head clerk told that she might have secured highest marks among all the students appearing from the district.
Next morning she took hours to dress up. She wore a bright blue sari, a matching blouse, a green tip on her forehead, and made a chignon and fastened it with a butterfly-clip. Looking at the mirror she was thrilled to imagine how Manas would react to encounter such a beauty.
At school all her friends gathered around her hollering, ‘you’ve done so well, when are you going to celebrate and entertain us with sweets?’
Kamala collected the mark sheet and was confirmed that the result in the list was correct and all her doubts and fear that there could be some mistakes in the list, were dispelled in a moment.
In a jubilant mood she hastened right over to the teachers’ room. As soon as she approached the door of the room, blood rushed to her heart as she thought of her encounter with Manas after the long separation. She entered the room taking permission from the teacher seated close to the door and found Manas at the far end absorbed in a news paper. All the teachers present welcomed her and congratulated her for her results. This gave her time to pull her nerves together. Manas looked up as she walked over to him and smiled charmingly to see her. He examined the mark sheet closely and said, ‘your result is as expected on the whole, but your marks in mathematics should have been higher. The mathematics teacher, Swarupbabu told me that you had given hundred percent correct answers, but you’ve secured eighty two, i.e. you’ve done some silly mistakes. Anyway, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. What’s your next plan?’
‘I’ll meet you at your quarter tomorrow to discuss the matter in detail.’
‘O’K. Now make merriment with your friends.’
Coming out of the room Kamala felt a bit disappointed. Not for the Mathematics marks. She had at least secured letter marks in the subject. In fact she expected that Manas would give a start to come upon her beauty but he did not have any such reaction at all. Nevertheless, she felt some inner ecstasy recollecting the smiling face and sweet voice of Manas she had just encountered. Among the candidates who had appeared in the H.S. Examination from this school, all were present except the two who had plucked. All the friends made merriment for hours. This might be their last meeting unless they get admitted to the same college. It was afternoon when they had finished and Kamala’s house being outside the village and none of her friends residing in that locality, Kamala set off alone for home after the wild revelry.
On her way her heart leapt up to discover Manas seated on sand bed close to the river and reciting loudly.
‘Let devotion, desire, delight
Be scattered in the uproar of September and
You go and hide in the crackling autumn
Either be quiet or be crazy.’
The crimson sun had now dropped down behind the cluster of trees in the west and evening was slowly advancing along. Her mind became restless and she felt an irresistible urge to climb down to Manas at this desolate place; but she hesitated lest it had bad impression on Manas about her. But her desire got the better of her and she climbed down the gentle slope of the bank with a fluttering heart.
Hearing her footsteps he sopped reciting and got embarrassed to discover Kamala all on a sudden. He blurted out, ‘returning home?’
Kamala had now braced herself up and emboldened by the friendly attitude of Manas she remarked forthright, ‘yes. But reciting poems on this desolate river bed, a strange fellow you are! If found out, people would call you crazy.’
Manas retorted promptly, ‘that means you think me crazy!’
‘Any doubt about that?’ She started giggling.
Manas said smiling, ‘I don’t care. This is but the ideal place for reciting poems. Have you seen how beautiful the sky has turned at sunset, the reddish tinge on the clouds, the mountain peaks still scintillating, the flocks of birds returning home and the mellow evening slowly creeping in?’
Kamala felt an uncanny pleasure coursing through her. She said in a jubilant voice, ‘don’t you see anything else?’ She looked at him expectantly.
Watching Manas looking hither and thither like a novice she felt agitated and was also amazed. After cogitating for a while Manas gave a satisfied smile and said ebulliently, ‘yes I’ve seen it.’
Kamala felt trepidation in her heart and blood started boiling within her. She asked expectantly, ‘what have you seen?’
‘I’m sure you’re talking about the bi-colored bird on the bush to the right. I cannot but appreciate your keen sight. I’ve been here for such a long time but missed that beautiful sight.’
Kamala felt her heart sinking and she replied nonchalantly, ‘you’re absolutely right. Let me go now and I’ll meet you tomorrow.’
Kamala left off and Manas resumed his recitation.
Walking along the semi-dark path, Kamala was boiling with anger. She repeated what he had said in a distorted voice. ‘What a blind man in spite of two large eyes! The old rascals look at me with lusty eyes and this young man could not see anything from so close.’ She said to herself with deep chagrin.
All of a sudden her mind was filled with limitless bliss. Whom was she calling blind? She herself was blind. Beauty lies in something which is far different from the commonplace.
Walking along in the mystic evening embellished with the glitter of the fire flies, she got absorbed in the dream of that uncommon beauty. Tiny lamps started flickering from the cottages around and a plaintive music came floating from distance. Kamala aspired to fly with the wings of imagination and get lost in the tinged evening sky. She again aspired to become the bi-colored bird and fly toward the unknown.
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The Author



The author of these short stories is a Ph.D. in economics and professionally an economist but his passion for literature occasionally robs him out of the dry arena of economics to the world of love romance and adventure. From his very childhood his favorite hobbies included swimming in turbulent rivers during the rains, small game hunting, boxing, hill trekking and adventure in wild animal infested deep forests. Later on he gave up hunting and boxing considering them to be cruel sports. In course of his hill treks he came in contact with various hill tribes and he could feel the heart bits of these honest and simple people, especially the charming girls. Many of his romantic short stories are based on these hill people and the hilly charm amidst which they are born and brought up. Dr. Basu may be contacted at rlbasu@rediffmail.com.