And as the day wore on, as vehicles kept going up and down the street, moving across the dead bird, parts of it stuck to the tyres, big and small, slow and speeding, so that by the end of the day, bits and pieces of the bird travelled across the city.
The old man went back to his iron chair, one white bird less, the cage looked darker. Whether the old man cried we don’t know. Even if he had, no one would have noticed since it was about nine o’clock, time to go to office, time to go to school. Except for a little girl, about ten or twelve years old, standing in the balcony of her house, across the street from the oil mill, a little girl who saw everything and began to cry.
The old man turned to sit down in his chair, this time facing the road, his back towards the cage, and when he turned, he saw this girl, dressed in her white nightdress, with red flowers all over.
He couldn’t see her eyes, he was at quite a distance, but the sight of the girl, standing in the balcony, looking at him with a face wet with what could only be tears, offered him not only a distraction from his sadness but also a chance to silently share his loss, if only for a moment.
Our story will, after a while, move across the street, over the manhole, over the reddish-brown stain, into the girl’s house and from there, into her heart, in one straight line.
NIGHT GAME
On winter nights, just before Father switched off the lights in our bedroom, your mother and I played the Blanket Game.
Our eyes still open, we pull the blanket over our heads, stretch it tight, turn over on our sides so that we face each other. And then we look at the light refracted through the woollen fabric. It’s a blue yellow orange red light, a strange glow that you see only in the movies.
We then imagine that we have built our own light garden, its floor the blue bedspread, its roof the blanket and its flowers the red flowers on my sister’s white nightdress, the checks and stripes on my shirt.
There are several smells in our garden. The earth is the blanket, musty and warm; the grass is our clothes, smelling of water and soap and sun, the blue bedspread is the night, the flowers are my sister’s shampoo, the wind is the breath of approaching sleep.
But soon it becomes difficult to breathe, so we raise one end of the blanket, the one over our head, let the cold, fresh air rush in and then we dive underneath, back to our garden.
Sometimes we feel bold, so we hold the blanket high. We balance it, adjust it with our hands, so that the tassels on its fringe hang straight down, touch the blue bedspread in such a way that they seem like pickets for the fence of our light garden.
Then the light streams in, it gets brighter, it’s daytime in our garden, the colours of the flowers change. Until Father switches off the light and our garden melts into the night, the flowers go to sleep.
We played this game for quite a few winters until we found that we were growing bigger and bigger, the blanket, after we were covered, couldn’t reach far enough to be held high and tight, the garden then grew smaller and smaller.
But I needed to tell you this little story, my child, so that when you have to pull your blanket over your head, remember that with a little bit of imagination, you can always find some love trapped in some fear.
DURGA PUJA
Mike testing, ten, nine, eight, seven six five, four three two onezero. Testing, mike testing, ten, nine, eight, it’s the first day of the Pujas and she is ironing their clothes, his mother has to go for the prayer later in the day, she can see the thin man climb up the lamp-post, another holding the ladder, he adjusts the microphone underneath, the huge black and yellow banner for Boroline, the antiseptic cream for all seasons.
There are neat circular holes punched in the banner. Grandfather told her, long ago, those holes are for the wind to pass through so that the banner doesn’t tear.
She still cannot understand why. Maybe it has to do with forces acting on a rectangular surface, her school physics. Wherever she goes, she finds these banners, calling out to her across the city, strung across two lampposts on either side of the street, above the tram wires. Sometimes even across two houses in narrow lanes. All kinds of banners. Sure Success Tutorials for the Joint Entrance Examinations, Slimline Beauty Clinic, Complete Course in Computer Programming.
But this black and yellow Boroline banner comes up only during the Pujas, around the pandals, the huge tents made of canvas and cane, set up in the neighbourhood to welcome the Goddess who comes down from the hills, with her children, to her father’s place. For ten days every year.
Since last year, they also have a blue and white banner as big as Boroline’s, but this one’s for Fair and Lovely, the cream which dissolves the brown and keeps the skin fair and glowing. She’d bought it once, Mother threw it out, ‘You are dark and you are beautiful,’ she had said.
She bought one again after her marriage, used it every day, she bought it twice, thrice until her husband said, ‘Forget it, let’s wait for something better.’
His shirt and trousers are done, she has draped them over the dining-table chair, he will go with his mother to the pandal; his mother’s blouse has been ironed, the sari is left.
She remembers the candy man in Deoghar where she went for the Pujas long, long ago, the old man with the long bamboo pole against his shoulder, the candy wrapped around at the top, a big red and white ball. Twenty paise and he lowered the pole, tore off a chunk and asked her what shape would she like it in.
She always preferred the watch, so he tore a chunk off the candy ball and made a watch for her, the dial is white, the straps are red that go over her wrists. ‘They go well with your dress, little girl,’ he said.
Grandfather always paid him extra, told him, ‘Buy something for your children, they must be waiting for you at home.’ And she would feel the heavy candy on her wrist, watch the candy man walk away.
She liked to lick the straps first and then the dial, the dial was sweeter. ‘Wash your wrists with soap after you are done,’ Mother said. ‘Otherwise, ants will come at night.’
She can hear him in the bathroom, pouring the water over his body, mugs and mugs, she can hear the silences in between as he soaps himself. She removes a hanger from the wardrobe for his mother’s ironed blouse, hangs it from the hook on the wall, above the Tata Steel calendar.
It shows October, the month of nuts and bolts, magnified in black and grey, about twenty-five times, so that the threads on the screws are visible, like whorls on some iron fingers. The calendar page flaps gently in the wind but the ironed blouse firmly keeps it in place.
Mike testing. Eight-year-old Anshuman has come from Barasat, he is with us at the Puja Organizing Committee office, his mother, please come and pick him up. Anshuman, eight years old, is from Barasat. He is sitting here, right in front of us, please come and pick him up. This is a message to all parents, please take care of your children, tell them to hold your hand, we will do our best.
His father sits on the sofa, his legs up, reading The Statesman, the only newspaper that’s printing in the Pujas. They have a picture of the Goddess on the front page, a Goddess with dark lipstick, high cheekbones and a blouse that glitters.
Through the window she can see the house across the slums, the Saha household, the father works with Indian Airlines, he gets packets of fresheners for his children, sometimes even unopened breakfast and lunch boxes, complete with the little plastic packet which has the silverware, knives and forks, one big spoon for the rice, one tiny spoon for the dessert. And one toothpick per lunch.
Saha has two children, a brother and a sister, and today she can see them in their balcony, the sister in a new Puja yellow and red dress, resting her face against the grille. She had done the same thing once and Father had said, ‘Don’t sit like this, the iron will leave marks on your face, spoil your skin.’
She spreads the sari across the iron board, the ends fall against the floor.
‘Careful, now,’ says his mother from the next room. She bends, picks up the ends of the sari.
‘Be
careful, not so hot, it’s silk,’ says his mother.
And she begins ironing the sari, bit by bit, the sweat rolling down her neck into her blouse, onto her breasts. She shivers, watches her wrist, the candy that’s not there. He’s out of the bathroom now, drying himself, she can hear the towel rustle against his body, her husband’s body, his hair.
‘Hurry up,’ says his mother. ‘His trousers should be ready, he shouldn’t catch a cold. The weather is changing.’
She can hear the mike again. We are pleased to inform you that Anshuman’s parents have found him, please take care of your children.
Mike testing, the counting begins again, ten nine eight, the wind rushes, suddenly, from nowhere, through the holes in the banners, some of it enters the room, fans her face, and for some strange reason she begins to cry, seven six five, the tears fall on his mother’s sari and she presses the hot iron, four three two, steams the drops away. One, zero, she’s ready.
MATERNITY WARD
The glass window is large, the drapes are grey and heavy but she’s pushed them aside, there was a bit of a problem since one of the hooks, the little white plastic hooks that move along the curtain rod, got stuck.
She tugged, tugged harder, one hook gave way, snapped. It fell to the marble floor. She turned, looked around, just in case someone was watching, but there was no one, who knows whether this is damage to hospital property. But the damage helped, one hook gone, the drapes glided to the left.
Through the window now, she can see the buses and the taxis glide down Shakespeare Sarani, their tail-lights blinking as they turn left at the Ballygunge Circle before disappearing into the dark clouds of their exhaust.
In the little patch of green, between the Maternity Ward and the Administrative Block, she watches a man and a child, a little girl wobbling on a red bicycle. Their voices float upwards, towards her, but she can’t make out what they’re saying; the little girl loses balance and the man, perhaps her father, lurches forward to steady the bicycle.
He holds the handlebars with one hand as the little girl, who’s wearing a blue frock, adjusts herself. And with his other hand, he holds the seat at the back, half-running, half-walking. Sometimes, his entire body shuts the bicycle out of her view and all she can see then is a middle-aged man running in the garden, half-bent and laughing.
It’s evening; not yet seven since they haven’t switched on the street lights yet, she likes it this way. Her room is filled with the day’s falling light, the white walls dappled red; her wristwatch, kept on the bedside table, has stopped at two thirty.
She will wait for the nurse to tell her the time.
She walks back to her bed, smoothens out the sheets, fluffs the two pillows, puts one on top of the other. She can never get it right at home, he always complains, the pillows break into lumps.
But here, the sheets and the pillows all are white, taut. He left his red handkerchief when he came to visit her this morning and she spreads it over the pillow. It’s crumpled but it looks nice, the tiny rectangle of red, alive on the deathly white of the bed.
She feels tempted to switch on the reading lamp but checks herself: there’s nothing to read except some sales literature on the side table, blue and white, on some antacid which sounds vaguely familiar. More than reading, however, she wants to see what the room looks like when the street lights come on, the huge sodium vapour lamps, two in the park, one just outside her window, several lining the street.
Last night, when she woke up for a glass of water, she saw it: a soft yellow glow that made the cold steel bedposts glint softly like gold, warm and rich. The light broke across her window, staining the glass in several colours, like the tall windows of her school church.
And while falling asleep again, as her eyes began to close she began to see scenes of her childhood, half-remembered, half-forgotten: the Monday morning assembly in the St Paul’s Church, Sister Lucy reading from the school diary, God, make me a channel of your peace, an instrument of your love; the black rubber bands that held her white socks in place.
Perhaps there’s a traffic jam.
From outside, she can faintly hear the car horns, the revving up of an engine, a man’s voice calling out loud. Someone coughs in the hallway: it’s the sweeper doing the rounds, and after a while, when the road falls silent, she can hear the sound of his mop scrubbing the marble floor, the slap of his slippers.
She turns back and walks to the window again. This time, the cars are stuck, like brightly coloured ants waiting in line; two police constables are waving their arms. The man and the girl are gone, a rag-picker sits on the yellow bench wrapped in his shadow. She can see that a wind has begun to blow, rustling the leaves of the giant eucalyptus trees in the hospital compound. There’s a banner strung between two, with a lot of lettering, from this distance, she cannot make out what’s written, maybe she needs glasses.
She can’t feel the wind, it’s better this way, for through the thin hospital gown she can feel the cold of the room beginning to rub against her skin. The gown is at least one size over: its hem scrapes the floor and she has to be careful lest she trip; the straps keep sliding over her shoulders. The first two days she was too sick to notice; later, she felt uncomfortable, self-conscious; she had asked one of the nurses to change the gown but no, all gowns in the hospital were of a standard size, the nurse said. But now she’s got used to it.
And who will stand on Shakespeare Street and stare at a patient looking through the window of a sixth-floor hospital room?
Silly, stupid of me, she thinks, as she returns to lie down on the bed. Her head hits the bedpost hard, she winces. She adjusts the pillows, settles down, pulls the white blanket over her, the head hurts. She turns on her side, she can smell him in the red handkerchief: his aftershave and the sweat, his hands, the thick nape of his neck.
The last time, the only other time she was in a hospital was at her grandfather’s place in Deoghar which she visited every Durga Puja. Must have been very long ago because the baby brother hadn’t come into the family yet, she can remember the night before.
The train will leave Sealdah station at five thirty in the morning, she goes to bed late, there are a thousand things that have to be done: the picture books have to be shoved deep down in the bag, one has to be kept in Mother’s handbag just in case she wants to read in the train; her favourite lipstick is smuggled in along with Mother’s bangles and earrings. She can’t sleep, it’s already two, she has to get up at four since the toothbrush and her nightdress have to be packed too. She keeps staring at the clock on the wall, the chiming magnified in the stillness of the night. From the next room, she can hear her parents discussing which rooms to lock, who should keep the key and where to put the instructions for the maid who has to air the rooms every third day, collect the mail.
When she wakes up, it’s pitch dark in the bedroom, she can see the suitcases and the holdall lying on the floor, all ready, packed, huddled like old men and women, waiting to be taken down to the taxi.
Mother has laid out the Train Dress for her on the bed: a black skirt and a red top, dark colours because the dust, the coal from the engine won’t show, she says. As she brushes her teeth standing in the veranda that leads to the kitchen, she can hear the clink of tiffin boxes, Mother packing lunch for the journey. Through the iron grille, she can see Father standing at the bus stop looking for a taxi.
Grandfather smells like morning tea; she can smell the soap and the water in his starched shirtsleeves, clean and fresh; his fingers are soft, wrinkled, she holds on to them and walks. The wind fills her skirt, squeezes into her shirt, her eyes. She’s the girl from the city and villagers turn their heads to look at her, at her shoes, her hair, black and beautiful, cropped up close, like a boy’s.
‘We are going to Haathi Pahar,’ Grandfather says, ‘Elephants’ Mount, the British called it. Five huge rocks that look like elephants fast asleep. There’s also a tap there, right between the rocks, and for twenty-four hours a day, three hundred a
nd sixty-five days a year, rain or drought, cold or hot, the water keeps flowing, crystal clear. No one knows where the water comes from since there is no stream nearby, no river and as you know, I told you before, this is an arid plateau. Take this flask, we’ll fill it up there.’
There’s a knock at the door and the nurse walks in, she can hear her walk up to the bed, stand there. It must be a new nurse since she hasn’t heard this sound before, the heavy footsteps, the clink of bangles.
‘When do you want dinner today, Didi?’ the nurse asks.
She pretends she’s asleep, tense; the nurse walks to the bedside table, she can hear her move the chair but let the drapes stay where they are.
‘When do you want dinner, Didi?’ the nurse asks again.
She doesn’t move, the nurse clicks her tongue, stands there, fidgets, shuffles her feet and then walks out, closing the door behind her.
She relaxes, the nurse didn’t notice the white hook on the floor, she turns on her side, they have switched the street lights on.
From the bed she can see the purple rectangle of night in her window, fringed by the scattered glow from the sodium vapour lamp. She removes the blanket, her gown rides above her knees, slips over her shoulders leaving them bare, she doesn’t bother.
They walk past the cluster of tea stalls, smell the milk and the basil leaves boiling, past the rickshaw stand where she notices the rickshaw-puller who brought them from the station, he smiles at her, Grandfather keeps looking straight ahead as they turn left from the metalled road onto the dirt track lined with wild flowers, red and white.
‘How far is it, Grandfather?’
‘We are almost there,’ he says, his face glowing in the morning light, his rimless glasses catching the sun in two bright spots.
The Blue Bedspread Page 7