by Pandey Kapil
Restraining herself with much effort, she asked, ‘Where do you come from? Sheetlapur?’
‘No, mistress, I am from Gunzarawala in Punjab.’
‘From Gunzarawala? Punjab?
‘Yes mistress. My great-grandfather had migrated to that place. A few weeks ago, I lost my entire family to the plague epidemic in Punjab. I am the only survivor. Shortly before dying, my grandfather had asked me to come to Chhapra and seek shelter with his younger cousin, Babu Haliwant Sahay. But now that I am here, having discharged all my sacred duties towards the dead, I am told that my grand-uncle has left everything to become a monk. I know no one here. Where can I go?’ By the time he finished speaking, he was choked and tears welled up in his eyes.
Moved by the boy’s tragic story, she wept with him too. Steadying herself, she walked up to him, and with the aanchal of her sari, wiped off the tears from his eyes, and hers.
‘Don’t cry, son. I am your grand-aunt. I will take care of you,’ she said, with loving tenderness.
To Ramprasad, it was like finding a harbour in the middle of a raging tempest.
14
The Past and the Future
Even though Calcutta was vast and unfamiliar, Mahendar had no reason to panic since his bag was swollen with cash. During his early days in Banaras, his challenges were twice as big: the place was unfamiliar to him and he was a pauper. If he could tough it out there, why should life in Calcutta present greater difficulties? After getting off the train at Howrah, he rented a room at a dharmashala and went sightseeing across the city. The majestic buildings of Calcutta were so tall that if a man tilted his head upwards to form an idea of their height, his turban would fall off his head. Every now and then, a tram would trundle by, rolling over the narrow rails laid out on the city’s tidy graveled roads. Mahendar was totally awestruck by the ease with which the massive tramcars glided along the winding tracks. And when night came, his sense of wonder deepened. The gas lamps that lit up the streets of Calcutta could easily rival daylight. Never before in his life had he seen things so luminous. Indeed, the blazing torches of Banaras and Chhapra were no match. He had heard people say that Calcutta never goes to sleep. True to the legend, Mahendar found the city wide awake. He loitered around till late into the night and returned to his room only after fatigue got the better of his desire to explore the city further.
But Calcutta was a metropolitan city. His daily expenses increased considerably, and in no time, he found himself short of money. Besides, the solitary life was too oppressive a burden to bear. To escape this tedium, Mahendar thought of seeking work. His strong body and tall frame proved quite helpful in this pursuit. Within a few days, he got employed as a gatekeeper with Harrison & Company, a Bowbazar-based firm that sold gas lamps. The company provided him with a room in the same locality, and before long, his life fell into a new routine. At the end of each day, as he walked back to his room for the night, the abject loneliness which defined his life in the new city tore open old sores. And the wounds he had borne during his days in Chhapra and Banaras started bleeding again. In these troubled hours, he would, quite involuntarily, seek comfort in music and start singing.
* * *
One day, as he was relaxing in his room, singing a snatch from a plaintive poorvi, someone knocked on the door.
‘I was a sprightly fish in a pond, O’ Madhav,
You turned me into a vagabond.
I left my family; I left my home, O’ Madhav,
You turned me into a vagabond.’
That noise broke his trance. As he opened the door, he saw a young Bengali lady standing outside his room. Her complexion was dusky, her body was voluptuous and her curly hair were neatly tied in a bun-shaped hairdo. She looked Mahendar up and down with her big impish eyes and teased him with mock complain in Bengali-mixed Hindustani. ‘Mr Gatekeeper, why are you keen on slaying me with your songs?’
Mahendar felt awed by the beauty of his unexpected guest and her startling overtures. His mind went blank.
‘I know what assails your heart. Come, let me cure your malady,’ she added and clutched his hand. As she led him on, a hypnotized Mahendar followed her unthinkingly, without uttering a word. Long after his days of dalliance with Gulzari and Kesar, the seductive scent of a woman had once again made him restive. He was taken to a dingy room in the adjacent lane, right across his own room. Once inside, they settled on a rug. Every aspect of her being—her sheer beauty, her body, her bewitching laughter and her breath—oozed lust and desire. She poured alcohol into two cups, held out one to Mahendar, and said laughing, ‘Here, drink this, the medicine for all your sufferings. If you fancy surviving this heartless world, I suggest you develop a taste for this potion.’
But Mahendar did not flinch. He was too mesmerized to notice the cup in her outstretched hand, his eyes feasting on the charms of his hostess. Finding him lost and dumbstruck, she playfully brought the cup to his lips. Mahendar did not resist the offering; he drank it greedily, emptying the cup in a gulp.
‘Look, my name is Manorama. I thrive in the hearts of men. And the men . . . well, they come to me, seeking balsam for their scorched souls. Do you get me?’ As she uttered those words, her eyes lit up and a mischievous smile played on her face.
Mahendar stared at her for long, admiring every little detail of her appearance: her dusky complexion, her luscious body, her big refulgent eyes and the bold crimson dot on her broad forehead. But more than everything else, it was the heady fragrance of a woman’s body that intensified his longing. And as his inebriation deepened, so did his ecstasy, till he was completely drowned in alcohol.
Next morning, when he opened his eyes, Manorama was still asleep. She lay curled on the rag, carefree and with her clothes disheveled. He stood up hurriedly and got ready to leave. But barely had he reached the door when Manorama opened her eyes. Arching her body languidly, she smiled and said, ‘Misir-ji, there stretches another day, to be spent battling sorrows of life.’
Mahendar spent his entire day regretting events of the previous night. He tried his best to put his heart into his work. However, once it got dark, he found himself irresistibly drawn to Manorama’s room. And then, the same alcohol, the same insobriety—thus ended another night, battling the same old sorrows. Soon this became a routine of sorts. Night after night, one night at a time, the two waged incessant battle against the miseries of life.
However, one evening, not too long after this daily rite had commenced, Mahendar’s newfound way of coping with life got rudely interrupted when he found a lock hung on Manorama’s door. For the rest of the night, he kept circling her place, agitated and aching for her. The next evening brought no respite either. Seeing the lock dangle in the same position, his anger blazed up uncontrollably. In a fury, he kicked the door, stomped out of her lane and stormed towards the liquor shop. Just as he was beginning to descend the steps of the shop, having bought a bottle of alcohol, he was intercepted midway by a stranger. ‘Misir Baba, is that you?’
A strange sensation ran through his body. He was surprised to notice that a thoroughly Bengali-looking man, in a totally unfamiliar city, had addressed him as if he was a close acquaintance. There was indeed an air of familiarity about him. Wherever could he have seen him? As he strained his memory a little, he could now easily place him, in spite the new appearance that the stranger had put on. ‘Arrey Bulakna! What on earth are you doing here?’ he nearly shrieked in surprise.
‘Baba, please do not be so loud. We aren’t too far from each other, are we? I can hear you well enough,’ said Bulakna and broke into a guffaw.
Bulakna was quick to ask him over to his place. Mahendar happily obliged, and soon, the two started walking towards Bulakna’s home.
‘Baba, there is something I must tell you. Over here, no one has heard of Bulakna Dom. They know me as Bulaki Lal Kayath. Please be a little discreet when my Bengali wife is around,’ Bulakna requested.
The revelation produced another shock on a day full of surprises. Whe
n Bulakna had left Chhapra, he had plenty of money with him. Undoubtedly, it was the availability of ready cash that had emboldened him to travel to Calcutta. He knew that Shivdharilal’s son Shivratan lived in the city. Before leaving Chhapra, he took his address, and upon his arrival, first and foremost, reached out to him, seeking his help and counsel. Shivratan was a storekeeper at the army cantonment in Barrackpore. The two met at the cantonment storehouse. Bulakna was surprised to notice that a number of punctured drums lay abandoned at that facility. ‘Good lord! What are these for?’ he asked.
Shivratan explained that they were ceremonial drums used in the army bands.
‘But Sir, why have they been punctured?’ he asked, thoroughly puzzled.
‘Fool, they have not been punctured on purpose. They are to be mended. Since we haven’t found someone who can do the job, they have been temporarily stacked up in this storehouse.’ Shivratan laughed at Bulakna’s rustic innocence.
‘You haven’t found a mender in this big a city! Well, I can do this job.’ Bulakna was both impressed and disappointed with Calcutta.
‘In that case, show us a sample of your work? Can you mend one of these?’ Shivratan dared.
Bulakna accepted the challenge. He picked up a punctured drum, and in no time, replaced the leather membrane on its batter head. By the end of that first meeting, Shivratan’s fertile imagination and devious intellect had enabled him to figure out that Bulakna’s pockets were indeed deep. Soon, a property was rented to open a shop and a signboard in English that read ‘Bulaki Lal & Company, Musical Instrument Merchant’ was promptly suspended atop its entrance. Thus, Bulakna Dom was reborn as Bulaki Lal Kayath, the sole proprietor of Bulaki Lal & Company.
They hired a manager to oversee everyday transactions at the shop, but the man was more of a dummy. The real control rested with Shivratan who made sure that the entire bulk of army’s procurement of musical instruments as well as all the mending jobs were sourced from Bulakna’s shop. The little establishment was crammed with a variety of musical instruments, and before long, they started making profits. Emboldened by his gainful trade, Bulakna bought a house and married a Bengali widow.
For Mahendar, hitherto friendless in the city, Bulaki Lal & Company turned out to be a great blessing; it had brought together old acquaintances in an alien and unfriendly city. Thanks to the shop, he found a support system in the form of Bulaki Lal and Shivratan. Hereafter, he didn’t have to swim all by himself in that ocean called Calcutta.
The following night, Manorama returned, too. Mahendar was ecstatic to see her and wasted no time in pouring her alcohol. But she giggled at his jaunty impatience and said, ‘Misir-ji, I can’t drink today. I have to go to the barracks.’
‘To the barracks?’
‘Yes, Misir-ji, you heard it right. To carry on with this onerous life, I need to visit the barracks. And to bear that shame, I have to drown in alcohol,’ she added, wearing a forlorn smile. Mahendar wasn’t sure how to console her.
Seeing him thunderstruck by the revelation, she added a note of empathy to the conversation and said, ‘Misir-ji, that evening, when I first heard you sing, it felt as if I could finally find shelter in your songs; it felt as if we both were travelers from the same far-off country, trapped together in an alien city. You see, that is why I thought of befriending you. Since we haven’t seen each other in the past several days, I just came over to check on you. Well then, I must go now.’
And just like that, Manorama walked away. A feeling of utter helplessness washed over Mahendar; there was nothing that he could do except look on in silent stupefaction. He experienced an odd surge of emotions—an emotion that he couldn’t clearly comprehend. Perplexed, he stepped out of his room and directed his steps towards Bulaki Lal & Company.
* * *
During the months that followed, Mahendar divided his time between gate-keeping and being a complete wastrel. He started spending long purposeless hours at Bulakna’s shop. And the little time he could spare at night, he reserved for Manorama. Music kept him company too. But every now and then, whenever the tunes of a poorvi struck the chord of melancholy on his heartstrings, he grew restless. During such moments, he swung between extremes: he would either drown himself in alcohol or feel completely repelled by it.
At times, feeling tormented by his circumstances, he took to desultory loitering. Every so often, as he sat watching ships recede away from Calcutta’s Khirdipur dock, he thought of his own life. He felt like a ship adrift in the sea of Calcutta. And the high tide in Hooghly reminded him of his ever-swelling sorrows. It was only at the Kalibadi—the home of goddess Kali—that he experienced a little calm. Soon, he became a regular visitor to the temple. It was the only place in the entire city which he liked visiting over and over again.
One day, as he was coming out of the Kali temple, he found himself surrounded by a horde of beggar women. In high spirits after the early-morning darshan of the goddess, he was generous with alms. After doling out the little money that he was carrying, as he tried to walk past the group, his eyes were drawn to a beggar woman who was desperately dragging forth her disabled body. Could he have known her from somewhere? Seeing her jogged his memory. By then, the woman had inched much closer. When he bent forward to take a good look at her, he glimpsed old familiar lineaments in that soiled somber face. The woman, too, appeared quite shocked. Having painstakingly dragged herself towards Mahendar, she now wanted to slink away, but she couldn’t retreat at the same pace. Mahendar lunged ahead and grabbed her hand.
‘Kesarbai?’
Tears rained down her eyes as she heard her name. He lifted her in his arms and to the astonishment of everyone present, set her on a carriage that was waiting nearby.
Mahendar brought her over to his place, bathed her and draped her in a new sari. Nearly half of her body was paralyzed. The queen of ambrosial melodies stuttered as she spoke. Somehow, between sobs, she managed to narrate the story of her blighted life. She had come to Calcutta with the Nawab of Banaras. During her early days in the city, life seemed heavenly. She lived in a majestic mansion, attended to by an army of underlings and guarded by gatekeepers. Her days were enveloped in splendour and life was one endless round of merrymaking, until one day she suffered an attack of paralysis. Suddenly, her sweet life was poisoned. At first, she did receive a little medical attention. However, once the nawab found another woman, she was thrown out of the mansion and forced to survive by begging near Kalibadi. Moved by her harrowing tale, Misir-ji was determined to get her cured; without any delay, she was provided with medical care.
But the medical expenses were too heavy for a gatekeeper to bear. Soon, he was forced to ask around for help, but it was not forthcoming. Manorama extended both her sympathy and support. At times, she even assisted Mahendar with nursing Kesarbai and by doing household chores. But given her meager income, and the high expenses of living in Calcutta, it was difficult for her to set aside even a small amount for Kesarbai’s costly medicines. For a while, both Shivratan and Bulaki did support Mahendar with money. But one day, Shivratan spoke plainly to him and said, ‘Misir-ji, there is only so much that the two of us can do. We have our own families and children to feed. If you find it so difficult to arrange for the money, why don’t take to counterfeiting banknotes?’
At first, Mahendar was taken aback by the suggestion, but his desperation knew no bounds. Recovering quickly from the initial shock, he said, ‘Shivratan-ji, your proposal is a good one. I have run into such hard times that even counterfeiting sounds agreeable. But how do I go about this?’
Shivratan smiled. He slid to the edge of his seat and whispered, ‘That I can teach you.’
Within a week, all the arrangements necessary for the enterprise were made. The printing machine was kept hidden in Manorama’s room and the business of counterfeiting was carried out only during the nights. The room was lit by a gas lamp, dimmed to its minimal brightness to keep the prying eyes away.
Mahendar could now afford the expensi
ve medicines prescribed by Kaviraj Gananath Sen for Kesarbai; paying the hundred rupees that Sen charged was easy. In no time, Kesarbai’s health showed signs of remarkable improvement: she could use her legs to walk and her ability to speak improved too. To Mahendar, it was a sight that filled his heart with joy and satisfaction. But inscrutable are the ways of God. Kesarbai suffered a relapse so severe that she could not be saved thereafter. In a life that oscillated between the extremes of joy and sorrow, Kesarbai had had the consolation of finding a little happiness before drawing her last breath. When a grief-stricken Mahendar returned to his room after cremating her body on the bank of the Hooghly, Manorama came over to console him and said, ‘For whom do you grieve now, Misir-ji? Those with a desire to survive must escape the snares of the past. You must look ahead to life, and so should I. Listen, I have saved so much that I no longer wish to continue with this dangerous trade of counterfeiting. Neither do I need to sin in the barracks, nor seek refuge in alcohol. I have used my savings to buy myself a husband. Now, I want to start my life afresh; away from Calcutta, away from these people who know my story. I’ll marry and lead a respectable life. Perhaps I’ll never be able to forget our time together, but at this moment, I can only seek your forgiveness.’
Manorama wasn’t lying; she left Calcutta and the city became insufferable for Mahendar without her. By then, Shivratan had amassed an enormous fortune. The intriguing story of his prosperity, which had started with his partnership with Bulaki Lal & Sons, took a dramatic leap once he established his grip over the counterfeiting racket. In no time, he had become a millionaire. Meanwhile, Bulaki, too, appeared keen to take up a new enterprise. His Bengali wife, who had received a little education, had started meddling in those areas of their trade that had been left to the superior wisdom of Shivratan. Having weighed all his options, Shivratan decided to dissociate himself from both counterfeiting and Bulaki Lal’s shop. He also left his job at the storehouse and secured a lucrative contract to arrange supplies for the army barracks. Soon, he opened a new firm by the name ‘Munshi and Sons’ in Shyambaazar and devoted himself wholeheartedly to its management. Left alone after Manorama’s departure and the subsequent loss of business partners, Mahendar started reflecting on his life and circumstances. For the first time since he had come to Calcutta, he felt a little scared; he feared that his illicit trade may soon land him in jail. After all these years, he was left with nothing but the printing machine, a sense of acute bereavement at having lost Kesarbai and the lingering pain of being separated from Manorama.