Debashish had been completing his education in Delhi. He had put up with a friend of his father’s, a renowned professor of science at the University of Delhi. His mother had died when he was a child. Debashish had completed his MSc and returned home. A month later, his father had passed away.
Nripati asked, ‘Which other member of your family lives with you?’
‘No one,’ Debashish replied, ‘I live alone. Or you could say, Nakul and I live here. He has been living in this house since before I was born.’
‘You aren’t married?’
‘Father passed away soon after I came back from Delhi. And somehow, I just didn’t get around to it after that.’
‘Hmm. Incidentally, since your surname is Bhatta, you must be a Brahmin. Do you know your particular gotra?’
‘At the time of the sacred thread ceremony I went through, I’d heard it was Sandilya … Banerjee.’
‘Oh, good! Would you object if I played matchmaker for you?’
Debashish gave him a bashful smile and refrained from answering. Nakul had been standing in a corner, listening to the conversation. Now he came forward to say, ‘Yes, sir. Please go ahead. This house needs a woman’s touch. I am getting old. How much longer will I be able to manage things here?’
‘So be it.’ Nripati drained his teacup and rose to leave. ‘I’ll be off today. Every evening, the young men in the locality gather for tea and a chat session at my place. Why don’t you drop in as well?’
‘Fine, I will.’
‘Why not this evening?’
After a slight hesitation, Debashish replied, ‘This evening … well, all right, why not?’
The two of them left together. It was nearly dark. When they neared Nripati’s house, they heard the tinkling notes of a piano being played.
A trio of bright lamps lit up the living room. A solitary man sat before the piano that occupied a corner of the room, intent on his performance.
Nripati walked in with Debashish and announced, ‘See, Probal. We have a new member in our group—Debashish Bhatta.’
Probal moved away from the piano and said in a tone of indifference, ‘We don’t need an introduction.’
‘Are you already acquainted?’ Nripati asked.
‘Slightly,’ Probal replied, ‘as much, in fact, as a rich man could be acquainted with a poor one like me.’ Probal went back to the piano and began to play it in a desultory fashion. His odd behaviour made it very clear that he was not particularly elated to see Debashish. Probal was a couple of years older than him. He was of medium build and had a muscular physique. His face was unexceptional, but gave off an animal magnetism. His eyes betrayed displeasure. Whatever he might have lacked by way of looks, he had acquired quite a reputation as a gifted singer. Some of his gramophone records had become popular and he was often invited to perform over the radio.
Probal and Debashish had not seen each other in years. At one time, they had gone to school together and knew each other fairly well. Then Debashish had finished his schooling and gone away to Delhi. This was the first occasion on which they were meeting since then. During this period, Debashish’s father had started a cosmetics factory called Butterfly Cosmetics and had amassed a fortune. Probal’s father had died of a heart attack and, consequently, their fortunes had dwindled. Probal’s career in music was barely keeping the family afloat.
Probal’s words had embarrassed Debashish a little. Nripati led him to a sofa at the other end of the room and began to talk to him. He explained, ‘About five or six young men come to my evening sessions, but not everyone comes every day. A few of the others will be arriving soon.’
Nripati offered the cigarette tin to Debashish who shook his head and said, ‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke.’
Nripati lit one for himself and lowered his voice as he explained, ‘Probal Gupta is a musician and a bit prickly about certain things. Don’t take his words to heart. Things will settle down in a while.’
At this moment, another young man came in and paused at the door. Clad in a silk suit, he was a handsome fellow with the stamp of refinement on his distinguished features. He was around twenty-four years old and seemed to be a person with a mind of his own. Nripati called out to him, ‘There you are, Kapil. Let me introduce you to each other: Kapil Bose, Debashish Bhatta.’
After the usual greetings had been exchanged, Kapil asked, ‘Nripatida, may I use your telephone? I just remembered something important on my way here.’
‘Yes, certainly. Go ahead.’
When Kapil had gone to the next room, Nripati remarked, ‘Kapil is a good sort. His father is unimaginably rich, but he himself isn’t any the worse for it. He doesn’t have any serious vices. He is educated, spends his days on the tennis court and at the billiards table and looks through his telescope at night to count the stars. But he has one flaw—he simply refuses to get married.’
Suddenly, Probal abandoned the piano and rose to his feet. He looked at Nripati and said, ‘I’ll be off today, Nripatida.’ He ignored Debashish.
Nripati asked, ‘So soon? Do you have a radio performance? I think I read in the newspaper this morning that you had a programme on the air tonight.’
‘I do,’ Probal replied, ‘but the music is already recorded. I don’t need to go to the studio tonight. I am going home.’
‘Home?’ Nripati asked. ‘Is everything all right with your wife?’
Probal’s voice was full of grief as he replied, ‘I forgot to tell you, Nripatida—my wife died a month ago. She was suffering from a congenital heart disease. The doctors explained that if such patients aren’t operated on before the age of fourteen, they invariably succumb to the ailment by the time they are twenty-one. My father-in-law had concealed his daughter’s condition from us when he got us married. All right then, goodnight.’
Nripati and Debashish were stunned. Probal’s wife had died and he had not said a word about it to any of his friends. He had merely come in, played the piano in a manner that suggested he was lost in thought, and gone away every day. Nripati knew that Probal’s wife had been suffering from a terminal disease, but the announcement had robbed him of his speech.
Just then, Kapil came in from the other room and walked up to them. He had not heard Probal’s words. He looked at Probal and remarked, ‘That was a nice tune you were playing. Were you leaving? Why don’t you sing us a song?’
Probal glared at him with hatred and muttered through clenched teeth, ‘My songs don’t come for free. One has to pay for them.’
Kapil was taken unawares by so rude a response. Then he composed himself and joked, ‘If I have to pay money, why would I hear you sing? Surely, there are better singers around?’
Without uttering another word, Probal rushed out of the room. Kapil sat back in a chair and lit a cigarette. Nripati murmured sheepishly, ‘Probal is out of sorts today.’
Kapil commented, ‘His temper is always on the rise. That’s his nature.’
‘His wife has died.’
Kapil was startled. ‘Is that true?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know about it. Damn! I was unduly harsh with him now.’
Nripati said, ‘Put it out of your mind. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. We haven’t seen you around for a few days now.’
Kapil said, ‘I had plans of going to Bangalore for a holiday, but they came to naught.’
‘Why?’
‘The person who was supposed to accompany me couldn’t do so. It’s no fun travelling alone.’
‘I agree. But why aren’t you getting married? If you marry, you’ll acquire a permanent travelling companion.’
Kapil laughed and stretched his arms out in a dramatic manner. ‘The great Poet,’ he declaimed, ‘has said: “I shall not renounce the world unless the right temptation comes along.” I am with the Poet on this one.’
‘But it has come to my ears,’ Nripati observed, ‘that your father had tried his best to offer you the right temptation. That he had lined up at least fifty beautiful temptation
s. Didn’t a single one of them appeal to you?’
Kapil grew serious. ‘Nripatida,’ he said, ‘there may be many beautiful girls in the world. But beauty alone is not enough. I want a wife whose intellect will be on par with mine. You understand, don’t you?’
‘I do. You’re a smart fellow. Why don’t you choose your own bride? I am sure your father will not object.’
Kapil laughed, ‘That’s what I am trying to do.’
Thereafter, the conversation meandered into the normal channels. Debashish had, so far, been a silent listener. Now, he too joined in the conversation. Once Kapil had heard what Debashish did for a living, he asked, ‘So it’s you, is it, the face behind the famous Butterfly Cosmetics products? My entire household uses your oils, soaps and creams. So where have you been hiding all these days?’
Debashish said, ‘I was right here, but I hadn’t met Nripatibabu till recently.’
They talked for a while. The valet came and handed them tiny cups of coffee. Finally, the clock struck eight. ‘I don’t think anyone else will join us today,’ Nripati declared.
‘It’s time I went home,’ Debashish announced.
‘So soon?’ Kapil protested. ‘We usually chat until nine or even nine-thirty.’
‘I’ll drop in again,’ Debashish promised.
‘Could you make it tomorrow?’ Nripati asked.
‘I’ll do that,’ Debashish assured him.
The next evening, Debashish arrived rather late. He wanted to stay back till nine o’clock that evening. Usually, his evenings were spent at home reading the latest magazines and texts on scientific subjects. Here, at Nripati’s, he hoped to meet new people. In spite of the discordant note struck by Probal’s antagonistic behaviour, he had warmed to the ambience in Nripati’s home.
Debashish went to Nripati’s house at six-thirty and found Probal at the piano, listlessly stroking the keys. Kapil and another young man were sitting beside the sofa, their arms locked in a playful test of strength. Nripati was talking to a third young man. He noticed Debashish and gestured at him to come in. When the latter approached them, Nripati invited, ‘Come, make yourself comfortable. By the way, this is Bijoy Madhav Mukherjee. Bijoy, Debashish. Bijoy comes from a family of professors. He has recently completed his studies in Sanskrit and is looking for a teaching position.’ Nripati had already briefed Bijoy about Debashish’s background.
Bijoy was studying Debashish with keen eyes. Nripati rose and said, ‘Carry on with your conversation, the two of you. I’ll be right back.’
Bijoy edged a little closer to Debashish. ‘Isn’t it strange,’ he remarked, ‘that we live in the same locality and we haven’t met?’ He had liked Debashish at first sight. The young man would be an ideal match for Dipa.
Although it was not at all unusual in a city like Calcutta for people to live next door to each other and never meet, Debashish smiled, ‘Very strange indeed!’
Meanwhile, Kapil and the other man were done with their arm-wrestling. Nripati approached them and asked, ‘Well, well, Kharga Bahadur! Weren’t you supposed to visit your home town?’
‘I was,’ came Kharga Bahadur’s cheerful reply, ‘but the plan fell through.’
Kharga Bahadur was Nepali by birth, but his mother was Bengali. His mother tongue too was, therefore, Bengali. He looked about twenty-three. He was as tall as he was fair and very, very handsome. The suggestion of the Mongol in his features was so slight that it was barely noticeable. He was a well-known football player who represented the city’s most famous soccer club. A ball at his feet transformed him into a magician. Millions of spectators gathered to watch him play. Yet, despite his skill and his eminently respectable family background, his manner remained unassuming.
‘But why didn’t it work out?’ Nripati asked.
‘My marriage negotiations had been finalized in Kathmandu,’ Kharga Bahadur explained, ‘but, suddenly, we received a telegram informing us that a problem had cropped up and the wedding had been postponed.’
Nripati mused, ‘Which means you’ll have to wait a whole year now. The football season is on and you won’t be able to get away to Nepal anytime soon, will you?’
With an amused glint in his eyes and misery stamped on his face, Kharga Bahadur shook his head.
The valet brought in several cups of coffee on a large tray. Everyone picked up a cup for himself. At this point, a voice boomed from the main door, ‘Hey there! I’m here. Save me a cup, will you?’
A youth entered. He was around twenty-seven years old. Clean-shaven, bright-eyed and exceedingly fair, he was blessed with features that would have put Apollo to shame.
‘Come in, Sujan,’ Nripati invited.
Sujan Mitra was a rising star of the silver screen. With a couple of hits under his belt, he was beginning to make a name for himself. He was equally comfortable in serious and comic roles. What was particularly remarkable, however, was his level-headedness in the face of sudden fame and fortune. He was completely devoid of conceit. Little was known about his private life. He demonstrated no particular weakness for the fair sex. No one even knew with any certainty about his marital status. He lived alone in a small house at one end of south Calcutta and mostly ate out. His life was unremarkable and devoid of complexity.
Sujan quickly picked up a cup from the tray and said, ‘I am just on time. A few minutes more and I’d have missed the tea.’
He took a sip from his cup and cast his bright, actor’s eyes around the room. When he noticed Debashish, his tone was jubilant. ‘Nripatida!’ he exclaimed, ‘I notice a new face in our midst.’
Nripati said, ‘Yes, let me introduce you. Kharga, why don’t you come here too?’
Once the introductions were exchanged, Sujan smiled impishly and asked, ‘Debashishbabu, tell me now: Do you enjoy watching a film or a game of football?’
Debashish replied, ‘I love both. I have seen the two of you many times on the playing field as well as on the silver screen.’
Everyone laughed and the conversation went on for a while. Probal kept aloof from the crowd and tinkered with the piano keys.
The session broke up at around nine o’clock. Debashish came home in a happy frame of mind.
A few more evenings passed in this manner until on a Sunday morning, Bijoy, his father, Nil Madhav, and Nripati called on Debashish. The latter courteously ushered them into his drawing room and asked Nakul to serve tea.
Nil Madhav Mukherjee was a serious man. He had already heard all there was to know about Debashish from Bijoy and had also made inquiries about the young man on his own. He had felt that Debashish would be a suitable match for Dipa and had come to see for himself whether he was right. He studied Debashish keenly, then nodded to Nripati to indicate his approval.
Meanwhile, the tea had arrived. Nripati, a master at matchmaking, delicately broached the topic of marriage negotiations while sipping his tea.
Within half an hour the match had been finalized. Debashish did not have his horoscope at hand. So the stars stayed out of the equation. Nripati said, ‘Debashish, I know you will like Dipa. But you must still meet her once. This evening, I’ll take you to their house, if that’s all right with you?’
Debashish consented. Needless to say, in the past few days, Debashish and Nripati had grown familiar enough with each other to dispense with the formal mode of address.
That afternoon, Nripati came by to accompany Debashish to Dipa’s house. The family would be meeting them in the formal drawing room. No arrangements as such had been made for the occasion but for a few special touches: a bouquet of flowers on the coffee table and a velvet bedspread on the mattress which had been thickly piled with cushions. Bijoy first ushered them into the drawing room. Then Nil Madhav came down and led Debashish to the third floor. Uday Madhav chatted with him for a while. His expression made it clear that his future grandson-in-law had his approval.
Subsequently, Nil Madhav came back downstairs with the guests. Shortly afterwards, Bijoy led Dipa into the room. She
came in and stood by the table. She was dressed in a plain sari. Little gold circlets hung from her earlobes and three bangles adorned each wrist. It was clear that she had not been decked up for the benefit of the visitors. Or, perhaps, she herself had refused to dress up for the occasion. Her posture was rigid with rebellion. She looked up for an instant and gave Debashish a fleeting glance. Then she averted her gaze again. Beneath the sleek curve of her brow, her eyes were razor-sharp.
Debashish was smitten by Dipa. His experience of women was virtually nil, but he liked the way she looked. He felt she would make him a good wife.
A few minutes later, Bijoy said, ‘Dipa, you may go now.’
Dipa went away. Debashish ate the sweets he had been served and shyly consented to the match.
Within a couple of weeks, everything had been organized and the wedding took place. No one came to know that in spite of the strict surveillance under which she had been placed, Dipa had been secretly communicating with her lover over the phone all this while.
The young men who were regular guests at Nripati’s tea sessions were invited for the wedding feast held at the bride’s house, because they were now Bijoy’s friends. They were also invited, along with Debashish’s factory personnel and colleagues, for the feast held at the groom’s house, because they were his friends as well. So, either way, these men emerged winners.
Debashish had no female relatives living in his home. So a few of Dipa’s women friends and neighbours came over and decorated the bridal bed with flowers. The feast and merriment continued late into the night. Nripati’s band of friends was the prime source of noise and entertainment. Apart from being an actor, Sujan knew a few magic tricks that he performed with flair. Probal refrained from any display of belligerence that night and sang quite willingly for the gathering. Everyone had presents for the bride. Nripati gifted her a gold wristwatch. Kapil offered her an expensive fountain pen. Kharga Bahadur gave her a kukri, the traditional Nepalese dagger. Probal gifted her a few records of his own songs and Sujan presented her with a silver idol of the goddess Saraswati. Debashish’s colleagues and factory staff also gave the couple gifts appropriate for the occasion.
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 23