‘He doesn’t want to know and even if he did, I would not tell him.’
‘Good. I’ll call you from time to time in the afternoon when your husband isn’t home.’
‘All right.’
Dipa hung up and came back to her seat. She felt drained of all strength.
Debashish came back from the factory at five p.m. Nakul answered the door. Dipa had heard the doorbell from upstairs and waited with bated breath.
Debashish came upstairs and found Dipa sitting by the radiogram in silence. As soon as he entered the room, Dipa turned her startled gaze on him and rose to her feet. Debashish approached her hesitantly and stood before her. Neither of them had a word to say to each other. But how long could they stand there facing each other? Finally, Debashish asked, ‘Has Nakul been looking after you?’
Dipa nodded and answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Have you had tea?’ Debashish asked her.
‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head.
Once this exchange was over, Debashish was at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Dipa was trying her best to offer something effortlessly casual by way of conversation. But what could she possibly say? What had she left to say? Finally, a thought occurred to her. She looked up at Debashish and asked, ‘Where do you have your lunch?’
‘There are good arrangements for lunch at my factory,’ he replied. ‘All the staff and workers have lunch at the canteen there. I do the same.’
Dipa simply said, ‘Oh.’
‘Well, give me a minute to change,’ Debashish suggested, ‘and then we can have tea.’
‘Sure,’ Dipa replied in a voice laced with uncertainty.
As Debashish was making for Dipa’s room, he asked her, ‘May I carry on using your bathroom?’
At the door, he stopped short. Coming back into the room, he lowered his voice and said, ‘There’s one thing I thought I should point out. It looks odd if you address me formally as you would a visitor. It’s all right for you to do so when we’re alone. But in the presence of Nakul or anyone else for that matter, it would be better if you used the more intimate form of address—just to allay suspicions that all isn’t quite as it should be.’
Dipa averted her gaze and remained silent.
‘Well?’
With obvious reluctance, Dipa said faintly, ‘All right.’
Debashish went in for his bath. As she continued to stand there, Dipa pondered, ‘Is it that easy to switch from the familiar mode of address in public to the formal one in private?’ Perhaps stage actors could manage it. She felt herself slowly sinking into a bottomless quagmire.
Ten minutes later, Debashish emerged from the bathroom, fastening the buttons on his kurta. ‘Come,’ he invited, ‘let’s go down for tea.’
Dipa followed Debashish downstairs and the two sat at either end of the dining table. Nakul placed plates of puri and vegetables before them. Debashish began to eat, but Dipa sat there, looking self-conscious.
Nakul asked, ‘Dada, should I fry an egg?’
Debashish glanced at Dipa. She shook her head. In her parents’ home, she had been forbidden to eat eggs. Eggs were taboo for single women.
Debashish told Nakul, ‘It’s all right. Don’t bother.’
Nakul came in to serve tea and exclaimed, ‘What’s the matter, Boudi? Aren’t you going to eat?’
Dipa bowed her head, then looked up at Debashish in desperation. He understood the reason for her discomfiture. He laughed and explained, ‘Nakul, she is probably not used to eating in the presence of men.’
Debashish finished his meal quickly and left the table. Once he was out of the room, Nakul approached Dipa and explained, ‘Boudi, in this house, women and men have always had their meals together. This custom has prevailed from the time the old master was alive. Since you are now the new bride and a member of this family, you’re expected to follow the customs as well. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it by and by. Come now, do eat. Don’t they eat eggs at your parents’ place?’
‘The men eat ducks’ eggs,’ Dipa explained, ‘but the eggs of hens are taboo.’
Nakul nodded wisely. ‘All eggs are the same, whether they come from the duck or the hen.’
Dipa finished her tea and snacks while Nakul stood by to see that she didn’t skip the meal. When she emerged from the dining room, she found Debashish standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning his elbows on the balustrade. When he saw her, he asked, ‘Would you like to go out? You’re cooped up in the house all day. Come, let’s go for a drive.’
Performing for the benefit of others was all very well, but one had to draw the line somewhere. Dipa looked at Debashish squarely and her answer was a firm, ‘No.’
Debashish didn’t seem to mind. He accepted her decision with equanimity and said, ‘All right, then. I’ll just step out for a while. Not too far … just to Nripatida’s house.’
He left. He’d gone about half the way, when he saw Kapil Bose approaching his house hurriedly on foot. Kapil had a small car and he usually went about in that. When they were face to face, Debashish asked, ‘Where are you off to?’
Kapil was a little sheepish, ‘I was heading for your place.’
Although a bit taken aback, Debashish concealed his surprise and smiled, ‘My house? Well, let’s go back there, then.’
‘No, that’s quite all right. It won’t be necessary. Were you going to Nripatida’s? Let’s set off, then. That’s where I was ultimately going. I was going to drop in at your place to look for something.’
The two of them walked towards Nripati’s house. Debashish asked, ‘What were you going to look for?’
‘I can’t find my cigarette case since this morning,’ was Kapil’s hesitant reply. ‘As far as I can remember, it was with me until last evening. Then we smoked the cigarettes you had offered us at your place and I can’t recollect whether my cigarette case was with me or not. This morning it was missing. I looked for it in my house, but it’s not there. So I thought I’d drop in and find out if perhaps it had fallen out of my pocket while I was at your place.’
Debashish said, ‘If it had fallen out of your pocket at my place and no one had picked it up then and there, Nakul would surely have kept it aside. I’ll ask him about it. What was it made of—gold?’
Kapil said in a rush, ‘That’s right, but don’t you worry. I lose things all the time. Usually, they always turn up some time. Perhaps it is still at home, or even at Nripatida’s.’
Nripati’s living room was brightly lit up. Nripati and Probal were the only two occupants of the room. When Debashish and Kapil entered, Nripati welcomed them amiably with a, ‘Come on in.’
Both the men gathered around Nripati who gazed at Debashish, his eyes twinkling with merriment, and quipped, ‘I would have thought you wouldn’t want to step out of your house for some time now. Anyway, how is married life treating you?’
Debashish was not prepared for the question. He took a deep breath and dragged a bashful smile to his lips before he replied, ‘Not too badly.’
A chuckle escaped from Probal’s throat. ‘That is how it always is, at first. Then gradually …’
He sat at the piano and ran his fingers on it idly, striking a melancholic chord.
Kapil frowned at him for a while and said bitterly, ‘There is a breed of people who only notice the dark clouds, never the silver lining. Nripatida, let me have a cigarette, please. I seem to have lost my cigarette case.’
Kapil had just lit up, when the film actor Sujan Mitra came in. He might have been on his way back from the studio, because he was dressed in corduroy trousers and a red silk shirt. On seeing Debashish, he rolled his eyes and laughed. Then he asked, ‘Nripatida, have you read the papers today?’
Everyone looked at him with interest. Probal’s meanderings on the piano keys tapered off into silence. Nripati asked, ‘What’s it about? Of course, I read the newspaper every morning. But nothing of consequence caught my eye today.’
Sujan assumed a dramatic stance, his legs apa
rt. ‘Perhaps not that sensational,’ he agreed, ‘but certainly of local interest. It’s about our neighbourhood. A tiny piece of news wedged into a corner of the papers. Yesterday, a beggar died near Gol Park.’ Sujan paused for effect. Everyone stared at him in surprise. He continued, ‘You may be wondering what could be so newsworthy about a beggar’s death, but it wasn’t a natural death. He was killed by an unidentified assailant. What is stranger still is the fact that the killer stabbed the beggar in the heart with a porcupine quill.’
In the middle of Sujan’s account, Probal had got up from his seat in front of the piano and moved closer to the group. The men were silent for a while. Finally, Nripati said, ‘Perhaps I didn’t notice it because it was such a small news item. Did any of you read it?’
No one had. Debashish and Probal did not read the dailies. They had no interest in current news, hot off the presses. Kapil only read the sports page.
Probal said, ‘Can a porcupine quill pierce the human body? Wouldn’t it snap?’
Nripati was a knowledgeable man. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he replied. ‘If the quill were soft, it might bend, but it wouldn’t break. A hard quill can go right through, like an iron shaft.’
‘Where are they available?’ Probal asked. ‘Are they actually sold in the market?’
‘They aren’t sold everywhere,’ Nripati answered. ‘I have heard that they’re available in a couple of shops in New Market. Apart from that, the gypsies sell them at the Maidan.’
Debashish asked, ‘But when daggers and guns are available, why use a porcupine quill?’
No one could come up with a good enough answer. Kapil had a new question: ‘But why would someone kill a beggar? What would he stand to gain?’
Nripati pondered the matter for a while and said, ‘Sometimes a beggar can be a hoarder. It is not unusual for a beggar to die leaving nearly four or five hundred rupees concealed in his clothes and his bedding. Perhaps this man had done the same and someone had killed him for the money.’
Kapil remarked, ‘I think this is the work of a lunatic. Nothing else can explain the use of the porcupine quill.’
‘Very likely,’ Sujan agreed. ‘Why would a man in his right senses use such a strange weapon? Probal, what do you think?’
‘Whoever it is,’ Probal replied in a nonchalant manner, ‘he is a noble man. He has done society a service by killing a beggar. Those who lead idle lives have no right to live.’ He got up and went back to his place at the piano.
Soon afterwards, Kharga Bahadur arrived. He had played a match that day. He began to discuss the game and the conversation moved on. A little later, coffee was served. They sipped at it and chatted for a while until Debashish returned home.
Debashish’s life after his marriage continued to run along the same groove it had been confined to during his bachelor days, the only difference being the addition of another member to his household. But in the presence of Nakul and others the impression had to be maintained of things being quite different from his bachelor days. Debashish hated it.
Away from the public gaze, his relationship with Dipa was very strange indeed. Both of them were trying their best to keep their daily lives on an even keel, holding all possibilities of intimacy at bay. It was not an easy task. Dipa’s secret fears often spilled out of her eyes; Debashish was restless. Although he knew she loved someone else, he couldn’t help feeling deeply attracted to her. Bijoy had suggested that she was immature and would in no time at all grow out of her obsession for the other man. But that seemed unlikely. Whatever she might have been, Dipa was firm in her resolve.
Days passed in this manner, racked by fears and dilemmas. One evening, Debashish came home from the factory and told Dipa, ‘I need a word with you. The factory employees are eager for you to visit them sometime. They’re keen to throw a party for you. Would you consent to go?’
Dipa was filled with nervous apprehension. What new complication was this? She demanded, after a long pause, ‘Do I have to go?’
‘If you don’t wish to, I cannot insist,’ Debashish replied, ‘but it would be churlish to refuse.’
‘All right, then,’ Dipa said, offering her sullen consent.
A few days later, Debashish came back home a bit earlier than usual. Then he changed out of his Western garments into the traditional dhoti and accompanying accessories before leaving for the factory with Dipa.
The Butterfly Cosmetics factory was an oblong structure, a bit like the barracks. There were numerous rooms in a row flanked on either side by wide verandas. The building overlooked vast grounds. Between the chemists and the rest of the staff, there were around sixty employees here. As factories went, it wasn’t a large one. But its products were in great demand everywhere.
A small dais had been erected that day in the forecourt of the factory. As soon as Debashish’s car came to a halt in front of it, the factory’s seniormost chemist, Dr Ramprasad Dutta, came out to welcome Dipa. He was followed by several other workers who greeted her with a smile.
‘Come,’ Dr Dutta said to Dipa, ‘let me first show you around your factory.’ He was her father’s age and his affectionate welcome put her at ease. Debashish didn’t accompany them. He knew that Dipa would feel less inhibited away from his presence.
It was past closing time at the factory, but a few of the employees were still working in some of the rooms. In one room, hair oil was stored in huge glass urns standing in a row. Face cream was stocked in another room, and in yet another, lavender, eau de cologne and other such perfumes. As a result, a lovely fragrance pervaded the entire premises.
Dr Dutta took her around and showed her everything there was to see. During the tour, unbeknownst to herself, Dipa grew cheerful. She asked endless questions about what she observed, and expressed her eagerness to know how the creams and lotions were made. She felt as if she had stepped into a new world. With the excitement of fresh discoveries to stimulate her, her inquiring mind was quickly engaged.
Following the factory tour, Dr Dutta escorted her up to the dais. A few chairs had been arranged on it and more chairs had been laid out facing the stage. All the employees of the factory were present. Dr Dutta led Dipa to a chair on the stage. Debashish seated himself beside her.
The factory staff had hidden talents unconnected with their work. A young man dressed in Western clothes came up from the audience and sang songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore. The fellow was a gifted singer and the audience smiled in delight over his performance. A shy smile played on Dipa’s face as well. She stole a quick glance at Debashish and found him wearing the typical fake smile he reserved for their appearances in public. Nowadays, Dipa could tell from his expression whether the smile was genuine or not. Her mind stumbled, then got a grip on itself.
After the songs were over, another young man came up and solemnly narrated an amusing anecdote. Everyone laughed a great deal. Then Dr Dutta got up and made a small speech. The party ended with tea and cakes being served.
When Debashish and Dipa approached their car, they found the back seat laden with bouquets of roses and presents. Debashish thanked everyone pleasantly before they drove away. Dusk had settled in by then.
‘How was it?’ Debashish asked her, his attention on his driving.
From amidst the play of light and shadow next to him, Dipa replied, ‘Fine.’
Crowds of people walked on either side of the car and Debashish and Dipa felt as though they were visitors from another planet. The car stopped occasionally at traffic lights before moving on again. It travelled homewards, negotiating the twists and turns on the way.
‘How did you like Dr Dutta?’
Dipa’s face lit up a little as she said, ‘What a nice man he is! He has such a way with words. Has he been there for a long time … I mean, at the factory?’
‘He has been with us ever since Baba set up the factory. I may be the legal owner of the establishment, but he is its real driving force.’
The car smelled of roses. Dipa drew in a deep breath
and observed, ‘The others were nice too.’
Debashish said to himself, ‘Everyone is nice, except the owner of the factory.’ Aloud, he said, ‘They are all very fond of me.’ After a pause, he added, ‘From the annual profits, I keep twelve thousand rupees for myself and distribute the rest among the staff, allocating individual amounts to each employee in direct proportion to his salary.’
‘Oh,’ Dipa said. A slight curiosity stirred within her. ‘How much profit does the factory make?’ she asked.
Debashish gave her a keen look before replying, ‘After all expenses were met and the income tax returns filed this year, the amount came to nearly a lakh and a half. We hope to surpass that figure next year.’
Before any further exchanges could take place, they had driven in through the gates of their house. Debashish parked the car on the porch and observed, ‘Something will have to be done about the roses.’
‘I’ll do the needful,’ Dipa offered.
Nakul was standing there. Dipa asked, ‘Nakul, do we have vases in the house?’
‘Of course, we do, Boudi,’ he replied. ‘They are in the glass showcase in the living room upstairs. You have the keys.’
‘Fine. I’ll be right back. Meanwhile, why don’t you take the flowers out of the car?’
Dipa went up the stairs.
The showcase upstairs contained many fancy containers including a few silver vases. But with many years of disuse, the silver had tarnished. Dipa took them out and set them on the table. When Nakul arrived with an armful of roses, she asked, ‘Do we have Brasso in the house?’
‘That brass polish?’ Nakul asked. ‘No, Boudi, we did have it, but it’s finished. Who cleans silver objects in this house? I manage with tamarind as a substitute.’
Dipa said, ‘That’ll do just as well. Come on now, let’s keep the flowers in a bucket in the bathroom. We need to clean the vases first.’
For the time being, she placed the long-stemmed roses in a bucket of water in the bathroom attached to her bedroom and began to clean the vases. After days, she seemed to have found a task that would help her forget her present situation for a while.
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 25