Debashish came up silently once and found her very busy. She had wound the free end of her sari around her waist so that it wouldn’t get in the way and strands of her hair had escaped untidily from her hairdo. She looked lovely. Debashish stood at the door and gazed at her intently, but Dipa didn’t even notice him. After a while, Debashish came down the stairs thoughtfully. Then he left the house and made his way to Nripati’s place.
That evening, however, he was in no mood for conversation. Having spent an hour or so there, he came back home. Dipa was listening to the radio in the living room upstairs. When she saw him, her eyes lit up. She switched off the radio, rose to her feet and said, ‘I’ve arranged the flowers in vases and put them in all the rooms … would you like to see them?’
Surprise zipped through him like lightning. All this while, Dipa had reserved the intimate form of address for their appearances in public. At home, she would address him formally. This was the first occasion on which she had used the familiar form of address with him, even though they were alone. She, however, seemed to be quite unaware of the fact.
‘Let’s go and see them,’ Debashish answered with a cheerful smile.
Dipa noted his smile. It seemed to be pregnant with meaning. But she was oblivious to its significance. ‘Come,’ she invited.
She led him into her bedroom, switched on the light and gazed at him expectantly. Debashish saw a bunch of long-stemmed roses in a sparkling silver vase standing pretty before the mirror on the dressing table. A combination of red, pink and white roses with maidenhair ferns feathered around them.
Arranging flowers in a vase was an art. It required skill. Debashish admired the arrangement for a while, then exclaimed, ‘It’s beautiful—just like a fountain of flowers.’
They left the room and came into the lounge where he noticed another arrangement on top of the radiogram. This one was different. The flowers sprayed out from the vase like a firecracker going off. Debashish pointed to it and said, ‘This one is lovely too—I hadn’t noticed it before.’
At this point, Nakul called up the stairs, ‘Boudidi, do come down. Dinner is served.’
They went downstairs. The dining table was adorned with its own flower arrangement. Debashish smiled at Dipa, his eyes full of appreciation.
That night, when he went into his own room to sleep, he found a fountain of blossoms arranged on his dressing table as well. Dipa had not overlooked his room either. A sweet sensation swept through him.
Dipa went into her room, switched on the night lamp and got into bed. But sleep eluded her. A light seemed to have been ignited within her, casting a warm glow of contentment. Remnants of thought hovered around it like moths near a flame. The day seemed to have dawned to the scent of roses: The party at the factory, Dr Dutta’s company, the music … Everyone in the factory seemed eager to make her happy … those roses … it had given her such pleasure to arrange them in all the rooms … Debashish had appreciated them. Why had that knowing smile played on his lips, almost as if it held a secret? … Oh!
Dipa found herself blushing. She’d spontaneously used the familiar form of address with Debashish even when they didn’t have to put up a façade and she hadn’t even realized it. He must have noticed it and had a good laugh. Dipa got out of bed and went to stand by the open window overlooking the road. From where she stood, she could see the three or four houses opposite. They lay in darkness. The street lights burned steadily on either side of the street. There was hardly anyone about. When a solitary passer-by walked down the street, his footsteps rang out on the pavement from nearly a hundred feet away. The night appeared to have fallen into a doze.
For Dipa, putting up a façade and deceiving others went against the grain. Yet, given her predicament, she was trapped into doing exactly that in collusion with Debashish. Naturally, the very situation had led to the conspirators developing a semblance of familiarity with each other. Debashish was hardly to be blamed for that. He was a thorough gentleman with a pleasant disposition. But however close circumstances might bring them, the fact remained that Dipa did not love him. She loved someone else. Due to a quirk of fate, Dipa’s lot had become entangled with Debashish’s. In a situation of this kind, if they could coexist comfortably, where was the harm? Why couldn’t she address him informally in private? That alone did not establish a romantic relationship with anyone.
Dipa felt a little better. She went back to bed and fell asleep soon afterwards. She had not noticed that all the while she’d been standing at the window, a man had been leaning against a lamp post, gazing at her steadily. Had she noticed him, she wouldn’t have slept quite so soundly.
The next morning, while they were having their morning tea in the living room upstairs, Debashish asked, ‘You are alone in the house all day. How do you get through the hours?’
Dipa was silent. One had to get through the hours, and so one did. If time could really stand still, perhaps, for Dipa, it would.
Debashish observed, ‘You’re not fond of reading, are you? There are books in the house, but they’re on scientific subjects. If you like, I can get you some fiction from the bookstore. Or we could subscribe to a number of monthly or weekly magazines.’
Dipa was still silent. She did like to read and if she got hold of an interesting story by a gifted writer, she went through it. But one could hardly spend all day with one’s nose buried in a book.
‘I could take you to the bookstore so you can pick books of your choice.’
‘All right.’ Dipa’s reply came out in a reluctant tone.
Debashish assumed she was not terribly keen on books. Then he suggested, ‘Why don’t you call your women friends over sometimes? You could chat with them for a while and time wouldn’t hang heavy on your hands.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Dipa agreed.
Debashish finished his tea and went to stand by the window. He gazed at the unkempt garden for a while, then turning to her again, he asked, ‘You love flowers, don’t you? Are you interested in gardening?’
‘I am.’ Dipa rose to her feet with enthusiasm and made her way with small, graceful steps to where he stood. ‘I‘d acquired a huge collection of potted plants for our terrace at home,’ she told him.
Debashish smiled, ‘There, that’s it, then! Go ahead and create your garden on the soil here. After Baba’s death, I haven’t been able to pay attention to the garden. I’ll make the necessary arrangements today. We have to hire a gardener—you won’t be able to do it all on your own.’
The next day, the gardener arrived. So did truckloads of fertilizer, gardening tools, seasonal flower seeds, rose bushes, bigger plants and tiny areca nut saplings from the nursery. The gardening chapter of Dipa’s life was opened with a great deal of fanfare.
The next few days passed amid great excitement. Padmalochan, the elderly gardener, was an old hand at the job he had been entrusted with. Dipa was absorbed in discussions with him during which she busily planned how she would lay out the seasonal flower beds, where she’d plant the rose bushes and how they’d make a pathway lined with areca nut and fir trees. Thoughts and images of her garden occupied her waking hours, and her dreams as well.
Debashish observed everything from afar. He neither interfered with her work nor offered advice on anything to do with the garden. He let her be, engaged as she was with the activities she enjoyed and happy with her preoccupations.
The days went by.
One afternoon, while Dipa was listening to the radio and musing over where to plant the pine tree, the telephone suddenly rang. She looked at it in surprise before picking up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said.
The voice at the other end asked, ‘It’s me. You do recognize my voice, don’t you?’
Dipa’s heart tripped twice. In one shot, she was thrown back from her dream world to reality. She took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problems, I hope?’
‘No.�
��
‘What sort of a man is that husband of yours?’
‘Not a bad sort at all.’
‘Is he forcing himself on you in any way?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a little bit?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm. You’ll have to carry on like this for a little while longer.’
‘How much longer is that?’
‘You’ll know when the time comes. All right?’
Dipa hung up and went back to her armchair. She leaned back and closed her eyes. The radio murmured away. A few minutes earlier, Dipa had been lost in thought about the garden. But now, it seemed to have moved far away.
At around three-thirty that afternoon, the doorbell rang. Dipa opened her eyes. Someone had come calling. Was Debashish meant to come home early today? But it wasn’t Saturday, was it …?
Dipa went to the head of the stairs. Nakul had opened the front door. She heard a woman’s voice: ‘I am a friend of Dipa’s. Is she home?’
Before Nakul could reply, Dipa called down, ‘Shubhra, come on upstairs.’
Shubhra came up the stairs and enfolded Dipa in a hug. ‘The last time I saw you was on your wedding night when I dressed you up for the occasion and went away. I’ve been staying away all these days to give you some privacy with your husband. Today, the thought struck me that you weren’t a blushing bride any more and must be queening it over your house by now. So I told myself I would drop in to see how things were. My dear, I hope I’m not interrupting anything? Your husband is away at work, isn’t he?’
‘It’s fine, really. Come, let’s go and sit in that room.’
Shubhra was a few years older than Dipa. She had got married the year before. A plump and jovial young woman, she had a good singing voice. Perhaps because they were so unlike each other, Dipa and she were very close.
The two entered the living room and went and stood by the open window. Shubhra gave Dipa a thoroughly assessing stare and smiled, ‘You’re just the same. Marriage still hasn’t changed you a whit. But why aren’t you wearing more jewellery? Just a pair of bangles on your wrist, tiny eartops and a thin chain … A bride ought to wear more than that.’
Dipa lowered her lashes, then looked up at her friend again. ‘I thought you just said I wasn’t a blushing bride any more.’
Shubhra retorted, ‘As far as wearing jewellery is concerned, you are still just that—a blushing bride. But what’s the secret here? “Jewellery steals the lover’s heart”?’
‘What on earth is that?’
‘Oh, don’t you know? The poet, Govinda Das, is supposed to have said that at times jewellery can become one’s rivals for one’s husband’s affections.’ Bringing her lips close to Dipa’s ears, she sang the couplet: ‘O friend, why have you dressed me thus? Krishna’s touch eludes me; the jewellery stands guard like my rival.’
A crimson flush suffused Dipa’s face. She averted her eyes and protested, ‘Oh, please! You really are the limit!’
Shubhra burst into delighted giggles and declared, ‘Now you too will be the limit! Your serious days are over, my dear. Once women marry, they become incorrigible.’
Dipa was at a loss for words. But she had to keep up appearances and hide the truth from Shubhra. Dipa was racking her brains for a suitable riposte to her friend’s teasing remarks, when Nakul asked from the door, ‘Boudi, should I bring in some tea and snacks?’
The servant had thrown her a lifeline and Dipa clutched it. ‘Yes, Nakul, please,’ she replied.
Nakul went off.
‘Come, let’s sit down,’ Dipa suggested. ‘So, tell me, how are Himani and Supriya? I feel I haven’t seen them in ages.’
Shubhra sat down and answered, ‘I’ll talk about them later. First, tell me how you’ve been. And how do you find that husband of yours?’
Dipa kept her head bowed and her voice was faint as she replied, ‘Fine.’
Shubhra observed, ‘He’s a handsome fellow, your husband. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a wonderful person as well. What is he like as a man?’
‘Nice,’ was Dipa’s reply.
Shubhra was exasperated. ‘Fine and nice!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s all? Will you never open your heart to anyone?’
‘I did. What more did you expect?’
‘Is that all you have to say? When I got married, I would come running to you! Until I confided in you and divulged every detail of my marital life, my mind knew no peace. And here you are with your lips sealed! It infuriates me!’
Dipa took her hand and begged, ‘Please don’t be angry with me! You know how the words get stuck in my throat every time I want to speak. Why don’t you of all people understand? Anyway, you’re a married woman. You know it all. There’s nothing new to tell.’
‘It’s not the same experience for everyone,’ Shubhra countered. ‘I wanted to know what it was like for you. Anyway, since you’re bent on keeping mum, I’ll just have to resort to guesswork. I’ll be on my way—I’ll come back when your marriage is ripe enough.’
But Dipa gripped her hand firmly. ‘No,’ she protested, ‘you can’t go off like that.’
Shubhra’s anger melted away. ‘You really are the limit!’ she laughed. ‘If you clam up like this in your husband’s presence as well, he’ll take umbrage. That’s the way men are.’
Nakul brought in a tray of tea and a plate piled high with pastries. Dipa poured a cup for Shubhra and took one herself. They chatted easily over tea and cakes. The talk veered to clothes, jewellery, new fashions, the skyrocketing prices of perfumes, talc, face cream and so on. Shubhra did most of the talking and Dipa went along with her.
Half an hour later, when they had finished their tea, Nakul came and cleared away the tray. Dipa said, ‘Shubhra, sing a song for me. It’s been so long since I heard you sing.’
‘Didn’t I just sing for your ears only?’ Shubhra replied. ‘What else do you want to hear: “The bird of my youth sings in the garden, O my friend, awake!”’
‘Oh, no, I don’t mean that kind! Something more contemporary.’
‘Oh, that reminds me. The other day, I went to the record shop and saw that a new album of Probal Gupta’s songs had been released. It’s really nice. I bought it for myself. Have you heard it?’
Dipa replied languidly, ‘Yes, I have. They play those songs quite often over the radio. Are there any new albums of film songs?’
‘I didn’t notice. But a new film has been released recently. It’s showing at the Deepti Theatre. I believe it’s quite a good film. The hero is Sujan. Jonaki Roy is the heroine.’
Dipa shifted in her seat, but refrained from comment.
‘Dipa,’ Shubhra suggested, ‘what is the point of sitting at home all day? Let’s go and watch a film. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t mind if you accompanied me.’ She checked her wristwatch. ‘It’s four-fifteen,’ she observed. ‘When does your husband come home from work?’
‘At five o’clock.’
‘That’s perfect, then. Go and get dressed. By the time you’re ready, he’ll be back. We can let him know we’re going out. Then we can go for a movie. And if he wants to join us, nothing like it.’
Dipa wanted to go out with Shubhra. She knew that Debashish wouldn’t forbid her from doing so. Yet, some part of her held her back. She said shamefacedly, ‘I don’t think I should, not today.’
Shubhra persisted for a while, but Dipa was firm. ‘I think I understand,’ Shubhra finally said. ‘You’re addicted to your husband’s company. You can’t leave him alone for a minute. I went through a similar phase after my own marriage.’ She began to narrate anecdotes about her own obsession with her husband as a newlywed. Suddenly, she noticed the time and leapt to her feet. ‘It’s almost five o’clock!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your husband will be home soon. I’ll just get in the way. I’ll drop in again.’ Shubhra laughed and went off.
As she saw her off, Dipa thought how strange it was that people didn’t see the truth unless it was spelt out for them
in so many words. They all assumed the obvious.
The days went by in this manner.
On a hot, oppressive evening, when not a breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and rain seemed to be hovering in the air, Debashish returned from the factory to find Dipa and Padmalochan out in the garden taking measurements. When she noticed him, Dipa dropped the measuring tape, came up to him and said in a tone full of excitement, ‘The Easter lily is in bloom! Come and see it!’
Debashish stepped out of the car. ‘Is it, really?’ he asked. ‘This I must see for myself.’
‘Come this way.’
Dipa led him to a corner of the garden and pointed out the plant. Debashish gazed at the bushy mane on the ground from which the stalk rose like a mast, proudly bearing three or four buds like a banner. He smiled with pleasure and looked at Dipa. ‘The first blossoms of your garden,’ he remarked.
On the verge of laughter, Dipa suddenly stopped short. ‘Your garden,’ he had said. But was the garden really hers? Her heart grew heavy at the thought and her joy at the sight of the first buds ebbed away.
After sundown, Debashish went over to Nripati’s house and found nearly all their friends gathered there. An excited discussion was in progress. When they saw Debashish, the men loudly invited him to join in: ‘Hey there, have you heard?’
Sujan struck a pose and announced, ‘A porcupine quill again.’
‘Come here,’ Nripati said, ‘and I’ll tell you about it. You don’t read the papers, so you won’t know the details. Do you remember how a month back, someone had killed a beggar with a porcupine quill?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Debashish replied.
‘The night before last, a labourer was sleeping on a bench near the lake. Someone thrust a porcupine quill into his heart and killed him.’
‘Does no one know who did it?’ Debashish inquired.
‘No,’ Nripati answered with a slight smile, ‘the police are looking into it.’
Kapil remarked, ‘Even if the police hunt high and low, they’ll not be able to do a thing. Of course, it is obvious that the beggar and the labourer were killed by the same man. But has any other detail struck you?’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 26