Kapil stifled his laughter with his hand before quipping, ‘Boudi, you really do have a suspicious mind! But tell me, why pray are you up so late?’
Ramola replied, ‘Your brother is busy reading his law books in bed and he suddenly felt like a cup of coffee. That’s what I am going down to fetch. Would you care for some?’
‘I have no time for that.’ Kapil tiptoed up the stairs.
Perhaps he really was going to take a look at Mars.
The penultimate story of a particular night:
Those who worked in the world of films and media usually fraternized with their own kind. They formed a group within their own community and did not have much to do with outsiders. But Sujan Mitra stuck out in their midst like a sore thumb. As long as he was within the four walls of the studio, he got along well with his co-workers, irrespective of rank and gender. Among the nubile actresses, there were many who were attracted to this handsome newcomer. But Sujan evaded them all. He had mastered the art of slipping away as skilfully as an eel.
Outside the film fraternity, his social life was primarily focussed on the friends he got together with at Nripati’s. He felt at home with them. No one knew about his origins nor whether he had any relatives to speak of. But it was clear from his choice of friends that whatever his origins might be, Sujan’s tastes inclined towards the educated, the well-mannered and the upper-middle class.
On a particular day when he had a shoot at the studio, his work got over after sundown. It took another hour for him to go to his room and take off his make-up. By the time Sujan had driven off in his small car, night had already descended on the city.
After he had covered a distance of a mile and a half, he pulled up before a restaurant. He usually ate out because he couldn’t be bothered to cook at home. But he didn’t eat at the same restaurant every night. The particular dish he was keen on trying that evening would determine the place he chose to dine at. Occasionally, he even preferred to forego a proper meal, tucking into curds and sweets instead at a sweet shop. On the days he had a shoot, he had his lunch at the studio canteen.
When he parked the car outside the restaurant and entered it, he was sporting an elegant moustache. It was a fake one. Before making an appearance in public, Sujan usually disguised himself in this manner to prevent his adoring fans from recognizing him and imposing themselves on him—the outcome of the fame his films had earned him.
He finished his dinner, got back into his car and headed home. He lived in a house that stood at one end of a narrow street. The house was a small one, but it came with an attached garage.
Sujan parked his car, unlocked the front door, went in and flipped the switches. A couple of lights powered by high-wattage bulbs came on simultaneously. The rectangular room was fairly spacious. It contained a bed, a few tables and chairs and even a stove with the necessary paraphernalia for preparing tea. It looked as if Sujan had accumulated in that one room all the things he could possibly need to get by.
He stretched out in an armchair and lit a cigarette. Puffing on it gently, he gazed at a bright bulb burning overhead. Stripped bare of the fake moustache, his face looked sharp, like a razor’s edge.
After finishing the cigarette, Sujan glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. He rose to his feet and went up to the dressing table. As he stood before it, the six and a half feet of mirror threw back his full reflection. He examined it at great length and laughed, then frowned. Then he stretched before going to the cabinet.
He took two items out of it—a bottle of whisky and a large, square red envelope. He poured himself a small peg and went back to the armchair carrying the glass and the envelope. He took a tiny sip from his glass, placed it on the armrest and took out a photo from the Agfa envelope.
It was a postcard-sized portrait of a young girl. She was smiling at the photographer. She didn’t look like an actress—her bearing and the expression on her face were completely devoid of artifice. But the photo did not reveal her marital status.
Sujan continued to sip from his glass as he gazed at the photo. His eyes brimmed with adoration. He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the picture for even a second. An hour went by. His glass was empty. But his thirst for the visual treat offered by the photo seemed unquenched. He continued to stare at the picture as he lit a cigarette. His lips moved as though he were engaged in a secret conversation with the girl in the photograph. Then he held it to his cheek and sat in silence for a long time.
At about a quarter to eleven, he put the picture back in the envelope and kept it in its usual place in the cabinet. He stood vacantly in front of the mirror for a while, switched off the lights in the room and left the house again. He drove absent-mindedly around the empty streets of south Calcutta for some time and finally came to a halt near the lake. When he got out of the car, the fake moustache was back in place. He locked the car and walked away from the lake area. Crossing the main road, he strode down a narrow lane.
The street lights on either side had been switched off. Sujan came to a halt under a lamp post. From a house opposite, a faint light seemed to leak out through a window on the first floor. Sujan gazed at it steadily from his place beneath the lamp post. Although the light from the lamp post fell on him, his face, in shadow, was unrecognizable.
He stood there in that manner for a long time, but no one appeared at the window. The person Sujan longed to see there was either asleep or lying awake in the arms of another man.
Women! Sujan sighed deeply and headed back to his car.
The final tale:
Debashish and Dipa were about to finish dinner. For Nakul’s benefit, she was chatting to her husband about her garden. Debashish was laughing over her anecdote about Padmalochan, the gardener, who had referred to the bougainvillaea as the ‘baigon billi’. Debashish in turn narrated an amusing story from his day at the factory. The façade was being immaculately maintained. When the meal was over, they went up together and separated as they headed for their respective rooms. They were now quite used to this charade in their bid to protect the truth from prying eyes. But away from the scrutiny of those eyes, things were not quite so smooth.
Dipa went into her room, lit the night light and stood by the window for a while. The air was very still and the summer night stiflingly hot. Dipa switched on the fan, took off her blouse and went to bed. There was no telling when sleep would come, but there was little else to do other than go to bed at the appointed time. As she lay there, Debashish’s words echoed in her head: ‘Dipa, you may not love me, but I have fallen in love with you.’
Debashish had switched on the bedside lamp as he lay in bed reading a scientific journal. He had taken off his shirt and the fan was whirring overhead at full speed. He could barely concentrate on the book. His thoughts wafted away like so much hot air. Even splashing cold water on his head had done nothing to afford him a measure of relief. Half an hour later, he put the book aside and switched off the light, as if the bright light were to blame for heating up the room.
Debashish lay there in the dark with his eyes closed. Despite the fan above, the bed felt as hot as a griddle. He tossed and turned, but his head felt hot and heavy as it lay on the pillow. His brain was heating up at the same time, but in a more insidious way. Finally, in the depths of the night, his anguish burst forth with the pent-up force of a volcano. Debashish sat up in bed and cursed under his breath, ‘Goddamn it, she’s my wife!’
He got a grip on himself and sat silently in the dark for some time. Then he stepped out of the room. As he put on the light in the drawing room, the clicking of the switch seemed to suggest that the room had been startled awake from its reverie. Debashish too was a bit startled by the sudden onslaught of bright lights. After a pause, he went and stood in front of the closed door of Dipa’s room.
He could not make out if the door was merely shut, or locked from inside. Perhaps a gentle push would open it. Dipa must be asleep. Debashish stood there for a while, then raised his hand to knock. He cou
ld not possibly enter Dipa’s room unbidden while she slept. But he couldn’t even bring himself to knock. He let his hand fall to his side. ‘Coward!’ he cursed himself as he went back to his room.
Dipa had been lying awake all this while, but she remained oblivious to what had transpired.
Two months had gone by since Debashish and Dipa’s wedding. We are moving back after a long foray into the past to the moment where we began: The day Dipa had refused Debashish’s invitation to take her to the movies.
Debashish paused on his way to Nripati’s. He was in a terrible mood and the thought of going to Nripati’s and engaging in light banter, the prospect of listening to Probal playing the piano, soured his mood still further. It was a long time since he’d done any serious reading, but in his line of work, it was important to keep abreast of the latest information about developments in the field of cosmetology and chemical research. He subscribed to a few foreign scientific journals, but in the last couple of months, he had not even got around to unwrapping them. Debashish headed back home. He wouldn’t squander his time in chatting and jesting. He would spend this evening reading, like he used to in the old days.
Dipa reclined in a chair with her eyes shut. The radio was playing. When Debashish returned, she turned off the radio and stood up, her eyes full of anxious inquiry.
Debashish tried to keep his tone light as he explained, ‘I decided to come back. It’s been quite a while since I did any reading. I thought I should catch up with it this evening.’
The foreign magazines had piled up beneath the stool kept by the telephone. Debashish gathered them up and went to his room. There he arranged the magazines chronologically, propped himself up on a few pillows and began to read.
From the window of her own room, Dipa watched the twilight of summer making way for the hovering dusk. Padmalochan was watering the plants in the garden. Dipa hadn’t been to the garden at all that day. In the evening, her mind had been in turmoil after she had refused to go to the movies with Debashish and had watched him walk away with a crestfallen expression. With the passage of time, her life was becoming so complicated that she felt she would never be able to untangle the knots. A new problem had cropped up in her mind and there was no solution to it.
It was dark outside. Padmalochan finished his job and went home. Dipa moved away from the window and went to Debashish’s room. The lights had been switched on. Debashish was lying back against the pillows on his bed, engrossed in his journals. Dipa paused on the threshold for a while before entering the room but Debashish didn’t notice her. She walked right up to his bed. Debashish looked up at her in surprise.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked him.
Debashish smiled. Dipa was trying to make amends for the way she had behaved with him that evening. ‘I’d like some,’ he replied, ‘if you’ll have some too.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ she said before darting off like a deer. Debashish stared after her for a few seconds, then went back to his reading.
Dipa went to the kitchen and found Nakul preparing dinner. ‘Nakul,’ she told him, ‘step aside, please. I’d like to make some tea.’
‘Tea?’ Nakul replied, ‘Does Dada want some? But why should you trouble yourself, Boudi? I’ll make it for you and take it up.’
‘No, I’d like to do it, Nakul. Now please make room for me.’
Nakul was quite pleased as he replied, ‘Right, Boudi. Go ahead.’
The misgivings Nakul had harboured all these days faded to some extent. In the past two months, he had been convinced that for some obscure reason, these two young people had not hit it off at the outset. But things were changing for the better now. After all, how could the moth and the flame stay impervious to each other’s presence?
Dipa made the tea, arranged the teacups and teapot on a tray and took it upstairs. She put the tray down in the drawing room and went to fetch Debashish. ‘Tea is served,’ she announced.
Debashish got up in a flash and went to the drawing room. Dipa poured some tea and held out the cup to him. As she picked up her own cup, some of the tea spilled over into her saucer.
That evening, from the time Debashish had suddenly changed his mind and returned home, Dipa’s nerves were in a flutter. Her heart thudded in her breast, her head swam and tears threatened to choke her. She was not a weepy sort and had passed the test of so many months with flying colours. What was the matter with her today?
Debashish took a sip of tea and exclaimed, ‘Ah! The tea is wonderful. Who made it? Nakul?’
‘I did.’ Dipa’s voice shook and her limbs seemed as weak as jelly. She sat down.
Debashish did not add anything to that, but smiled in appreciation. Dipa took a couple of sips of tea as if summoning up her courage. Then she asked, as if she were weighing the import of the words, ‘Will you take me to the cinema tomorrow?’
Debashish looked at her in surprise. After a pause, he said, ‘You don’t have to go if you don’t feel like it, not just to please me …’
‘No, really, I’d like to go.’
Debashish drained his cup and stood up, ‘Fine, then I will take you to the cinema.’
He had taken a step towards his own room when the phone rang.
Dipa’s heart leaped in terror—who could that be?
Debashish took the call. ‘Hello,’ he said into the mouthpiece.
Dipa could not make out who it was at the other end, or what he was saying. But she listened carefully to Debashish’s end of the conversation: ‘Oh … what news? … No, I am home this evening … no, I’m fine … Right now? … I see. All right, I’ll be there soon … That’s all right. It’s no trouble at all … Right, then.’
After hanging up, Debashish looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock, ‘I’ll be going out for a while. I won’t take the car. I should be back in half an hour.’
He went out. Dipa refrained from making any inquiries. She never got to know who had called him. She merely sat there alone, wondering who the caller might have been.
Half an hour went by, but Debashish did not return. After a while, Nakul came up and asked, ‘Boudi, where has Dadababu gone? When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know, Nakul,’ Dipa replied. ‘He didn’t say where he was going, but he did say he’d be back in half an hour.’
‘That was quite sometime back,’ Nakul muttered anxiously before going downstairs. ‘It’s dinnertime. He never stays out this long.’
Anxiety is a contagious disease. Dipa also grew increasingly tense over her husband’s prolonged absence. All sorts of possibilities flitted threw her head, some feasible, others absurd.
At exactly five minutes past nine, the telephone rang. Dipa jerked up in surprise. Filled with trepidation, she answered it. ‘Hello,’ she said faintly.
The voice floated in from the other end: ‘It’s me. You recognize my voice, don’t you?’
Dipa’s voice grew fainter still. ‘Yes.’
‘Is your husband home?’
‘No.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your husband hasn’t been bothering you, has he?’
‘No.’
‘So, you’re the same old Dipa.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you given my name away to anyone?’
‘No.’
‘You swore by your God that you wouldn’t. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Fine. Be careful. I’ll call again later.’
Dipa could not bring herself to utter another word. She replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat down again. She felt drained of all strength. Covering her face with both hands, she lay back in the chair.
At nine-thirty, Nakul came up to announce, ‘Boudi, Dadababu still hasn’t come home. I don’t like the look of things …’
The phone rang for the third time. Dipa blanched. Then she steeled herself to answer the call. The voice at the other end was a woman’s. ‘Hello, is this the resi
dence of Debashish Bhatta?’
Dipa felt faint as she managed to reply, ‘It is.’
‘Is this his wife I’m speaking to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Madam, I’m calling from the hospital. I’m afraid you’ll have to come over.’
‘Why? What has happened?’
‘Er … your husband met with an accident and has been brought here. Please come over as soon as you can.’
Dipa’s heart seemed to shatter as the query slipped past her lips, ‘Is he … alive?’
‘Yes, he’s just regained consciousness a while back.’
‘I’ll be right there. Which hospital is this?’
‘The Rashbehari Hospital—emergency ward.’
Dipa replaced the receiver and turned. She found Nakul standing behind her. He looked at her apprehensively. ‘Boudi?’
At the sight of Nakul’s face, ashen with fear, Dipa was suddenly conscious of how her own heart was behaving. She realized that she had moved on from the girl she used to be two months ago. Everything was topsy-turvy now. Her head spun once. Then she took herself firmly in hand and explained, ‘Your Dadababu has had an accident. He’s been taken to the hospital.’
Nakul slowly sank to the floor as though his legs were too weak to support him.
Dipa said sternly, ‘No, Nakul, this is not the time to let yourself go. Come on now, we have to get to the hospital.’
Taking his hand, Dipa pulled Nakul to his feet.
Epilogue
By the time Rakhalbabu arrived at the hospital with Byomkesh, it was ten o’clock. The waiting room had emptied out by then. In one corner, a young woman sat on a bench, rigid as a statue. An old manservant huddled at her feet looking despondent. The young woman’s eyes were eloquent with imagined horrors.
A nurse noticed Byomkesh and came forward. Rakhalbabu announced, ‘We are from the police.’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 29