Cow and Company

by Parashar Kulkarni

  ‘Don’t go about displaying our poverty to the world’ was a programmatic comment used by the elders at the dining table. It was a preventive measure, not a curative one.

  It was customary for the Banerjees to append the name of their workplace at formal occasions or during family meetings when sternness was the mood-in-operation or if a stranger was at the door asking for one of the Banerjees. There was a Postal Banerjee and a Railway Banerjee. For the younger ones, pet names sufficed for both formal and informal occasions. It was rare for members of the family to leave Calcutta, although there were exceptions like Dibu or Chewing Gum Banerjee, who cared for things beyond tea and gossip. These birds who had flown the nest, lived in a limbo between ethics, doing something and nothing, in between beliefs of fate and agency, and in between feelings, of envy and relief. When they visited home, their families often did not retain basic politeness even and conversations would be glued with abrasive sarcasm.

  The Banerjee family was essentially conservative. A fringe group had begun to read communist material. Fortunately for the elders, they were the ‘talking-communists’ not the ‘walking’ ones and their enthusiasm was restricted to healthy and rotund debates around afternoon tea.

  By the time Chewing Gum Banerjee had become an adult, the ancestral property had many claimants. It was divided into four parts by the head of the previous generation, eight by the head of the current, and if this trend continued for one more generation, there would be no more rooms to divide. Some enterprising relatives of Banerjee’s grandfather’s cohort had banded together to start a new venture. The head of the Hindu undivided family at the time, in the conservative spirit of their age, refused to sign as a surety on the loan papers. The loan could not be procured. The capital could not be raised. The project did not take off. They were neither the first nor the last generation in the Banerjee family to be hamstrung by the previous. The trait of extinguishing the spirit of enterprise was transmitted intergenerationally in the Banerjee household. In line with their own experience from their younger ambitious days, the next generation vetoed all the projects of the young. Cousins, uncles and aunts, as a matter of tradition and principle, filed new cases in court and prolonged old ones, to the effect that the ancestral property remained under permanent dispute. While the cases ran for decades, the price of their land and holdings depreciated, similar to other properties of uncertain tenure. That one of the Banerjees worked in the civil disputes court only helped maintain this status quo. He was known as Judicial Banerjee. In the first month, he was called Legal Banerjee but then someone called out ‘there goes Legal Banerjee and the rest of the illegal Banerjees’. A month later, they decided on Civil Banerjee, but encountered the same problem: civil/uncivil Banerjees. They were glad that he was not in the criminal disputes section—imagine being called Criminal Banerjee. There was already a Revenue Banerjee. Finally, because of his penchant for the phrase ‘but this is a judicial matter’, despite being in charge of canteen services at the civil disputes court, the sobriquet ‘Judicial’ Banerjee stuck.

  Banerjee had done his utmost to convince his father to sell their portion. The offers fell far below their expectations. The judicial process had burned through the family’s pockets. Now, although their legal expenses exceeded what could be salvaged from the property, perpetuating the cases had become a matter of honour, a matter of custom, and a matter of casual conversation at social events. Relations between the two families who shared the Banerjee house disintegrated to such an extent that they decided to divide the house through the middle and erected a wall that cleaved through the living room on the ground floor and bisected the four bedrooms on the first floor equally. Before, the living room was airy and cheerful with large windows on three sides, an expensive, albeit gaudy, chandelier suspended from the centre of the ceiling and on the floor a burgundy Persian carpet, darkened beautifully with age—it smelled of rose, no one knew why. One family took the chandelier, the other, the carpet. The chandelier hung dismally in half the space reflecting one-third of the original light, its glass beads embarked upon a long uncertain period of hibernation. The carpet, instead of being rolled up in the hope of a brighter future, was folded in half and placed on the floor. One half of the family stood two inches taller than the other. In time, the living rooms looked like two dingy used-furniture shops.

  The inmates of the house entered and exited from opposite sides. They considered their adversaries’ faces inauspicious to begin or end the day with and went to great lengths to avoid an encounter. Not that any of their faces were particularly auspicious to look at. Some were sincerely avoided. Most had trouble in the marriage market. A neighbour said, ‘With a face like .’

  The merchant families in the neighbourhood adopted a policy of wait and watch. Even those with a higher proclivity towards risk, let their offers lapse. And then, the low-lying monsoon clouds brought with them another breed of entrepreneurs who recommended brute force. These offers were easy to resist given their distaste for muscle. The ethic of non-violence was strongly ingrained and regularly championed. More recently, Banerjee’s uncle was approached by Sir Cornelius Traveller.

  ‘For a small sum of three hundred rupees, you will regain your house and your reputation,’ Cornelius said. Three hundred rupees was a fortune. ‘Big feats require loose purses,’ added Cornelius.

  ‘Penny wise and pound foolish.’ Yet, Banerjee’s uncle was obdurate.

  ‘No risk, no reward,’ Cornelius persisted.

  ‘No, we cannot afford to be indiscriminate,’ the uncle responded.

  Finally, Cornelius Traveller resorted to Shakespeare.

  ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.’

  Shakespeare was the Achilles heel for all the men and women of Dibu’s uncle’s generation. No argument could withstand Shakespeare. The bard represented all that was great about Bengali culture. Banerjee’s uncle procured the money from an unknown source, a ‘hush’ fund that remained hushed until the debtor failed to settle up; this could then result in broken fingers, to begin with. Sir Cornelius disappeared. A complaint was lodged with the local police station. After three months of investigation, the police discovered that there was no one by the name of Sir Cornelius Traveller at the Bar Council.

  ‘How could you—’

  ‘He guaranteed,’ protested the uncle.

  ‘And you believed him. No one can “guarantee” a verdict in any court.’

  ‘He was an Englishman. If I were to plead in court and if an Englishman were to do the same, who will the judge listen to?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t worry. We have a written contract on a stamp paper. Sir Cornelius said he would refund the money if we lose.’

  ‘But he has to at least show up. Now he is an absconder.’

  15

  ‘Nelson.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Natwarlal responded. Young had never spoken to him before and no one in the office had ever called him Nelson.

  ‘Nelson Napoleon.’

  ‘Sir Young.’

  ‘Will you take me to the place?’

  ‘Sir, please forgive me. I promised Father Brown that I would never work there again.’

  ‘You don’t have to work there. Just take me there.’

  ‘Sir, you know best. But—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell anyone.’

  ‘I don’t know anything to tell anyone.’

  ‘Tonight then.’

  ‘Sir.’

  By the time Young returned to the office at 7 p.m., Natwarlal had changed his clothes.

  ‘You live here, don’t you?’

  ‘No, no, sir! I have a room in Sion.’

  ‘Where do you keep your clothes?’ As Young approached the filing room, Natwarlal ran after him in a panic.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone, sir. It’s just for this week. The plague, Sir Young, I am afraid, my place, ra
ts, hundreds of rats, thousands of rats! I will die, surely, like the rest.’ He could not speak. Teary-eyed he ran to the bathroom. He returned with a long, thin bamboo stick with which he guardedly poked the bag of clothes. For a moment it seemed like he was wholly oblivious to Young’s presence in the room. He looked startled when he realized Young was standing right beside him and shook his head. The very next moment, both pretended that this incident never took place.

  They walked through the alleyways. Natwarlal ahead, Young ten paces behind him. Dark clouds hung in the air like a decrepit ceiling. Natwarlal felt a drop land on his hand. He glanced up and the clouds burst. They stood, maintaining their distance from each other, in the shelter of a building, a commercial establishment. Hailstones rained down, then thunder. A branch fell across from them, heavy, leafy, alive. Within half an hour, the water had risen above their ankles. A few apples and bananas floated by, followed by a cane basket. The water rose to their knees. A handsome street dog, droopy-eyed, brown with white spots, freshly bathed in the torrential downpour was caught in the current. She sailed past, not protesting. She looked at Natwarlal and Young as she passed like she was a queen leading a procession in an open palanquin. Natwarlal waved at her. Young signalled to Natwarlal that they should continue walking. They reached a darker alley with three or four shops on one side. A tall street light, clearly inadequate for the space, flickered at the corner. A black cloth hung around it, absorbing most of the light. The cloth was no accident. People, heads bent, scurried in and out of the doors. In this light one could only see their auras. Two burly men stood at the door of a shop front. Natwarlal greeted one of them and they were let in. An ambient buzz could be heard through the dark interiors. Natwarlal pushed the thick curtain aside to reveal a dimly-lit, spacious, smoke-filled den. Twenty or thirty men of various shapes, sizes and colours were in the room. Some lay listlessly on charpoys. There was an ill-assorted collection of tables and chairs in the space, some wooden and some metal. Some of the chairs were stools now, having lost their backs somewhere along the way. Like the men, the furniture seemed bruised and battered, having seen better days. Oil lamps were distributed across the floor. Many of those seated, were drinking and smoking through long bamboo pipes, sheeshas. They seemed to be alone, despite being physically close. This was an unlicensed chundool (opium) shop. A Chinese man—lean, with braided hair, long shirt and loose pants, both wheatish, and pursed lips, why so serious, it could have been a facade, it was no funny business—directed Young towards a charpoy, while Natwarlal retreated to the entrance. Young examined his surroundings. Everything about the place seemed makeshift and hastily put together. Although it looked like the whole operation could be dismantled in a matter of minutes, it seemed secure. Behind the thick tarpaulin that served as walls there could have been many exits. Inside, not one face could be identified, unless it peered too close to the lamps.

  ‘Oh! Oh, no!’

  ‘You. Didn’t expect you here,’ said Young.

  ‘No! No! The doctor,’ responded Banerjee.

  ‘The doctor?’

  ‘It was necessary. I would have expired without it.’

  ‘Expired?’

  ‘Yes. Dead, just like that. I’m in poor health. Insanity. The doctor said that this is the only way to restore my mental health.’

  ‘Which doctor is this? He has all the right remedies.’

  ‘He’s a friend. No receipts. I didn’t pay him anything. He is a cousin of a cousin. I didn’t even have to apply for leave.’

  ‘Banerjee. I don’t care. What have you got?’

  ‘Sailor Jack. It was in the prescription.’

  ‘Dangerous stuff. Here, have some of this.’

  The hailstones clattered on the corrugated metal sheet that served as the roof. The thunder was amplified too. They had to speak loudly to be heard, but reverted to a whisper when the Chinese man glared at them. Meanwhile, Banerjee waved at a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, who looked out of place given the weather and the seedy establishment.

  ‘Good to see you again, Mr Daruwala. What are you having?’

  Daruwala noticed Young. ‘Mr Banerjee,’ he nodded, wagged his finger, and continued, ‘in London, an Englishman told me it is best to exchange pleasantries with new acquaintances. Start with the weather and refrain from direct inquiries about one’s vices. Anyway, excuse me. I’m going to step away and talk to old Percy.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Daruwala. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to him, Banerjee. The English have one umbrella up their ass, he seems to have two. No one talks about the weather in an opium den,’ Young said, then added, ‘Where is she from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re the accountant. You know everything.’

  ‘She behaves like she has never left England.’

  ‘Is she from Goa?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You know, all the lifelines are in your hands, at least for the native staff.’

  ‘Not hers. She speaks to no one. She has been told not to speak to anyone.’

  ‘How does she manage then?’

  ‘A direct line with God.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘When the door is closed.’

  ‘Are you saying—’

  ‘I didn’t say anything. You’re very inquisitive Mr Young, like a detective.’

  ‘You don’t like her much, do you?’

  ‘What’s there to like? She is more English than Mr Thompson. She refuses to talk to anyone. She earns more than the rest of us. Instructions for her are routed from above. She has never been to England, and yet she talks as if she has never left it. She came with him, didn’t she? Why was he removed from the Tea Board?’

  ‘Do you mean to ask why you were transferred to the corner of the office? I was told that you were in love and wouldn’t stop ogling at her all day long.’

  ‘In love? With her? I have better things to look at. Don’t you know about us? In Bengal, my great-grandfather had six wives. Wherever he went, families would prostrate themselves at his feet and offer their daughter’s hand. Even today, all of Bengal wants to marry their daughters to us.’

  ‘Isn’t it illegal?’

  ‘It is now, but in the old days . It’s different now. Why was Mr Thompson dismissed from the Tea Board?’

  ‘Must be something at the Board.’

  ‘But what was it? There are some rumours. Are they true?’

  ‘A matter of honour or something. How would I know? This drink is hard Banerjee,’ said Young, sipping some of the alcohol that was poured into his cup.

  ‘Vices of the poor hit harder. Do you see that Englishman with a turban? He is the mayor’s son,’ said Banerjee.

  ‘I wouldn’t have figured he was even Eurasian.’

  ‘He is the same man who had a sentry whipped for saluting him with the wrong hand. Here he is. I heard he likes taking “salutes” in the back. That Parsee is a partner in a law firm. Here you will find criminals and lawyers, mayors and murderers, all together.’

  ‘When are they not?’

  Most men were quiet, staring into spaces far beyond the shop. Banerjee’s eyes were fixed somewhere around Young’s left eyebrow. When Young shifted his position, Banerjee’s gaze remained unchanged and now his eyes seemed to be glaring through the black wall. This was his first time, mixing opium and alcohol. The Chinese man glanced at the doorman. Later, the doorman would pick up Banerjee and deposit him in the rain outside. The Chinese man was the first to combine the two disparate empires. He had not only doubled the risk for himself, but also for others. Fixed men like Banerjee meant lost men and lost men meant more raids. Since the establishment of the Presbyterian Mission, the raids had increased. The priest would not complain at the police station. Instead, he would talk to the more orthodox of the higher ups in a department like revenue, powerful yet disassociated from the daily enforcement of criminal law. Soon enough the soft nudge would reach
the local police station. The police inspector would send some constables, sometimes lead the charge himself. As the natives rose in the ranks of priesthood, they combined the worst of the orthodoxy and zealotry. In comparison, the Catholics were as blind as bats. Not exactly. They were inspired to contemplate—for they recorded their impressions in their diaries. It was towards action that they displayed an innate resistance. The Presbyterians were the opposite; for them contemplation was no virtue.

  ‘You Chinaman, I don’t need your horse pill. I am a horse. Neigh. Neigh. See. Bigger than a horse.’ Banerjee pulled down his pants. Before he could pull his underwear to his knees, the Chinese man and the doorman grabbed each of his arms and took him out—Banerjee felt he was levitating. Young staggered behind.

  ‘Come along, then. We’re going to Dhobi Ghaut. I will take you to the queen. She wants me. I’m her stallion,’ Banerjee said to Young.