There were four Dinbandhus in the insane asylum at that time. The sentry looked at the register and told the chowkidar to call for the Pandit Dinbandhu from Jalandhar and bring him out. In the midst of this, the relatives of some other lunatics had also come and the sentry was having their relations called according to the names they gave him. They were ordered to look at their relations from outside the large gate, but the sentry brought Chanda and her family inside the gate. Chanda and her husband sat down on a bench. Her mother sat right down on the ground. Just then, they saw Pandit Dinbandhu coming with the chowkidar.
Chanda’s heart began to pound.
As he drew near, Chanda saw that her father was wearing that same thick coarse shirt and tight pajamas the other lunatics were wearing. She felt choked up and her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Sit down!’ the chowkidar ordered and, like a trained beast, Pandit Dinbandhu rested his back against the wall and sat down. Then he looked at the chowkidar and at the three of them and burst out laughing.
Chetan saw that his father-in-law was not half the size he had been. His teeth were coated with yellow filth, his face was shadowed with jaundice and when Chanda’s mother opened the packet of almonds and handed it to him, he saw that his hand was trembling.
Pandit Dinbandhu took all the almonds and chewed them up in one or two mouthfuls. Then Chanda’s mother began to dissolve the sugar lumps in the milk.
Chanda was impatient.
‘Mother, doesn’t he recognize us?’ she asked.
Gazing at her husband through her half-blind eyes, Chanda’s mother responded, ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ And then, pulling her sari back from her forehead a little, she motioned towards Chanda, and asked, ‘What, don’t you recognize this one?’
‘Why wouldn’t I recognize her?’ replied Pandit Dinbandhu, laughing.
‘So then, who is she?’
‘She’s my wife, who else?’
Chanda covered her face with the edge of her sari and Chetan heard her sob.
Then Chanda’s mother asked, signalling towards her son-in-law, ‘And who is this?’
‘Why, it’s my brother!’ he said, and looked at all of them as though to say, ‘Do you people think I’m crazy?’
Tearfully, Chanda’s mother asked, ‘Don’t you recognize me?’
‘Oh my!’ Chanda’s father chuckled, ‘Wouldn’t I recognize my own mother then?’ The thought made him chuckle even more loudly and he grabbed the container of milk from Chanda’s mother’s hand and gulped it down.
A Listless Evening
‘Oh, hello!’
Professor Kanetkar’s heart nearly stopped for a fraction of a second, then started pounding rapidly; his face reddened slightly. She had come.
She had called out ‘Hello’ to someone, who replied and then they started talking, but Professor Kanetkar had heard none of it. All his instincts were overwhelmed by her presence: the sound of her convent accent, the sweet laughter that rose and melted in her throat, the honey of her voice that pervaded his consciousness.
The pen had stopped its rapid course across the page and lay in his slack, half-turned hand, resting on the middle finger with the support of the index finger, a little above the page.
Kanetkar sat for a moment, listening intently to her voice, then slowly raised his eyes. Her voice was coming from just outside, but the concrete porch with the railing outside his window—which his friend called ‘the terrace’—was empty. The beach beyond the terrace, the people walking along it, the lighthearted youths preparing themselves to do gymnastics near the small bridge over the large open drain, the ocean coming in with the tide, the sun dropping gradually below the horizon—none of these arrested Professor Kanetkar’s gaze. He set the pen down on the table and got up. He stood and looked out the window: she was sitting on the terrace. Not in front of the window, but to one side, a little to the left. The shutter had been blown half-closed by the breeze from the sea. If it were completely open and he leaned a little to the right, he would be able to see her from his chair.
Professor Kanetkar was about to open the window fully when she cast an oblique glance in his direction. He felt the blood rush to his face; his heart began beating quickly. He did not have the courage to open the window. He sat down on the chair and fixed his gaze to the right, beyond the terrace, and watched the boys gathering near the small bridge over the drain. They had taken off their clothes and put them near the terrace, and now, loincloths tied, shorts pulled up tightly around their waists, they were ready to begin their tumbling.
Maybe some circus had come to town, or there was a scouts’ jamboree going on: these boys gathered here on the beach, every evening, perhaps after the mills or the factories closed, and formed pyramids, set up jumps for themselves and leapt over them. They played all kinds of games with incredibly awkward amateurishness. In his youth, Professor Kanetkar had been the champion of his college gymnastic team. His feats on the parallel and horizontal bars seemed so natural, it was hard to believe they were the result of years of practice. He had turned somersaults on the roman rings; he was skilled at vaulting; he held a record in the long jump.
For a few days after he had first come to stay in this room, he had stood in the open doorway for a while every evening watching the boys do gymnastics. But today his gaze did not rest there long. He imagined her sitting in silhouette on the terrace, directly above the boys on the beach. He averted his eyes, picked up his pen and, clearing his mind of all distractions, began to write intently as before.
But he had no idea what it was that he had been writing so intently. His ears remained alert to the conversation that was taking place on the terrace—not really to the conversation, just to that honeyed voice and laughter that rose again and again and melted in her throat. That laugh, like a fine mist rising slowly in a delicate fountain, drenched his whole being each time he heard it. In that fraction of a second, when she had glanced at him indirectly, he had seen that today she was not wearing a skirt, but had dressed instead in a deep blue silk kameez and a white cambric shalwar, and that her trimmed hair, which was usually loose and wavy, down to her shoulders, was today done up in a bouffant style, like a small two-sided drum. It was gathered high, off her shoulders, accentuating the length of her fair neck. To Professor Kanetkar, at that moment, she was an Egyptian princess who had emerged from the drawings of ancient times and had come to sit right there on the terrace. Continuing to write with his right hand, he opened the shutter all the way with his left. He took a square glass paperweight from the table and put it between the shutter and the window sill. All the while, he never lifted his eyes, but continued to write with complete concentration.
He kept writing, but he was sensible of the fact that she was sitting in front of him, outside on the terrace. Though he did not lift his gaze from his work, her silhouette lingered in his mind like the flash of a light bulb after one has closed one’s eyes.
He shook his head hard and read the lines he had just written, then crossed them out, and, concentrating determinedly, again began to write.
But, despite all his concentration, he was entirely unconscious of what he was writing. His ears were fixed to that voice and that laugh, and the awareness of her presence continued to envelop him.
Finally he surrendered and lifted his gaze. The window sill cut off his view of her right across the middle, so that he could see only the top half of her body. Then she moved just a little to the left, again casting an oblique glance in his direction. Professor Kanetkar gave a starts and looked down. He got up busily from the table.
At first he wanted to go open the door and stand in the doorway for a few moments. His friend had forbidden him to sit in the open doorway, as the damp, salty, sea air hit the left wall and was wearing away at the distemper. But the evenings were so beautiful and colourful, and one could not get a full view of the sea from the windows; so, even if he had kept the door closed all day, he usually opened it in the evenings, and while he was working he would go and s
tand in the doorway for a few moments now and then. But the awareness that she was sitting out on the terrace stopped him. He felt uncomfortable at the thought of going and standing before her without having anything to say. For a few minutes he paced back and forth in the room, from the front door to the inside door. He desperately wanted to open the door. But instead, he went back inside again.
Finally, he gave in and opened the door. A gust of cold air made him shiver with exhilaration. But he turned back again without even looking out and went and dropped on to the couch. He stretched, extending his legs and reaching his arms above his head; he locked his fingers together, cracking his knuckles.
But he couldn’t stay seated. The next moment he leapt up again.
He was pleased that even at this age he could leap up at his first try. It was this energy that had recently prompted him to do a DPhil, even though he was past fifty. His college was about to become a university, and the principal had suggested that if he could manage to get his doctorate before the changeover, he would be made head of the department; otherwise, he could be passed over for a junior colleague. Years ago, Professor Kanetkar had decided to do a DPhil. His thesis topic had even been approved; but his job, his wife, his children, exam books, the textbook board and meetings had made him forget all that. Now, suddenly, he had taken the outline of his thesis from his old papers and thrown himself back into it with youthful devotion.
In Kolhapur, books and other necessary materials were scarce. His friend had solved the problem. Professor Kanetkar had shared his predicament with him the last time his friend had visited Kolhapur. He had mentioned this peaceful place of his on Dadar Beach in Bombay, where, far from the din of his own flat, Kanetkar could work, enjoying the cool sea breezes and also have access to the books he needed. His friend’s film company was going to Kashmir for two months for some shooting and he suggested that Professor Kanetkar go and live in Bombay at his place during that time. He would leave the car and driver for him. His driver would take him to whichever libraries he wanted to visit. Why didn’t he just gather his books together and write in the peace and quiet of the room? The driver would bring him food and in the evenings make him tea. He would have absolutely no interruptions and be able to concentrate and work peacefully.
And so, Professor Kanetkar had come to Dadar.
He went behind the curtain and glanced in the mirror on the top of the small cabinet. Fatigue lined his face from working since morning. He put his pen down on top of the cabinet and picked up the little soap dish and the towel. Then he opened the back door and went into the bathroom. The faces of his colleagues passed before his eyes as he washed his face at the sink and he smiled slightly. So many of his colleagues had grown fat and awkward, soft and flabby, by the time they reached fifty, but he had maintained his slimness pretty well. He too was a little heavier than he had been before, his stomach protruded slightly more than it had and his cheeks had filled out, but he was by no means fat, he was still quite slender. This was because he had continued to exercise regularly over the years. Although he had given up that habit a few years ago and by now his body had grown a little slack, his energy was the same and he still edged out the younger men with the amount of work he did.
He came back into the room and dried his face off with the towel. Taking a little vanishing cream from the glass jar on top of the cabinet, he rubbed it into his skin and smoothed his curly salt-and-pepper hair down in front of the mirror. He had a round face, with large sensitive eyes and full manly lips. There was still a good deal of attractiveness left there.
Professor Kanetkar had hardly been working in this room more than fifteen days when this girl had unexpectedly attracted his attention. He hadn’t analysed whether it was the sweetness of her smile or her honeyed laughter that first captivated him. All he knew was that one evening he had been sitting and working with great concentration, when two girls had come and stood beneath his window and started talking. One of them had irresistibly drawn his attention. It had become difficult for him to work. The two girls walked round and round the building, stopping again and again near his window, and each time his attention had been drawn away from his work.
This building, in which his friend had taken a small room, was known as ‘The Sea Foam’. It was a five-storey building, right in front of the hospital on Cadell Road. When one entered from the street it looked exactly like thousands of other buildings in Bombay: neither the road nor the ground in the compound in front of the building was paved, but around the building and behind it, there was an area, about twenty feet wide, which was paved with cement slabs. All along the back of the building there was a cement terrace facing the beach, the upper portion of which was wide and shiny. Though the terrace was four or five feet high on the side next to the building, it was ten or twelve feet high on the side nearest the ocean. In the middle, on that side, there was a small gate leading to the beach. Professor Kanetkar’s friend occupied the corner room in the flat on the left side of the building, which had windows facing out in two directions.
Since cars didn’t come to the rear of the building, in the evenings the boys and girls and, sometimes, the women who lived in the building took walks along the cement railing; sometimes they went down on the beach; and at other times they came out to the cement terrace to sit. Whenever the girl came walking by from the left, Professor Kanetkar’s ears grew alert and he couldn’t do a thing as long as he could hear her voice and her laughter. Her laughter was very low, very sweet, very soft and very attractive. Once it had captured his attention he couldn’t get it back. As long as she stood talking near his window, his powers of thinking and understanding were all collapsed into hearing. Each time she went away, it took him a few moments to regain control of his consciousness. Collecting his senses, focusing his instincts, deliberately gathering up his concentration, he would begin to move his pen, when again, from the left, he would hear her honeyed laughter and his pen would stop in its tracks. Whenever she came and stopped by his window, he wished he could open the outside door and take just one look. But he did not have the courage.
When it had grown fairly late in the evening, he finally got up. He opened the door softly and pushed it very carefully to the left, so that the strength of the wind would not make it smack against the wall. Then he glanced towards the two girls who were standing talking against the wall near his window: all he could tell in the semi-darkness was that both of them were wearing skirts. One looked as though she were seventeen or eighteen, the other twelve or thirteen. He could not figure out anything more than that. He could neither make out their faces, nor discover what colour blouses and skirts they were wearing. He looked quickly in their direction; then he went down the steps leading from his room and stood by the terrace. As soon as he came outside, the girls slipped away. For a moment he pretended to breathe deeply as he gazed out at the darkness of the sea. Then he took a deep breath and slowly began to walk along the edge of the terrace. There were still two or three dim rays of light spread out on the horizon before him and, beneath them, far away in the ocean, flickered the light of some ship or boat.
As he walked along the terrace, Professor Kanetkar glanced now and then at Worli Point’s shining crescent of lights far off to the south, or he turned to observe the glittering lights of the Bandra railway overbridge to the north. But his gaze returned again and again to scrutinize the windows on the left side of The Sea Foam as he wondered if that voice or that laughter could be heard from one of them.
He walked around on the terrace for a long time. Once he saw a girl in a skirt in the next-door flat, whose dining room door opened out to the back, and it had seemed to him that that was her. He had walked by the flat several times and they had even made eye contact, but although that girl too was beautiful, he did not think she was the one, because she did not laugh that way even once. Despite his disappointment, he continued to walk around on the terrace for a long time.
In those ten or fifteen days he had come to identify her
, although their eyes hadn’t actually met. She was the daughter of the Sindhi tenants in the same flat in which his friend had taken a room. His friend had the only room in that flat that opened out towards the sea and the Sindhis lived in the rooms on the other side. Once or twice, when he was going to or from the bathroom, he had heard her talking to her mother or her father. He also heard that laugh and, a couple of times, he had heard her singing lines of a song from the film that was on at the Metro in those days. He had just come out of the bathroom after washing his hands and face, the door had been a little open, and then he heard the melody I won’t call to you; a tender and lamenting, ringing melody! The silly girl had replaced the masculine verb ending in the song with the feminine. She kept singing that same line over and over again as she went into the hallway or some other room, ‘I won’t call to you, I won’t call to you …’ It seemed to Professor Kanetkar as if she were singing those lines over and over again to him. Sometimes she stood directly outside his window on the terrace talking to someone or the other and disturbing him with her sideways glances.
And today, wearing a shalwar kameez, she appeared like an Egyptian princess—with her long fair neck, her sharp tapering face and that bun like a small two-sided drum—and sat down on the terrace right there in front of him.
As he scrutinized the attractiveness of his face in the mirror, he thought of that sweet melody and said to himself in Gujarati, ‘But I’ll call out to you, my love, I’ll call out to you.’
Although he scolded himself for this flirtatiousness of his, he kept humming that same line over and over to himself as he combed his hair and smoothed it down with his hand. The days of his youth passed before him: how attractive his personality had been, how young ladies had constantly been drawn to him. One after another, their faces passed before him and then one particular face became delineated on his mental canvas—the face of the woman who had come and settled in his home as his wife; the one who had skilfully stopped all the other faces from coming near him forever more. But the next instant, that face moved away and the princess sitting on the terrace arrived and took form in his mind.
Hats and Doctors: Stories Page 19