by Basu, Bani
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Aritra, agitated.
‘I know what I’m saying. Samiddha knows that she has a deep relationship with me. She’s not only extremely intelligent, her intuition is mature too. I have created a miracle. Aritra, I hope you will not prevent me from enjoying, not my right, but the joy of such creation.’
Neelam gazed steadily at Mahanam. His sideburns had greyed a little, so had his hair and beard. A man of unusually powerful build. And yet his eyes were big and distant. His most prominent feature was his nose. Thin, fragile, not like a human’s. It was this nose and those eyes that had captivated Neelam. Her mother had deposited her at the hostel. Her local guardian was her mother’s friend’s son. Dubbed Aristotle by students, part mockingly, part reverentially. Neelam Joshi couldn’t sleep nights unless she visited Mahanam-da every day for Aristotelian wisdom.
Those were the days of shoreless seas. How long had it taken Mahanam to identify the besotted creature? Women themselves didn’t know the weapons they used in different ways to enchant the man of their desires. Neelam had wielded all of them, holding nothing back. Her quiver held as many arrows as her ten hands did missiles. Smiles flowered on intimate summer afternoons. The skilled archer struck every target in her body with his arrows. Surrender in her breath. If Mahanam was absorbed in her, Neelam lost herself completely, entranced, mesmerized. Mahanam had not hypnotized her knowingly, Neelam’s fate had played this game with her. Two enchantments were bound to lead to the ultimate union. Neelam could still see two enormous eyes poised over her face, the nostrils flared, suddenly Mahanam’s mouth descends on hers. This way, exactly this way, Pupu was conceived, amidst entrancement and captivation, although it was doubtful whether Pupu’s own personality had the ability to be enchanted.
Seeing Neelam shiver, Aritra said, ‘It’s chilly, Neelam, use a cotton shawl or something.’
‘Who knows whether she’s shivering with cold or trembling in delight, Ari,’ said Mahanam, smiling.
Aritra looked grim. Mahanam was trying to prove that no matter how anxious Neelam’s husband might be for her health, he knew her more intimately.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea, Mahanam-da,’ said Neelam, springing to her feet. ‘You must have lunch with us today.’
Mahanam said, ‘I had an enormous breakfast, with two or three cups of tea. No more tea for me, Neelam. All right, make me a light lemon tea.’
Aritra was surprised. Neelam had invited Mahanam of her own accord, without even checking with him—the same Mahanam whose name could well turn out to be Mahakal, or death. Having lunch meant spending a long time here. Esha would return, they would chat, Pupu would return, would Mahanam chat with her too? Not only was Saturday ruined, but there would now be a layer of anxiety on top of it.
‘Play some music, Aritra,’ said Mahanam.
‘Why this sudden desire for music?’
Laughing, Mahanam said, ‘When discomfited hosts have nothing to say and feel the need to conceal this foolish silence with words, they usually put on some music. Jagjit Singh or Ghulam Ali or Anup Jalota or whatever you like. Guzzle on ghazals, or give us a vision of bhajans.’
‘Are you taunting me, Mahanam-da?’ asked Aritra hotly. ‘I’ve long gone past the age of tolerating taunts.’
Mahanam said, ‘Look my friend, if it comes to that, the relationship between us is such that we could easily fight a French duel. My exercise chart will tell you what the outcome will be. Even without the chart, my physique alone makes it clear. But there’s no need for all that. Do you know where philosophers triumph over poets? Philosophers can see through poets clearly when they try to win women over with flattery. I shan’t lie, if you hold on to Neelam, not even the most adroit thief can take her away. But you have a big problem, for you resort to lies far too often. Poets already have the licence to tell enchanting untruths, but by resorting to much lower lies you have proved yourself worthy of my hatred. What did you tell Neelam to keep her from trusting me even in her crisis? Look, Aritra, I don’t like considering a rival as a hateful person, can’t you help me get rid of my loathing? I’m too old to live with hatred now.’
Trying his utmost to restrain himself, Aritra said, ‘Are you demanding an explanation about Neelam? After all these years? Because you were my teacher once and I gained considerably as a result, I’m not responding to your insult. Any further and we’ll have to go to court.’
Mahanam said, ‘It’s defamation only when the accusation is false. You know very well that I told the truth about your lying. You used a heap of lies to snatch Neelam away from me, and another pile of falsehoods to prevent Esha from getting closer to me. What exactly were these lies?’
Aritra said angrily, ‘You’re so full of yourself that you know nothing about yourself. Do you know how everyone in our circle referred to you? As a womanizer. You hear me? A dirty womanizer. You seduced women serially with your hoax of knowledge and wisdom and learning. No matter how much pleasure you may have derived from considering yourself a Don Juan, the licentiousness of Oxford was not acceptable in the Calcutta of the seventies. If I had revealed the details of the Neelam episode you would have been murdered by Naxalites.’
Mahanam listened calmly. When Aritra was done he said, ‘Incredible! Despite the presence of a talented lover of women like yourself, the members of your circle identified me as the womanizer? Most peculiar. That was why you delivered several long lectures on the subject of this aspect of my character, didn’t you? Now the knots are being unravelled. But as far as I know Esha wanted you, why did you discard her just to deprive me? And even after this, when Esha came to my door in ignominy and condemnation after getting no sympathy from her supremely conservative family, you didn’t forget to fire your secret arrow on that occasion either. You used Neelam to pluck Esha out, then used Esha to . . . No, Aritra, it isn’t clear to me just how you used them. Your chemistry is most unusual.’
Neelam had slipped out through the back door to get lemons. Now she put the lemon tea down on the table and left. She realized that Mahanam and Aritra were having a showdown, which was necessary. It had been pending for a long time.
Aritra noticed with surprise that he was not as angry as he should have been. He had been throwing his darts accurately. The goddess of victory was on his side. Suddenly breaking into a laugh, he said, ‘You’ve hurled all these obscene accusations at me. But it is still in MY kitchen that Neelam is cooking for you, and Esha welcomed you to MY house before going shopping for you.’
Mahanam laughed loudly. ‘Good! Finally you’ve become an adult, Aritra. This is what I always told you. You need maturity—in intelligence, as in emotion. If you can place your heart and your head in a vertical line, your knowledge will be liberated and your liberation will be knowledgeable. Sa Vidya Ya Vimuktaye. Knowledge liberates. Good. I’m not the least bit angry with you.’
Esha and Pupu returned at this moment. Their faces were red from the sun. Aritra said peremptorily, ‘How many times have I told you to use a cap, Pupu? Esha, you could have covered your head. The sun is very strong. I have no idea how you will go to Aurangabad in this weather. Ellora is a hard journey in any case. What do you think, Mahanam-da?’
‘For now I think nothing. Let’s get there first. I HAVE to go.’
Esha sat down. ‘Go where? To Ellora? Are you going, Mahanam-da? Come with us then. We’re . . . at least, I’m definitely going. Why do you say you HAVE to go?’
‘For something I’m writing,’ said Mahanam. ‘But unless I know what your plans are . . .’
Coming into the room, Neelam said, ‘Whatever the plans might be, you’re definitely going with them.’
‘Are you going to write on art, Dr Roy?’ asked Pupu.
Mahanam turned to her. ‘What would you like me to write on?’
‘Art and religion,’ answered Pupu.
‘All right,’ said Mahanam, ‘that’s what I’ll write on. Can you read Bangla?’
‘Not very well,’ said Pupu, sounding embarrassed.
‘
This isn’t right, Neelam. Bangla is not only her mother tongue but also a beautiful language in its own right. You’re wrong not to have taught her. Non-Bengalis who live in West Bengal can all read and write their mother tongues.’
Pupu said, ‘The fault is mine. I did learn it, but I’ve forgotten out of lack of use. I’ll make up for it. Will you write in Bangla?’
Mahanam did not tell her that this was part of a book he was planning. Commissioned by a foreign publisher. All he said absently was, ‘Since you’re saying you’ll brush up your Bangla, Samidhha, I’ll write it in Bangla and send it to you. But why are you so concerned with the relationship between art and religion?’
‘I was wondering whether art could be interpreted as a kind of religion,’ said Pupu. ‘My mother has a religion, Dr Roy, she puts flowers in front of idols in that room, incense, water from the river—she uses these and prays to those images. My mother often has altercations with my father. He says, why do you keep talking about sinning? Sin is a mental illness, and piety is mental health. The most effective way to preserve mental health is catharsis, which means doing whatever you want to, within limits. And if you want to attain peace through concentration, then read, paint, sculpt, write poetry. Now what I want to know is the relationship between my mother’s rituals and my father’s. I feel it is of vital importance to me.’
Aritra looked at Neelam. They had indeed argued over these things now and then, but they hadn’t imagined even in their dreams that Pupu had listened eagerly and that she could convey the essence of their debate so succinctly and in such a composed manner to everyone.
Mahanam was astonished. For some reason his eyes glowed with joy. He said, ‘What do you think of religion? Do you have one, Pupu?’
‘I do, Dr Roy. Let’s say I concentrate on books, or on my drawing. I have some rituals too, which I use to recover my mental health—exercising, listening to music, going to art exhibitions and galleries. I make it a point to give something to someone every day, Dr Roy. I cannot tell you how it makes me feel deep inside, it must be a ritual.’
Pupu’s parents were amazed. What she was saying today was about her inner life. She had never talked about it before. Never discussed it. Nor had she asked questions. Aritra felt hurt. Neelam was happy, she didn’t know why. Esha wanted to give Pupu a big kiss, she didn’t know why either. Love tried to flow towards the 18-year-old girl in a thousand different streams.
Mahanam smiled. ‘Five hundred years before Christ was born, at the time of Pericles in Athens, imagine an evening symposium being held at the farmhouse of a gentleman named Phaedo or Xenophone. Several young men of your age are present, Samiddha, though there isn’t a single young woman. Let’s take you to the gathering as the only lady in attendance.’
‘Socrates would be there, wouldn’t he?’ said Pupu. ‘And Plato? Whose role will you play there, Dr Roy? Will it be Plato’s?’
Mahanam said, ‘Absolutely not. I am a curious young man, I could have any name, Euripides, for instance.’
Suddenly Neelam interjected, ‘What’s all this Dr Roy business, Pupu? Is this any way to address such a great man? I don’t get the culture of your generation.’
‘What should I call him then?’ Pupu accepted her mother’s reprimand like a little girl. ‘Should I call him “uncle”?’
Mahanam burst into laughter. ‘Let her not call me by any name at all, Neelam, instead of “uncle”. What’s wrong with “Dr Roy”?’
ELEVEN
Like a giant swan, the milky white car glided around the corner in Priyalkarnagar, the light bouncing off its body. Its slow, silent movement was regal. But seeing it sent shivers down the spine. The car was unfamiliar, but Neelam had not the slightest of doubt that it was Bikram’s. He never kept a car very long, and two of them were always available for the husband’s and the wife’s independent use. Bikram changed his own car frequently. The Standard Herald that Seema used had probably been with her for the past ten years. It was Bikram’s first car. This one must be his latest acquisition. Looked like a Contessa. Who knew whether Seema was inside or not. Neelam opened the door and went out into the portico. Her wet hair had dried now, and was fixed in place with a clip. Since Esha’s arrival Neelam had been dressing in saris all day long, slipping on an apron while cooking. A pale pink Tangail sari today—Neelam had dressed modestly.
Seema’s face was visible in the window. ‘Hel . . . lo!’ She jumped out of the car. ‘Do you recognize my dress, Neelam-di?’
‘Should I?’ asked Neelam.
‘Of course. You gave it to me six or seven years ago as a Puja gift.’
An olive green satin weave cascading diagonally downwards in pleats from the left shoulder against magenta silk fabric, with gold embroidery on it. The leggings were two-toned too.
Neelam remembered getting an identical outfit for Pupu, but in black and white. Pupu used to love it, wearing it so often that it had frayed. Astonished, she said, ‘Seven years, I think. How well you’ve preserved it.’
Seema said, ‘The dresses from the year before, the year before that, and even the year before that are all as good as new. Why would they be spoilt if I took good care of them? It’s so lovely. I used to wear it to parties, now I use it for long journeys.’ Seema sounded very pleased with herself. ‘You look terrific, Neelam-di. Where’s this sari from—is it from Rajkot?’
‘Uh-huh. Tangail.’
‘Tangail? Really? I just couldn’t tell. So fine. Where did you get it?’
‘My friend who’s visiting us got it for me,’ said Neelam.
Bikram was flaunting a wide tie. His naturally fair complexion was accentuated, his cheeks so red that they seemed about to bleed. ‘What’s going on, Seal sahib?’ said Neelam. ‘You do seem to be turning into an Englishman.’
Wiping her face with a handkerchief, Seema said, ‘Nonsense, that’s the colour of alcohol. Gives you a sheen at first, then, as soon as the liver’s affected, turns you into an African.’
Bikram had stopped the car. Now, reversing it to park, he said in his deep voice, ‘I’m warning you, don’t bring up the liver. But Bhabi, your house is supposed to be spilling over with guests, how come you’re standing here alone like the bride after the wedding night?’
Bikram got out of the car, slapping the dust off his hands.
Neelam said, ‘Spilling over? When did I say that? Just the one guest.’
‘But that one guest is as good as twenty more. Bikram Seal is capable of reading as much between the lines. You wouldn’t have summoned your servant if it had only been some meek and purring kitten, would you? This one must be a tigress.’ Leaping on to the portico, Bikram adopted a tigress pose with his arms spread out.
Looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, Seema said, ‘I don’t know whether Neelam-di’s friend is a tigress, but I have no doubt that you’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing.’
Bikram walked up to Neelam in pretended rage, saying, ‘Tell your friend or sister or whatever she is to withdraw that statement, Bhabi, else there will be a terrible fight, wolves are very low creatures.’
Smothering her laughter, Neelam said, ‘Whom will you fight with—Seema or me?’
‘Fight with you?’ His face suffused with a smile, Bikram said, ‘Oh Bhabi, those are just lovers’ tiffs. Manbhanjan, Jaidev, Geetgovindam. Am I going to be so lucky?’
It was a lovely day. The sun had not yet become scorching. There was a thin layer of clouds. The sunlight was bright but benign.
Rounding the corner, Aritra’s scooter came to a stop. ‘Get off, Esha,’ said Aritra, ‘you don’t have to take the bags. I’ll be back in a minute from the shop round the corner.’
‘Cigarettes?’
Aritra nodded, smiling. Then he turned around and disappeared. Bikram said, ‘Did Chowdhury-da beat a retreat at my sight, Bhabi?’
Esha had got off the scooter. She went to the market with Pupu every morning. This morning Ari had demanded that she should go with him to buy chicken. A grown-up throwing a ta
ntrum. It seemed Esha only chatted with Neelam, with Pupu. Didn’t Ari exist? Was he just a hanger-on?
Neelam had said, ‘My god! Just the other night you drove nine or ten miles with her alone from the station to Priyalkarnagar, you even got rid of the party-pooper Patil, and you still have things to tell her in private?’
Everyone had laughed. Pupu too.
‘I’ll never run out of things to tell her,’ Ari had glowered.
‘Mashi, look at him, he’s pouting,’ Pupu had said. ‘He’s changing colour. Absolutely green now with jealousy. Do something, Mashi. It’s too pathetic a sight to bear.’
Esha said, ‘All right. But I won’t have anything to do with the chicken. I must be kept at a safe distance.’
Esha didn’t eat meat at all. But she loved cooking. She had promised to cook something special on Sunday. Esha threw a glance at Neelam. ‘We’ll be back as soon as possible, Neelam, don’t worry.’
‘No, not that way.’ Ari was still upset.
‘Now what?’
‘She has to dress up. A golden silk sari. Fancy hair-do. All the cosmetics you people use.’
‘You’re not making it easy. My golden silk sari is in a mess. Not ironed, I’d worn it on the train.’ Esha left.
She emerged exactly ten minutes later, in an off-white sari without a border, a black bindi on her forehead and a loose bun on her head. Transparent pearl earrings. Light lipstick.
Bikram saw her in the same garb. A juicy cream roll. Sweet filling inside, mouth-watering aroma. Baked lightly by the sun, with great expertise. A perfect salad with Thousand Island dressing. Crisp chin. A nose like a cheese straw, lips like tiny Nagpur oranges. Oysters in the earlobes, cream puff cookies on her cheeks. And, all told, a long strip of succulent golden bacon soft-fried in butter.
‘Let me introduce you,’ said Neelam. ‘This is Bikram Seal. The No. 1 building and road contractor in Bombay. And this is his fortunate wife Seema. As both of you know, this is our friend Esha Khan.’
‘Both of yours?’ asked Seema with wide eyes. Neelam smiled uncomfortably. Aritra had appeared behind Seema, saying, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’ Looking suspiciously at Bikram, he added, ‘When did you get here?’