Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  Opening the left-hand drawer of the table, I discovered some of Rosie’s personal effects—a bottle of nail polish, new blades and a small mirror. I felt depressed. Why was I even bothering to set things in order here? The much-loved young lady might reappear tomorrow, and then I would have to go back to Curzon Park. What was the use of putting down roots for just a couple of days?

  Immersed in my work, I did not realize how the day wore away—I didn’t even realize that the hands of the clock had crossed the breakfast and lunch hours and were approaching teatime.

  ‘You’ve been working all day, sir, don’t you want a cup of tea?’

  I raised my head and saw the manager’s bearer. He smiled pleasantly at me. He was getting on in years, his hair had turned grey, but he looked in good shape. ‘My name is Mathura Singh,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mathura Singh.’

  ‘Shall I get some tea for you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Tea? Where will you get it from?’

  ‘Leave that to me, sir. They haven’t issued a slip for you yet, but once they do, you’ll have no problems about your meals.’

  He brought the tea to the office, poured it, handed me the cup and said, ‘So this is where you’ve ended up, sir.’

  ‘You know who I am, Mathura?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘You were the barrister’s clerk, weren’t you?’ he said. ‘Everyone knew the barrister. His bearer Mohan is from our village.’

  ‘So you’re from Kumaon?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve been to your old office several times to meet Mohan, and I saw you there.’

  I felt very happy at finally coming across a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. If Bengal was my motherland, Kumaon was my foster mother. It’s a beautiful place and recently it had been made famous by some well-known visitors. It had no dearth of admirers, but even if it had been the worst place on earth, home to malaria, dysentery and dengue, I would still have loved it. It’s amazing that there are still such places in this accursed country where people do not put up walls around their homes or in their minds.

  Mathura said, ‘It’s good to have you here. A word of advice though. You will see many a thing here which you may not even have imagined in your life. But don’t let it affect you. I’ve seen a lot over forty years, but I’ve survived with pride. By God’s grace even my son has got a job.’

  ‘In this hotel?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but who would willingly send his son here?’

  I said, ‘Most people are contemptuous of their own workplaces, Mathura. Everybody says the same thing: I have suffered myself but won’t like my son to suffer likewise.’

  ‘Sir, you have seen a lot at the barrister’s place. Now just keep your eyes open here. You will see...by God’s grace your eyesight isn’t failing.’

  I set down my cup and said, ‘Mathura, what time is closing hour?’

  ‘The sun does set occasionally on the British Empire, sir, but the lights never go out in a hotel. Nothing closes down here—but haven’t they told you how long you have to work?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Then you might as well go—it’s your first day.’

  ‘I’d better meet the manager before that,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t see him now.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  Mathura was taken aback. It was obvious that he had not expected this question. He seemed acutely embarrassed and mumbled in a hushed tone, ‘No one’s allowed to enter his room now. You go on, I’ll tell him if he asks.’

  I went out and stepped across the corridor to the stairs. Walking down, I saw the name of the hotel on the carpet on every step. The wooden banisters were so smooth my hand slipped on them. Right at the bottom of the stairs an ancient grandfather clock ticked away, announcing the aristocratic lineage of the place. Guests usually take the lift, but I found a rare one or two almost playfully dancing down the stairs, hand in hand with their female companions. I nearly collided with one of them.

  The reception counter was quite crowded, with Bose still stationed there. The telephone rang frequently, and all the chairs and sofas in the lounge were occupied.

  When I reached the counter, Bose said in lowered tones, ‘Stuck in the manager’s office all day?’

  ‘First day,’ I said. ‘Lots to do.’

  Bose was about to say something, but a fresh set of guests appeared at the counter, with porters in tow carrying their luggage.

  ‘See you later,’ I said, and left.

  At the main entrance, the doorman was busy dispensing salutes at a furious pace.

  A splendid bus stood in the porch. I’d seen such buses only in English films—I had no idea that the old hag Calcutta possessed such things. If there were ever a beauty contest among the city’s buses, I could swear this one would be crowned Miss Calcutta. Porters were unloading luggage from the rear of the bus. Men and women, obviously airline employees, emerged from the bus and disappeared into the hotel. Skirting them, I started walking along Central Avenue.

  Chowringhee lay ahead. Here, day and night were interchangeable. The immaculately dressed Chowringhee, radiant in her youth, had just stepped on to the floor at the nightclub. On the other side, the great leader Surendranath Banerjee appeared to be held captive, motionless, seemingly numbed by the sight of the naked form of his beloved daughter. In utter contempt, this great father of Indian nationalism had turned his eyes towards the darkness to the south.

  I walked down to the western end of Curzon Park, to Sir Hariram. He was still staring fixedly at Raj Bhavan, as though asking: Are the merchant’s scales really weaker than the ruler’s sceptre? Over the centuries, thousands of people have set foot on this city cursed by history. Many arrived penniless but went on to amass wealth and glory. They were of varying descents, spoke different languages, followed diverse customs and cultures—but all of them had the same end in view. And Time assiduously swept the known and unknown, the rich and the poor, the native and the foreigner alike into the dustbin of oblivion. Only a few succeeded in escaping that purge and surviving the death-dealing banks of the Ganga, albeit as statues.

  I addressed Sir Hariram, one of the most illustrious among the dead citizens of this dead city, ‘My situation has changed since you last saw me. I’m working now, at Shahjahan Hotel. When you were alive, when you ruled over the business empire of this city, the nights in Shahjahan must have been as bright as the days—you must have been there many times...’

  I stopped, and began laughing—why was I babbling like a madman? What did I know about Sir Hariram? For all I knew, he might have been an extremely conservative man who never went anywhere near a hotel. The more I thought about it the more I was surprised at my childishness. I remembered the doorman in Clive Building who had chosen to bind me in a kinship with, of all people, Sir Hariram.

  I caught a glimpse of the clock on the building of Whiteway Laidlow afar. It was quite late—time to go home. I had no qualms about going home now. I had a home, I had my near and dear ones and, above all, I had a job.

  3

  ‘Our life is but a winter’s day. Some only breakfast and away, others to dinner stay and are full fed, the oldest man but sups and goes to bed, he who goes soonest has the least to pay,’ said Mr Bose.

  ‘That’s very philosophical.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t make that up. It’s an English poem. There was an old man here who used to quote the lines quite often. I even jotted them down somewhere, if I can find them I’ll show them to you.’

  ‘A nice idea,’ I said. ‘The longer you stay in this world, the bigger the bill you have to pay.’

  ‘But the poet couldn’t have worked in a hotel—if he had, he would definitely have written about people who have ploughed their way through breakfast, lunch and dinner and then passed the bill on to somebody else before disappearing from the world. And he would have written about us too—we who put away breakfast, lunch and dinner every day but don’t pay the bill, rather,
work off our debt instead.’

  He paused and added, ‘To tell you the truth, I feel weary at times. Of course, that only adds to our woes—nobody dies that easily of weariness. A soul-destroying opium of illusion hangs about this place. It’s like a fatal addiction, with no escape route. Once you come in, you can’t get out, not even if the door is opened for you.’

  I was listening to him as I typed.

  Looking at me, he asked, ‘Why are you looking so low? Can’t sleep at night for fear of Rosie coming back?’

  I had to confess. ‘There’s no sign of her now, but suppose she returned suddenly?’

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘But keep your garden well watered. The boss must be kept happy.’

  That was what I was trying to do. It was the manager himself who taught me how to keep him happy. As they say: seeing is believing. Omar Khayyam hit the nail right on the head when he said, ‘There’s no dearth of learned men to write thick books in this world, no dearth even of intrepid people to lead armies to war; there are a lot of political talents who can run kingdoms—but alas, there’s a great shortage of people to run hotels.’

  The number and variety of problems that can arise every minute in the running of a hotel is truly mind-boggling, and the poor manager has to solve all of them. He is blamed for everything—if the bathwater is too hot, guests usually summon him instead of telling the bearer. They seem to believe in summit meetings. Rather than settle matters at the lower levels, they prefer to involve the manager himself.

  If a guest discovers that the colour of the bed sheet doesn’t match the colour of the curtains, he or she hysterically sends for the manager at once. It’s happened before my own eyes. Receiving an SOS over the telephone one day, Marco Polo practically ran out of the room, with me following, to find out what was up. He knocked at the door and a female voice said, ‘Come in.’

  A middle-aged Englishwoman stood there looking as though the sky had fallen on her. With bloodshot eyes she told the manager, ‘You are dangerous—you can kill people. No one but a murderer could choose such colours. I’ve never seen such hideous shades in a hotel room in my life, it was enough to make me faint!’

  I was furious, but Marco Polo displayed no such emotion. I believe they squeeze out the hormones responsible for anger when a person enters a hotel management school. Marco Polo started by apologizing profusely, ‘I sincerely hope you haven’t suffered any physical or psychological damage, madam. I’ll have three sets of bedclothes sent to you immediately—please choose the shade you want. I’ve have never understood why American tourists like this colour—I was forced to have these made specially. I had no idea you were going to be staying in this room.’

  The lady’s stand having been vindicated and her ruffled feathers soothed, she now definitely preened as she said, ‘Wherever I go, I find them corrupting good taste—chewing on their gum, bulldozing through beauty everywhere. My dear friend, they might have money, but it’ll take them another five hundred years to learn refinement.’

  Marco Polo agreed wholeheartedly with her and left the room. Mr Bose told me later that if the lady had been American, the manager would have said, ‘I just can’t understand why the English prefer this old-fashioned colour. Trouble is, we’re helpless—till the other day, Calcutta was the second city of the Empire. We’re trying, though...gradually the signs of British imperialism are being wiped out.’

  Of course, the manager makes up for his politeness with guests in his conduct with employees. Bearers, sweepers, bartenders and chefs all have their hearts in their mouths under his reign of terror.

  He is even more fearsome in another respect—one is never sure about his mood swings, and his temperamental nature keeps everybody on their toes.

  When giving me instructions, he often looks distracted. Some evenings he goes out in white shorts and a white half-sleeved shirt, cane in hand, though nobody knows where. Even at dinner, when the dining hall is chock-a-block with people, he’s missing, so the poor steward and Mr Bose have to cope all by themselves.

  ‘How much longer, Sata?’ the steward asks.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mr Bose replies. ‘A system that’s been running for a hundred and fifty years will keep running on its own steam—no point wearing out our brains over it.’

  When the manager returns, it is in a completely different mood—as though a dormant volcano had become active. He starts by taking off his clothes, one by one, and flinging them across his room while poor Mathura Singh stands helplessly outside. It isn’t any use going in, for in a drunken fit the man might well throw a shoe at him. A short while later, he summons Mathura and orders in a slurred voice, ‘Call the head barman.’

  As soon as he receives the summons, the head barman Ram Singh realizes what’s happening. In his red cummerbund, armband and turban, he would at the time be pouring out drinks, but now he asks someone else to take over while he pays court to the manager’s wishes.

  Snorting like a bull, the manager asks, ‘How’s business, Ram Singh, my darling Ram Singh?’

  Wiping his hands on the duster hanging at his waist, Ram Singh replies, ‘The bar’s packed, sir. Two Dimple Haigs and three White Horses emptied already—it was race day.’ More customers are coming, he adds, and it is essential for him to be at the bar.

  ‘Let those vermin go to hell,’ the manager grunts. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Ram Singh stands there nonplussed, glancing at Mathura Singh for help. Mathura remains silent, though secretly pleased. ‘Serves you right. You’ve made a lot from sucking those drunkards dry every day—for once you can go without and give the others a chance.’

  Meanwhile, the manager bursts into drunken song. He has had his fill elsewhere; finding his own cellar unable to quench his thirst, the all-in-all of Shahjahan Hotel had opted for hooch at a disgusting Anglo-Indian slum. Used as he is to foreign liquor, Ram Singh finds his stomach churning at the smell, but he has to keep standing there.

  The manager hasn’t satisfied his soul yet, which is why he starts singing. It is a very old ditty—Calcutta’s ancient, poisoned blood had mingled with this song written by the humorist Davy Carson. It had rent the silence of many a midnight at the Shahjahan Bar. In the nineteenth century, when the neighbourhoods of Madan Datta Lane, Bankim Chattegee Street and Shyamacharan Dey Street lay fast asleep, hundreds of foreign voices used to welcome the new day with this song breaking through the still night, scaring the bearers out of their wits.

  The long-lost, wanton, dissolute soul of Calcutta takes possession of Marco Polo’s drunken body as he sings:

  To Wilson’s or Spence’s Hall

  On holiday I stay;

  With freedom call for the mutton chops

  And billiards play all day;

  The servant catches from after the hukum: ‘Jaldi jao

  Hey Khitmatgar, brandy sharab, bilati pani lao.’

  The manager’s thirst hasn’t been quenched yet—like a madman he screams, ‘Bring it on, bring the whiskey and soda!’

  Soon after, he goes into a drunken frenzy—not even two servants can keep that enormous body, dressed in nothing but underclothes, under control. He breaks glasses, smashes bottles on the ground, embraces Ram Singh and dances, singing all the while. He hugs Ram Singh and continues singing, ‘Darling, my sweet darling,’ and tries to kiss the poor man. It is then that realization dawns on him. He throws Ram Singh out of the room and collapses on the bed.

  Then one has to cautiously switch the lights off and stealthily spread a sheet over his body and move out. About an hour later, Mathura Singh returns to clean the floor. Because when the master gets up at dawn he will remember nothing. He might hurt himself if the pieces of broken glass lay scattered on the floor.

  It happened once. Nobody had dared enter the room at night after a particularly bad session of drunkenness. And in the morning, Marco Polo had stepped on a piece of broken glass and cut his foot. He’d called Mathura Singh and complained like a small child, ‘Just because I was drunk you puni
sh me like this! Do none of you care for me?’

  From then on, Mathura never sleeps on such nights. He sits on a stool outside the room, occasionally looking at the clock, waiting for the dreadful night to end, for the sun to rise, and for the defiled, demented planet to recover its sanity by daylight.

  It was Mathura who told me about these nocturnal dramas, though I could never discern it from the manager’s appearance at breakfast the next morning. He had an unlimited source of energy. Even after such excesses he could slave like a beast.

  He was beginning to be a little favourably disposed towards me. Though he was stern with others, he would actually smile a little when talking to me, even telling me one day after work, ‘Why are you still here? Have you turned into a monk?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said.

  ‘Then why are you stuck in this coop? So many temptations floating about in this city—grab a couple of them and have some fun.’

  One day, he asked me about Byron. I hadn’t seen him since that night when he got me the job at the hotel. It was as though he had materialized from nowhere before Sir Hariram’s statue and vanished again into thin air.

  ‘Do you run into Byron at all?’ Marco Polo asked.

  ‘No,’ I admitted.

  He looked rather worried and glanced at his wristwatch before turning to look at the sky through the window. The sun hadn’t set yet, but evening was nigh.

  I wasn’t at all prepared for what he said next. Shaking his head and narrowing his eyes, he said, ‘You’re a clever young fellow—you pretend to look innocent though you know a lot.’

  I was taken aback at first. Then I realized that for some reason he thought I had some information which I was hiding from him. ‘I don’t quite know what you’re talking about, sir,’ I said.

  Marco Polo waved his hands, a little abashed. ‘No...never mind,’ he said, ‘I was joking.’

  Suddenly he stopped talking and looked at me. Disconcerted at his gaze I stared at the floor instead. When I glanced at him a little later, I found him still looking at me, a mournful expression on his face.