‘Oh, his office is right here in Calcutta. He stays with an Englishman in Ballygunge as a paying guest, but comes to the hotel occasionally—alone, but he takes a double room. In fact, he comes at least four or five times a month. It’s just as well that he belongs to the Commonwealth, or else we’d have to give a report to the security police each time, and they’d wonder why someone from Ballygunge comes to Shahjahan so often.’
I hadn’t become familiar with this kind of lifestyle yet. Mr Bose said, ‘Even someone spending no more than a few hours here in the evening will know what’s going on. She’ll come at night in dark glasses—her husband owns seven or eight cars, but she’ll take a taxi. One thing I can vouch for, though—that Mr So-and-so is not in Calcutta tonight. He must have gone to Bombay, or Delhi, or even to England, on business.’
‘Who is this gentleman? And who’s the lady?’ I couldn’t contain my curiosity.
‘Even walls have ears in this godforsaken country,’ said Mr Bose.
I grabbed his hand and said, ‘I may have ears, but I’m dumb. Whatever makes its way in through these ears stays in there—it never comes out.’
Mr Bose said, ‘Mrs Pakrashi. In Madhab Pakrashi’s account books she’s already been written off. Pakrashi has lots of things in life—lots of cars, companies, houses, and money, but what he had just one of is precisely what he has lost. He has Mrs Pakrashi without having her. By day she’s a social worker—she gives speeches and worries for the country. And by night she comes over to the Shahjahan. During the day she’s a Bengali to the hilt, but here she’s completely international—I’ve never seen an Indian with her. The last regular visitor to suite number one was a twenty-three-year-old Frenchman, but we have to report anyone from outside the Commonwealth who visits the hotel, which is probably why she’s chosen this Englishman. Poor Pakrashi.’
‘You needn’t feel too much sympathy for either of them,’ I said.
‘That’s what Mrs Pakrashi feels, too. Who knows whether Pakrashi books single rooms or double rooms at the Taj in Bombay or the Maidens in Delhi? But she hasn’t succeeded in catching her husband off guard yet. I have a feeling he’s a decent chap—I’ve seen him drop in occasionally for lunch, he doesn’t even order a beer. Mrs Pakrashi had put your friend Byron on his tail; he chased him to Bombay a couple of times, but as far as I know, nothing came of it.’
‘How did you get to know all this?’ I asked in surprise.
‘I just picked it up—you will, too. In a few days you will also get to know Mrs Pakrashi, and you’ll hear a lot about her boyfriend. You’ll not only be surprised, you probably won’t believe your own eyes.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not now—all in good time, if you’re still interested, that is. Meanwhile, give me a few minutes, let me finish these chores. One fifty-two, one fifty-five and one fifty-eight will be vacated any moment—the bills are ready, but I have to check whether they’ve signed for anything at the last minute. If anything’s left out it’ll be deducted from my salary.’
Having checked the bills, Mr Bose called the bearer. The poor chap was seated on a stool—he hurried over on being summoned.
There was a particular way people talked here—one’s voice had to be pitched so low that nobody but the person being addressed could hear, and yet it wasn’t whispering. It was in this style that Mr Bose told the porter, ‘The gentlemen are in their room, their packing is almost done, so don’t waste any more time.’
‘How did you perfect this tone?’ I asked.
‘Just as you have what is known as BBC pronunciation—this is what is known as the hotel voice. Mastering it is a very difficult art—you’ll have to do it, too, Mr Mukheijee.’
‘Isn’t it time you dispensed with the formality?’ I asked. ‘I’d like to think there’s at least one person in Shahjahan Hotel who uses my first name.’
‘And what will you call me instead of Mr Bose?’ he asked.
‘I’ve decided that already,’ I said. ‘I’ll call you Bose-da.’
‘I don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but I’d like you to use Sata-da sometimes. Don’t let the pet name lovingly given by Sahibganj Colony turn rusty with disuse.’
‘Why?’ I said in surprise. ‘Everyone here uses that name anyway.’
‘Their using it and a dear one using it is hardly the same thing, is it?’
He came back to the subject of my change of residence. ‘I heard from Jimmy that you’re moving here permanently. Good news.’
I still had my misgivings. ‘You think so?’ I said. ‘I’m feeling a little nervous.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said with smile. ‘As for feeling nervous—who isn’t intimidated by Shahjahan Hotel from a distance? Seasoned wood from Sahibganj Colony as I was, even I came close to developing a crack or two.’
There was no way one could spend too much time chatting at the reception counter. The telephone rang again, and Bose-da took the call. ‘Shahjahan reception. Beg your pardon? Mr Mitsubishi, oh yes, he’s arrived here from Tokyo, room number two hundred and ten.’
The caller probably asked whether Mr Mitsubishi was in.
‘Just a minute,’ said Bose-da and glanced at the board on which the keys hung. The key to 210 was visible, so he said into the phone, ‘No, I’m sorry, he’s gone out.’
Bose-da put the phone down and said, ‘Why waste time, go and call it off with Kashundia.’
Now I had to explain the reason for my anxiety—I could have sunk through the floor in embarrassment, but somehow I forced the words out. ‘I don’t have any of the things you need to live in such a big hotel. My mattress is in bad shape, and I can’t even borrow a holdall at such short notice to hide it in. Isn’t there another door one could use?’
Bose-da bailed me out. Chiding me for my foolishness, he said, ‘Why should anyone move in here if they have a stylish mattress? The better the hotel you put up in, the fewer the things you need to bring. In fact, there’s this French hotel whose advertisement says, “You need bring nothing except your appetite”—and this appetite refers not only to hunger but to many other things as well.’
Pulling out the pencil he had tucked behind his right ear, he started writing on a slip of paper. After he had finished, he said, ‘You have to bring nothing but what you need to preserve your modesty—everything else will be taken care of.’
He thought a little and added, ‘Sorry, you’ll have to bring something else—a very essential item. I hope yours is in good shape.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Your toothbrush. Nothing else. Hurry up, say a prayer to the thousand-handed Kali at Kashundia, cut off connections with the Howrah Municipality and make a beeline for Chittaranjan Avenue. And meanwhile we’ll prepare a civic reception for you.’
When I came back to Shahjahan with my luggage, it was with a strange sensation. The neon light was still glowing, and in its dreamy glow, I discovered the hotel anew.
It wasn’t so much a hotel as a framed picture. In the alluring curves was not the arrogance of modern skyscrapers but the stamp of ancient aristocracy. Like a beautiful bride’s bracelet, the neon lights glinted in the darkness. It had three bands—green at the extremities and red in the middle; the flirtatious winking was limited to the green, while the red was like the unblinking eye of an angry monster.
The enormous portico sheltered not only the entrance to the hotel but also several glittering shops. They all seemed part of the hotel—bookshops, magazine stands, medicine stores, government stores with the best samples of Indian handicrafts, curio shops selling Nataraj statuettes, ivory and woodwork, a counter selling Shahjahan-brand cakes and bread, an automobile showroom, a post office, a bank, a tailoring shop to get suits made, dyers and cleaners to get those suits drycleaned. And somehow, amidst this motley crowd, a taxidermist had survived. Whoever hunted tigers and lions these days—and even if they did, who lavished money and attention on stuffing straw into the dead tiger’s stomach and wood into its shoulders and practically bring it back to li
fe?
But there was a story behind the taxidermist’s presence here. The founder of this hotel was extremely fond of hunting as was one of his friends. If you entered the shop you’d spot an oil painting of the two of them standing triumphantly with their feet on the carcass of a Royal Bengal tiger. But the Englishman couldn’t plant his foot on it forever—some intrepid member of the Royal Bengal clan wreaked vengeance during a subsequent expedition. Simpson, the owner of Shahjahan, and his friend Skinner had set off on their hunt with four legs, but they came back with three. Skinner’s job had involved travelling, and now with the loss of a leg he lost the job as well. Simpson couldn’t stop worrying for his friend. Since Skinner had once learnt taxidermy, his friend told him, ‘Why don’t you set up shop in my hotel arcade—it won’t cost you anything, and I’ll try to send the hunters among our guests to your shop.’
We all know how many Indian tigers, lions, deer and elephants have lost their lives in the hundred and twenty-five years since. And we can also guess how many of the carcasses of these children of the forest who suffered untimely deaths are still being displayed in English homes across the ocean. It probably isn’t difficult to understand how the lame Mr Skinner managed to buy a castle in Scotland, and how he converted, even in that day and age, a few hundred thousand rupees into pounds and set sail for England.
I wouldn’t have got to know the story of the killing Skinner made. Leave alone me, it’s doubtful whether even the present owner of Skinner and Co., Muktaram Saha, would have known, had it not been for a cutting from an old issue of the Englishman lovingly framed and hung behind the counter. The editor of the paper had published that special piece on the day of Skinner’s departure.
A major portion of the framed piece was occupied by a sketch of Shahjahan Hotel done by the Englishman’s own artist. I’d examined that sketch carefully for a long time. Even the hotel lounge had a few sketches by some unknown artist of the time. These pictures greeted the stranger, informing him that this inn was not a Johnny-come-lately Yankee hotel, that behind it lay the weight of history, of tradition—an ancient inn to the east of Suez welcoming you.
There was nobody in the lounge when I entered with my small bag. Bose-da emerged from behind the counter and welcomed me dramatically. Noticing my embarrassment, he laughed and said, ‘As you know, shyness, hatred and fear are no good for a job out here.’ Glancing at the clock, he added, ‘Give me five minutes, my shift will end and William Ghosh will be here to take over.’
‘Does William stay at the hotel?’ I asked.
‘No, he lives at Madan Dutta Lane in Bowbazar. You haven’t met him yet, have you? Very interesting chap,’ said Bose-da.
By then my eyes had settled on the old sketches in the lounge. Bose-da was through as well, and the two of us examined them together. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘These go back so many decades, but Simpson’s Shahjahan Hotel has withstood the ebb and flow of time and stands firm where it was.’
‘Who could look at this building and guess its age!’ I marvelled.
‘William knows nice little rhymes, and has even stocked up on many Bengali proverbs. Houses don’t age, he says. Ageing depends entirely on the owner. His diary has these lines:
Maintenance for a building
A landowner’s revenues
Signing the register
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
Bose said, ‘If William had been here, he’d have been able to tell you. Simply put, I think it means that repairing buildings, paying taxes and attending office all have to be done on time.’
‘I don’t think the owners of this building have ever skimped on repairs,’ I said.
‘It’s because the old lady puts on her cosmetics of plaster and lime at the right time that she’s managed to preserve her looks,’ Bose-da said, laughing. ‘But then, this is only the façade—you might regret it if you make any comments without looking around inside!’ He winked.
I saw a picture of a pond, the governor’s house visible in the background. I wondered how this pond had suddenly disappeared from the heart of Calcutta.
Bose-da said, ‘That is the famous tank of Esplanade, where trams move around now. If you want to know all the stories connected with that tank, I’ll introduce you to a very interesting man, an imperial library of old anecdotes. You wouldn’t believe so many things have actually happened, or that one man can remember so much, until you meet him. An old Englishman, he’s been in Calcutta for a long time.’
He continued, ‘It was from him that I heard that people in the olden days believed that this Esplanade tank had no bottom—however deep you went, you found only water. There were lots of fish in the tank; when they decided to pump all the water out, Finberg, the owner of Hotel de Europe, agreed to buy all the fish in it for six hundred and fifty rupees. The draining began, and Chowringhee was chock-a-block with people, crowds coming from enormous distances to find out whether the lake was indeed bottomless. Meanwhile, Finberg couldn’t sleep nights for worrying over whether all that money would go down the drain for who knew how much fish there would be.
‘The water began to be pumped up into drains and porters carried baskets of mud to the maidan. It was on that mud that the grounds of the Dalhousie Club were built. It seems Finberg made lots of money on his investment. Many varieties of fish were found—giant ones, each at least a stone or so in weight. A few of them were thrashing around in the mud. Finberg’s people swooped down on them and brought them back.’
The story might have continued much longer, but somebody came and stood behind us. Startling us, he asked, ‘When the fish of Chowringhee was being auctioned off dirt cheap what was the owner of Shahjahan Hotel doing?’
‘William!’ said Bose, turning around. ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, Sata, but this is Calcutta, after all. These trams aren’t always in the best of moods—like today, for instance,’ William smiled and replied.
I stood gaping open-mouthed at Ghosh—you seldom set eyes on someone so dark and yet so handsome. If he’d been a little fairer, and had been wearing Indian attire instead of Western, he’d have looked like a god. Only Putu-di from my childhood had such lovely dark eyes—but then, she used a lot of mascara. From a distance, you suspected the same thing about Ghosh, but up close, you realized he had been born with the mascara. He had on a black bow tie with his white shirt. His pointed moustache seemed to have been clipped in tune with the butterfly at his neck. The trousers were light blue, and so was the jacket. The breast pocket of the white shirt was visible through the undone buttons of the jacket, and it had a coloured silk monogram on it: S. Obviously it stood for Shahjahan.
Handing over charge, Bose-da said, ‘William, you’re a lucky man, you’re on duty on an auspicious night.’
Ghosh didn’t have to be told anything more; he seemed to have understood. ‘Has suite number one been booked? Has Mrs— arrived?’
‘Mrs Pakrashi isn’t here yet. She booked the room on the phone herself today, probably didn’t have advance information; her husband must have left suddenly.’
‘Is Thomson here yet?’ asked Ghosh.
‘Yes, he is. You’re sure to get your two ten-rupee notes!’
‘My misfortune, brother. With fairer skin I’d have been able to earn much more than two tenners.’
‘Don’t be ungrateful, William. I’ve never known anybody but Mrs Pakrashi to pay anything to the receptionist—she’s very generous.’
Ghosh was about to respond, but Bose-da butted in, ‘Now my friend, off to your abode.’ I was about to pick up my leather case, but he called out, ‘Porter!’
The porter, who was seated on a stool in the distance, rose and saluted us, but Bose flew into a rage. ‘Why isn’t your cap on straight? If the manager saw you, you’d get the sack immediately.’
The porter looked just like a circus clown—it was as though the uniform for porters at Shahjahan Hotel had been designed keeping circus clowns in mind. A violet, high-necked jacket with
half-sleeves, and long green piping running down the sides of the trousers. The round velvet cap on the head had the same green piping—it was as though, after a porter had put on his trousers, jacket and cap, someone had taken a long ruler and a brush and drawn a straight green line from top to bottom. The line on the cap was bound to bend at times, because frequently it had to be tucked into the shoulder strap to make it easier to carry luggage.
The porter quickly straightened his cap and said, ‘I am sorry, sir.’
‘What are all those mirrors in the lounge for? Can’t you check?’
The porter picked up my case, and the two of us followed Bose-da. ‘Lift or stairs?’ he asked, and then said on an impulse, ‘No, let’s take the lift.’ It started moving. After a brief halt on the first floor, it continued upwards.
All the rooms on the first floor were for guests—Marco Polo’s being the only exception. The lift stopped on the second floor, and a waft of cold air danced across our faces. The second floor was only for guests. As the lift moved further up, the very atmosphere seemed to change. The liftman, who had been standing ramrod straight all this while, leaned against the wall and scratched his leg with one hand. The cold air also seized the opportunity and started turning warm. ‘That’s the end of the air-conditioned area,’ said Bose-da, ‘and the beginning of ours.’
The spot where we stepped out of the lift was pitch dark. As the collapsible gates closed and the lift went back downstairs, it felt as though someone had pushed us into a dark prison, clanged the gates shut and run away. I’d have felt scared if we’d remained in that darkness for long, but the porter reached out and opened a door before us. Light flooded through the door—in it I saw red letters on the door: PULL. As we crossed the door it slammed shut by itself—on the other side were letters written in the same style: PUSH.
I couldn’t quite make out what it was all about. Bose-da smiled and said, ‘Don’t you see? It’s the old adage—push from this side, pull from that. The lucky ones find the door to fortune opening like this. And with the luckless it’s just the opposite—they push when they should be pulling, and vice versa, which is why the doors of their fate never seem to open. We’ve put the instructions there to warn those of us who are likely to make that mistake.’
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