The terrace was dotted with countless cubicles, with tile or asbestos roofs over them. ‘This is where we hole up; our free inn, and the concealed interiors of Shahjahan Hotel,’ said Bose-da. A hazy glow filtered through the curtained windows. I hadn’t quite realized in the dark—a practically nude woman was sitting on an easy chair. Spotting us, the female figure disappeared in a trice.
As though he had forgotten I was with him, Bose-da started whistling and stood before the door to his room, which was dark as well. A bearer in a white uniform rushed up. Seeing him, Bose-da lowered his head and said softly, ‘O spectre of the night, to see who you are I need some light!’
The light came on in Bose-da’s room. The room offered precious little privacy—the walls weren’t even brick ones. In fact, it was a wooden cabin, with two small windows to the west and north. There was also a door to the south, looking out on the road.
Exhausted after being on his feet all day, the first thing Bose-da did on entering his room was to dive on to the bed. After spending a couple of minutes sprawled like a corpse, he moved. Still lying on the bed, he summoned the bearer. Now I got a sampling of Bose-da’s authority among the bearers—the one who came in straightway proceeded to unlace his shoes and take them off, without saying a word. Carefully tucking the shoes under the bed, the bearer also removed the socks with a practised hand. Opening a cheap, worn cupboard next to the bed, he took out a pair of rubber slippers and placed them on the floor.
‘The two of you should get acquainted,’ said Bose-da. Pointing towards the bearer, he said, ‘This is my guardian—Gurberia.’ And pointing at me, he added, ‘My dear Gurberia, this son of Bengal has joined recently—think of him as the junior governor of Shahjahan Hotel. He’ll be put up in Rosie’s room for the moment.’
Poor Gurberia bent his turbaned head and saluted me.
‘Get the key to three sixty-two, Gurberia,’ said Bose-da. ‘The gentleman will retire to his room now for a rest.’
Gurberia immediately did an about-turn and almost raced off in search of the key.
‘Nice fellow,’ I said to Bose-da.
‘He has no choice but to be nice now.’ Bose-da smiled. ‘Master Gurberia is living in exile at the moment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He used to be on duty on the second floor—but after he broke half-a-dozen cups one day, the boss dispatched him here. Being transferred from serving hotel guests to devoting oneself to the staff is like giving up a job with Burmah Shell to write the books at the provision shop round the corner. The manager hasn’t killed him, but he’s taken away his chances of making a killing by banishing him from the fountain of tips to the desert of the terrace. What’s more, the head bearer, Parabashia, had arranged a match with Gurberia for his daughter, but this sudden setback in the fortunes of his prospective son-in-law has compelled him to back out. The poor fellow’s now trying to extricate himself by lavishing his attention on me—he seems to think I have a lot of influence with both Parabashia and Marco Polo, and that neither of them can refuse my request.’
Bose-da might have told me more, but with Gurberia’s arrival, key in hand, he stopped. Gurberia said, ‘This way, sir.’
Bose-da asked, ‘Do you need me to come along?’
‘Of course not, Gurberia will show me the way,’ I said and took my leave.
The dust accumulated at the door made it clear that number 362 hadn’t been opened for some time. Gurberia opened the door, switched on the light and immediately departed on some private errand.
I felt rather uncomfortable from the moment I entered the room. The cosmetics carefully arranged on the dressing table made it clear that this was where Rosie used to live. It seemed she hadn’t taken anything with her—all her possessions were still lying around. It was as though she’d taken a few hours off to go to the movies, and would return any moment—to find that, taking advantage of her absence, a stranger had quietly occupied her bedroom.
This room was at the eastern end of the terrace. The walls and doors were painted dark green both inside and outside, but the hessian ceiling was white. It was a tiny room, with a bed, a dressing table and a wardrobe occupying most of it. There was a chair, but just the one—the deliberate and artificial short supply seemed aimed at keeping down the number of curious guests.
Rosie’s bed was covered with a multicoloured bedspread—I sat on it and took off my shoes. I had barely taken off my shirt and trousers and, in Bengali style, put on a dhoti, when a whistling sound began. I hadn’t noticed that the sky had become overcast—it was as though, irked by the way we had ignored nature, the nor’wester was giving vent to its anger.
The force of the wind slammed the door against the wall, forcing me to lock it. By the time I turned my attention to the windows, the spray had already doused parts of the bed. Occasional flashes of lightning entered the room through cracks in the wall and castigated me—they seemed to have realized that I was a trespasser. The torrential rain sounded like a group of neighbourhood hooligans drumming indefatigably on the roof. I didn’t feel as though I were sitting in a small room on the terrace—it was more like living in exile on some uninhabited island, miles and miles from civilization, contact with the rest of the world lost forever.
When I opened the wardrobe to put my clothes in, I got a shock. Rosie’s gowns were still hanging inside. The wind barged in and played havoc in the garden of gowns—the silk, rayon and nylon garments giggling and falling against one another in feminine coquettishness. Even the order in which they hung suggested a terrible conspiracy—first the deep black, then the dark green, then the stark white, and then the flaming red. The lady probably spent all her money on clothes. On the left-hand door of the cupboard, a photograph was captured in a bright steel frame, as though crucified.
It was obvious to me that the woman in the frame was Rosie. Had I not seen this picture, I would never have believed that a woman would allow herself to be photographed in such a provocative pose—or, even if she did, that she would actually preserve the photograph carefully. Her entire body wasn’t visible in the photo—not even half of it, for that matter. But whatever there was smiled under a satanic influence. Her thick lips pouted slightly while the eyes seemed to have turned away in embarrassment from its own body.
Her hair was curly—those locks, coiled like snakes, hinted at a story long lost in some dense African jungle. And this woman was supposed to be a typist! Her teeth peeped out through the lips—she had been shot in light and shade, but someone had highlighted her teeth by lighting them up. The same beam of light had tried to bend the rules a little and reach her breast, but being alerted in time, Rosie hadn’t allowed it, and had quickly gathered up her loose dress.
I had thought of her as Eurasian, but the photograph hinted at another continent. All over her eyes, her face, her body, was written the name of the mass of land which was once known as the Dark Continent—now, it was known simply as Africa.
Since there was no other place available, I had to put my clothes in the wardrobe.
Rosie may not have been there in person, but her spirit was all-pervasive. As were the disembodied souls of this ancient hotel who probably took shelter in this empty room in the darkness of night. And now a stripling from across the Ganga had turned up to intrude on their peace, which was why the May thundershowers had asked bitterly, ‘Who is it? Who are you?’
Thinking of that night makes me laugh even now—I’m amazed at my own immaturity! But back then, its questions unanswered, it appeared that the rain had joined hands with the storm to go on a rampage. The centuries-old spirit of Shahjahan Hotel kept asking, ever louder, ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’
The toilet was attached to the bedroom, but no one seemed to have paid any attention to it in the past few days. Some soap water still remained in the bathtub. I unplugged the mouth of the tub, let the water out and turned on the tap, the jet of water cleaning up the tub. One could feel Rosie’s presence here too—her soap case, toiletries,
toothpaste and toothbrush still lying there in neglect.
Unused to all this, I would have felt more secure had the rain stopped—I could have gone to Bose-da and asked, ‘Where have I ended up?’ He would probably have replied in his customary humorous vein, ‘Calcutta’s most ancient inn, Shahjahan Hotel.’
Most ancient, indeed. It was Bose-da who told me the story.
It went back a long time—to some remote century, on an unsung rain-swept afternoon, a man named Job Charnock anchored his barge by the river Hooghly on the banks of this very Calcutta. His misery knew no bounds that day, but no hotel door opened to provide shelter to the tired guest—the people of Sutanuti and Hooghly hadn’t even heard of a hotel. Charnock must have made his own arrangements, as all travellers had done since time immemorial.
Ages passed. Many more strangers stepped on Calcutta’s soil, but even so no hotel came up on the city’s saline soil for their benefit.
Laughing, Bose-da had said, ‘As a child there was this Tagore poem I’d memorized, but I hadn’t realized its meaning then: “In all countries I have an abode, yet I have spent my life searching for it.” Now I realize what the poet meant—that all countries in the world have hotel rooms, I’ve seen many of them, but none of them seem up to the mark, which is why I’m still searching. If the poet had been born a hundred years earlier, this beautiful poem wouldn’t have been written—after all, there were no hotels in Calcutta then.’
What had sprung up in the city were taverns—or, as William put it, ‘Petrol pumps to tank up on liquor.’ Anchoring their ships on the Hooghly, the pleasure-seeking, homeless sailors would rush to the city’s taverns. Many strange chapters of life would be enacted on that stage.
Even after all these years, the mad cacophony of another century seemed to be ringing in my ears. I could feel the hot, amorous breath of that age—it sent a shiver down my spine. The colossal palace, in whose desolate room on the terrace I lay awake in the middle of the night, and in which I would spend many more nights, was also the custodian of many unread chapters of history languishing in the dirt. The building in which I waited for an encounter with morning, from which I wanted to see off the beautiful night on a golden chariot, was not a contemporary one. It didn’t even belong to this century.
‘Nothing is permanent in this astounding city,’ Bose-da had said, ‘not even life. Even the formidable Charnock had to bite the dust of Calcutta within two years. Only after sending him to his grave did Calcutta seem to breathe a sigh of relief.’
The previous day, he had said, ‘Fame? That’s also as fleeting as a comet rushing across the sky. Yesterday’s emperor, who spent the night in Shahjahan Hotel’s most expensive room, is today a pauper who finds shelter only on the street. Life, youth and everything else in this city are transitory—nothing can defy eternity and keep standing in Calcutta. But Shahjahan Hotel stands upright with unbelievable arrogance, nurturing the sorrows and joys, the suffering and pleasure, the celebration and desire and the greed, acceptance and sacrifice of many nights in its breast. It survives—and not even Simpson could have imagined that it would have withstood the ravages of time and lasted so long.’
If Simpson could have risen from his grave in St John’s churchyard to stand in front of his beloved Shahjahan, he would have been amazed. His creation had far outstripped him. Many years ago people had thought him mad. ‘Are you permanently under the influence of the bottle these days?’ they had asked.
He had replied angrily, ‘I’m a teetotaller, I don’t touch alcohol.’
‘Are you then dreaming your multicoloured dreams under the divine power of opium from the sensual Orient?’
‘Not dreams, but plans—a business scheme.’
‘Plans to build Fort William in the air!’
‘Not at all, this is down to earth—I’m planning a hotel here, next to Fort William. Calcutta is going to determine the fate of India, which means that lots of people will have to come here—and they won’t hesitate to loosen their purse strings for a place to stay the night. For them I’m going to build a hotel that not just you, but also your sons and grandsons, are going to thank me for. No statue will be put up in my memory, but I will live on in every breakfast, lunch and dinner at Shahjahan Hotel.’
That day, Simpson didn’t dare look into the future beyond the next two generations. But tonight, if he could evade the eyes of the priests at St John’s Church and come here, the people he would see at his hotel would be neither his friends’ grandsons, nor their grandsons’ grandsons. Great, great, great—he could have added as many of those greats as he wanted and visited this terrace of ours.
Suddenly I heard a thumping on the door—someone was banging on it repeatedly. I woke up with a start and opened the door to find Gurberia standing outside. It had stopped raining.
‘You went to sleep with your lights on, sir,’ he said.
Indeed I had. I hadn’t even realized when the lullaby of the rain made me drop off. I looked at the clock. It was very late. I was peeved with Gurberia—what did he have to wake me up at this hour for?
He seemed scared. ‘Don’t go to sleep with the lights on at night, sir,’ he said. ‘It’ll mean trouble for you and for me.’
‘Why?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.
‘Mr Simpson doesn’t like it,’ he whispered. ‘He can’t stand wastage.’
‘Mr Simpson?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘All those who are on night duty are scared of him—he comes on inspection at night, you see. He’s very strict, sir, merciless. All night he roams around from the ground floor to the terrace.’
‘You know Mr Simpson?’
‘Yes sir, the number one owner of this hotel. He drags his right foot a little—all of us know him.’
Gurberia seemed to be choking. Trying to moisten his throat by swallowing, he said, ‘Thanks to him there’s no rest for even a moment on night shift. I can understand human bosses, sir, but ghost bosses are heartless—they show no mercy.’ After a pause he continued, ‘One night soon after I got my job, at two o’ clock, all the guests were asleep, all the doors were locked from within, there wasn’t a sound anywhere, the corridor lights had been dimmed. I hadn’t been feeling too well, and was nodding off on my stool—but no sooner had I put my feet up and closed my eyes than I felt someone taking off the belt at my waist. As I clutched it in surprise, I realized it was Mr Simpson. I tried to prostrate myself at his feet, sir, but you can’t do that with a ghost. All the while I felt the belt being pulled off, so eventually I started crying and said, “I’m new, sir, I’ll never do it again.” Without paying the slightest attention, he walked off with the belt, but on some impulse left it behind at the farthest corner of the second floor.’
Half-asleep as I was, I was about to laugh at the story, but Gurberia said, ‘Don’t laugh, sir, please ask Blackey. Everyone here knows that when he was alive Mr Simpson used to roam around all evening, checking whether everyone was doing his job. If he caught anyone sleeping, he’d take off his belt—the next morning, one had to pay a fine to have the belt released, because reporting for duty without wearing one’s belt was not allowed.’
Apologizing for not putting out the light, I was about to retreat, when I heard four or five voices—male and female—laughing near the stairs.
‘I’m off,’ said Gurberia softly. ‘Please don’t say another word.’
Not following him, I asked a little angrily, ‘Why not?’
‘It’s very late,’ he whispered. ‘The naked ladies are on their way back. Put out your light and go to bed.’ On that mysterious note, he strode away.
I did both, but I simply couldn’t go back to sleep. The sleep I knew at Kashundia didn’t seem to have the nerve to enter Shahjahan Hotel.
Meanwhile, some people were going off in peals of laughter on the terrace. It was the voices of the women who had come up the stairs, whom Gurberia had referred to with his unconventional description. A couple of them entered the room next door. Their words filtered clearly
through the thin wooden partition—not that they were trying to talk softly. Though my room was dark, the light was still on in theirs—filtering in through the gaps in the partition.
‘Butler, butler!’ called out a female voice.
Even from my bed, I could make out that poor Gurberia had rushed to the room.
‘You the butler?’ the lady asked sharply.
‘No madam. I Gurberia waiter.’
Just waiter would have been enough, but by putting his name in there, Gurberia for some reason seemed to have upset his ‘madam’. With a few obscene oaths she said, ‘What kind of waiter are you?’ There was probably another lady in the room, for I heard the first one say, ‘I tell you, Mummy, this is my last visit to India, I’ll never return to this wretched country.’ She explained to her mother repeatedly that her trip to India had been a colossal mistake. ‘Why on earth did you agree to come to India of all places, Mummy?’ she asked.
Who were they? I couldn’t tell—but I could tell that they might talk all night.
The lady now asked Gurberia in pure Hindi, ‘What’s the Hindi for whiskey?’
On being told that the Hindi for whiskey was whiskey, she said, ‘I want some, right away.’
‘Bar under lock and key,’ Gurberia explained in a mixture of pidgin English and his mother tongue. He couldn’t serve anything but cold water now.
‘O Mummy, what wilderness have you brought me to?’ sobbed the daughter.
Her mother tried to comfort her, ‘How would I know bars aren’t open in Calcutta after one o’clock? Darling, sweetie pie, try to go to sleep, it’ll be morning soon.’
The girl started abusing her mother now. ‘Get out, get out of my room. All you care for is my money—you would feed your daughter to the sharks for the sake of money.’
‘Pamela, Pamela...’ the lady tried piteously to calm down her daughter.
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