Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  Gurberia’s face lit up with hope—so it was for his benefit, after all, that Bose sahib had put that gentleman in number 370.

  ‘Has Bose sahib gone to bed?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, sir, but he won’t be in bed till twelve today like on other days. I believe he has to go somewhere. He’s asked me to bring him his tea and wake him soon.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, ‘I can meet him when he’s up.’

  Gurberia began to talk about his wretched luck. ‘Bose sahib can’t have pleaded my case properly—why else would Parabashia even think of giving his daughter’s hand to that Coffee House chap Kalindi?’

  I sipped my tea quietly. Gurberia wasn’t in the least put out by my silence and asked, ‘Sir, do you think there’s a better hotel than the Shahjahan in the whole wide world?’

  ‘The world is very big,’ I said.

  ‘How can you compare the Coffee House to Shahjahan Hotel, sir?’ Gurberia sounded offended.

  ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘But do you know who Shahjahan was?’

  ‘Do you think I know nothing simply because I’m not educated? He was a very great man—built two hotels and made lots of money. One is in Bombay, named after his family—Taj Mahal—and the other is our Shahjahan.’

  This new lesson in history had me in stitches. ‘Don’t tell this story to anyone else. The person who built the Taj Hotel was Jamshedji Tata, and that was just the other day, while we are an aristocratic house, our hotel was built by one Mr Simpson.’

  Without displaying the slightest interest in what I was saying, Gurberia asked, ‘Sir, in the Taj, does each bearer get to keep the tips he gets, or is it all shared equally?’

  ‘Good grief, I have no idea,’ I said.

  Gurberia had heard that in many big hotels the tip was added to the bill, and was then shared equally between all bearers every week. He was certain that the same system would be introduced at the Shahjahan sooner or later. ‘And then?’ he asked. Kalindi of Coffee House fame might have been making more than he did at the moment, what with the occasional four-or six-paise tip. But when the tips at Shahjahan began to be shared equally, Parabashia would regret his choice, realizing that he could have found a better match for his daughter.

  Gurberia’s tirade had already tired me out—I had no idea how much longer I would have to listen to his litany of woes. But at that very moment the alarm clock began to ring next door, and he said, ‘Have to wake Bose sahib right away.’

  Gathering my cup, he made a final appeal—there was still time, if only we could explain to Parabashia what a mistake he was making.

  I learnt about the previous night’s incident from Bose-da when I met him in his room sometime later.

  ‘A strange man, this Dr Sutherland,’ he began.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘We didn’t have a room—even the two black holes on the second floor had been booked by the Oil Association for their Bombay delegates. Dr Sutherland had written to us by airmail, but we had wired our regret. He got in late last night and said, “I didn’t get your wire.” I know him, so I made a clean breast of things and told him our position. I even telephoned another hotel, and they agreed to give him a room on my special request. But he seemed far too fond of Shahjahan. “This is my last visit to Calcutta,” he said. “I’ve been dreaming of staying at Shahjahan one last time.”

  ‘“The hotel where I’ve arranged for a room for you is one of the best in the country,” I told him.

  ‘But he was adamant. He’d probably had a few at the airport—why else would he say, “I’ll sleep on the floor of Shahjahan Hotel if necessary, so for heaven’s sake do something.”

  ‘So I had to tell him there was an empty room on the terrace—not at all up to the mark, with a tin roof, which might leak if it rained. He agreed readily and, thanking me profusely, came upstairs with me. But from the rest of his conversation it didn’t sound as though he was inebriated. Putting him in three seventy, I went to my room and lay down. There wasn’t much left of the night anyway—William hadn’t gone home; someone else was due on the same flight, so he was waiting in the lounge and dozing. I made him sit at the counter.’

  What Bose-da said made me feel that either Marco Polo had hypnotized Sutherland, or that he was working as a spy—it was essential for him to be present here to keep an eye on someone at the hotel.

  On my way out, I ran into Sutherland. His disarming smile was really infectious—anyone who saw it couldn’t help smiling back. I simply couldn’t believe that this was a spy’s smile. He beckoned to me. I bid him good morning. He returned the salutation and said, ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said, ‘illness attracts me, and nature can never mislead me. But today even I feel like turning poetic—it feels as though the beautiful morning has thrown aside the veil on her face to stand before me; Mother India has affectionately revealed to her foreign son everything that she’s hidden away for so long.’

  ‘Our mother is very generous—wherever you go in this country, this is the affectionate face you’ll see.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘And yet, though I’ve been all over India, lived wherever there are epidemics, I’ve never known her. It’s only now—after all these years—that coming to Calcutta on a holiday has led me to discover her.’

  The sun was getting stronger. Getting out of his chair, Sutherland entered his room, asking me to come in as well.

  Leaving the chair for me, he sat on the bed and said, ‘I hope I’m not interrupting your work. Maybe it’s time for you to report for duty.’

  ‘I’m off duty now,’ I said. ‘I start later, and I’ll probably have to work through the night.’

  ‘Which means you’ll have to stay up all night?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes—but then, that’s not unexpected; didn’t you have night shifts when studying medicine?’ I replied.

  He smiled and said, ‘You can’t compare the two. We used to stay up to tend to sick people, whereas you stay up to serve a hotel full of healthy, fit people sleeping on soft beds with their heads on even softer pillows—I can’t even imagine it, this unnecessary oriental luxury.’ He grew quite angry and said, ‘To tell you the truth, I’d say it’s a shameful system.’

  He rang the bell on the table. ‘If you have no objection, let’s have a cold drink.’ He asked with so much feeling that I simply could not refuse.

  Gurberia was off duty—I didn’t know the name of the bearer who answered the bell instead of him, we usually called him by his number. ‘Two pineapple juices, please,’ Dr Sutherland told him after he had saluted.

  He was about to depart with another salute, but one look at his face, and Dr Sutherland asked him to stop. Now I saw it too—his face was pockmarked. But Sutherland seemed to be gazing open-mouthed at a wonder of the world.

  ‘When did you get the pox?’ he asked.

  Embarrassed, the bearer answered, ‘Long ago, sir.’

  ‘In childhood?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Did you get vaccinated?’

  ‘No sir, it arrived before I could.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sutherland.

  As the bearer left to bring the drinks, Sutherland said, ‘God spared him at the last moment—a little more and he’d have lost his eyes.’

  Unless I’d seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed that a foreigner could feel so much for an ordinary bearer whom he didn’t even know. Unable to conceal my feelings, I said, ‘He’ll probably remember you all his life—no guest at this hotel could ever have asked after him with so much concern.’

  He looked at me in surprise and said, ‘My dear young man, you shouldn’t say things like that. How much do we know about this hotel’s past? Besides, I’m a doctor, an epidemiologist. The only reason that the WHO pays me a salary and my fare and expenses for travelling to different countries is the hope that I will find out about people’s illnesses, that I will try to free them of infectious di
seases forever—isn’t that so?’ He was silent for the next few minutes, obviously quite agitated.

  After the drinks arrived, he asked, ‘How long have you been working at this hotel?’

  ‘Not very long,’ I had to confess.

  ‘Have you been to the bar?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t been on bar duty yet, though I’ve been there.’

  I wasn’t prepared for what he asked next. ‘There’s something I’m very keen to know,’ he said. ‘Could you tell me whether the bar in your hotel has always been at the same spot, or whether it’s been at different sites at different times?’

  ‘Why? Our bar isn’t badly located, is it?’ I said. ‘Do you have any suggestions? I can convey them to Mr Marco Polo.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no—all I want to know is exactly how long the bar has been this way.’

  That was difficult to say, for the hotel had changed many hands since Simpson sold it. Every new owner had made changes according to his whims, with the result that nothing of Shahjahan Hotel except its outer shell had remained unchanged.

  ‘I don’t want to go too far back,’ said Sutherland. ‘Say, the end of the last century—when barmaids used to sell drinks at the counter.’

  That was when the bearer informed me that Bose-da was looking for me.

  I asked for him to come to Sutherland’s room—since he’d been around much longer than I had, he might be able to satisfy Sutherland’s curiosity.

  ‘Did you get a good night’s sleep?’ Bose-da asked Sutherland as soon as he came in. ‘If possible, I’ll try to get you a room on the second floor today.’ But Sutherland wasn’t interested, for he was keen on going back to the olden days of Shahjahan. Having heard me out, Bose-da asked me, ‘Do you know Mr Hobbs?’

  I had met Mr Hobbs briefly when he had come to a dinner party and spent a few minutes with us at the reception counter.

  ‘If you really want to find out something about the hotel, you should go to him,’ said Bose-da.

  Sutherland asked, ‘Do you know whether there were ever barmaids in this hotel?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of them in English films,’ Bose-da said. ‘Young ladies handing out drinks at the bar. But oddly enough, I’ve never seen any in the hotels here.’

  I said, ‘Yes, indeed, there are all these beautiful women at the cabaret, we spend a fortune on these dance and music professionals, but we haven’t put a lady at the bar.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said Bose-da, ‘Worth sounding Marco Polo out.’

  Sutherland smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid it won’t help even if your manager likes the idea, because it’s illegal to employ women at bars in this country. Your excise laws say that bars which are given a licence to sell liquor cannot employ women without the permission of the government.’

  His knowledge of our excise laws surprised me. I wondered whether he had got into some trouble with the police somewhere in India, thanks to the prohibition laws, and had acquainted himself on the bar licence laws in different states.

  ‘Have you ever read your bar licence?’ he asked.

  We’d seen the yellow piece of paper preserved carefully behind the bar, but none of us had ever felt the slightest interest in finding out what it said.

  ‘If you had you’d have known that the government has given instructions not to sell any drinks at prices below five annas,’ said Sutherland.

  ‘Five annas! When does this law go back to?’ Bose-da exclaimed.

  ‘To those days when a bottle of Scotch cost one rupee and twelve annas. That was the time when Daniel Crawford was the most popular brand—if anybody died of cirrhosis of the liver they’d say that Mr So-and-so had succumbed to Daniel Crawford’s disease.’

  ‘Have you written a book on the bars of the world?’ I could not help asking.

  ‘Of course not,’ Sutherland replied. ‘If I do write anything, it will be about smallpox—I don’t have time to waste writing about alcohol.’

  I fixed an appointment with Hobbs over the telephone. Bose-da said, ‘If I had the time I’d have come along as well, but you’d better take the doctor, Hobbs will be expecting you at about two-thirty.’

  After we left Sutherland’s room, I asked Bose-da, ‘I hope no tongues will wag about my taking Sutherland out.’

  ‘What tongues?’ said Bose-da angrily. ‘After doing my job to the best of my abilities, if I do something of my own sweet will, who has the right to comment? Has anyone been saying anything to you?’

  ‘No, they haven’t, but suppose I lost my job for breaking some rule?’

  ‘Losing your job is not unusual here—I’ve seen many people come and go, I’m the only one who is constant. Like an age-old banyan tree I stay put. Nobody dares displace me. If anyone can let the cat out of the bag, it’s Sata Bose—and let me tell you, if that fellow Jimmy tries to harm you, he’ll get into trouble as well.’ Bose-da was obviously quite worked up. He paused and continued, as though talking to himself, ‘We don’t count, do we? Those who have the means are letting their money rot. The rich are happy earning a little interest—they wake up at ten in the morning, have their tea, laze around for a while, have their lunch, go back to bed, go for a spin, get up for dinner, go back to bed. They add to nothing but their families. If only he had the opportunity Sata Bose could have shown people whether the made-in-Calcutta types can run a hotel or not. Those who are intelligent and can work hard have pawned everything in return for a few notes. And on the strength of borrowed money and our brawn, people around the world are changing not only their own fortunes but also the fortunes of their nephews and their sons-in-law.’ Bose-da smiled ruefully. ‘I know there’s no point saying all this here. If I could have said it under the monument at Chowringhee, before a crowd of thousands, it might have helped, but will we ever get that opportunity?’

  ‘So you’re off to see old Hobbs?’ Bose-da asked at lunch.

  Officially, lunchtime began at twelve-thirty, but the employees started earlier. After their meal, they opened the lunchroom door, whereupon the guests started pouring in—the boxwallahs of Clive Street didn’t have time to waste in the afternoons!

  Many of the hotel guests came a little later. Some of them even spent some time at the bar before entering the lunchroom, while others sent for Tobarak Ali, the ‘wet boy’ with the red armband, as soon as they came in. A guest usually ordered cold beer, and while he sipped it, the hot soup arrived. In the distance, the band struck up a tune at Gomez’s signal—five musicians bent over their scores and started playing.

  Gomez was the conductor—and Bose-da affectionately referred to him as the bandmaster. His five musicians in tow, he was the first to arrive for lunch every day.

  ‘Set it up quickly,’ Gomez called out to the chef, who considered the employees’ meals akin to feeding a charity line.

  Seeing Gomez getting impatient, the chef said, ‘I can’t do it if you’re in such a hurry.’

  ‘Then the Shahjahan Band will remain silent at lunch today,’ Gomez replied.

  The chef professed great consternation and said, ‘Oh, but that will be a disaster—it’s only to listen to the music that Calcutta’s citizens drop everything and come over to the Shahjahan!’

  Gomez wasn’t one to give up easily. ‘If you had an insight into music, why would you be rattling pots and pans?’ he taunted Juneau, the chef.

  The chef retorted, ‘Maybe I don’t understand music, but I do know that even birds cannot sing on a full stomach. Music on a full stomach is possible only in Shahjahan.’

  Gomez turned to his band. ‘You may start, boys,’ he said, whereupon, the devoted boys immediately started spooning the soup into their mouths. Gomez now turned his attention to the chef. ‘That’s where we differ from the birds—they don’t sing for their stomachs, but it’s only for our livelihood that we play in the middle of the afternoon.’

  The argument might have continued, but Bose-da butted in. ‘Mr Juneau, I’m a staunch Hindu and the two of you are hurting my religious f
eelings—our scriptures forbid us to talk at mealtimes, and at this rate a communal riot might erupt any moment!’

  The argument dissolved into laughter, and Juneau gushed, ‘Sata, will your stock of funny lines never run out?’

  ‘My dear Juneau, my stock is like your fridge—ten cups of ice cream are always hidden at the bottom.’

  Juneau guffawed heartily. ‘Greedy! Greedy boys are not nice for hotel.’ He clapped Bose-da affectionately on his back and disappeared into the kitchen, saying in Hindi, ‘Get married, Bose. We can’t do it, but your wife will be able manage you.’

  ‘High hopes!’ Bose-da answered, laughing as he ate. ‘I won’t get married, and you won’t stop enjoying the wages of your sins.’

  I listened to their conversation in amazement. The waiters seemed to be taking their time and suddenly Gomez looked at his watch, shocked—barely five minutes before the lunchroom doors were opened. He jumped up from his chair and said, ‘Get up, boys, no more time.’

  The five youngsters rose immediately, not a word on their lips. There was a small mirror in a corner of the room, and a board above it said, in English: ‘Am I correctly dressed?’ Someone with a strange sense of humour had taken the trouble of trying to scratch out the word ‘correctly’, so that at first glance the message read ‘Am I dressed?’ All of them took turns to stand before the mirror and adjust their ties, while Gomez waited for them at the door. As they marched out, he joined the end of the queue, swinging his arms like them.

  Bose-da and I were left behind with Juneau.

  ‘My dear departed mother,’ Bose-da continued in his trademark light-hearted vein, ‘told me before she died, “Satu, never leave a meal unfinished, even if the world’s coming to an end.”

  ‘Juneau laughed and said, ‘No one can match you—only a wife might someday.’

  ‘Someone else will, too,’ Bose-da said pointing at me. ‘Very good boy—he deserves one of your special ice creams, so that he will never say anything bad about you.’

  Juneau was more than happy to comply. Without bothering to call the bearer, he opened the refrigerator himself and brought out two cups. The ice cream was followed by coffee. Sipping it, Bose-da mused to himself, ‘Barmaids! The thirsty guest’s wine glass being filled by a beautiful woman with a lovely smile—wonderful! We had them here once—and if we had them today, the British and for that matter even the Bengalis, Marwaris, Gujaratis, Chinese, Japanese, Russians, young men, old men from Clive Street...they would all be pleased. The bar at Shahjahan would become even more prosperous—we would need many more bar stools, many more soda bottles would have to be opened, many more receipts would have to be made out, and much more money would be deposited in the bank. If the government increased taxes, we could have added insult to injury by raising liquor prices as well—how beautiful it would have been!’