Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  ‘“If you don’t mind,” I said, “some money...”

  ‘She shook her head, saying, “I still have the diamond brooch from Hamilton. And I’d saved some money from my year’s work at Shahjahan—Robbie never touched that, I still have it.”

  ‘The local boys appeared from nowhere, saying, “Why do you need to go to the market, Mem-boudi, what are we here for?” They grabbed the shopping bag from her hands. “We’ll do the shopping—but no fish, strictly vegetarian, or else the goddess will be displeased,” they said. “And tonight you must sleep tight, we’re going to look after him all night—you needn’t worry, we’ll wake you if we have the slightest problem.”

  ‘Jane said, “Impossible, my boys. You’re angels, but you mustn’t come anywhere near this dangerous disease—you have people at home, and it isn’t a friendly disease at all.”

  ‘One of the boys laughed. “Do you think we’re fools? We’ve got the goddess in our grip, we won’t fall ill. We have our Indian medicine,” they said, rolling up their sleeves to show her some herb tied to their arms with a thread. “We’ve brought some for you as well—have a bath and tie these on your arm.”

  ‘Not another word did I get with her—the boys practically dragged her away. Later, I heard Robbie was worse. Despite the local boys’ reluctance, he had to be taken to the hospital, where he now lay practically unconscious. The boys hadn’t given up their tug-of-war with the god of death though—outsiders weren’t allowed into the ward, but they handed over flowers from the temple to the ward boy every day. There was no knowing who would win the tug-of-war, but the local boys had at least managed to postpone the outcome. Every day, after they returned from the hospital, they went to Jane and gave her as much news about Robbie as they had been able to get. She could no longer go out—she lay on the bed and listened to their accounts. They said, “We know how you feel, Mem-boudi, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

  ‘She wept inconsolably, saying, “Who are you people? Why are you doing all this for us?”

  ‘The boys were nonplussed by her question. “Why are we doing this? Oh, only because Saheb-dada is ill—or else we wouldn’t have been doing anything, we’d have stolen guavas from the priest’s trees.”

  ‘It was from them that I got more news. I was on my way to see Jane, when I saw them standing at the head of the road with glum faces. They moved aside as soon as they saw me, whispering fearfully among themselves. I couldn’t meet Jane at home—there was no one there.

  ‘“Go and see Father,” the boys said. One of them took me to the priest. He seemed to be busy so I waited for a while. “Oh, Mr Hobbs! Have you heard?” the priest asked me when he came out. I said I hadn’t heard anything so far.

  ‘“My wife is trying to get the baby to have some milk,” he said. “I’ve got hold of a wet nurse with great difficulty.”

  ‘“What do you mean?” I was stunned.

  ‘“It’s not their fault, it really isn’t. They’re afraid to come to me. I know that in the eyes of the Almighty they have done no wrong. But they could have asked me, I talk to the doctors every day, I could have told them.”

  ‘I heard the whole story from him.’

  Sutherland and I listened to Hobbs’s narrative, spellbound. ‘That day, too, the neighbourhood boys went to see Robbie with flowers from the temple—that is, they went up to the ward, where it said: NO ADMISSION. As on other days, they gave the ward boy a few coins they had saved, asking him to put the flowers under Robbie’s bed.

  ‘“Is he a relative?” the ward boy asked.

  ‘“No, he’s not—he lives in our neighbourhood. He’s as poor as we are, Mem-boudi eats the same food as we do—what can they do, they have no money.”

  ‘“I can tell you then,” the ward boy shook his head and said, “since he isn’t related to you. Number thirty-two has lost his eyes—the doctor checked on him this morning.”

  ‘“Blind! You mean he’ll never see again?” The boys’ eyes filled with tears. “Suppose we collected enough money and brought the specialist who charges eight rupees a visit?”

  ‘The ward boy had disappeared by then. They didn’t want to tell Jane at first.

  ‘“How was he today?” she asked.

  ‘They tried to lie, but they weren’t used to lying. Without speaking, they wiped their eyes, one of them actually started weeping. An unconscious Jane was brought to the priest’s home. And that very night she gave birth to a son, a premature baby. In the early hours of the morning, the priests knelt and prayed to the Almighty for the dying Jane. When she died, before the night was out, leaving the boys of Williams Lane in tears, the bar at Shahjahan hadn’t closed yet, the patrons must still have been shouting, “Hey miss, bring the whiskey and soda.”

  ‘The priest was annoyed. “Who told you he’s gone blind?” he’d asked the boys. “Rubbish! One eye, only one, has been damaged, the other’s been spared miraculously, it’s all right.”

  ‘But it was too late—Jane’s lifeless body had already been covered with a white sheet.

  ‘“If there’s no objection, we’d like to be the pallbearers, we’d like to do everything,” the boys said.

  ‘The priest said, “You must be present, but there’s a lot more to a Christian funeral—we’ll be in trouble unless we ask Llewellyn and Company, they’ve been doing it for years.”

  ‘The local boys walked down to Llewellyn, undertakers, on Chowringhee the same night. Meanwhile, Robbie was recovering. His fever was subsiding, and so was the unbearable agony, as the sores dried. He seemed to have forgotten everything during his illness, but now it was all coming back, including the fact that he had left Jane in a broken-down flat on Williams Lane.

  ‘“Where’s my wife?” he asked.

  ‘“Who?” the ward boy enquired.

  ‘“The lady—my wife,” Robbie said.

  ‘“No one’s allowed in here,” the doctor tried to explain to Robbie.

  ‘But his heart refused to take no for an answer, and he started crying.

  ‘At other times he went nearly mad and said, “I understand, she doesn’t want to come. The lovely barmaid of Shahjahan made a big mistake marrying me—she must have gone away, Silverton must have taken her back.”

  ‘The doctors said, “You’re being unfair to your wife—she comes to the hospital gates every day.”

  ‘In the afternoon, Robbie asked the ward boy, “Do you see a lady standing at the gates every day?”

  ‘“No sir, no lady comes this way,” the ward boy replied.

  ‘Deeply hurt, Robbie broke down. Hearing this, the doctors were afraid. Completely untrue, they said, she comes to see us frequently.

  ‘“I don’t understand,” Robbie said in confusion. “Even if you won’t allow her to come near me, why can’t she write to me? Will you ask her to write to me?”

  ‘Peeping in through the window, the local boys could see him crying, waiting for a letter day after day, asking whoever came his way, “Is there a letter for me? Has my wife Jane Adam of Williams Lane written to me?”

  ‘The priest heard the story from the boys and talked things over with the doctors. “Only you can do it, Father,” the doctors said. “Only you can explain everything to him—the ward is open to you.”

  ‘The priest was used to such responsibilities. He had brought succour and comfort to many a suffering soul, but not this time. Though he broke the news of Jane’s death very gently, Robbie collapsed the moment he heard. The same night his fever went up. He dashed the glass of milk to the floor, refusing to eat anything. The doctors spared no effort, but to no avail.

  ‘In the darkness of the night, the local boys went once more to Llewellyn. From the hospital the cortege made its way directly to the cemetery on Lower Circular Road. The boys had no money—they had bought a large wreath for their mem-boudi; they borrowed money to buy a cheaper one for Robbie and put it on the hearse. I don’t know what happened after that. The priest went back home soon afterwards, taking the newborn baby with
him.’

  Hobbs finished his story. I wasn’t able to fight back my tears. But Sutherland didn’t cry—in fact, he showed no signs of being perturbed. Doctors are probably like that—encountering death on an everyday basis, they don’t consider it unusual. Rising, he held out his hand and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hobbs. Thank you, indeed, sir.’

  Outside, he didn’t say a word. I was in no state of mind to talk, either. The offices had closed for the day—the trams and buses were packed, people were on their way back home.

  Sutherland looked at his watch and said, ‘I hope you don’t have anything special to do.’

  I was a little put out at his manner of speaking—as if it was part of my job to escort him around.

  ‘I’ll be on counter duty soon,’ I said, ‘Sata Bose has been manning the counter for hours.’

  Paying no attention, he only asked, ‘Do you know Williams Lane?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What about the Lower Circular Road cemetery?’

  ‘That, too.’

  We returned to the hotel, but Sutherland asked me to wait at the gate. He buttonholed Bose-da at the counter and said something to him.

  I was on my way to the counter when Sutherland turned back. Bose-da waved, holding a pencil in his hand, and signalled to me to accompany Sutherland—he would stand in for me.

  I couldn’t quite make Sutherland out. He had asked me to accompany him, but he seemed to have forgotten all about me—as though he had booked a professional guide from the tourist office for sixteen rupees. He seemed to be in a daze, all his senses seemed to have been numbed by the mysteries of the enigmatic Orient.

  We got off our taxi at the head of Williams Lane. At the Bowbazar Street crossing, there were a few urchins playing on the road. ‘Who are they?’ Sutherland asked me with a gesture.

  ‘Local boys,’ I said.

  It seemed to me for some reason that the local boys from the distant past, who went to Llewellyn to inform them about the funerals, were still standing at the head of the road. But where had those old landmarks disappeared? We couldn’t even spot the house where such a poignant drama had been played out.

  ‘Perhaps the house has disappeared from Williams Lane,’ said Sutherland. ‘Perhaps a new building has come up in its place.’

  The locals too did not seem to know. A little beggar boy was filling a tin at a roadside hydrant when he suddenly fell down and burst into tears. I hadn’t expected what followed—Sutherland ran to the boy and picked him up; not content with that, he clasped the child to his breast.

  ‘What on earth are you doing? Your clothes will get soiled, and besides, he has a bad sore on his leg.’

  Seeing the foreigner pick up a little beggar boy, some people came running. Sutherland paid no attention to them. Wiping the boy’s running nose with his own handkerchief, he asked in halting Hindi, ‘Where’s your daddy? Your mummy?’

  The boy pointed towards Sealdah Station and then, suddenly feeling scared, he struggled out of the doctor’s arms and ran away, probably afraid that he was about to be taken away. Sutherland stood like a rock. In the near-darkness of the evening, I saw him wipe his eyes with a corner of the handkerchief he had used to wipe the boy’s nose.

  From Williams Lane we went directly to the Lower Circular Road cemetery. By then darkness had gained ground, as though it had graduated from a temporary job to a quasi-permanent one. A few gardeners were selling flowers at the entrance. One of them came forward and said, ‘Flowers?’

  I had no money, but Sutherland bought some.

  Flowers in hand, we entered that silent city of the dead. We couldn’t see a thing—there could well have been snakes or scorpions. Sutherland had a torch in his pocket, but how much light could a mere torch provide? In this quiet gathering of so many souls it was no longer possible to locate the former bargirl of Shahjahan—who knew in which corner of this enormous expanse the boys of Williams Lane had laid her to sleep forever? None of them was probably alive any more, but Shahjahan Hotel lived on, eternally young, beckoning the hungry, the thirsty and the lustful with its bewitching charm.

  There was a tree before us. Placing the flowers beside it, Sutherland stood silently. And it seemed to me as though Hobbs were standing behind us, murmuring to himself:

  Gone away are the Kidderpore girls,

  With their powered faces and their curls,

  Gone away are those sirens dark,

  Fertile kisses, but barren of heart

  Blowing alternately hot and cold

  Steadfastly sticking to all they got

  Filling a bevy of sailor boys

  With maddening hopes of synthetic joys.

  Given a choice, Sutherland would probably have stood there all night. But I had to get back to the hotel—Marco Polo may well have started screaming because he didn’t know where I was.

  ‘Dr Sutherland, perhaps we could go back now,’ I said softly.

  I hadn’t expected him to respond with such a complete lack of courtesy. Through clenched teeth, he said, ‘For heaven’s sake, leave me in peace.’

  I felt tears springing to my eyes—your whims are about to cost me my hard-earned job. And yet, I didn’t have the nerve to complain. Suppose he told the manager, or wrote a letter of complaint? That would be the end of me. ‘The customer is always right, the fault, if any, is yours,’ as Bose-da had repeatedly reminded me.

  I didn’t say a word in the taxi on the way back. Sutherland didn’t either. Without waiting for his thanks, I got out of the car and went to meet Bose-da at the counter.

  Sutherland left for London early the next morning—I didn’t meet him before he left. I never met him again. But if it had all ended there, perhaps I would never have been able to forgive him for his rudeness. A few days later, though, I got a letter from him:

  My dear Shankar,

  I cannot be at peace with myself until I write to you. When I recall how badly I behaved with you before leaving Shahjahan, I feel very sorry. Besides, by keeping the truth from Hobbs and you, I have also sinned in God’s eyes. I had meant to apologize to you personally the next time I saw you, but my connections with India are over—the place I’m off to now on behalf of WHO is Tahiti; I hope to spend the few days left to me there.

  I apologize for my conduct that evening. I’ve read and heard a lot of terrible things about Calcutta, but it’s different with all of you. I should have told you that very day, but I couldn’t. I was born in Williams Lane—my father’s name was Robert Adam, my mother’s, Jane Grey. The child whose life was saved thanks to the kindness of the local boys of Williams Lane, whom Father Sutherland took back to England with him, was also given the right to use the priest’s name. That’s why I had wanted to spend my last night in Calcutta in Shahjahan Hotel—thanks to your kindness, the dream was fulfilled.

  I breathe a real sigh of relief to think that your bar no longer has barmaids. In my heart, I thank the wife of Father Brockway of Union Chapel—she spared many barmaids a lifetime of misery. She isn’t alive any more, or else I would have met her. Unable to do anything else, I’ve written a letter to her worthy son, Frenner Brockway. The blessings of many unknown women are being showered on her.

  I hope you understand now why I lost my composure that evening. Forgive me.

  I remain

  Yours sincerely

  J.P. Sutherland

  5

  Sutherland’s extraordinary story is just one of the many that still overwhelms me at times. I thank my stars—I’ve had my share of blows; I’ve frequently sent up silent complaints, impatient with the cruel tests set me by the Creator, but today I feel that my good fortune knows no bounds either. The storms I have encountered have repeatedly demolished the walls of pettiness that surrounded me, bringing me out under the open sky. Amidst extreme distress I have discovered the world’s hidden treasures in a small room of Shahjahan Hotel. I wish I could share more of those riches with my readers—alas, most of it is not suitable for publication. I’ve been privy to the s
ecrets of many a private soul in the quiet corners of Shahjahan and though the writer in me wants to tell it all, the human being in me refuses to let me. I am afraid I shall have to limit my narrative of this world to what I was witness to from the visitors’ gallery, leaving out what was told to me in confidence.

  It’s a world where sentiments have no value. The world in which I moved about thanks to Byron, Marco Polo and Bose-da was one where people were familiar with just two objects: the wallet and the chequebook.

  I still remember clearly the day Rosie returned to Shahjahan, a leather case in her hand. Breakfast was over, and so was the supervision of the lunch arrangements. Menu cards and wine cards had been typed, cyclostyled and set out on the tables. In other hotels, only the lunch card was typed afresh every day—the same wine card was used over and over again. But at Shahjahan even the red wine card was typed every day, with the date mentioned in one corner. Next to the dining room, we had a banquet hall where Rai Bahadur Sadasukhlal Goenka was throwing a party later that day, to felicitate a top leader from the capital.

  The seating arrangement at this luncheon party was a matter of complex calculations—in official circles, the hierarchy of guests, known as the ‘list of precedence’, was scrupulously maintained. In addition, there was an unwritten list of precedence among Calcutta’s private citizens, which hotel owners and many housewives knew by heart. Since the slightest of deviations from that list could lead to a hotel’s sky-high reputation biting the dust, we used to be quite nervous of taking upon ourselves the responsibility for laying the places. Let the host seat his guests the way he wanted. As Bose-da put it, ‘It’s your turkey, carve it anyway you like—why should I put my life and job on the line!’ Accordingly, the Rai Bahadur’s secretary had arrived with the place cards and the RSVP file.

  In Kashundia, I had never understood the mystery of RSVP. ‘I couldn’t either,’ said Bose-da. ‘In school we used to say it stood for rashogolla-sandesh-very-pleasing. If those letters appeared at the bottom of the invitation, it meant a major feast was in the offing.’