Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  All this was gibberish to me. ‘Suite number two,’ he clarified. ‘In other words, Mr Agarwalla’s guest house. He’s a permanent client, and that suite is not given to anybody else. Miss Karabi Guha is in charge of it so you could say she is a colleague of ours.’ Bose-da refused to divulge anything more. ‘You’ll get to know everything in good time,’ he said. ‘Suite number two isn’t any old room, the future for many of us depends on the mood in suite number two.’

  It seems Karabi had once asked Bose-da, ‘Have you any idea when it was that people realized they could leave their homes and live in hotels? When did it occur to them to build a home away from home?’

  Bose-da couldn’t answer that one, but he did tell her that some of the primetime scenes from real life he’d witnessed had taken place, both by daylight and under cover of darkness, in hotels.

  ‘At least a dozen novels about hotels are written in this country every year,’ Bose-da said. ‘I’ve read some of them, but most make me laugh. If only living in a hotel for two days, spending three evenings at the bar and going through police reports for four days, could reveal everything that goes on within a hotel, it would have been simple enough. But...You may not believe me, it was just such a book that inspired me to become a hotel receptionist.

  ‘I’d barely arrived in Calcutta from Sahibganj and had put up in a hostel. I was enrolled in a college and my father faithfully wired me money. But I didn’t study at all—I only read novels, watched films and listened to Western music. That was when I laid my hands on this novel. It was about an American millionaire who was keen on wooing some sheikh floating on billions of gallons of oil in the Middle East. But the sheikh wasn’t particularly favourably disposed towards foreigners. Meanwhile, another oil magnate was also trying to entice the sheikh who had checked into the largest hotel in an American city along with two assistants for negotiations. Two other suites in the same hotel were occupied by members of the rival American groups. When one of them went into the sheikh’s room, the other became depressed. And when the second group went in, the first chap’s blood pressure shot up. If anybody gained from this tug-of-war, it was the hotel receptionist and his faithful hall porter.

  ‘One of the Americans had a beautiful daughter. After her father’s blood pressure shot up, she forced him to go home and took over his job. It didn’t take long for her to get friendly with the receptionist—the rest of the novel dealt with how their joint strategies eventually won the sheikh over.’

  After a pause, Bose-da continued, ‘But it wasn’t only this that attracted me to a hotel job. There was one more chapter—in which the receptionist and the millionaire’s daughter got married, the sheikh joined the dinner party and then insisted that the couple visit his kingdom on their honeymoon. But they didn’t return from the honeymoon because the sheikh announced that the young man would be made resident director of the newly formed oil company. So I decided that the surest way of getting a princess as well as half the kingdom was to take up a hotel job—I too might get into the good books of a sheikh.’ Bose-da laughed and continued, ‘I often stood in front of Calcutta’s best hotels, after saving up enough money to enter one of them. Once, the porter showed me the way to the restaurant—but that was the last thing on my mind. The person I really wanted to talk to had his nose buried in his desk—he didn’t seem interested in anything else. Another time I saw an old man working at the reception counter—I felt rather bad; the best years of his life were behind him, but he was still stuck there. Had no oil magnate’s daughter laid her eyes on him? But I comforted myself that perhaps he wasn’t very intelligent; or perhaps he was already married, forced to remain thirsty despite an abundance of water...I tried to use an uncle’s influence to get a job but as soon as he heard it was with a hotel, he practically beat me up and threatened to wire my father.’

  Bose-da had tried hard to persuade his uncle but to no avail. ‘How can a bright young fellow enter the hotel business out of choice?’ the uncle asked. ‘There are no holidays, no future and, to tell the truth, no self-respect even.’

  Bose-da had tried to placate him. ‘I want to understand people; I want to serve them.’

  ‘Then why kill yourself serving these fat, healthy pigs? Get through the ISC and into medical college—you can serve the sick, do some good and help people.’

  Realizing that his uncle would not relent, Bose-da had gone directly to Shahjahan Hotel, carrying a letter from Hobbs, whom he had met a few days earlier. Seeing how eager the young lad was, Hobbs had agreed to write a letter of recommendation, adding, ‘My dear boy, you’re a handsome young man, you won’t need any recommendations. Aristotle has said a beautiful face is better than all the letters of recommendation in the world.’

  Even as we were talking, the hall porter came running towards us. A middle-aged woman followed him, much of her face concealed behind huge dark glasses. The vanity bag she was carrying was also black. Though she must have been around fifty, the flowing magenta silk sari, sleeveless blouse and a spring in her step refused to acknowledge the years.

  ‘Mrs Pakrashi,’ Bose-da whispered.

  Mrs Pakrashi stood at the counter. It was obvious from her expression that she wasn’t very comfortable at this confluence of a thousand passers-by. She would probably have been happy if she could have proceeded directly to a room without having to wait—and happier if she didn’t have to use the front door. If there was a dimly lit passage at the back which she could have taken, so much the better.

  Without beating about the bush, she whispered to Bose-da, ‘Can I get a room tonight?’

  Bidding her good evening, Bose-da said, ‘Why didn’t you just telephone, ma’am, I’d have made all the arrangements.’

  ‘I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it. My daughter and son-in-law were supposed to have come over, but Khuku telephoned half an hour ago and said Sabyasachi’s got a cold so they wouldn’t be coming.’

  Chewing her lower lip, she said, ‘So Robertson isn’t here yet? I thought he’d have come by now.’

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Bose-da. ‘I haven’t heard from him, either.’

  Mrs Pakrashi said a trifle embarrassedly, ‘He is a Commonwealth citizen, you won’t face any police trouble.’

  ‘Mrs Pakrashi, what a surprise!’ A man in a suit about to leave the hotel spotted her and came over to the counter.

  Mrs Pakrashi’s face turned pale. She had no idea what to say, and somehow forced a response. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’

  Oozing politeness, he said, ‘I had quite forgotten it’s a dry day. I’d been working hard at the office, and came here directly. When I saw the bar doors closed, I realized I’d miscalculated. This silly rule makes no sense—the government is losing its own revenue. And that too at a time when we need money for national development, when we need to increase excise revenues. I can’t even make arrangements at home, my wife keeps telling me the children are growing up.’

  We had expected him to be too caught up in his own trouble to ask Mrs Pakrashi any questions, but he said, ‘Never mind me, what are you doing here at his hour?’

  ‘I-I came to find out something,’ Mrs Pakrashi stammered.

  Bose-da took the cue right away. ‘I keep telling you, ma’am, the banquet room isn’t free that evening. Perhaps you could postpone your women’s council meeting by a day?’

  The gentleman now came forward to take up Mrs Pakrashi’s brief. ‘What are you saying? Do you know who you’re talking to? How can Madhab Pakrashi’s wife not get the banquet hall when she wants it?’

  Bose-da said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ll try.’

  ‘Shall we leave together, Mrs Pakrashi?’ the man asked.

  Bose-da said with a straight face, ‘Since you have waited so long, ma’am, please wait a little longer. Our manager, Mr Marco Polo, will be here any minute.’

  ‘Many thanks, Mr Chatterjee,’ she said. ‘I might as well wait a little. Why don’t you go along home early—never mind your drinks for one evening.’
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br />   ‘That’s the problem, all women sing the same tune—don’t drink, don’t drink...’ He bade her good night and strode out.

  Mrs Pakrashi heaved a sigh of relief and looked gratefully at Bose-da, though she couldn’t say anything. Examining the register, Bose-da said, ‘Why don’t you carry on to suite number one, ma’am, I’m sure Robertson will be here shortly.’

  She hesitated. ‘What about signing the register?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Bose-da, ‘I’ll get him to sign.’

  Mrs Pakrashi was again moved to silence, and gazed appreciatively at Bose-da. ‘What about some supper?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like to come to the dining room?’

  ‘No, we’d rather have it in our room. I want a little privacy. Please put the extra service charge on the bill.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Bose-da, ‘I’ll get you the menu card.’

  ‘Oh, only some hot chicken soup, please.’

  ‘What! At least a little fish...’

  ‘Are you mad! The way I’m putting on weight...’ She moved away from the counter.

  After a short, pregnant pause, Bose-da said, ‘Alas, the way they aspire to be slim!’ Looking at me, he added, ‘Believe it or not, Mrs Pakrashi used to be rather orthodox once upon a time...and she came from a very poor family.’

  Robertson appeared on the scene within fifteen minutes. He started to go upstairs after signing the register when Bose-da asked, ‘Would you like some supper? Mrs Pakrashi has ordered hot chicken soup.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said, ‘but could you arrange for some drinks? Please don’t hesitate to tell me if it’ll cost a little extra.’

  Expressing his regret, Bose-da said, ‘Impossible. Today’s dry day and an internationally renowned hotel like the Shahjahan cannot afford to break excise rules.’

  Disappointed, Robertson disappeared into the lift.

  ‘Surely Mrs Pakrashi needn’t have made an appointment on a dry day?’ I asked Bose-da.

  ‘You’re a fool—she chooses the dry days deliberately. On these days the hotel goes to sleep, very few people pass through—it’s the safest day for her. There’s one dry day a week now, but I believe it’s going to increase soon; one will become two, two will become four. And eventually all seven days will become dry, and God alone knows what will happen then.’

  The dry day was followed by a wet one—I was on special duty from four in the morning that day. I stood alone at the counter, my only task being to welcome a few guests from Japan. A well-known travel agency in the city had made arrangements for them at the hotel earlier and a chap from the agency accompanied them.

  Travel agencies sent us many guests, but in his heart of hearts the manager didn’t like them very much. The reason was simple: those who referred guests to us were entitled to a commission of ten per cent of the billing amount. What’s more, the payment wasn’t usually made by the guests—they would have their meals, their fun and laughter and depart, while we would tot up the accounts and send the bill to the travel agents, who would deduct their commission before paying up.

  When the chap from the travel agency left, it was a few minutes after four. Soon afterwards Mrs Pakrashi came down to the counter. She probably hadn’t combed her hair after she’d woken up, but she had put on her dark glasses all right.

  Advancing slowly, she glanced at the counter, possibly looking for Bose-da. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ I said, but she didn’t seem to have heard me and walked out in a preoccupied manner, swinging her vanity bag. The doorman’s whistle, used to summon taxis, shattered the silence of the dawn.

  The person I met next was an employee of a flower shop in New Market, a bunch of different varieties of flowers clutched in his hand. I didn’t know it then, but I learnt later that these were samples he wanted to show the lady in suite number two. I sent him to Karabi, who chose the flowers for the day.

  Over time I became familiar with the daily routine followed in that room. The difference in status between a hotel room and a suite was the same as that between a general bed and a cabin in a hospital. If there was only a bedroom, it was just a room, but whenever a sitting room was added on, it became a suite and suites merited special treatment from us. Suite number two was extra special—it had a personal phone, and several rooms within it. It took a lot of flowers, which Karabi chose herself, to decorate the suite. Early in the morning, linen clerk Nityahari Bhattacharya went to meet her with pencil and paper. He was the emperor of the sheets, curtains and table linen that were needed at Shahjahan. People said he was a lucky man.

  ‘Not so,’ Nityahari contested the claim. ‘A Brahmin’s son being reduced to work as a dhobi—what is that but bad fortune? My father told me many times, study hard, Netto, but Netto didn’t pay the slightest attention. He was busy with his football and his theatre and music and his paan and beedi. Now he’s paying the price—he has to cart around clothes used by the world, keep track of them, clean the soiled ones and send them back to the rooms. This is what comes of disobeying your elders. As you sow, so you reap. I must have stolen some washerman’s laundry in my last life, why else would God punish me so?’

  The bearers couldn’t stand Nityahari. ‘In that case who knows what you will be in your next life—you’ve cleaned the place out,’ they’d say.

  The Englishmen called him Nata. Sata and Nata were both favourites of the bosses. Marco Polo sometimes referred to them affectionately as Satahari and Natahari. When it came to classified news, Natahari’s influence was even greater than Mata Hari’s. Tucking his pencil behind his ear, the first thing that Nityahari did when he saw Karabi was to bend and touch her feet in the traditional Indian gesture of respect. She retreated hastily each time, saying, ‘No, no.’

  But Nityahari wasn’t put off so easily. ‘Oh no,’ he’d say, ‘You are the goddess incarnate. For years I suffered from asthma, and then, thank god, she appeared to me in a dream and said, the medicine’s right there in your hotel—and since I touched your feet, I’ve been very well, the asthma’s practically cured.’

  A melancholy smile spreading across her face, Karabi said, ‘The flowers I’ve asked for today need to match with a light saffron. I want curtains, table linen, bedspreads and towels all in the same shade. I hope you have it in stock...’

  Pulling his pencil out, Nityahari said, ‘Of course, as long as Nityahari is around you’ll get everything you need. I admit I complain every minute, but how else could I have kept two hundred and fifty rooms in order? But then, times have changed. When the British were here, they appreciated these things. Sheets used to be changed every day; now it’s every other day.’

  Karabi didn’t enjoy this conversation, but she did indulge him good humouredly, saying, ‘Please send them quickly.’

  ‘Right away! I know exactly where everything is. They don’t understand now, but if I leave, or stay away, that’s when they’ll realize my true worth.’

  Meanwhile, the hotel was beginning to hum with activity. Rosie came downstairs and started typing Jimmy’s breakfast menu cards.

  Robertson was probably still snoring his head off in suite number one. I had expected him to make his escape at the same time as Mrs Pakrashi.

  The very next moment the thought crossed my mind that if our superstitions were anything to go by, he’d have a long life, for just then a bearer came and said, ‘The gentleman in suite number one is calling for you.’ I couldn’t leave the counter, but Rosie behaved very well that day; she seemed to be coming round to the idea that I wasn’t really Mr Banerjee’s brother-in-law.

  ‘Don’t gape like a fool, man,’ she said. ‘If the guest in suite number one complains, you won’t have a job.’

  ‘That would suit you,’ I said.

  A flush spread across her face. ‘I was unemployed for a long time, both my sisters are unemployed, my father doesn’t have a job—I know what it’s like to not have a job, man. Just because I ran away with a
man I hardly knew, doesn’t mean I have no feelings...’ She smiled. I discerned a subtle hint of pain in her smile and for some reason, in the light of early morning, Rosie seemed beautiful to me.

  Pushing me out, she said, ‘Go and meet him, I can mind the counter until then.’

  When I arrived at suite number one, taking the bearer along with me, I noticed the other bearers cleaning shoes in the corridor, first marking the shoes with white chalk on the soles. I didn’t know it then, but unless the room numbers were thus written, the shoes got mixed up, and the pair belonging to room 200 turned up in number 210 instead. The stout gentleman found a lady’s slim high-heeled sandals waiting for him, while the beautiful lady woke up to the shock of her life, spotting heavy rubber-soled boots lying by her single bed. In this very hotel an unmarried young lady had once cried out, ‘Help, help!’ on spying a pair of clumpy boots in her room, afraid that their owner was hiding somewhere in there. The bearer came running, understood what the problem was as soon as he entered and quickly corrected the mistake. Luckily the matter never reached Marco Polo’s ears, or else the bearer might have lost his job. The system of marking the room number on the soles of the shoes was instituted after that incident.

  We knocked on the door of suite number one and waited. A voice filtered out: ‘Come in.’ The person we said good morning to on entering was stretched out on the bed, dressed in a pale, sleeveless vest and a pair of briefs. He betrayed no emotion at seeing us, merely asking, ‘Where’s Mr Bose?’

  ‘He isn’t on duty yet,’ I replied.

  A little embarrassed, he said softly, ‘We...my companion...both of us tossed and turned in our beds all night—there weren’t enough pillows; just one pillow in a double room. I was going to complain last night, but she prevented me.’

  ‘Extremely sorry,’ I said. ‘We would have arranged for pillows at once if you’d only let us know. I’ll get them sent to you immediately.’

  Getting up, he pulled out a pair of trousers from the cupboard and said, ‘That’s not necessary. My companion left a long while ago, and I’m about to leave, too. I called you for a different reason—she’s left this envelope to be given to Mr Bose. Please make it a point to give it to him.’