Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  Whenever a banquet was scheduled, Marco Polo increased the frequency of his rounds, and he became rather good-tempered, rather like a stern patriarch who starts treating younger members of the family as friends under the pressure of duties at a family wedding.

  Marco Polo said, ‘This is a very important affair, Jimmy, the prestige of this poor country depends on this banquet.’

  ‘We’ll arrange a banquet the likes of which has never been seen in Calcutta,’ Jimmy promised.

  Marco Polo turned to Juneau. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh no, no, sir,’ Juneau said, ‘these are simple parties, not banquets.’ It was his firm belief that Calcuttans didn’t know what banquets were. ‘This is a stingy Scotch city,’ he said. After having learnt his cooking in Paris, he claimed to have forgotten most of it in this small-time ant-swatting metropolis. After all, he hadn’t picked up his skills from some Tom, Dick or Harry—Monsieur Bordeaux, before whom every chef in the world bowed in reverence, had taught him personally. And Monsieur Bordeaux was himself a disciple of the Beethoven of cooking—Monsieur Escoffier, who used to say, ‘To cook is to search for God.’ Juneau had learnt from Bordeaux that you couldn’t have a banquet with less than seven courses.

  ‘What?’ Marco Polo screamed.

  Wiping his hand on his apron, Juneau elaborated, ‘Yes. Hors d’oeuvres, soup, fish, entrée, roast entremets, dessert and coffee.’

  ‘My dear friends,’ said Marco Polo, ‘our banquet is no laughing matter. As far as I know, the guests will be discussing many vital problems of the country and the world. Naturally, they’ll want a plain and simple dinner—about fifteen rupees per head.’

  Sensing the opportunity to prepare a seven-course dinner slipping through his fingers, Juneau said, ‘As you order, so I will cook. If you like, I’ll serve just cold mutton and bread. But I have to say that cooking brings you satisfaction nowhere except Paris—there are no real connoisseurs of cuisine anywhere else. In Calcutta you’ll get your everyday cook, but never will Calcutta be able to create a Monsieur Bordeaux or an Escoffier.’

  Marco Polo rose, saying, ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I need to make a phone call, I want to discuss the menu with them.’

  Bose-da, who had been listening to the exchange, told Juneau, ‘Poor Juneau! Don’t fret, when I get married I’ll let you cook to your heart’s content—we’ll see what menus you can dream up then.’

  Juneau smiled and said, ‘French, English, Spanish, Italian, African, Turkish, Chinese, Indian—we’ll have a dish of each at your wedding.’

  ‘O God Almighty, O Lord, please make Juneau live very long. And, as soon as possible, please send a perfect bride for me from the UNO,’ Bose-da laughingly prayed on bended knees.

  ‘The soup for the bridal night will be named La Soupe des Noces oy Tourin aux Tomates!’ Juneau said happily.

  Still laughing, Bose-da moved closer to him. ‘That’s an enormous name—what is it actually, Juneau?’

  ‘We call it the honeymoon soup for short. You have to make a lot of it, and then do what one does with it in our country.’

  Jimmy said, ‘You Frenchmen can think of nothing but love.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Juneau said angrily. Turning to Bose-da, he continued, ‘On your wedding night we’ll eat, drink and make merry till very late. Then, in the dead of night, we’ll bang on the door to your room with two bowls of honeymoon soup. We’ll keep playing music, shouting and banging on the door. When you or your wife—fed up with the ruckus—finally open the door, we’ll burst in and force the two of you to eat the soup. Well—Mrs Bose will feed you, and you will feed her, and until you finish the soup, we won’t leave the room.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay,’ Bose-da said with a smile, ‘but what’s the soup made of? Will you get everything you need for it in Calcutta?’

  ‘Of course! I need twelve tomatoes, six onions, some pepper and an ounce of butter.’

  ‘What! La Soupe des Noces oy Tourin aux Tomates is made of just onions and tomatoes! I refuse—I’m not going to get married. No woman will tolerate a husband who reeks of onions.’

  That Juneau loved Bose-da was obvious from the way they bantered. He was about to respond when Marco Polo came back and said, ‘It’s all settled. I’m going to dictate the menu to Rosie right away. The only thing we can’t find out right now is how many are vegetarian and how many not.’

  ‘We never can find that out,’ said Jimmy. ‘Might as well make it ten per cent vegetarian.’

  ‘Hell!’ said Juneau in anger. ‘If Paris is paradise for chefs, Calcutta is hell. Why don’t Calcuttans devour fruit at home instead of going to parties? Could Monsieur Bordeaux ever have imagined vegetarians and non-vegetarians together at the same table? One set of vegetarians who eat eggs, and one set of non-vegetarians who don’t eat beef, and another set that eats beef but starts throwing up at any reference to pork?’

  To provoke Juneau further, Bose-da said, ‘So where do I go, my goddess?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s why our great Ramprasad asked, “Where do I go, mother star?”’ said Bose-da, doing a literal translation of a devotional song addressed to the Goddess Kali.

  A smile appeared on Juneau’s face. ‘Was Mr Prasad a great cook, Sata?’

  ‘Very very great—he cooked only for God.’

  Parabashia had been present all the while. He whispered something to the manager, who asked Jimmy, ‘What about waiters? Can you manage with the people from the main dining hall?’

  ‘I need at least twenty,’ said the steward.

  There was inevitably a shortage of manpower whenever there was a banquet. Anyone who was available was put into uniform and asked to work as a waiter. Apparently even sweepers had been pressed into service once, at some hotel or other, Parabashia had told me in confidence. Even former employees were sent for—those who had retired (in other words, those whom Jimmy had forced to retire) were summoned if they lived close by.

  ‘Parabashia, go and inform Abdul, Gafoor, Mayadhar, Joy and company immediately—they’ll be paid two rupees each.’ As Parabashia rose, Marco Polo added, ‘And send Natahari to me before you go.’

  By the time Nityahari arrived on the scene in his sandals, most of the gathering had dispersed. Juneau had gone to the kitchen, while Jimmy had gone out with the contractor to arrange for the shopping.

  ‘Banquet, Natahari,’ said Marco Polo.

  Nityahari knew right away what that meant. ‘How many extra hands, sir?’

  ‘About twenty.’

  ‘I’ll have forty uniforms and forty pairs of gloves ready. Should I add turbans, sir? Well-known people are coming—maybe the Governor, too?’

  ‘Quite possible, one can never tell,’ said Bose-da.

  ‘In that case the musicians should be dressed up too,’ said Nityahari.

  ‘Yes, their costumes should also be arranged for.’

  ‘That will be done, sir, as long as I am around. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to arrange for uniforms for Gomez’s musical instruments also. Instruments are like one’s own children—the parents should take care of their clothes, why should I have to do it? As it is, what is it that the five of them really do, sir? They drone a little at lunchtime and flop down in their beds, then drone some more in the evening; the rest of the time they snore their heads off.’

  For some unknown reason, Marco Polo tended to indulge Nityahari. Smiling, he said, ‘You carry on. Mr Bose will arrange everything.’ Drawing me aside, he said, ‘I have to go out for a while. Byron has sent a message—maybe there’s some news of Susan. Ask Bose to make all the arrangements for the banquet.’

  The entire day passed in the throes of excitement. Nobody had a moment to spare. Putting William on duty at the reception, Bose-da ran around frantically with me in tow. In the pantry waiters polished the knives and forks till they gleamed. Parabashia lorded it over them: ‘I’m going to count everything. If anything is lost, it will be deducted from your salaries.’

>   It was amidst all this anxiety that Shahjahan Hotel gradually arrived at the confluence of day and night. Bose-da had the hall ready by then, and the 350 boar’s heads crafted out of cloth by Nityahari were waiting in the banquet hall.

  The Philanthropic Society was an international organization. Those who were hosting the banquet had recently started the Calcutta chapter. Mr Agarwalla, Mr Langford and Khan Bahadur Huq stood before the counter to welcome the guests. Agarwalla was in national dress—bandhgala and churidar. Langford was in formal Western evening attire, while the Khan Bahadur had not ignored his Mughal tradition. They were all here out of their concern for humankind. They were all busy people, with lots of problems of their own. They did not want for places to enjoy themselves either. But they had put aside their personal problems, sacrificed their individual pleasures only to spend the evening in the hotel for the greater good of society, the nation and the world.

  ‘Take care of him,’ whispered Bose-da, pointing at Agarwalla. I was about to ask why, but before I could Bose-da said, ‘It’s his company that has a permanent lease on suite number two as a guest house. You know Karabi, don’t you? She’s their hostess. She earns a fat bonus on top of her salary.’

  What I’d read about the freedom movement—the tyranny of the British, the differences between Hindus and Muslims—all seemed untrue. Guest list in hand, Agarwalla whispered something in Langford’s ear, who burst into laughter and leaned heavily on him. It didn’t take long for the wave of that laughter to reach the Khan Bahadur, with the result that three civilizations became one before my very eyes.

  The guests started arriving. Back from his meeting with Byron, Marco Polo stood in the hall in a freshly ironed sharkskin suit. He seemed worried, but I couldn’t ask him anything in the crowd. We were all wearing freshly laundered suits too. Bose-da straightened my bow, saying, ‘You have to be the epitome of style, there’ll be trouble if you look sloppy.’

  Bose-da probably knew everyone worth knowing in this distinguished gathering. Pointing out one of them, he said, ‘Mr Chokhania, the cotton king. He’s here alone, he never brings his wife.’

  All three members of the Philanthropic Society went towards Chokhania. He clapped Agarwalla on his shoulder and moved towards the hall—he too hadn’t objected to wasting his valuable time on service to humanity, and had turned up punctually.

  ‘I can reel off the names of all those who will come,’ said Bose-da. ‘All parties in Calcutta have the same guests—because everyone uses the same list of names to mail invitations. The same people are invited every day, and every evening they dress up and set out—either to different hotels, or different clubs, or to someone’s house in Alipore or on Burdwan Road.’ He continued in a whisper, ‘Watch Calcutta and its philanthropic citizens carefully because when the report of this session appears in tomorrow’s papers, the real stuff won’t be in there. They’ll only carry an account of the speeches and summaries—and those have already reached the newspaper offices. The Bible’s been written even before Jesus is born.’

  A slim lady with a camera in her hand entered all by herself. ‘Shampa Sanyal,’ said Bose-da, ‘patron goddess of anorexic French beauty! First she became Ghosh, then she married a Marathi named Valenkar or something, then Saha, then Mitra. Now she’s gone back to her maiden name—Shampa Sanyal, society reporter.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked like a fool.

  ‘You know these society journals, don’t you? Who’s throwing a party, who’s doing social work, how to do up your home, how to cook...all that kind of stuff. Her magazine sells thousands of copies, and she’s to be found at every party in Calcutta. In fact, no party is complete without her—because if you throw a party and don’t have it written about in the society journal, it’s all in vain.’

  Swinging her camera, Shampa Sanyal strolled up to the counter. ‘Good evening,’ said Bose-da with a nod.

  ‘This time I’ll run your photograph,’ she said. ‘Half the beautiful parties of Calcutta are held at Shahjahan.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bose-da smiled politely.

  ‘I don’t feel like going in at all,’ said Shampa. ‘You know what I’d like to do? Sit in a room with you—alone.’

  Bose-da went red with embarrassment; he didn’t say a word.

  ‘Where’s your room?’ she asked. ‘Which floor?’

  Bose-da probably smelt trouble and said candidly, in his usual manner, ‘On the terrace. Three of us share a room—Shankar here, me and someone else, and that poor chap is confined to bed with dysentery.’

  Shampa shrugged. ‘Poor boy! They don’t even give him a room to himself.’

  ‘Fate, Miss Sanyal. God hasn’t granted anything called privacy to hotel employees like us.’ Bose-da sighed deeply, and then, with a smile on his face, said, ‘Are you coming from another party?’

  ‘Yes, there were two cocktails. Delightful affairs—but they would have been much better if there had been a handsome young man like you to escort me. Believe me, I’m telling you the truth.’

  Bose-da signalled to William, who ushered Shampa Sanyal to the hall with a courteous ‘Should we go to the hall, Miss Sanyal?’

  ‘It’s criminal,’ said Bose-da gravely. ‘Why do they let Bengali women drink whiskey? She isn’t in her senses tonight.’

  Others at the party included the barrister Sen, the radiotherapist Mitra, the gynaecologist Chatterjee, the sporting politician Basu, the political sportsman Pal, the kings—the kings of jute, oil and butter. Not even the kings of iron, aluminium and lime had been left out. There were even a couple of representatives of the zamindars, as specimens of a disappearing past.

  Bose-da whispered to me as soon as the next gentleman walked in, ‘Ah! There he is—fortune’s favourite son, our only hope in industry, Madhab Pakrashi. The son of a poor man, he has risen from very humble beginnings to the pinnacle of success.’

  Madhab Pakrashi made a beeline for our counter. I was shocked to see the lady next to him—it was Mrs Pakrashi! She was dressed in a traditional Bengali sari, the vermilion glowing in the parting of her hair. Mr Pakrashi was in an evening suit.

  As soon as he saw him, Bose-da said, ‘How do you do, sir?’

  Pakrashi was famous for his cordiality. Smiling pleasantly, he said, ‘I’m very well, but my wife isn’t—she falls ill frequently.’

  Mrs Pakrashi shook her head like a demure bride. ‘What rubbish! It’s you who work so hard and don’t take care of your health.’

  Madhab Pakrashi smiled and said, ‘There wasn’t a day last week when there wasn’t a dinner invitation. Add to that twelve cocktails and fourteen lunches, and all that after turning down about fifteen. But you can’t refuse every time. The problem’s with my wife. She’s so busy with her prayers all day that she refuses to go out. But everywhere—even in Bombay—it’s the wives who act as public relations officers for their husbands. Whenever she doesn’t accompany me to a party I have to give explanations...I’m not going to get my son married to a shy girl.’

  Mrs Pakrashi was looking at her watch. ‘Let’s go, they’ll start the meeting.’

  ‘Oh, let me be with ordinary people for a while,’ said Madhab Pakrashi. ‘Let me get some fresh oxygen into my brain. Agarwalla’s in there, he’ll start talking about the share allotment of Madhab Industries any moment.’

  ‘Let me carry on, then; as it is the industry has started thinking you’ve become snooty.’

  ‘Please do, that’s like a good PRO,’ he encouraged his wife.

  Mrs Pakrashi looked at Bose-da and went towards the hall. Bose-da must have read the message in that fleeting glance; I felt that I too had become cannier over the last few weeks—the meanings of many quick glances were becoming clear to me. Watching his wife’s retreating back, Madhab Pakrashi said, ‘I wouldn’t have been able to build this kingdom without her—she’s a wonderful wife.’

  He hadn’t come to the counter in search of only fresh oxygen—he had other business as well. He quickly raised the subject. ‘Before I
forget, two guests of mine will probably be coming to Calcutta from Germany next week. I want two suites for them—the best. I could have put them up at the club, but word gets out. I don’t want anyone to know right now why they are coming.’

  ‘Check the register,’ Bose-da told me.

  I did, but there were no suites available—all of them had been booked in advance. ‘I’m afraid a foreign cultural mission is due—they’ve booked all the suites two months in advance.’

  ‘What do I do then?’ Pakrashi asked.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter?’ Agarwalla suddenly appeared on the scene.

  ‘I wanted two suites—but Calcutta’s hotels are in such bad shape that unless you make your bookings a month in advance you can’t even get a cot,’ complained Pakrashi.

  Agarwalla was indignant. ‘How can you not get a suite when I’m here? We have a permanent suite for guests, by special arrangement with the Shahjahan. I’ll send for the hostess.’

  Bose-da turned towards me, ‘Fetch Miss Guha from suite number two immediately.’ I hurried off.

  Karabi was probably halfway through her toilette when she opened the door—she was putting flowers in her hair. Seeing me, she smiled, her doe-black eyes radiant.

  I have been deprived of the rare gift that God has given some people—of being able to tell a lady’s age from one look at her. I get by with two words—young and old—and I’d have been happier not to use them. Nobody worries about the age of a man, but in the case of women it has, for aeons, been accorded the status of essential information. Karabi wasn’t very old; I could say with some assurance that her young body didn’t give a damn about age. With her lovely eyes, sharp nose, smooth neck and level shoulders she resembled a work of art. She was a little plump about the breast, but had kept her waist under strict control.