Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  ‘I’ll tell him this chap just cannot be kept on.’

  ‘Why? What harm have I done you?’

  Rosie smiled saucily, threw a sidelong glance at Connie, and whispered, ‘Not to me, but to yourself. No man your age should be put up here on the terrace.’

  I felt a little better. Twirling her keys, she said, ‘Don’t be smug, I can tell that witch is ready to gobble you up.’ Without giving me a chance to reply, she made her way lightly down the stairs.

  I looked around in wonder. Was I dreaming? Standing on the terrace of Shahjahan Hotel, was this the same person who once lived in Kashundia and who used to count Patterson, Chini, Kanai, Pulin, Keshto and Robi among his colleagues and friends? Was it the same fellow who had once lost his way going to watch a film at Metro Cinema? For a moment I thought it was indeed a dream. I must have had a glass too many of the festive brew back in Kashundia and taken leave of my senses. But the very next moment I noticed Connie—there she was, bathing her Scottish body in the rays of the Indian sun. This was real; it was Kashundia that was a dream. I must have downed a few stolen pegs of whiskey from the bar at Shahjahan, then dreamt that there was a place called Kashundia which I once used to frequent.

  Slowly I walked to the middle of the terrace. Connie wasn’t basking in the sun, I thought, she was purifying herself in its all-cleansing glow. She started when I stood beside her and said, ‘Good morning.’

  She acknowledged my greeting. ‘Why are all of you such fools?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you rent out this lovely terrace for sunbathing? You could earn plenty.’

  Before I could reply, a gramophone was switched on in one of the rooms. ‘Who is this philistine?’ Connie screamed immediately. ‘I can’t stand any kind of noise early in the morning.’ I knew it was Gomez. Connie said impatiently, ‘Must be a colleague of yours...will you ask him to switch it off? I have to drown in music all night, do I have to bear it even now?’

  Gomez was in his room, sitting on a chair in his shirt and pyjamas, his eyes closed, a gramophone record playing before him. I wondered, why twilight music at dawn? It seemed as if the tired sun would set any moment on the western horizon, as though the time to say farewell was upon us. I understand nothing of music, but it felt as though someone was giving me a cocaine injection to numb my senses.

  A sad smile spread across Gomez’s face when I entered. ‘Listen carefully,’ he whispered.

  I wanted to but was worried that Connie might start shouting again. ‘Connie’s calling you,’ I whispered to him.

  He went out, rather irritated. Connie covered herself with a Turkish towel and said softly, ‘Mr Gomez, I don’t like any kind of sound early in the morning.’

  An electric current seemed to pass through his body. Gomez had no illusions about his status in the hotel. Connie was its centre of attraction now. Thanks to her, sales would go up by eight or nine thousand rupees on a single night—he knew that. Compared to her wishes, the opinion of an ordinary musician amounted to nothing. He stiffened for a moment. She sensed the change in him. Removing the towel and preparing to enjoy the sun some more, she asked Gomez, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Many thanks, Miss Connie,’ Gomez forced the words out somehow. ‘I am extremely sorry for causing you discomfort. But it’s only because this is a memorable day.’ He hurried back to his room and switched off the gramophone.

  Connie realized something was wrong. She rose from her mat and, putting on her nightgown, ran after him; I followed and heard her ask, ‘Why is this a memorable day?’

  Gomez feared nobody now. Even Connie, the management’s pet, Connie the darling of the audience, could do him no harm. His eyes blazed as he said, ‘You’re a singer and a dancer, and yet you don’t know what happened on this day?’

  She looked scared, as though hypnotized by his fury. Somehow she mumbled, ‘Pardon my ignorance, but do tell me...’

  The musician said, almost to himself, ‘The king of melody, our emperor, died on this day, unknown and unsung. But he is still my king. I may play rock-and-roll, I may compose tunes for cabarets, but he is still my God.’

  I couldn’t remain silent any longer. ‘Who is it? Beethoven?’

  Shaking his head, Gomez said softly, ‘My king is someone else. He was poor. He found fame, and he lost it. He used to play in a priest’s home. One day the priest kicked him out. Our impoverished king faced only misery after that, which is perhaps why he could understand others’ miseries. But who values that? Amidst apathy and contempt and neglect, the king of melody ran through his earthly life in just thirty-five years—but ah, how exquisitely beautiful even that death was. “Do you want to say something?” whispered the young wife of the genius on his deathbed, placing her mouth close to his ear. Yes, he tried to say something but it was not about the world or about music. Gathering his strength, he said, “Promise not to announce my death immediately. Poor Albrecht is out of town. It will be a few days before he returns. If word gets out now, someone else will get my job, and you know how badly my dear friend needs the job.” Only Mozart could have said something like that when he was face to face with death. It was because he had a heart like that that he could create the kind of music he did.’

  Gomez fell silent. He seemed to have returned from Mozart’s funeral only moments ago. ‘He knew what it was like not to have a job, that’s why the king of melody couldn’t forget his friend. Nor was he able to forget the music of his own death. Mozart’s Requiem, K. 626—he had started composing it barely a month before his death, commissioned by someone who had paid a pittance in advance. Sick as he was he sat day after day at the altar of the goddess of music, saying, this is my own requiem. It’s clear to me that I’m composing the score for my own death. But will this wasting body allow me to finish it? I must complete it.

  ‘Shortly before his death Mozart summoned his favourite disciples and friends to his deathbed. He no longer had the strength to speak—he could only signal. Begin the requiem, he indicated. Then, in the climactic moment of the composition, he burst into tears. He lay unconscious, but even in that condition he seemed to be singing the melody.

  ‘Do you know his last words?’ Gomez asked me. I noticed that even Connie was affected. She was gazing in wonder at the humble musician. Putting Mozart’s Requiem on the gramophone, Gomez said, ‘His last words were: “Did I not tell you that I was writing this for myself?”’

  The melody began grieving its way to its painful finish in the heart of the machine. Some unexpressed agony seemed to be struggling to free itself from the prison of the body and mingle with space. In the morning of life we were face to face with the evening of death. It was like seeing one’s bride in widow’s weeds at the moment when one was exchanging vows.

  Gomez appeared to have left his earthly body behind on the terrace of Shahjahan Hotel and set off on a voyage to a distant land. Suddenly aware of herself, Connie wrapped her body in her nightgown. She was visibly moved. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief—Connie, our lady of the night, had tears rolling down her cheeks. She apologized to Gomez and left the room. I followed her out.

  All this time, I hadn’t quite understood Gomez, assuming he was simply another musician who played in restaurants and hotels. Someone had said about his breed long ago, ‘Just because they play in hotels or restaurants, it isn’t as though they lack knowledge. In Calcutta’s hotels I’ve even heard musicians who could have earned worldwide fame if they had had the opportunity and the right breaks.’

  Bose-da had also said, ‘You don’t know what these Goan Christians are like—they know nothing but music, as though they have no other purpose in life. All day long they sleep with their cellos and violins and clarinets by their sides, dress and go downstairs like machines at the appropriate hour, come back upstairs after playing for the entertainment of the guests at Mumtaz, and then undress and go to bed, as though they know no other way to live.’

  But Prabhat Chandra Gomez was an exception. Admittedly, he conducted the music at Shahjahan Hotel as mechanically
as the others, but in his spare time he dreamed of another world—a world inhabited by the kings of melody.

  From Gomez’s room Connie went back to the terrace to sunbathe. But she seemed to have mellowed. He had demolished her hauteur and pride.

  Sitting with her back to the sun, she told me, ‘If we had a sun like this in Europe, I’d have lost my bread and butter.’ I looked at her blankly. Seeing my uncomprehending look she smiled and explained, ‘If they had a sun like this to get a tan, every girl would have been beautiful. Now, the attractive ones are nature’s exceptions, but then everyone would have been beautiful and I wouldn’t have had a market.’

  If I hadn’t talked to Connie, I wouldn’t have believed that cabaret dancers also had an ordinary, everyday existence, that one could talk with them comfortably. ‘I think I’ll try to make it to India once a year,’ she said, ‘I’ll get a decent complexion then. Why are you standing, take a seat.’ She extended an easy chair towards me.

  I sat down. ‘Have you seen Harry?’ she asked.

  Like her, I was also under the impression that Lambreta was still asleep after his exertions the night before.

  ‘I’ll find out if he is still in bed,’ I said.

  ‘If he’s asleep, don’t disturb him.’

  I felt a little peeved. Surely, a dancer’s companion wasn’t so important that he couldn’t be disturbed even for breakfast. To her, however, I said, ‘We hotel employees are trained in the art of not disturbing people.’

  The door to Lambreta’s room was shut, but the moment I peeped through the window, I grew apprehensive. The bed was empty. I opened the window wide for a clearer view. Where was Lambreta? He wasn’t in his bed. Perhaps he was in the toilet, but there was no sound from there either. I moved towards the door. Connie came up to me. She seemed supremely unaware of her body. It existed, that was all, whether it was covered or bare was immaterial.

  ‘Isn’t he in there?’ she asked. She looked shaken. ‘Where’s he gone?’ My silence made her impatient. ‘Why don’t you say something? What’s the use of keeping quiet?’

  How was I supposed to know where Lambreta was?

  Her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘It’s all your fault,’ she cried. ‘Why did you have to call me at night? If a harmless little fellow did create a little trouble in your room, couldn’t you have taken it in your stride?’

  This was real trouble. Her tirade continued. ‘I take a lot, don’t I? Harry and I have to silently put up with the onslaught of hundreds of people day after day, night after night. We don’t complain, do we?’

  I didn’t know what to say. She went on, ‘Do you know he was sobbing last night? I tried to explain, to apologize, but he wouldn’t listen. He was so hurt he wouldn’t even look at me.’

  I was about to respond, but the telephone on the terrace rang. It was Rosie.

  ‘Hello Rosie, what’s the matter?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘No young man, I’m not talking to you as Rosie. The telephone operator’s got an upset stomach—I’m filling in for her.’

  ‘Your willingness to help others is indeed praiseworthy,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she retorted, ‘but there’s a call—someone’s determined to talk to Connie. I’m transferring the line.’

  ‘Hello,’ said a voice on the other end.

  ‘Yes?’ I answered.

  He had been prepared for the sweet voice of Connie the Woman; a male voice disappointed him considerably. ‘I want to talk to Connie,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s speaking, please?’

  ‘I’m a member of the public, I need to discuss something with her.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘she is not available on the phone. She doesn’t talk to strangers.’

  The ‘member of the public’ was a little put off. ‘What kind of logic is that? How can we get to know her unless we meet her?’

  Expressing regret politely—those who had tempers couldn’t survive as hotel employees—I said, ‘Nobody can meet Connie, or even talk to her on the phone.’

  ‘One can talk to even the prime minister on the phone, but not to your Connie?’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ I said. ‘However, if you wish to pass on a message, I will do so.’

  The man sounded peeved. ‘I’ve been to many hotels around the world, but I’ve never encountered such bad manners anywhere.’ Then he added, ‘What I wanted to know is whether she has received my present.’

  ‘What present?’ I asked. I could see Connie getting impatient.

  ‘I sent some flowers and fruits this morning,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t she got them yet?’

  ‘If you’ve sent them, I’m sure she’ll get them,’ I said and put the receiver down.

  Connie came up to me and asked, ‘Bad news?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  No sooner had I spoken than Gurberia came up with a huge bouquet and a basket of fruits and deposited them at Connie’s feet. There was a card with the name and telephone number of the ‘member of the public’ on it.

  Connie didn’t even glance at it. She was crying like a little girl by now.

  Gurberia was startled by her tears. ‘What’s the matter? Doesn’t madam like the flowers?’

  ‘Have you any idea where the short gentleman is?’ I asked.

  Gurberia saved the day. ‘The short gentleman? He’s gone out for a walk.’

  Early at dawn, Lambreta had asked Gurberia where he could take a stroll nearby. Gurberia told him that Esplanade was just a short way down Central Avenue, and then, a little further along Chowringhee was the maidan, the ideal place for a stroll. Lambreta had given him a tip and left immediately.

  Connie seemed to regain her composure. ‘Let’s have some fun,’ she said. Picking up the bouquet from her feet, she threw away the card and, asking me for a piece of paper, wrote a few words on it. Entering Lambreta’s room, she looked for a vase, saying, ‘What kind of a hotel is this? There isn’t even a flower vase in every room!’

  ‘All the rooms downstairs have them; only the ones on the terrace don’t.’

  ‘Why? Aren’t these rooms occupied by human beings too?’ She placed the bouquet carefully on the bed. Shutting the door behind her, she said, ‘Harry will be surprised. He’ll wonder where Connie managed to get hold of flowers for him in this strange city!’ She seemed very happy that she’d had a chance to please him.

  But her happiness was short-lived. Glancing at my watch, she became fretful once again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘he’ll be here any minute.’

  She wasn’t reassured. ‘I feel scared—he’s a dwarf, after all. Suppose he has an accident trying to cross the road?’

  ‘He’ll be here any minute, take my word for it,’ I told her once again. To myself I said, ‘Aren’t you overdoing the concern bit? The longer that ill-tempered fellow stays out, the better. He’ll start a row the moment he gets back.’

  I hadn’t expected my prophecy to come true so soon. In a moment, Lambreta opened the door to the terrace and entered. He was humming a song whose words I couldn’t make out. Connie couldn’t either. She looked at him and asked, ‘What are you singing, Harry?’

  I followed his English pronunciation carefully to identify the song he was singing, clapping to keep time: Jai jai Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram. Had he gone mad! ‘Wonderful song, Connie,’ he said, and sang with his twisted pronunciation, dancing along, his hands raised, ‘Patito pavano Sitaram.’

  ‘Where were you?’ Connie asked him. ‘I was worried sick.’

  ‘That’s the problem with you,’ said Lambreta. ‘You can’t sleep for worrying about me! Your concern for me is upsetting the rhythm of your nude dance.’

  Connie wasn’t prepared for such a response. With a hurt look she said, ‘Harry! You say that to me of all people!’

  The pleasant morning had indeed had its effects on Lambreta. He realized his mistake and, taking Connie’s hand, said, ‘I was only joking! You’re still a little girl, can’t you get a joke? I did
n’t realize I had reached the river front. There I saw a group of people on the pavement, singing. Very sweet song, very nice people—real gentlemen, they stopped singing and greeted me when they saw me. What song is that, I asked, is it for your sweethearts? They couldn’t make out what I was saying. They said, “Only God at this hour of the morning—only Sitaram, Sitaram.” One of them was a little cleverer than the rest. “Right you are, sir,” he said in English, “Sitaram also has a very sweet heart.”

  Lambreta hadn’t been able to help himself after hearing that wonderful song. There by the Ganga, next to the Calcutta Swimming Club, he joined them. Calcutta’s pavement dwellers had no idea what to do with the foreigner. They felt bad about keeping him standing, but where could they offer him a seat? He, however, was caught up in the music and made a place for himself on the ground. He picked up the tune soon enough and, clapping along in time, he sang blissfully, without understanding a word, ‘Raghupati Raghava...’

  His singing partners treated him well. ‘May we offer you some flowers, sir? they asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, whereupon they gave him some marigolds.

  ‘Will you be able to find your way back by yourself?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  But they weren’t as confident as he was, and said, ‘Calcutta, sir, is a very bad place.’ Then one of them had escorted him to the gates of Shahjahan Hotel.

  Lambreta pulled out a few of the marigolds from his pocket and showed us. ‘Lovely,’ he said.

  Humming his newly learnt song, he went into his room, putting the marigolds carefully on the table. And the bouquet, sent by a member of Calcutta’s public smitten by Connie’s beauty, paled beside them.

  I went to my room and prepared to report for work, but there was yet another interruption. As I was about to head for the toilet, Gurberia came and said, ‘Madam is looking for you.’

  Back I went. As soon as I entered Lambreta said, ‘I have an idea—I’m going to give Connie lessons all afternoon, and tonight both of us will sing Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram! A pleasant surprise!’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Connie. ‘Is it a good idea?’