Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  I was appalled, but said, ‘You are the performers, you can do as you like.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Connie, ‘but will the guests at Shahjahan be pleased?’

  ‘Everyone is bound to be pleased,’ said Lambreta confidently.

  ‘Nobody visits a hotel for devotional songs,’ I said.

  ‘You have to mould their taste,’ said Connie.

  ‘Mr Bose says their taste was moulded long ago,’ I replied. ‘Each generation hands over part of its cultural preferences to the next before departing, and in turn, the next one passes them on, which is why there’s been no change at Shahjahan Hotel. The original arrangements for entertainment are still in place here.’

  ‘So this song won’t go down well?’ asked Lambreta, disappointed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Connie.

  ‘There’s a line in the song which might offend our guests,’ I said.

  ‘Which line?’ Lambreta shouted.

  ‘Give good sense to everyone, O God,’ I said. ‘What would our guests think? That they don’t have good sense?’

  Suddenly Lambreta lost his temper. ‘Get out of my room right now! I want to rest.’

  Connie got scared and glanced at me hurriedly before leaving the room. I didn’t linger either. Lambreta slammed the door.

  ‘He’s normally good-tempered in the morning,’ said Connie, ‘but these days there’s no accounting for his mood. Sorry, I’ve taken a lot of your time. See you tonight—at Mumtaz.’

  Mumtaz was chock-a-bloc with people. Not only had all the tables been booked well in advance, but Bose-da had also squeezed in a couple of extra tables under pressure from well-connected circles. Sometimes requests came from people who just could not be refused. Besides, Jimmy had made arrangements for people to buy their way to the front row. ‘People are even willing to bribe you to get seats up front,’ said Bose-da. ‘There’s nothing Jimmy isn’t capable of doing.’

  Liquor sales were even higher than the day before. The excise inspector peeped in and was very pleased with what he saw. Plenty of money would be deposited under excise duty and entertainment tax, swelling the government’s coffers.

  Upon arriving at the hall, I noticed there were women in the audience that night. This floor show was part of Calcutta’s culture, after all. So the well-educated and modern women of the city were hardly willing to pass over this pilgrimage.

  Bose-da was there too. Smiling faintly at me, he said, ‘The zeal with which we are embracing modern civilization will ensure that in the not-too-distant future Indians too will show up with their wives and children to watch belly dancers. The West has opened its doors wide. No wonder the poet had written, “Give and take, mix and mingle, by the shores of Shahjahan’s great human sea”.’

  A few days ago, an academic friend of Bose-da had aptly described the outfits of the women who frequented this predominantly male bastion. His name too was Bose and he had come to the hotel to satisfy his curiosity. About Calcutta’s middle-aged modern women, he had said, ‘Their dresses follow a completely new tradition—beyond the wildest dreams of our forefathers. Mere suggestions masquerade as blouses and non-existent wraps pretend to be saris.’

  Bose-da had smiled and told his friend, ‘Observe by all means, if that’s your mission, but don’t follow in the footsteps of these people. When Nagen Pal visited us for the first time he said it was only to add to his experiences, but he’s trapped now—so he’s still gathering experience; he can’t do without a daily visit to the bar.’

  There he was that evening too, nursing his whiskey at a corner table, awaiting the cabaret dancer. He had a small notebook open before him. In case the liquor stimulated his brain, he wanted to write the idea down immediately.

  ‘Hey, you there,’ Phokla Chatterjee summoned me. He was in attendance again, accompanied by a shy young man with wavy hair and a face that still held the innocence of youth. He was in formal evening dress and was drinking orange squash.

  ‘Does this make any sense? Can you watch a cabaret on orange squash? Tell him,’ Chatterjee said. ‘Go ahead and have a drink, nobody needs to know. I’m advising you as your uncle—not a soul will find out. They know at home you’re out with me. If you’re still worried, you can always spend the night at my place. What’s the most expensive cocktail in the house tonight? Might as well baptize my nephew with it.’

  ‘Silver Grade,’ I said. ‘Twelve-and-a-half rupees.’

  ‘What does it have?’

  ‘Vodka, fresh lime, syrup and egg,’ I said. ‘But if you’re looking for something ideal for a baptism, why not try a Manhattan, instead? Whisky, vermouth and sherry shaken with ice.’

  ‘This is my nephew,’ Chatterjee snapped, ‘not my niece. I’ve never heard of a man being baptized with vermouth. I see it costs only four-and-a-half rupees—how much real booze could you get for that?’

  After I had ordered the Silver Grade, I came back to stand next to Bose-da and found him chuckling. ‘Do you know the young man being baptized tonight? That’s Mrs Pakrashi’s son—the prince of the Pakrashi empire.’

  It was time for the show. I would have to go up on stage soon and present Connie the Woman. But Lambreta hadn’t shown up yet, and neither had Connie. I hurried into the lift and saw Nityahari grinning from ear to ear near the door.

  ‘Seen Connie and Lambreta?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t bother me now,’ he said. ‘Your dwarf tore up two of my pillows last night, the stuffing’s all over the room.’

  I knocked on Connie’s door. The door was open, but where was she? I was worried at first—where had she disappeared just as the show was about to begin? If the people ensconced in Shahjahan’s soft chairs, already drunk, were to be told, after having purchased five-rupee tickets and drunk their way through another fifty, that the floor show had been cancelled...I shuddered to think what lay in store for us employees at that hour of the night. The price of the tickets could be refunded, but what of the liquor? It couldn’t very well be extracted from the stomachs and sealed back in the bottles. Which meant that glasses would be smashed, tables and chairs would be upturned, and we would have no choice but to call for the police.

  I’d heard this had happened before, and the police had, with great difficulty, managed to rescue the hotel employees from the drunken mob. But the real trouble had come afterwards. The police, who served the King of England, had expressed their wish to be served at Shahjahan Hotel; having driven out the drunkards, they had themselves proceeded to get drunk, occupying all the tables at Mumtaz, ordering the most expensive dinners on the menu, picking the choicest items on the wine list and barking out their orders. Bottles of Black Label, Black Dog, Dimple, Vat 69 and Johnny Walker, lovingly collected in the darkness of Shahjahan’s cellar, emitted wretched cries of distress in apprehension of imminent disaster. When Ghengiz Khan’s troops had finally left after having plundered the jewels of the treasure-lined Shahjahan, the manager had almost been in tears. But there hadn’t been a murmur of protest, for it had only been on the manager’s personal request that they hadn’t arrested any of the customers. Arrests would have led to the courts, and the courts would have led to bad publicity.

  This was what I was thinking about when I found Connie’s room empty. Not sure of what I should do, I went up to the terrace. As I was about to enter my room, I heard a familiar voice next door. Lambreta was saying, ‘Go. If you’re all that concerned, why don’t you go by yourself?’

  ‘Please don’t be so stubborn,’ pleaded Connie. ‘Please come.’

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ he exploded. ‘You think I’ll succumb to your touch?’

  ‘Quiet,’ she whispered. ‘People will hear.’

  ‘Never! I won’t go.’

  I left my room and knocked on his door. Connie emerged, dressed in her costume for the show, exuding a whiff of expensive French perfume. When she saw me she realized they had been overheard and went back inside.

  ‘The guests are getting restless, please g
et dressed quickly,’ she said to Lambreta who was sitting on his bed, his hands cupping his face.

  In a grim, irritated voice, he said, ‘Leave me alone, woman, don’t disturb me.’

  Connie was clearly wary of the dwarfs mood swings. She seemed to have no idea about what to do next, so I said, ‘If we wait any longer they might set the hotel on fire.’

  ‘For God’s sake come along,’ said Connie sharply.

  ‘All right, but this is the last time,’ said Lambreta. ‘I’d like to see who can get me out of my room tomorrow.’

  Connie and I left the room while he dressed. Connie’s face was ashen. ‘How unreasonable can you get,’ she said. ‘It’s a cabaret, after all. What’s acting got to do with real life? Harry is such a baby—I just cannot get him to understand. He forbids me to sit on anyone’s lap during the show.’

  I hadn’t said anything till then, but now I spoke. ‘Someone like him in your troupe will affect your ratings. You don’t owe anyone any explanation for what you do during the show.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Connie. ‘I can’t stand it that a member of my troupe should make life so difficult for me.’ Then, hearing Lambreta’s footsteps, she added softly, ‘He mustn’t hear us.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ That night I was an experienced compére. ‘Good evening. On this beautiful evening at Shahjahan Hotel we hope you’ve enjoyed our French chef’s cuisine and our specially selected drinks from around the world. I now present to you Connie—Connie the Woman. You have seen many women in your lives, but here is the woman—one of a kind, exclusively created by God for this century.’

  As on the previous night, the lights went out once again. The audience seemed to be the same too, or perhaps they were just behaving the same way. The same murmur rose in the hall, and then came the familiar anticlimax, the disappointment, the dashed expectations. No Connie the Woman, instead, Lambreta the Dwarf.

  But look at Lambreta. Who would have said the man had been sulking on his bed a few minutes ago, refusing to take part in the show. The exhausted, bad-tempered individual had vanished; in his place was a dwarf holding a three-foot-high top-hat in his hand saying, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Connie the Woman. I am honoured that you’ve waited for me so late into the night.’

  Then the previous night’s events repeated themselves. The lights went out and Connie materialized from nowhere. A man in the front row screamed: ‘Someone’s sitting on my lap!’

  In the dark, I said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  But Connie had made a bad choice that evening; the lap belonged to someone who knew the game. ‘Got her,’ he shouted, ‘don’t turn on the lights!’

  Bose-da had warned me repeatedly to be prepared for just such an eventuality, so, without a moment’s delay, I signalled for the lights. All the lights in Mumtaz came to life immediately, blinding us. Connie struggled out of the man’s lap, panting, but nobody paid attention to that.

  Her performance began. The primal rhythms of her dance were designed to arouse the beast lurking within each guest. A feral force caged in suits and ties strained at the leash, seeking to break out, brooking not a moment’s delay. Lambreta’s bizarre display of passion for Connie tickled the audience’s fancy even more. It was obvious the poor fellow was besotted with her and was bending over backwards to impress her. Even the ladies present exclaimed ‘Oh lord’ in dismay at the sight and leaned against their male companions, even though their gently indulgent smiles betrayed their enjoyment. They were not overtly bothered about the lack of good taste.

  I got off the stage and was standing by the front row, when I heard a lady say, ‘Poor fellow.’

  Her companion said, ‘Don’t waste your sympathy—they’re acting.’

  The lady held his hand, snuggled close to him and said, ‘What rubbish! You could spot it a mile away if only you had eyes to see, darling. That passion in his eyes isn’t acting—it takes a woman to know.’

  Seeing me, she quickly whispered something to her companion. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘What’s the relationship between Connie and that dwarf?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered.

  ‘Do they spend the night in the same room?’

  ‘No, they have separate rooms,’ I said.

  The lady continued her conversation. ‘That doesn’t prove anything, darling. These hotel people are experts at all this—ask them and they’ll tell you.’

  I didn’t want to answer this middle-aged woman’s tasteless question. Did working in a hotel make us criminals? Didn’t we have families? A sense of right and wrong? Didn’t we know what was proper and what wasn’t? As I walked away, I could see other things that were lacking in decorum. Unmindful of probing eyes, a sari-clad leg had recklessly wrapped itself around a trousered one under a table.

  Connie was dancing, and so was Lambreta. As her movements gathered pace, so did Lambreta’s. He tried to match her rhythm, but he was clearly running out of breath. For every stride that Connie took with her long legs, Lambreta had to take three. Connie could sense that her partner was losing steam. Suddenly, her handkerchief floated down to the floor. The dwarf retrieved it and returned it to the beauty who became livid and said something to him. Those at a distance thought the dwarf had made an indecent proposition. Still dancing, Connie began chasing Lambreta, saying, ‘Get away from me, devil. How can someone so small have such evil intentions?’

  Lambreta left the stage. Having got rid of him, the sensuous Connie began her dance of desire. But I was looking at Lambreta. The night before, he had danced for much longer. No one else realized, but I knew he was tired and couldn’t stay on his feet any longer. That was why Connie had dropped her handkerchief and, taking advantage of his clowning, given him an opportunity to take a break. The poor fellow’s breast was heaving like a pair of bellows; his clothes were drenched in perspiration. But Connie wasn’t remotely tired—she kept dancing like a mechanical toy. The lights in Mumtaz had gone out long ago. Just a single beam lit up her half-naked body, lending her a deeper aura of mystery.

  Lambreta pulled himself together. He looked at me and, in the darkness, his eyes glowed like headlights. He whispered, ‘Can you recognize the fellow on whose lap Connie sat? I’m going to smash a bottle on his head. You don’t know me—that fellow scratched Connie.’

  ‘Don’t be angry now,’ I said. ‘Please, be quiet.’

  ‘Oh yes? People will go ahead and torment Connie, and you expect me to do nothing about it?’

  ‘Mr Lambreta,’ I said angrily, ‘I haven’t the time for a debate with you. My job depends on the whims of the people you see in this hall. If they lose interest and stop eating, we will die of starvation.’

  ‘If they fast, we starve. But if they eat they’ll feast on Connie—what about that? I’ll show you,’ he gestured. ‘I’ll show the whole lot of you.’

  Oh God, what kind of madman’s clutches had I got myself into? You’ve come here to perform, and you’re getting paid a fortune for it, I wanted to tell him. Because they’re paying you so much, the owners are charging more for the food and drinks. Where do we poor employees come into the picture? Just let me work, let me scream into the mike, Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you on behalf of Shahjahan Hotel. We’ve made a few humble arrangements to relax your tired minds and bodies. Who the hell are you to disturb us?

  The first act had in the meantime come to an end. At my signal, the electricians turned out the lights in order to preserve Connie’s modesty. By the time the lights came on again Connie was backstage, wrapped in a robe, panting.

  ‘Where’s Harry?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Mere mortals like us can’t keep him under control. Who knows where his rage has taken him?’

  Patting her hair back in place, Connie rubbed her right arm near the elbow. ‘People here drink so much that they can’t control themselves. That fellow must have been soaked to the gills. Could you get me some iodine? That man probably doesn’t clip his nails; he scratched me so hard my arm’
s hurting.’

  Lambreta appeared from nowhere. ‘Man? Who are you calling a man, Connie?’ He had got hold of some cotton wool and iodine and, taking her hand, started cleaning up the wounds.

  Connie shut her eyes and said, ‘Oh Harry, it hurts.’

  Lambreta said grimly, ‘May the wrath of God descend on the devils.’

  Connie quietened down and, forgetting her own pain, said affectionately, ‘Wasn’t it you who asked me not to abuse people in God’s name, Harry? It’s a sin.’

  ‘Rubbish! You can do anything you like to these dirty devils—God will not prevent you. He won’t be unhappy with you. On the contrary he will be pleased, he will bless you.’

  Even after all these years, as I write this, I can clearly see the beautiful Connie and the ugly Lambreta. By the grace of God, I’ve come into contact with many strange people in this world, but the Creator’s plan behind this extraordinary game of good and bad, right and wrong, isn’t clear to me yet. Even now, the scenes from that night float up before my eyes as vividly as a brand-new print of an old movie. I can see Lambreta extend his hand towards God and say, ‘O Lord, curse them. Let your condemnation descend like a bolt of lightning on them.’ Who knows whether the half-insane dwarfs desperate plea reached the ears of the detached Creator? For thousands of years of human history, humiliated souls from all corners of the world had sent up similar prayers in different tongues on thousands of occasions, but had it helped?

  Nityahari had once told me, ‘God? Don’t mention him, my dear sir, I’m sick of him. He works just like the government offices. If you went to his office you’d find thousands of petitions piling up every day, and his employees filing them all away, having marked “no action, may be filed”; nobody ever digs them up again. You find it funny? Your blood’s still young, laugh while you can. One day you’ll have to shed tears though, nothing but tears. That’s when you’ll believe me, that’s when you’ll realize there’s no more space in God’s office. So many famous people’s files haven’t moved an inch, and you expect God to read your file or mine carefully? He doesn’t have the time.’