Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  Perhaps I should never have taken a job at Shahjahan. Perhaps I was being childish. As I left Lambreta and Connie backstage, it seemed to me that another file had been deposited in God’s office: Lambreta’s petition. But that was probably as far as it would go, for the plea would die in the file. Lambreta would keep waiting. Connie would keep waiting, expecting a response any moment. Eventually the waiting would end. Connie’s youth would start ebbing, affecting Lambreta’s livelihood. Leave alone Shahjahan, they would no longer be seen at any cabaret anywhere in the world. A new Connie, along with a new dwarf, would strike a playful pose before the footlights, greeting the inebriated guests, ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ The men would lose control, and one of them would scratch the new Connie with his wild, lustful nails. And perhaps the dwarf of the evening would lose his patience and send up another plea. But nothing would come of that either, just another file would be opened, while he counted the days, waiting eagerly for justice.

  But what rubbish was all this? I was a hotel receptionist—and I had a lot on my plate. A few moments of rest for an exhausted dancing girl, away from prying eyes, didn’t mean I could take a breather too. The hotel wasn’t paying me to ruminate. I should be standing at the mike, dripping with politeness, announcing to the guests present, ‘Connie the Woman will be here soon. Please be patient a little longer and, meanwhile, order your drinks.’

  That wasn’t all. The compére at Shahjahan’s cabaret had more duties, which I would now have to perform with care, and as expertly as a circus clown. My future depended on how well I could carry out all those responsibilities. On them hinged how much longer Shahjahan Hotel’s free bread would arrive at my table.

  Completing the necessary announcements over the mike, I went on to the floor. It was time to supervise the guests’ needs.

  A familiar voice hailed me, ‘Hello, sir, this way, if you please.’ I went to Phokla Chartterjee’s table. ‘Maybe we’re not at a front-row table,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you’re not going to look after us?’

  ‘We’re here only to carry out your commands, sir,’ I said.

  Phokla said, ‘I’m in a real spot with my nephew—he wants to go back.’

  I looked at Pakrashi junior. The poor fellow’s eyes were heavy with sleep. ‘I brought him for his baptism, you’d better look after him a little,’ said Chatterjee, ‘or else he’ll form a bad impression of Shahjahan.’

  I greeted Pakrashi junior and said, ‘I hope you’re having a good time. Our relationship with your uncle goes back a long way—please treat the hotel as your own.’

  The uncle told his nephew, ‘That’s right, son, enjoy life with a sporting spirit. After all, how long do you suppose we’ll bat on earth—so long as you are at the crease, hit all round the wicket.’ The boy laughed at the cricket metaphor. The uncle continued, ‘I shouldn’t be criticizing your father, but he’s got eyes only for his business. He’s never tried to play an attacking innings.’ Noticing the empty glass, he said, ‘But the glass is empty. No wonder the conversation isn’t flowing! How is the car to run on an empty tank? Let’s have your suggestion, quick.’

  ‘Pure, original whiskey—nothing like it,’ I said.

  Phokla didn’t seem satisfied. ‘It’s been plain and simple whiskey practically since I learnt to read. Recommend a special cocktail.’

  ‘Pink lady,’ I said.

  ‘Gin and egg white? No, I don’t care much for that.’

  ‘White lady, then,’ I ventured.

  ‘That’s gin and lime—oh no. Whatever happened to your imagination, you don’t seem capable of moving beyond gin. Call our friend Sata Bose.’

  At my signal Bose-da appeared. Laughing, Phokla said, ‘Your disciple’s as bad as my nephew—still a novice, can’t recommend a suitable cocktail. The uncle is going to lose face before his nephew.’

  Bose-da’s eyes danced with inspiration. ‘These young fellows have new-fangled ideas, while we’re getting outdated,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’d suggest an Old Fashioned—Canadian whiskey with lots of fruit soda.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Phokla.

  ‘And,’ said Bose-da, ‘if you prefer something else, I’d recommend a Moscow Mule.’

  ‘What! A mule at my age—what will people say?’ Phokla guffawed.

  Pakrashi said softly, ‘I’m not having any more, Uncle.’

  ‘What a bore. Look, you’re no longer a baby, examine your birth certificate when you go back home. You were born in the year of the earthquake—your father was going through a bad phase, about to lose everything in the Depression. When I heard you were born I sent him my congratulations from England, and you know what he wrote back? Ha, ha, ha.’

  Phokla exploded in laughter. Pakrashi junior stared blankly at him. Reining in his laughter, Phokla said, ‘Your father wrote, I have no idea what the family will live on. Can you imagine, Madhab Pakrashi writing in his own hand that he cannot afford a child. What a mistake I made tearing up those letters. Bose, you might as well give me the second drink—I’m not old-fashioned, nothing but the Moscow Mule for me; if you have anything called the Calcutta Donkey you can give me that, too.’

  ‘And for him?’ I indicated Pakrashi junior.

  Bose-da said, ‘These are young men, Mr Chatterjee, life to them is like sparkling wine. With your permission, I would like to serve Mr Pakrashi some sparkling hock. Wonderful stuff—bottled the year I was born.’

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful! That’s why I can’t do without Sata Bose. Shahjahan Hotel minus Sata Bose is equal to Madhab Industries minus Madhab, Hamlet sans the prince of Denmark, Bengali literature with no Tagore, Ramakrishna Mission without Vivekananda and last but not the least Phokla Chatterjee minus liquor.’ He was laughing uproariously, but even as he laughed he changed visibly. ‘I can’t stay without my drink, I simply can’t. At sundown, as soon as the faint darkness of the evening draws a veil over Calcutta, I simply can’t hold myself back. The sun has set, lead us to the river, someone seems to sing to me.’

  It wasn’t just I who had become uneasy at this unexpected change in Phokla; his nephew had too. ‘Uncle!’ he cried. Uncle had by then grabbed Bose-da’s hand. ‘Can you tell me why this happens to me? Beg, borrow or steal, I have to hit the bottle every day.’

  ‘Don’t get upset, Mr Chatterjee.’ Bose-da was at his solicitous best.

  But Phokla Chatterjee’s eyes were brimming with tears. Trying his utmost to control himself, he said, ‘I’m not a man, I’m an animal—I’m a Moscow Mule. Would anyone else have urged his own nephew to drink? It was I who christened him, you know. Tired of being vilified all my life, when I got my sister’s letter asking for a name for her son, only one came to my mind: Anindo, the one beyond reproach.’ Phokla looked lovingly at Anindo Pakrashi. Taking his nephew’s hand in his, he sighed, ‘He’s still so innocent.’

  Bose-da was about to ask the bearer to get Chatterjee’s drink, but Phokla stopped him. The toothless man seemed to be totting up something mentally. ‘Just a minute, let me think,’ he told Bose-da, and then suddenly got up. Putting some cash on the table for the drinks he had already had, he said, ‘Anindo, let’s go.’

  Anindo Pakrashi promptly stood up, surprised. Had Phokla Chatterjee completely taken leave of his senses? He wasn’t one to be bowled out by the few pegs he’d consumed so far. Why, just a moment ago he was advising hitting all round the wicket.

  ‘Mr Chatterjee, don’t you want to watch the last act of the cabaret?’ Bose-da asked.

  Phokla shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sorry, Sata, I should never have brought Anindo here.’

  When, having both amazed and overwhelmed us, Chatterjee left the unfinished show holding his nephew’s hand, the lights of Mumtaz started to dim again. The bearers were trying to get the drinks across to the guests’ tables for the last time.

  ‘How’s your arm?’ I asked Connie before she went onstage.

  ‘Don’t remind me of these unpleasant things just before going on, it might spoil my mood. Anyway,
I’m never bothered by these things; it’s Harry who gets worked up.’

  The dance began again. In an orgy of coloured lights, Connie the Woman’s balloon dance began. Unless one saw it with one’s own eyes, one wouldn’t believe that someone who had been upset a moment ago could become so titillating and sensuous the next. The guests were euphoric, the cheers started, as did the wolf-whistles. It was a repeat of what had happened the night before, what would happen the following night, and what had been happening at the pleasure house called Shahjahan for decades. And yet I couldn’t understand why the rhythm was clearly missing. The Connie who had danced the previous night was no longer there. Her dance may not have lacked prehistoric wildness, her eyes may not have lost the hypnotic gaze of the venomous snake, but the dancing girl was indeed tired, her spirits were visibly flagging.

  That night, too, the audience burst the balloons. A single body was the focus of the entire sex-starved gathering at the historic Mumtaz bar. But it was brief. The despondent dancer eluded the audience’s predatory eyes much earlier than on her first night and disappeared into the darkness. The lights came on once again, murmurs floated across the hall, there was a stampede as everyone wanted to be the first to leave and get back home.

  After putting the mike back in place and giving the necessary instructions to the bearers, I met Bose-da on my way out.

  ‘Where’s Connie?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘She ran away as soon as the lights came on.’

  ‘We have trouble on our hands. Marco Polo’s displeased. Jimmy was present during the last sequence, he must have complained to him.’

  Apparently, the manager had noticed Connie’s lack of concentration, and he’d discussed it with Jimmy. ‘It’s a competitive market, if we get a bad name we’re finished. Three girls will be dancing together at the same time at the other hotel from tomorrow—they’re saying it’s three sisters. Sisters my foot! These women never saw one another till they were eighteen—but now the advertisements have turned them into three sisters,’ Jimmy had said.

  ‘How did the manager hear about Lambreta?’ asked Bose-da. ‘Did you tell him anything?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘They think it’s that short fellow who’s the root of all trouble,’ said Bose-da. ‘It’s because of him that Connie’s not dancing well.’

  ‘What could the poor fellow do? Someone in the audience scratched Connie and messed up everything.’

  ‘Marco Polo wants to do something—that’s why he was calling for me,’ he said.

  ‘What will he do?’ I asked.

  Bose-da smiled. ‘Why are you getting so upset? The management has to do many things to run a hotel as large as this.’

  For some reason, I was worried that Connie would come to harm. Bose-da seemed to read my thoughts. He smiled and said, ‘Haven’t I told you this is only a hotel? Nobody will be here for ever, don’t feel too much for anyone.’

  Unable to look him in the eye, I averted my gaze.

  ‘The fault is Connie’s,’ he said. ‘Even the bearers are joking about the dwarf—Jimmy said Connie had demanded an air-conditioned room even for him.’

  I didn’t want to hear all this; all I wanted to know was what the manager and Jimmy were up to. But Bose-da refused to divulge anything—and seeing the expression on his face, I didn’t dare ask.

  11

  The next day the whole thing was out in the open. I was in Karabi Guha’s suite on some work. She had completed her morning chores, the representative of the flower shop had been given his orders. Nityahari was there, waiting to be briefed on the colour scheme of curtains and bedclothes for the day.

  Karabi said, ‘People have such lovely curtains in their homes, such wonderful new shades, and you only keep old-fashioned colours in your stock.’

  Nityahari looked worried. ‘How can homes and hotels be the same? Even a sack hung up at home is a pleasure to the eye.’

  ‘I have to keep this suite well decorated. If the colours don’t match, what will this guest house amount to?’

  ‘As long as I’m here you needn’t worry,’ Nityahari replied. ‘I’ll find a way to get matching colours every day. But must this game of different colours be played on a daily basis?’

  After he left, I told Karabi, ‘If there are problems I can tell the manager. Is Nityahari finding it difficult to give you the kind of linen you want?’

  She said, ‘Please don’t say anything to anyone. He’ll be hurt...he’s such a nice man, don’t ask me why but I like him very much. Pure gold, unblemished even after all these years.’

  ‘When are Pakrashi’s guests due?’ I asked. ‘Let me know if there are any special arrangements to be made.’

  ‘Mr Agarwalla wants no stone left unturned in our hospitality. So I’ve decided to give them the two cabins, and convert this space into my bedroom—I don’t think that’ll be a problem, we’ve had four or five guests at the same time before.’

  When I asked again when they were due, she said, ‘Oh yes, thank you for reminding me. It’ll help to know when they’re arriving.’ She picked up the telephone. ‘Why are you standing? Do sit down.’

  As I sat I noticed that her feet were exactly like lotus petals, her toes lined with alta peeping out of a pair of golden sandals. Smiling, she said, ‘Do you know what that chief guest of yours did? He sent this pair of sandals by post—I wonder when he managed to find out what size shoes I wear.’

  ‘They suit you,’ I said.

  Karabi chuckled. ‘I don’t know about that, but I like the fact that there he was at the head of the gathering, and then here, he was at my feet. He got so drunk he was clutching my feet!’

  She spoke briefly over the telephone and then turned to me. ‘I couldn’t get the boss—he’s off to the factory. But the wife took the call and handed it to Pakrashi junior. Nobody has a clue, but the son has kindly consented to call and let me know.’

  ‘Please let us know, too,’ I said, and was about to leave, when she said, ‘What’s your hurry? Have some Ovaltine.’ Nobody in this hotel had ever offered me anything as warmly. ‘I may live in a hotel,’ she smiled, ‘but I’ve set up a small household. I’ve made a few cooking arrangements—I don’t like the hotel coffee all the time, so I make my own tea, coffee or Ovaltine.’

  ‘That’s not a reflection on Shahjahan’s coffee,’ I remarked. ‘All it proves is that Bengali girls can’t sleep unless they get a chance to cook occasionally.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Sipping her Ovaltine, she asked about Connie. ‘You see quite a lot of them, don’t you? What’s the story?’

  Not quite getting the drift of her question, I said, ‘Why should I be seeing a lot of them? Mr Lambreta’s room’s next to mine, that’s all.’

  ‘And that’s where Connie is to be found most of the time!’ Karabi said meaningfully. ‘He’s her fellow performer, they travel around the world together. But does that mean she has to be at the dwarf’s beck and call?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In the show the dwarf begs for her favours, her sympathy, but in real life, it’s just the opposite. Connie is the dwarf’s lady-in-waiting. She doesn’t dare protest even against his temper.’

  ‘So what? What matters to us is their act.’

  ‘It’s your customers who’re concerned about the act,’ she said. ‘Since we stay in the same hotel, what matters to us is what they do outside of their act.’

  There was nothing I could say. I didn’t even understand why we were discussing them.

  ‘This is a sort of indulgence,’ Karabi continued. ‘Cabaret dancers don’t have to worry about money, after all. For a few minutes’ pleasure, kings and emperors, the rich and the famous, all place gifts at their feet. So without a hobby they get bored—some have monkeys as pets; others indulge dwarfs.’

  ‘Don’t you feel bad that the poor fellow’s a midget?’

  ‘I can see they’ve influenced you as well,’ she said. ‘It’s because he’s a dwarf that he’s earn
ing his bread. If he had been as tall as you, would he have appeared onstage with Connie? I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I can tell you, the deformed and the ugly have a lot of opportunities when it comes to begging and entertainment; artistes pay a lot to get hold of such people.’ She paused. ‘Pay them by all means, but don’t let them get above themselves.’

  From Karabi’s suite I went to the counter and, after finishing my chores there, went upstairs. Connie was on the terrace, sitting with her back to the sun and smoking. When she saw me, she took one long drag, threw away her cigarette and said, ‘Good morning.’

  I knew the morning hadn’t really been very good for her, but returned her greeting nevertheless. She stood up and, throwing a sidelong glance towards Lambreta’s room to check whether he was watching her, walked into my room without a word. I’d meant to change my clothes and rest, but now that was ruled out. Taking a chair, she asked, ‘Are you through with work?’

  ‘For the moment,’ I said. ‘The new round begins in the evening.’

  She hemmed and hawed, as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get round to it. ‘Is something the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to go out with you for while.’

  She knew nothing of Calcutta—and besides, it wasn’t safe for someone like her to go out alone, so I agreed, though reluctantly.

  By the time she was ready for her Calcutta tour, no one could say that this girl turned into Connie the Woman at night. The young woman in a straw hat, dark glasses and tight knee-length skirt looked like a tourist from Europe who had set out on a world tour with her father—an eager tourist, naive, who had not yet got over her fear of an unknown, unfamiliar place. Hobbs had once told me a story about two young American girls who were accompanying their father on a world tour. They left him in Bombay to attend to some urgent business and went off by themselves to Delhi. Apparently, they put up at Maidens Hotel. They went on a buying spree as tourists usually do and spent all their money. Having no options left, they sent an express telegram to their father. He was foxed by the cable his daughters had sent: ‘All money spent. Can stay maidens no longer.’