At that moment, the mystery of the other night, when Connie had gone into Lambreta’s room, became clear.
Connie had regained her composure by now. Patting her hair in place, she said, ‘Where can I go leaving Harry by himself? I wouldn’t be at peace anywhere in the world if I left him in Scotland. That’s why I’ve included him in my act. But Harry can’t do it. He becomes insane with rage at what I have to do onstage. He does not understand that acting is just that.’ Breaking into tears again, she said, ‘My own brother, and yet I can’t explain to him. That’s the kind of profession we’re involved in.’
She would have said more, but suddenly Lambreta came in. I stared at him for a moment before leaving the room.
Later, I met Lambreta on the terrace. He was packing. Like a little boy he called out to me. ‘Listen up, my lad. You got us angry, now you can face the music. We’re leaving, we don’t care for your Shahjahan. Mark my words. We’ll never return to this rotten city of yours.’
Indeed they didn’t. But I do keep thinking of Connie. It wasn’t just one Connie I had seen in the light of dawn, in the silence of the afternoon, in the cacophony of the evening and in the darkness of the night. Connie—the woman, the girl, the mother and the sister—is still a wonder to me.
Who knows in which corner of the world Connie is spending her days with her brother now? Surely there is no room for her at any well-known hotel any more.
On some exhausted evening, in some obscure bar, should a reader of Chowringhee see a dancer past her prime dancing with a dwarf, please ask her whether her name is Connie. If indeed it is, please write me a letter. I will be happy. I will be very happy indeed.
12
Life at Shahjahan went on as before after Connie left. After all, she was only one among the many who came and went every day. People arrived from different parts of the world, but how long did they stay? A week, three days, one day—there were some who stayed only a few hours. That’s how it was—welcome and farewell, reception and goodbye went hand in hand here. On arrivals there was at least a modicum of expectation; on departure, nothing at all.
‘On an average, our guests stay three days,’ said Bose-da. ‘If one stays a fortnight, we feel he’s been with us for an eternity. And the one or two who stay on a monthly basis practically become one of us.’
But this person who had left wasn’t just another guest—she was one of those whose lives revolved around the hotel guests. Much like us. And if indeed she had been one of us, her absence would surely have left a mark on our lives. But it left nothing. For most of us at Chowringhee she might have never existed.
One day, while he was shaving on the terrace, Bose-da remarked, ‘We hotel employees are very detached, but even more dispassionate is this building. She will remember no one, not Connie, not you, not me; take my word for it. She isn’t bothered that we silently serve here from early morning till late at night. Even when we are dead and gone, she will continue standing here, decked up in fresh paint and plaster, to entertain an endless stream of visitors. Not once will she think of us.’
I found his words rather depressing. ‘And why only us,’ he went on. ‘Many others have served Shahjahan Hotel before us. So many other Nataharis have run from room to room carrying pillows, other Sata Boses have stood at the counter day after day, night after night, innumerable Connies have dazzled the guests with their dances, so many other Gomezes have made the silent night come alive with music. But nobody remembers them, and nobody’s supposed to, either.
‘You think I’m being poetic, don’t you? Even Hobbs, who is so passionate about old Calcutta, who is just about the only person I know who has maintained a link between the past and the present, says it’s today and tomorrow that make our hotel. We have nothing to do with yesterday. We’re not bothered about it at all.’ Bose-da finished shaving, wiped the blade on the towel and continued, ‘I don’t have a way with words or else I could have expressed my thoughts beautifully. To put it simply, our good morning starts with today and when at the end of the day, in the darkness of the night, the dregs of today are left behind in the dining hall, we start planning for tomorrow. We don’t keep track of how and when today became yesterday.’
Not just the employees of Shahjahan Hotel, even its patrons had no time for yesterdays. Reading advertisements in the paper about the arrival of a new dancer, they started making enquiries again. Not one of them asked where Connie had gone. The phone started ringing as soon as the new advertisements appeared.
‘Hello, Shahjahan Hotel? At last you’ve seen sense, you’re getting a belly dancer!’
This time a dancer from Central Asia was expected.
‘Yes, I am sure you’ll enjoy the show,’ I said.
‘I hope she’s a genuine belly dancer,’ the voice at the other end said. ‘There’s so much adulterated stuff going around these days, you can’t trust your own grandmother.’
I didn’t understand what he was trying to say. Bose-da, who was standing next to me, grabbed the receiver from my hand. ‘Sir, this is Shahjahan Hotel—not some cheap restaurant where a local girl will be passed off as an Egyptian.’
The caller was probably a little annoyed. ‘You can’t blame us...we are naturally wary after the number of times we’ve been tricked. We buy tickets for a genuine belly dancer’s show and find a dancer as square as a packing box—no body movement whatsoever. Do you know how many times a minute the stomach muscles of a genuine belly dancer move?’
Bose-da slammed the receiver down. But that didn’t mean respite. Like the poor deer which thinks closing its eyes will mean respite from the hunter, we sometimes believed that ending a call would mean the end of our troubles.
Once again the phone rang. ‘I’m not going to take it,’ said Bose-da, ‘you’ll have to manage. Let’s see how much you’ve learnt after all these days at Shahjahan.’
It was the same person. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘We were cut off in the middle of a conversation.’
‘Very sorry,’ I replied. ‘I wonder how it happened.’
‘Lodge a complaint,’ he said.
I promised to take appropriate steps immediately and asked, ‘So when can we expect you, sir?’
‘Book two seats for tomorrow.’
‘We have a new rule, sir, we can’t reserve seats for anyone over the phone during the first week,’ I said. ‘Please send someone to collect the tickets.’
‘Heavy demand, eh? Naturally. Calcuttans are bound to appreciate a genuine belly dancer.’
As soon as I put the phone down, Bose-da smiled. ‘You’ll do just fine. You’ll be able to stick if you try.’
‘And some of us can’t stick despite trying!’ commented someone from behind us. It was a man in a short-sleeved shirt, cigarette in hand and a smile on his face.
‘Oh, how fortunate we are! How is it you haven’t visited us for so long?’ Bose-da welcomed him effusively.
‘What’s the use?’ said the man, extending a cigarette towards Bose-da. ‘You’re a miserly lot—you don’t let even water slip through your fingers. Despite thousands of requests, you never open your mouths.’
Lighting the cigarette, Bose-da said, ‘If you want to hammer both my impoverished self and the hotel, go ahead, but please remember, this slave is always at your service.’
Brightening up, the man said, ‘Never mind your Shahjahani politeness. Any interesting consignments?’
I was intrigued. Was there some mystery behind this? Why was Bose-da talking so effusively, and what was the consignment all about?
Bose-da thought for a while and then, tucking his pencil behind his ear, said, ‘Nothing right now, but there may be one tomorrow.’
The man laughed. ‘No, Mr Bose, I’m a professional, I’m not interested in your belly dancer Laila.’
Bose-da laughed too. ‘No, no, not her. Do you think we don’t know what you want? Something you’d be interested in is turning up tomorrow.’
The man left. Bose-da looked at me. ‘What are you stari
ng like a fool for? Be careful. He comes here for information. His name’s Bose too. He’s as well-behaved as he’s charming and he has the uncanny ability of managing to glean information—things that happen right under our nose and we never notice. We read it in his reports the next day. According to him fifty per cent of the news in India is created in airports and hotels these days. He might be here again tomorrow—help him if he comes.’
‘Help him? How?’
I had forgotten, but Bose-da hadn’t. ‘Aren’t Mr Pakrashi’s guests arriving tomorrow?’
Their schedule must have been sent to Karabi and she must have done up her suite for them. I telephoned suite number two to find out. Karabi took the call.
‘Shankar? Nice man you are, phoning from one room to another. Can’t you come over?’
‘You were supposed to let me know when you’re free,’ I said. ‘What if you had a guest?’
‘I wish I knew when I would be free,’ Karabi sighed. ‘Can you tell me when business transactions of all sorts will disappear from the face of the earth?’
‘Why ask me? Besides, if business transactions and cultural tours and international conferences came to an end, we’d go bankrupt.’
‘Maybe we won’t have jobs,’ Karabi said, ‘but we’ll have peace. If only you could have seen some of the guests.’
‘Why! You have select guests—you don’t have to hold out a welcome tray before all and sundry like we do.’
‘Come over to the suite,’ said Karabi, ‘let’s chat here.’
Duty hours were over. For eight hours I had welcomed guests with a smiling face and bade them goodbye with a sad one. I had also organized a tea party, a regular feature at our hotel. I had become used to them. Adjusting the mike or giving a hand to the host at such parties was part of our daily routine. So a little rest was not unwelcome. Without wasting further time I arrived at Karabi’s suite.
She had had her evening bath and smelt of expensive perfume. She was relaxing on a rocking chair, but as soon as I entered, sat up.
‘The things I see every day make me want to throw up,’ she exclaimed. ‘In independent India it’s as if the earth revolves around the sun thanks only to contracts, contractors, purchase officers, accounts officers. And what can I say about Mr Agarwalla—he has no taste in selecting his guests. He invites people who have never been inside a hotel, who wouldn’t know how to spell liquor, brings them over to suite number two, and takes them to the bar.’
Karabi rose from her chair and put the kettle on to make coffee. Then turning to the mirror to look at herself, carefully scrutinized her red lips. She removed the carefully arranged flowers from her hair and put them carelessly on the table. ‘People who don’t know how to use a knife and fork, people who slurp their soup, people who belch loudly after their meals—these are the people Agarwalla fawns over and calls sir,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s a shame.’
I waited for the coffee without replying. Karabi continued, ‘Of course, some of them have perfect manners—but I have no idea what substance God has fashioned them out of.’
Gravely I replied, ‘The day we unravel that mystery, Shahjahan Hotel will become unbearable for us, and Mr Agarwalla probably won’t be able to hold you back either.’
‘If you could watch this room through an invisible hole, there’d be very little about human nature left to know. I would have written another Mahabharata by now if only I could write. As a child I used to think human beings were capable of greatness—I believed with my heart and soul that God lives in every individual. Do you know what I think now?’ she asked, turning off the electric kettle.
‘You probably think people are becoming decadent with every passing day,’ I said.
Karabi laughed. ‘Whether or not God lives in every individual, a canny purchase officer certainly does. He wants to make every purchase in this world without paying. You can’t beat these people when it comes to surviving on free samples.’ Stirring the coffee, she said, ‘The man Mr Agarwalla brought today doesn’t talk very much. He wanted a drink, but was scared of getting drunk. He did drink, however, and now he’s gone to another hotel to watch the cabaret, courtesy Mr Agarwalla. This man comes frequently from south India, and buys a lot of stuff to take back. I say, guzzle down what they’re offering you to buy their stuff, stay in the suite since you are here, but don’t be such a hypocrite. Believe it or not, even as he was drinking he took off his shoes to say his evening prayers. Only a moment before, he was making enquiries about the cabaret girl. To please him Mr Agarwalla said, “This is what we must learn from you, Mr Ranganathan...wherever you might be, you cannot forget God.” Ranganathan was high by then. But in response to Agarwalla he said, “I’ve got into the habit out of fear of my wife. Dangerous woman—she doesn’t give me dinner unless I’ve said my evening prayers.”’
I was surprised to hear Ranganathan’s name. I remembered Phokla Chatterjee having introduced him to me. Karabi said, ‘He’s through with Phokla and attached himself to Mr Agarwalla. Mr Agarwalla reminded me that Ranganathan’s a tough nut to crack, he needs to be reminded of hinges every now and then. He holds the key to an order for one lakh hinges, and if this one is bagged there are bound to be repeat orders.’
Sipping her coffee, Karabi went on, ‘It’s really funny. Agarwalla says Ranganathan understands everything, controls the ups and downs of the market. He knows there’s plenty of this stuff available, so he’s trying to squeeze as much out of Agarwalla as he can. Agarwalla wasn’t able to make much headway with him, so he sent him to me.’ Karabi adjusted her sari. ‘That’s why I feel it would have been better if there were no buying and selling in the world.’
‘And what does Ranganathan say now?’ I asked.
‘He’s agreed. They’ve finalized a deal for him to pick up Agarwalla’s entire stock. Do you know what he said before he left? “This is why Calcutta and Bombay are flourishing—business runs on much more scientific lines in these two great cities; businessmen here know how to sell, they haven’t learnt their salesmanship from grocery stores.” He was sozzled.’
‘What did you give him to drink?’ I asked.
‘Just as I use matching linen, I try and match the drinks to the person. For him I got Old Smuggler—he was definitely tottering. In that condition he said, “Why doesn’t Mr Agarwalla open a school? Even in Calcutta many businessmen don’t know how to sell—my blood pressure goes up trying to deal with them, it’s just like dealing with my wife.”’
From Ranganathan we moved on to Madhab Industries. ‘All the arrangements have been made,’ Karabi told me. ‘I only need to confirm everything over the phone. Do you know Mr Anindo Pakrashi?’
‘Slightly.’
‘Did you know him before?’
‘No, I met him here.’
‘Really! In this hotel? Is he a regular here? What kind of a person is he?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Karabi smiled. ‘I have my reasons. I have urgent business with him.’ She picked up the phone. The call yielded more information on Anindo Pakrashi. He was busy those days—one day he would be the emperor of the industrial empire Madhab Industries, for which he needed a lot of education. ‘Not education, acid test,’ Anindo had once told us himself.
Many of you must have seen Anindo Pakrashi, one of the country’s youngest industrialists. Looking at his face—hard, devoid of feeling—in newspaper photographs these days, I find it hard to believe that this is the same person who would often seek us out for a simple chat. He would sneak out of home to come to Shahjahan. ‘I’m not even allowed to smoke,’ he would say, ‘my mother doesn’t like it at all. My father wasn’t very keen when I took this on—he says there’s no peace of mind in business. He wanted me to enjoy my freedom for a few more years, to roam around at will in the worlds of history, geography and literature. But my mother didn’t agree.’
Another time he had said, ‘I love to paint, you know, but I simply don’t get the time. When I see some artist painting on the maidan as I a
m driving by, my mind wanders off. Reading Eliot, Pound and Auden was like an addiction for me; I used to read Bengali poetry too—I loved Jibanananda Das, Premendra Mitra and Samar Sen. Sen’s poetry made me sad sometimes. Do people in our country really suffer so much? I even asked my mother once. She explained it all to me. They’re poets, she said, they probably have to weep when they write, that’s the convention, a rule of poetry. Unless you condemn those who are happy and affluent, why should ordinary people spend money on your poetry? If you meet them, she told me, you’ll find they lead ordinary lives just like we do.’
This was the Anindo I knew—and the Anindo whom Karabi knew much better than I did.
After the call Karabi said, ‘The rich man’s darling is coming on a tour of the hotel to check if the arrangements for the foreign guests are adequate. To satisfy his whims he’ll probably order for this chair to be moved there and that one to be moved here—we must learn from these people how to entertain guests!’
Anindo Pakrashi arrived from New Alipore a little later, in a multicoloured T-shirt and charcoal-grey trousers, swinging a tennis racket in his hand. Welcoming him, Karabi said, ‘Though this is a suite on paper, actually it’s an entire wing of the hotel—I can accommodate quite a few guests.’
‘Shelter, you mean, not accommodate,’ Anindo said with a smile. Running his eyes over the arrangements, he said, ‘Believe me, I’ve never lived in a hotel—my mother doesn’t like it at all. When I was at the Bombay branch for a few years, she made arrangements for me to stay at my aunt’s instead of a hotel. My uncle’s the agent there, I worked under him.’
Laughing like a little boy, he went on, ‘The people who are coming own a huge factory in Germany—we’re negotiating with them. My father’s put all the responsibility on me. If the slightest thing goes wrong, I will be blamed. What can I do? Do you suppose I understand any of this? You’ll have to make sure I don’t lose face before my father.’
Chowringhee Page 27