‘Why do you want to get us into trouble? You know very well we unworthy people are helpless. Drinks cannot be served in the lounge.’
‘Wonder when this damned government will be voted out! These are the bastards for whom we fought the British! For them our martyrs gave up their lives!’ Phokla was quite agitated. Bose-da merely smiled and went on with his work. But Phokla continued, ‘Damn it! There’s no objection to selling booze, but you’re not allowed to drink it in public—what kind of law is this? I really feel bad for you fellows, you’re decent people, you’ve come into this line, but the future’s bleak. Some day the bastards will declare that you cannot drink anywhere except in the loo.’
Bose-da said, ‘You have a lot of contacts, why don’t you tell them to protest?’
‘That’ll be the day,’ Phokla said. ‘The buggers grumble in private, but they won’t say a word in public. All of them draw veils over their faces and become nuns when they walk down the road. They’re the kind of people who would actually drink in the loo without making a fuss, if the government passed the order. One person could have made a difference—my sister, Madhab Pakrashi’s wife. But she’s very old-fashioned, she can’t stand alcohol.’
‘Is that so?’ Bose-da feigned surprised.
‘All day she is busy with her women’s society, her literacy society, her preservation of moral health society, or her gods and goddesses. If only she’d say just once that it’s better to drink openly than to drink furtively, the government might pay attention.’
Bose-da suggested, ‘If you need a drink so badly why don’t you go to the bar?’
‘I can’t,’ said Phokla. ‘I have to wait here for someone.’
‘Do you mean Mr Agarwalla?’ I asked. ‘He’s left a message for you.’
‘Yes, that’s who I’m waiting for. He phoned me, but I wasn’t in, so he asked me to come to Shahjahan.’
‘Mr Agarwalla’s gone to Mrs Chakladar’s,’ said Bose-da.
‘Mrs Chakladar’s?’ Phokla started laughing loudly. ‘Never show a starving man a dinner table! I was the one who first took Agarwalla to Mrs Chakladar’s. You can have a peaceful drink in a nice homely set-up. Sheer heaven for people like us. The rates are a little on the high side—the minimum admission charge on dry days is twenty rupees. But these chaps are hell-bent on milking it for all it has got. Agarwalla’s started taking guests there even on other days. He goes there every day. Some day it’s going to get into the papers and the honeycomb will be exposed.’ Glancing at his watch, Phokla continued, ‘All my life I have been doing other people’s dirty work. So many bloody businessmen have become filthy rich by entertaining clients through me—and all I have to show for it is a bad liver. I drink the booze for free, and occasionally earn a couple of hundreds. No capital, you see. If I had some, I’d have shown them; hundreds of unemployed young fellows would have had jobs with the Phokla group of industries by now.’
‘Mr Agarwalla is waiting there for you,’ I reminded him.
‘Let him—it’s not as if the world’s coming to an end!’ For a moment he paused, hand on brow. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Bengali girls are good for nothing. No race can be great without the help of its women. Never mind me, even Swami Vivekananda said women are the source of our strength. But Bengali girls will not make the least bit of effort. You remember Mr Ranganathan, don’t you? He controls contracts worth lakhs. He used to think highly of Bengal, he was very keen on becoming friends with a Bengali girl. He was ready to foot all the expenses. But, such a shame, nobody would agree. And as luck would have it, Mrs Kapoor had no qualms about being friends with him. The order that should have come to us went to Mr Kapoor instead. And yet we keep lamenting the lack of opportunities.’
Phokla Chatterjee glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go now.’ As he was about to leave, he wheeled around suddenly. ‘Seen Anindo?’ he asked.
Bose-da looked at me. ‘He’s come to call on the German visitors,’ I said.
‘Hmm...’ He hesitated a little and then asked, ‘By the way, did anyone staying here telephone Anindo a short while ago?’
My heart missed a beat as I looked into Phokla Chatterjee’s eyes. ‘Yes, Dr Reiter did,’ I said.
‘Sure?’
‘He used this very phone.’
‘I see...I thought I heard someone speaking in Bengali.’
I almost lost my nerve. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I spoke first—Dr Reiter had asked me to connect him.’
‘All right,’ he said.
I heaved a sigh of relief after he left. Who knows what I might have said had he asked more questions.
Bose-da looked at me. My expression told him all he needed to know. He knew Dr Reiter hadn’t been to the counter all afternoon and evening. But he asked no questions.
‘The gurus of the hotel business have a maxim,’ he said softly. ‘Never forget that there’s a counter between you and your guests. Sita fell prey to Ravana because she crossed the line.’
I met Karabi that night. She was sitting by herself. I’d meant to tell her about Phokla Chatterjee, but I could not bring myself to do so. She said, ‘I feel so relieved now. Anindo’s left, they’re asleep. Agarwalla can do no harm even if he were to turn up now.’ I heard from her that Anindo wasn’t pleased by the summons. Karabi was unable to explain why she had called him. All she’d said was that he was needed and that she wouldn’t be able to manage the two of them by herself. ‘He’ll be here in the morning again. I’m not letting him go. I’m scared.’
Bose-da’s warning was still ringing in my ears. I didn’t want to get involved; my only concern ought to have been my job. And yet, I couldn’t remain a silent witness and watch Agarwalla stab the Pakrashis in the back.
We weren’t supposed to know, but I learnt later that the Pakrashi business empire wasn’t as powerful as it appeared from the outside. Without this German collaboration its foundations would have been shaken. Anindo never got to know, but by ensuring his presence beside her that evening, Karabi had managed to protect the Pakrashis from Agarwalla.
The newspapers carried the photograph: Madhab Pakrashi signing the memorandum of understanding with the German company. Anindo Pakrashi could be seen to his left. The photograph made Karabi cry with joy.
It could have ended there. Anindo Pakrashi could have faded out of Karabi’s life and Shahjahan Hotel. At least, that would have been the natural outcome. But no one had reckoned with the events that followed.
I was surprised at Anindo, though. Had it not been for Karabi, the papers would have carried Mr Agarwalla’s photograph instead of Madhab Pakrashi’s. But Anindo didn’t even express his gratitude to Karabi. And, more surprisingly, Karabi didn’t seem upset about it either. I had expected her to discuss the matter with me, to show her disappointment, at least. But nothing.
As a matter of fact, I had understood very little of what was happening. But one evening when Mrs Pakrashi entered the hotel, dressed in a silk sari, wearing dark glasses and carrying a white vanity bag, everything became clear to me. Mrs Pakrashi hadn’t been seen in the hotel for a while, perhaps the German guests’ presence had made her visits impossible. Now that they had left, and perhaps because Madhab Pakrashi was in Delhi or Bombay with Anindo, she was here. And fortunately, suite number one was unoccupied, too.
Mrs Pakrashi seemed disappointed to see me at the counter. ‘Where’s Mr Bose?’ she asked.
‘He’s resting in his room. May I help you?’
‘I need to talk to him.’
I went to fetch Bose-da. ‘Why didn’t you ask when she wants the room? Why bother me?’ he complained.
‘She’s your client,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t want to deal with me.’
Mrs Pakrashi walked towards us as soon as she saw Bose-da. I left them and came back to the counter. After sometime Bose-da came up to me and said, ‘Give me the key to suite number one.’ Both of them disappeared upstairs.
The hands of the clock turned slowly, as I waited anxiously for
them. Almost an hour later, Mrs Pakrashi left, hissing like a wounded snake. As soon as she departed Bose-da sent for me.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘Any special arrangement for Mrs Pakrashi?’ I asked.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Bose-da, looking worried. ‘What’s going on? I’m sure you know, though you haven’t told me.’ I looked at him blankly. ‘I’m asking about Karabi and Anindo. How did they manage to go this far?’
‘Meaning?’
‘I’m sure you’ve seen everything so there’s no point concealing anything from you. Anindo wants to marry Karabi. The Prince of Madhab Industries is madly in love with the hostess of suite number two at Shahjahan Hotel.’
I cannot explain why, but I felt elated. Anindo and Karabi! Why ever not? If there was one person who could offer Anindo some shade from the searing heat of life it was Karabi. And if Anindo could water the arid desert of Karabi’s heart and make it bloom, surely this world would be a more beautiful place.
Bose-da said, ‘We’re going to be in trouble. We’ve never been in such a sticky situation before. Mrs Pakrashi thinks Karabi is trying to blackmail Anindo. She believes Karabi has taken advantage of his naiveté to get him into a compromising situation, and is now trying to cash in on that.’
‘But where do we come into the picture?’ I stammered.
‘Mrs Pakrashi has a soft corner for us. For whatever reason, she’s partial to this hotel. Besides, she’s come to us in a crisis—you must help even your enemies if they are in trouble.’
‘Help?’
‘She’s requested us to have a word with Karabi. I told her that is neither possible nor appropriate. Now she wants to talk to Karabi herself.’
I was silent. Bose-da said, ‘I’ve told her. You’re the only one in this hotel Karabi talks to.’
‘Why, what about Nityahari, he’s so much older than we are,’ I said, trying to wriggle out. But without success.
‘Are you mad?’ asked Bose-da. ‘Nobody but you, me, Karabi and Mrs Pakrashi must know about this.’
I had to agree. Karabi was alone in suite number two. She had a volume of poetry on her lap. Raising her eyes she asked, a la Banalata Sen, ‘And where have you been?’
‘Where do you suppose?’ I laughed. ‘Running up and down the six storeys of Shahjahan.’
‘After ages, I’m not busy,’ said Karabi. ‘I don’t have a single guest. Since his failure to checkmate the Pakrashis, Agarwalla hasn’t visited. I telephoned him but was told he’s reeling from a simultaneous attack of high blood pressure and diabetes. So I’m going to spend some time happily reading poetry, singing, going out, doing as I please.’
I had to get to the point. ‘I have a request.’
‘Request?’ She looked surprised.
‘Yes, you’re free to say no. But there’s a condition. You can’t tell anyone—not even Anindo.’
Her face grew pale on hearing Anindo’s name. She forced the words out, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I accept your condition.’
‘I haven’t much idea either. All I know is that Mrs Pakrashi wants to meet you.’
Mrs Pakrashi had suggested that they meet not at the Shahjahan but somewhere else. Karabi didn’t agree. She wasn’t used to leaving the hotel, she said. Mrs Pakrashi had burst into peals of laughter when she heard this. ‘I see. Since I’m the one in a spot, I have to accept her terms. But I hope she will keep this meeting a secret.’
‘You remember your promise, don’t you?’ I asked Karabi.
‘We’re infamous hostesses of famous hotels. We work for Marwaris to ensure square meals for our families. How can our word be worth anything?’ she said sadly.
Mrs Pakrashi’s arrival at the hotel that day is indelibly inscribed in my memory. The very same Karabi who had made others’ fortunes by playing host to the rich and famous was a pale shadow of herself. ‘I don’t feel comfortable,’ she told me. ‘I want you to be present.’
‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘I’d rather wait for you outside.’
The resident goddess of Madhab Industries turned up at the hotel not in her own car, but in a taxi. She hadn’t expected to run into the reporter Bose at the entrance.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘PTI says you’ve changed your plans to attend the social work seminar in Paris at the very last moment.’
Mrs Pakrashi chuckled and said casually, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bose. Mrs Lakshmivati Patel of Bombay has agreed to represent India at the seminar.’
‘That’s all very good, but who will compensate for your presence and how it would have glorified this city of ours?’
‘It’s your love and affection that sustain me. Do pray that I recover quickly.’
Getting rid of the reporter, Mrs Pakrashi asked me anxiously, ‘I hope that bitch is there.’
In just ten minutes, maybe even less, Mrs Pakrashi emerged from suite number two. Bose-da escorted her outside and saw her into a taxi. He came back and said to me, ‘Tell Karabi she had better listen to Mrs Pakrashi—or else. The lady wanted me to let her know.’
Karabi was waiting for me. She had nobody to call her own. I was lonely, too, but for some reason Karabi’s condition upset me no end. Why did she have to get herself embroiled in this unpleasant situation? And wasn’t there anyone else she could have turned to for advice? What counsel could the youngest clerk at Shahjahan offer to solve this oldest of problems?
Karabi looked at me and couldn’t contain herself any longer. Breaking down she said, ‘What have I let myself in for?’
Have you ever heard the cry of a lonely woman hurt in love? It’s not a very uncommon sight in this misery-infested world. I’ve heard it many times and, remarkably, it’s the same each time. I do not have the words to describe the despair, the helplessness. Only Beethoven or Mozart or Wagner could have given it form in melody; perhaps Saratchandra, Tagore or Dickens could have described it in words. The bricks in the walls of suite number two seemed to echo her anguish: what have I let myself in for?
What indeed? You fell in love. Unknown to all of us, you gave your heart to a decent and handsome young man. You had assumed that he too was enamoured of you—that he too felt the same about you. And then? You didn’t realize that things had gone this far. Anindo did not tell you that he had spoken to his family, informed them of his intentions to take this relationship further. But Mrs Pakrashi, unaware of your ignorance, had proceeded to give you that most unexpected piece of information, in her own inimitable manner.
‘I’m warning you,’ she had threatened, ‘I will not tolerate the slightest harm to Pakrashi Industries. Anindo is young, he doesn’t understand. But you are old enough, experienced, don’t you realize the consequences? Heaven knows why the Germans had to be put up here. How much money do you need to forget all this?’
Karabi had stared at Mrs Pakrashi in shock. ‘Money?’ she had stammered.
‘Yes, that’s all there is to it, isn’t it? That’s why you created this situation; that’s why I couldn’t go to Paris,’ Mrs Pakrashi had replied. And then theatrically she had cried out, ‘I wonder how God could have created a woman like you!’
Karabi couldn’t believe her ears.
And as a parting shot Mrs Pakrashi had added, ‘Don’t forget, you’ve promised not to let Anindo know any of this. And don’t raise the price because I came all the way to see you. Think it over. I’ll be in touch.’
A bewildered Karabi, hurt by the accusations, sobbed her heart out. ‘How come he never told me? Shouldn’t he have discussed this with me? How did he know I would agree?’
‘Perhaps your eyes gave you away,’ I tried to comfort her.
‘I saw it in his eyes too.’ Even at the time Karabi could only think of Anindo, she had no time to consider Mrs Pakrashi’s warning.
I couldn’t offer any advice. I knew how powerful the Pakrashis were. Who knew what fate had in store for Karabi. I went back to my room. The gramophone was playing in Gomez’s room, which was surprising
because he was supposed to be playing at Mumtaz.
I found Gomez in bed. ‘I’m not well, I’ve been throwing up,’ he told me. ‘So I couldn’t go and play. I’m listening to Mozart’s violin concerto. He wrote just five of those.’ I felt his forehead. He had a high fever but oblivious to that, kept talking. ‘All five were composed in Salzburg, in 1775. Would anyone believe that a nineteen-year-old boy composed this?’
‘Don’t work yourself up, please rest,’ I told him.
‘Listen,’ Gomez whispered. ‘If you want to discover the most secret sorrows of this planet, listen closely to Mozart’s concertos.’
I didn’t have to listen to a record. The sorrowful song of the heart in suite number two still resounded in my head.
Nityahari asked me the next day, ‘What’s the matter? Karabi devi didn’t bother to approve my linen today; she didn’t even scold the flower man.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. After all these years at Shahjahan I can sense trouble before it gets here. You may not believe me, but I can smell it.’
Later, when I went to the reception, I ran into Phokla Chatterjee. ‘Is that person in Agarwalla’s guest house a woman or a cobra? She doesn’t care for anybody. Agarwalla himself asked me to escort a gentleman to her, but she kicked us out. This is the problem with Indian firms—no such thing as discipline. There are so many guest houses like this in the UK and the US—would any call girl there dare to do such a thing?’
Since we did not respond, he went away in a huff.
‘Any idea what’s going on?’ Bose-da asked.
‘I don’t think anybody does,’ I said.
Karabi didn’t, either. She hadn’t even found the time to comb her hair. When I met her in her room, she said, like a child, ‘If someone loves me and I love him, what’s wrong with marrying him?’ I was silent. Almost to herself she continued, ‘What do we care what people say?’ Then turning to me, ‘They’ll condemn it, they will mock us—the prince of the Pakrashi empire has married Agarwalla’s hostess, they’ll laugh.’
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