Today it amuses me to recollect those words. Thinking of Sujata Mitra and Sata Bose makes me feel warm inside and at the same time an overwhelming emptiness assails me. On lonely evenings, I can, as it were, see Sujata Mitra in close-up. My ageing eyes yearn for that distant past. Then I realize this kind of restlessness is quite unbecoming of someone as old as I am. A very dear person chides me good-naturedly, ‘I like you, but for this childishness. Even after all these years, you remain a little boy, you haven’t grown up.’ The person who makes this accusation probably wants my mind to overcome its adolescent fancies and indulge in the preoccupations of adulthood. But I believe that I’ve gone straight from adolescence to old age.
I remember telling Sujata-di, when she and Bose-da were back from their scooter ride, one day: ‘You remind me of this poem by Jagannath Chakraborty:
Matching steps are two evening stars
On a scooter,
Red ribbons in her flowing locks
Her back bared by her flying scarf
Bold and undaunted the young scooterist
Sujata-di didn’t let me recite any more, she tweaked my ear instead. ‘It hurts,’ I cried. ‘Let go.’
Bose-da said, ‘Come on...let him have his say.’
‘Where did he get the scarf?’ Sujata-di asked.
It all seems like a dream so many years later. I will eventually have to get to Sujata Mitra’s story. But before that, the cocktail and Mr Sohrabji.
Sohrabji was our new bar manager—an old gentleman, with skin the colour of ripe apples, stooping a little under the weight of his age. Folding his hands in a namaskar and speaking in pure Bengali, he said, ‘Welcome, welcome. With you at my bar I fear nothing.’
‘You know Bengali?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Of course!’ he said, tightening the buckle on his white trousers. Patting my shoulder, he explained, ‘I came to Calcutta when I was just fourteen. You probably weren’t even born then.’
‘The thought of the excise registers scares me. They have to be maintained properly, I am told,’ I said.
Removing his thick glasses, he smiled pleasantly and said, ‘I’m not afraid of them. As long as I don’t try to avoid taxes, don’t mix water with my drinks, don’t let dubious women sit alone at the bar, why should I fear the excise department?’
Sohrabji had arranged all the bottles in the bar himself. While Ram Singh looked on, he held up a bottle to the light with a practised hand. Then he checked the stock against the records and looked up suspiciously. ‘The books say four pegs, Ram Singh,’ he said, ‘but it looks more like five pegs to me.’
Ram Singh was taken aback. ‘We measure it by hand, sir, maybe it gets a little less or a little more at times.’
‘That won’t do,’ he said. ‘No one should be served either more or less.’ He turned to me. ‘When we came into this line nobody cared for a peg or two more or less. But what cost six rupees then is not available at eighty-six rupees today. So giving a customer even a drop less now is to cheat him.’ Grimly, he started rummaging among the bottles himself. Then, leaving me alone at the bar, he went to the cellar.
The cellar was a hundred-and-fifty-year-old room in the bowels of the earth, closed to the public. In the corners of that dark cellar were some bottles which Simpson had put in there himself.
Hobbs had interesting stories to tell about the cellar and its contribution to Calcutta’s hoary past. A young English commander in a solar hat and khaki shorts had disembarked from his ship at Chandpal Ghat and spent his first night in Hindustan at Shahjahan Hotel. To provide the lonely soldier company, a bottle of Scotch was brought out from this very cellar. Even after the sailing boats on the Ganga gave way to mechanized ships, the festive nights came alive with liquor from Shahjahan. Then, a group of people arrived in Calcutta with maps in their hands. Their leader, McDonald Stephenson, put up at Spencer’s Hotel while the rest of the team stayed at Shahjahan. They sat at the bar all day and night, and drew up their plans. The barmen whispered among themselves that those mad Englishmen were going to bring mechanized transport from their country. They would put shackles on the feet of all Indians and build iron roads, on which enormous giants would run about one day. The Englishmen had captured the giants and imprisoned them in iron safes, so they wouldn’t be able to do anything except sigh occasionally—and their dark breath would burn India’s lovely villages and golden crops to a cinder. The Englishmen knew this would happen, and felt sad about it sometimes, which was why they were drunk from morning till night. The Englishmen left, and a pall of gloom descended on the bar. Then the unthinkable happened. Palmer and Company went bankrupt, turning many emperors into paupers overnight. To comfort the hordes of bankrupt kings, bottles of liquor—brandy, whiskey and gin—emerged once again from the cellar of Shahjahan. Under its spell, Calcutta forgot everything once again. New governors came, and the old bottles were opened to drink to the newcomers’ health.
Then one day, the top brass of the Shahjahan found themselves in despair. A new machine had come to Spencer’s—a lift. Nobody would have to climb stairs any more. Of course, at Spencer’s it was only for the ladies. Laughing merrily, they entered a cage and sat down, and two bearers pulled them up with ropes and pulleys. Would anyone visit the old-fashioned, lift-less Shahjahan any more? While they fretted about this, whiskey was placed before them, specially bottled in Scotland for the Shahjahan.
Thus it was that the new century dawned over Shahjahan. Times changed, viewpoints changed, fashions changed. The king, the owner of the hotel, the barman, the barmaid—all of them had gone, but the whiskey hadn’t changed. ‘The sun and the moon in the sky above and whiskey below—these are things that will never change,’ Hobbs had once said to me. He was the one who told me that one bottle from the case of red wine that Simpson had left in Shahjahan was opened when Lord Curzon had set foot in our hotel. The remaining bottles were still enjoying their century-long slumber, awaiting the arrival of another illustrious guest.
By the time Sohrabji returned from the cellar it was afternoon. The lunch crowds had thinned. A few men from Clive Street were sitting in a drunken haze in one corner. They had come for lunch, but after drinks, had forgotten their office addresses. Summoning the bearer, they asked him, ‘Do you know? Got it all mixed up.’
‘How would I know where you work, sir?’ the poor bearer said to them.
Still in a haze, they sent for me. ‘Why do you employ these good-for-nothing fellows?’ one of them said.
Sohrabji came forward and told them where they worked.
One of them started in surprise. ‘Of course! I’m the managing director there. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half trying to remember where I work.’
After he left, I asked Sohrabji, ‘How could you tell?’
‘I know practically all of them. We have to know not just their office addresses, but also their home addresses, since they are frequently unable to go home at night on their own. There’s no problem if they have chauffeurs, but many of them drive themselves. In that case the cars are left behind and they’re dropped home in taxis.’
There was no more time to chat; there was too much to do for the evening party.
If one wanted to get a taste of old-world culture one had to get invited to a cocktail party at Shahjahan. Mrs Pakrashi’s party offered me that experience.
Sohrabji whispered in my ear, ‘There are four chapters to a cocktail party. In the first hour, it’s breaking the ice; in the second, beginning to feel nice; in the third, tongues become loose; in the fourth, the senses feel the booze.’
During chapter one everything’s hunky dory. The guests are easy and normal. ‘How do you do?’ ‘Where’s Mrs Sen, has she gone and joined a monastery?’ ‘Poor Mr Sen, this is a dangerous age for women—a little indifference and the lady of the home gives her heart to a mission.’ ‘Unbearable! Anyway, Mrs Pakrashi has finally managed to pull it off! She should have got Anindo married two years ago. Look at the West, the average marriageab
le age is continuously going down, sixteen–seventeen-year-old boys and girls are getting married, setting up home and going straight off to maternity homes, whereas here in India, the age for marriage is going up. Soon an anti-spinster act will have to be passed.’ ‘Congratulations, Mrs Pakrashi, what about a drink?’
‘In a minute, Mr Banerjee, I’ll have an orange squash, but that shouldn’t hold you back. Please drink to a happy life for the two of them. Do carry on, there’s a champagne cocktail as well. Ah! Mr Agarwalla’s over there all by himself, he’s done so much for us, a real friend.’
As soon as she left, I heard Banerjee say, ‘Hello PK, I can’t make head or tail of Mrs Pakrashi’s parties. They should have insisted on evening dress—but no, it’s lounge suits. Bad. After all, the dignity of a party can’t be maintained unless you’re in a formal suit. Calcutta’s going down the drain. Any day now you’ll find a clerk from your office drinking next to you, but you won’t be allowed to protest.’
Chapter two is a little complicated. At that point it’s ‘I could have danced all night.’ ‘Heaven knows why we’re letting ourselves be boiled in these suits and ties, what’s all this formality in aid of?’ ‘Boy, barman, come here—make two Rob Roys: Scotch, brandy and ABT. Quick, barman.’ ‘Seen Mrs Anindo?’ ‘Ah, yes...the doe-eyed beauty...flaunts her sublime curves as she speaks.’
Chapter three opens when, thanks to the whiskey, sons and families have been renounced. There are verbal pyrotechnics all around. ‘Do you know how silly my wife is? She starts crying if she hears I’ve been drinking. What kind of stupidity is that? Honestly, She’s a complete a-double-ess!’ ‘So is Madhab Pakrashi, which is why he’s gone for a Bengali girl—this fragile doll will make the young fellow’s life miserable. Yes sir, if you have to marry it should be someone from up north. They are wonderful! Those girls realize the value of liquor. Tagore understood them, why else would he have chosen Punjab of all states to lead the rest in the national anthem? Punjab, Sindhu, Gujarat, Maratha, Dravida, Utkal, Banga—he’s arranged them perfectly according to merit. There you are, see how Rajpal is downing peg after peg happily with Mrs Rajpal right next to him?’ ‘What are they drinking? Paradise? Wonderful—gin, apricot and orange—heavenly! The person who christened it had fire in his belly, and that solitary beauty, what is she having? She’ll write an article about Anindo’s wife in a Bombay fashion magazine.’ ‘What? A White Lady—gin and lime? Poor girl, she looks heartbroken! May her lonely eyes find someone, may her lips grow redder, give her a glass of Pink Lady. It’ll glow like fluorescent paint.’ ‘What’s happened to you, brother? Why have you retired? Don’t tell me you’ve also joined the ranks of the fashionable lime juice brigade? Don’t be stupid, you don’t often get chances like this, people don’t invite you to champagne cocktails every day. Remember, twelve rupees a peg—knock it back; forget the invitations in those eyes and the smile on those tempting lips and take a dip in the sea of champagne.’
In the fourth and final chapter, the number of players is much smaller. Many have been bowled out during the third innings. The hosts want to leave, too, but can’t make their escape. Some guests show no sign of abandoning their glasses. In their drunken stupor, some have chosen the path of non-violent non-cooperation, while others resemble a bull in a china shop. Glasses are being smashed, empty bottles are being thrown around, nobody knows what’s happening. Mrs Pakrashi had already left with her husband, while the PRO of Madhab Industries had stayed back to clear the bill and, if necessary, handle the police. One by one, they depart, leaving the hall nearly empty. But there are still a couple of people who don’t want to go.
‘It’s time to close the bar, sir,’ said the PRO.
‘Shut up! What kind of etiquette is this? Inviting guests and then not giving them what they want?’
The poor PRO stood by quietly, while the guests, to wrap up their evening, downed a few more drinks rapidly before tottering out. Clearing up the shards of glass, a bearer discovered a guest under a table in one corner. When I went up to him I recognized the man immediately—Phokla Chatterjee, sozzled to the gills. Staggering up somehow, he slurred on his way out, ‘Very careful batsman—but since it’s my nephew’s wedding, I chose to throw my wicket away.’
So this was what a cocktail party was like. When Mrs Pakrashi had entered that glittering evening, flanked by her son and daughter-in-law, I hadn’t quite imagined the rest of it.
Anindo Pakrashi was a changed man. He paused briefly on seeing me. Perhaps he wanted to say something, but Mrs Pakrashi told him, ‘You don’t have time to waste chatting, Anindo. The guests are waiting for you.’
I didn’t get another chance to talk to him. I didn’t want to, either. And yet, amidst the waves of light, laughter and the golden haze of sparkling wine, a melancholy woman’s face floated up repeatedly before my eyes.
I may not have profited from Mrs Pakrashi’s party, but the hotel had—it earned a cheque for ten thousand rupees! The excise inspector who had come to examine the accounts said, ‘Wonderful! The more cocktails you have like this, the more both you and the government gain.’
‘The bearers, too,’ said Sohrabji, laughing.
‘Everyone, in fact, except the liver.’ Hearing a new voice I turned around. It was Hobbs.
I hadn’t met him in a long time and was very pleased to see him. Taking off his hat, he said, ‘I came to meet Marco—I need a room for a friend, but he isn’t in.’
‘Why do you need the manager—what are we here for?’ I said.
‘Arrange it, then.’
Hobbs now looked at Sohrabji. He seemed surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’
Sohrabji smiled wanly. ‘It’s all God’s will, what can we do?’ Hobbs stopped. Guessing that he had something to say in private, I went on ahead and opened the register at the counter to check whether Hobbs’s friend could be given a room. Hobbs came up and, placing his hand on my shoulder, said, ‘From what I know of Calcutta’s hotels, the receptionist can always find a room if he wants to.’
Bose-da was also at the counter. ‘Once upon a time it was indeed like that,’ he said. ‘But now, thanks to foreign tourists and business tours and conferences, receptionists no longer wield that kind of influence. The manager himself keeps a hawk’s eye on the bookings.’
However, there was no problem where Hobbs’s friend was concerned. A room was available.
‘How long has Sohrabji been here?’ asked Hobbs.
‘A few days,’ I said.
‘How is his daughter?’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Where’s Marco?’ he asked.
‘He’s gone out.’
‘Ah! He’s probably gone for a Macaulay on Corporation Street.’ I didn’t know there was a drink named after Lord Macaulay. Hobbs smiled and said, ‘If Macaulay, the author of the penal code, had been alive he’d have been shocked. You Bengalis have ruined his name by christening the Ma Kali brand of country hooch Macaulay. Many of your top people prefer Macaulay to Dimple, John Haig and White Horse.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I may as well wait for a while—I do need to see Marco.’
The two of us sat in the lounge. Bose-da came up to us and said, ‘Should I send for some tea or coffee? What else can ordinary hotel workers like us offer?’ Then turning to me, ‘Listen closely to him...there are very few people in the world who know more about hotels than he does.’
‘Fine, let’s have some coffee,’ said Hobbs. ‘I’ve eaten here so many times since the eighth decade of the nineteenth century—one more occasion might as well be added to the list.’
Bose-da ordered coffee for us and went back to the counter. Hobbs leaned forward a little. ‘If some of the best novelists of Europe had stayed here for a few years, they could have written an amazing novel. I’ve seen many hotels of the West, but they cannot be compared to those in the East. From Simpson, Silverton and Horabin to Marco Polo, Juneau and even Sohrabji—all of them are like characters from a sprawling historical novel
.’
Since both of us had some time to spare, the story-telling session warmed up. Sipping his coffee, Hobbs said, ‘I would never have dreamt that Sohrabji would take a job at your hotel. I’ve known him since before World War I—he used to serve at Hafezji’s bar. His real name isn’t Sohrabji—it’s Madan or something like that. He took this name from the Indian word for liquor. I remember a friend of ours reporting him to the excise department.
‘He couldn’t have been more than fourteen then. The poor fellow came crying to me. Boys of that age weren’t allowed to work in bars, so someone had reported him and he was going to lose his job. I felt sorry for him so I managed to get the report suppressed. That’s how long I’ve known him. But he surprised me. Parsis are not normally so poor. They have so many trusts, so many ways to avail of charity that no young lad needs to roam the streets. Which is why I was a little suspicious as well.
‘After the whole thing blew over I went to Hafezji’s bar one evening. There wasn’t much of a crowd. I ordered a smal peg. Sohrabji came running when he saw me and said softly, “If it hadn’t been for your help, I’d have been begging on Chowringhee now.”
‘“Why do you have to work at such a young age?” I asked.
‘In broken English he said, “I am have no one. I was brought up at orphanage. I have no brains...they try so hard, but I couldn’t learn anything.” Some Indian grammarian had been an absolute imbecile in childhood, but with effort he became a scholar. Sohrabji had tried too, but it didn’t work, nothing would get into his head—so he had finally run away.
‘“You could take the help of a trust,” I said.
‘“I can’t,” he said somewhat agitatedly. “How can someone who didn’t get help from his own parents ask others for help? It doesn’t seem right. I’m sure God wants me to help myself, so that’s what I’m going to do.”’
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