Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  Hobbs paused, turned to me and said, ‘In independent India women have equal rights as men, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said.

  Hobbs started laughing. ‘Let me ask you a question. Tell me, in which field has women’s freedom not yet been acknowledged?’ I looked at him. He said, ‘Ask Sohrabji, he’ll tell you immediately that the last bastion of anti-feminism is the hotel. The bar licence says that no unaccompanied woman will be allowed to enter. In your country, women can go anywhere alone, even if they climb Mount Everest no one will object, but even today no woman is allowed to enter a bar by herself. There’s no problem if she has a man with her—then she can enjoy her drinks as long as she wants to.

  ‘Some woman should protest against this law which denies the freedom promised in the Constitution. But it’s an old law, and those who drew it up had a different objective in mind. There are women who frequent bars for a different reason. They do it even today, as you can tell if you go into any of those seedy ones. Displaying their wares, women from all over the world wait to net the big fish. It’s probably not a bad law, but some people are making a living off it. Poor young Anglo-Indian men stand around in clean clothes, waiting to catch the girls. “Hello Dolly, you must take me in this evening, I’ll wait as long as you want me to.” Dolly says, “I’ve promised Peter’s mother I’ll take Peter as my escort. I’ll have to pay only a rupee.” “I’ll come for twelve annas, I need the money,” says the young fellow. “That’s shameful,” says Dolly. “Your rates are even lower than a woman’s. You’re willing to spend hours with me in that den of hoodlums for twelve annas?”

  ‘According to the excise laws, a woman can’t enter many of Calcutta’s bars without such escorts. And that’s how Sohrabji earned his first meal in Calcutta. He told me once that an Anglo-Indian fellow had given him his first break. He was young and the law stated that one couldn’t go into a bar with an escort his age. But Hafezji wasn’t such a stickler for the law—he didn’t worry about the escort’s age. He knew very well that younger escorts came cheaper, which meant smaller expenses for the poor girls. All he said was don’t do that one horrible thing, don’t share a lemonade. That ruins our reputation—so make sure you have at least two bottles in front of you.

  ‘One day while he was roaming the streets of Calcutta looking for a job, Sohrabji met a young chap on Dharmatala Street who was looking for a substitute. This fellow used to take a young girl called Cynthia to the bar every day, sit with her until a customer swallowed the bait and the rate was fixed, whereupon he settled the stranger in his chair and disappeared. That day, however, he was going to Kharagpur to request someone he knew in the rail factory there for a job.

  ‘The young man told Sohrabji, “This is just for a week, though. You’ll have to push off when I get back. Better not make a fuss then. A couple of fellows tried to play dirty in the past. Just because the girl spoke to them sweetly or gave them a cigarette, they started getting ideas. Don’t make that mistake or I will thrash you proper—remember, if a couple of your teeth are knocked off, they won’t grow back.”

  ‘Sohrabji agreed. At least he’d have a meal for the next few days. So he was introduced to Cynthia and he escorted her to a bar, feeling a little apprehensive at first. He had never been in such an environment in his life. There was so much smoke, it felt as though the place was on fire. In the distance a three-member band played some music, occasionally signalling to the girls: “Don’t just sit there guzzling lemonade, come here and dance; our bar can’t afford to employ dancers.”

  ‘Sohrabji noticed many other couples like themselves. Looking at the clock on the wall, Cynthia crossed her legs, blew a cloud of smoke and said, “This is how it’ll be till nine o’clock, and then the customers will come. Let’s see if you’re lucky for me—maybe I’ll get a customer right away. I didn’t even get a good spot today—come a little late and the best spots are taken by the other girls. The sailors prefer the corners. Only when those are full will they come this way.” Blowing out more smoke, she continued, “But to get the best seats you need to come here by seven-thirty. I don’t have much patience, I can’t sit for hours. Maybe I could give a little money to Rahim—but I have to pay him one rupee a month anyway, how much more can I give?”

  ‘Sohrabji’s throat was parched. He took another sip of his lemonade. Cynthia tapped his arm. “Are you planning to ruin me, man? Who knows how long we’ll have to wait, and you’ve finished half a glass already. If we have to get another one you’ll have to pay for it—I don’t earn enough to blow it up without a customer in sight.”

  ‘Sohrabji didn’t say another word. He was most uncomfortable. The smell of tobacco was making him sick. Finally, a couple of sailors, enormously tall, their heads almost touching the beams of the ceiling, walked in. Cynthia left her chair and rushed towards them, but the fish didn’t take her bait. Back at her table, she waited till her breathing had returned to normal, then blew some smoke in Sohrabji’s face. He paid no attention, he kept watching his glass.

  ‘Cynthia said, “All right, you can have another sip. From tomorrow, drink two or three glasses of water before you leave home, there’s no telling how long you have to wait. If you’re lucky you can leave with your money in an hour.” She would have said more, but suddenly she turned pale. Someone seemed to have corked the wild enthusiasm in the hall. The bearers quickly went around the tables making sure all the girls had companions. Otherwise the government officials would get them into trouble. They turned up sometimes, acting on a whim, just to check if there were any girls sitting alone.

  ‘Sohrabji heard the manager say, “You can see for yourself, sir, everyone has an escort, genuine customers.”

  ‘The inspector came and stood beside Cynthia and Sohrabji. Cynthia was used to all this. She casually blew out a cloud of smoke and started playing with Sohrabji’s fingers. “What happened after that, John?” she said as if they had been having a conversation.

  ‘The poor fellow had no idea what to do. Cynthia hadn’t warned him either. She looked at him and winked, and somehow, he managed to nod. The inspector probably guessed what was going on. “Absolutely fresh, eh?”

  ‘The manager said, “What are you saying, sir? Genuine customer...he comes quite frequently.”

  ‘The inspector whispered to the manager, “Of course, there’s no better place for a bottle of lemonade in Calcutta, is there?” and moved away.

  ‘A little later Cynthia got a customer and Sohrabji left with his payment, as the newcomer to Hafezji’s bar took his place.

  ‘The next day he met Cynthia again. “You’re lucky for me,” she said. “That chap last night let me drink to my heart’s content and didn’t skimp on his payment either. He made it worth the effort. If I got such customers every night, I would have nothing to worry about.”

  ‘Sohrabji went back to the bar, sipping his lemonade by Cynthia’s side and praying for a customer. That evening, too, his luck held. No sooner had he taken his first sip of the lemonade than a stranger arrived and chose Cynthia as his drinking companion. Sohrabji was about to abandon his glass and walk off when Cynthia said, “Finish your lemonade before you go.”

  ‘The next day when Sohrabji met Cynthia she said to him, “You’re really lucky for me. You know what happened last evening? I left with the customer in a taxi, but I was back in an hour—he had a train to catch. I was sorry I let you go, I could have gone in and sat down once more. Anyway, I thought I would go in alone, but the manager lost his nerve. The excise inspectors were turning up frequently, he said, and they could create trouble. Besides, you’ve had one round, give your sisters a chance, he told me and sent me home.”

  ‘Then Cynthia took out some money from her bag—it was more than was agreed on—and said to Sohrabji, “Don’t be such a wimp. Ask the customer for a tip before you leave. Even I will tell him, give my man some money—we’re decent people, our parents don’t know we’re here, if you don’t pay him he’ll tell them and I won’t be able to
face them after that.”

  ‘But Sohrabji couldn’t bring himself to ask for a tip. He simply sat and watched the bar. He got acquainted with the owner and saw how some police officers came to the bar under the cover of night. Hafezji would rush around, attending to their needs, asking them if they wanted a drink. The officers would then ask for the bar inspection book and make an entry: Inspected the bar at 11 p.m. Mr Hafezji was in personal attendance. Place full of customers. All ladies had escorts. Nothing unusual to report.

  ‘Even today the same comment is put down in the record books of Calcutta’s bars.’ After that aside Hobbs continued his tale. ‘A few days later Cynthia’s former companion came back, but Cynthia refused to give up her new escort. “I’m not letting such a lucky fellow go,” she declared.

  ‘But Sohrabji wouldn’t agree. “It’s not right. If I take away his job God will be displeased.”

  ‘And the gods must have looked his way for Cynthia’s lucky escort got a job at Hafezji’s bar. When the bar opened in the morning, he hardly had anything to do, since the bar was more or less empty. Even if a couple of people turned up, they left after a peg or two. In the afternoon some more people came—mostly from the suburbs. They didn’t have the time to enjoy lovely Calcutta in the evening. But at night, when Hafezji sat at the counter himself, the atmosphere of the bar changed dramatically.’

  Suddenly, Hobbs looked at his watch. ‘I’m not holding you up, am I?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you I’d never have got the chance to know Sohrabji.’

  ‘I can’t say I know him myself,’ said Hobbs shaking his head. ‘If I hadn’t seen him here today, he might have remained just another person I knew. But now he’s made me curious.’

  ‘You’re turning Sohrabji into the hero of a novel.’

  ‘You never know...every brick in this hotel has a novel in it.’

  He picked up the threads of the story again. ‘People get garrulous in their old age. When the ability to think disappears, they begin to quote others. It’s like an illness. I feel like doing the same. Sata once told me, “A bar is a bank where anything you deposit, you lose: whether it’s your money, your time, your character, your self-control, your children’s happiness, even your soul.” Everything is written off. But one person profits, and that’s the bar owner. The money that others spend is deposited in his bank.

  ‘I didn’t know when Madan became Sohrabji. I didn’t meet him for years. Then, many years later, I ran into him at the Dharmatala crossing. When he saw me he rushed towards me and took my hands. He told me he had left Hafezji’s bar.

  ‘“Why? Did you have a fight?”

  ‘“No, God has smiled upon me—I’ve opened my own bar.”

  ‘“A bar? But that costs a lot of money.”

  ‘“If you have God’s blessing you need nothing. I got a bar on Dharmatala Street itself. The owner was ill, he had to go back to England, so he made me his partner. I’m going to look after the bar, and send him a share of the profits.”

  ‘He persuaded me to go to his bar with him and showed me around. “This is a much quieter place,” he said. “Not like the other one.” I saw many people sitting around, drinking, but without any noise or trouble at all.

  ‘“I’ve also changed my name,” he said. “Since I’m going to be involved with the liquor business, sharab as we call it, I’m Sohrabji now.”

  “‘But it’s not enough to be involved with the business, you have to be involved with liquor too,” I said jokingly.

  ‘He looked embarrassed. “Oh no, I’ve never touched alcohol in my life. I’ve poured out thousands of pegs for others, but I don’t know what it tastes like.”

  ‘I met him again when he invited me to his wedding. “The girl I’m marrying is a little scared, poor thing...after all, I work in a bar,” he said shyly.

  ‘I used to see his wife frequently at the market—nice girl. “You do the shopping yourself?” I asked her one day.

  ‘Mrs Sohrabji replied, “Who’s going to do it if I don’t—the poor man just doesn’t have the time. It’s because I do the shopping myself that the stuff is fresh, the customers praise it, and besides, the prices are low. If I leave it to someone else, they will charge more and cheat on the weight.”

  ‘“Do you help your husband at the bar too?” I asked.

  ‘“That’s the problem,” she said. “He just won’t allow it. I do the shopping and fix the menu, then he takes everything over to the bar. The days he’s held up, he sends a helper over. If nobody comes I telephone him, but I do not take it myself. You can go anywhere in the world you like, he says, but not to my bar.”

  ‘“And you’ve accepted that without a murmur?”

  ‘She was probably a little embarrassed, but because she knew what my relationship with her husband was, she whispered with a shy smile, “I protest. But he says, you’re going to have a baby, the air in the bar might harm our soon-to-arrive guest.”’

  Hobbs was getting a little breathless. He took a few deep breaths before continuing. ‘I heard that Sohrabji had had a child; I also heard that he had bought the bar. His partner wasn’t coming back so he had bought out his share with his meagre savings and by selling his wife’s jewellery. I met him again at the bar one evening. Like always he thanked me profusely, “All this was possible only because of you, please treat the bar as your own. My bar is not like Hafezji’s. I give good stuff, I don’t mix water, I don’t allow women either, and yet I get no peace,” he said almost sadly.

  ‘“Why?” I asked.

  ‘“My bar closes at ten-thirty. But those who park themselves here in the afternoon warm up as the evening progresses. With the first drink it’s health, with the second it’s happiness, with the third it’s shame and with the fourth it’s madness. I don’t like it. Some problem or the other crops up every day. My bar has a fairly good reputation—only those who want to drink in peace visit it, but in spite of that there are rows sometimes.”

  ‘I was a witness to one incident myself. While we were talking, a bearer came up and said, “A gentleman in the cabin is asking for you.” Sohrabji went to find out what it was all about. I followed. The brown sahib scowled and said, “Dis drink not good—got water.”

  ‘“What do you mean?” Sohrabji was indignant. “I don’t cheat my customers. If you like I’ll send the bottle; the bearer will pour the drink in front of you.”

  ‘“Had five pegs already,” the customer replied, “but still feel like a monk.”

  ‘“I’m familiar with such cases—we get one or two every day. Of course, newcomers won’t know what’s going on,” Sohrabji said as we went to the bar counter.

  ‘He picked out a bottle of whiskey and carried it to the cabin. “We get our stuff directly. If you like, I’ll take the seal off in front of you and serve it.”

  ‘I was standing outside. Now the customer came to the point. “Want girl.”

  Hobbs laughed. ‘Sohrabji’s reply, in broken English, would have earned worldwide fame if it had reached the ears of a writer. The customer was persistent. He grabbed Sohrabji’s hands and said, “Please...pleasure girl.”

  ‘Sohrabji began to advise him. “Girls here no good. House girls, in your family, far, far better; hotel girls take all money.” To make his point clear he started gesticulating, “Street girls don’t love you, they love your moneybag. House girls—my sister in your house—she love you. If she hear, she weep.” He even contrived a few tears. The guest seemed a little embarrassed. He hurriedly settled his bill and walked out without leaving a tip.

  ‘Sohrabji looked at me. “You see?” he said. “Earlier when I was alone, I could take it. But now I’m getting older, I have a daughter. I find it very hard to bear.”

  ‘I left without a word. Later I heard that his bar was doing well. It had a huge stock—liquor you couldn’t get anywhere else was available there. And that too at fair prices. “I do my business honestly,” Sohrabji would say. “The good lord above will lo
ok after me.” The next time I saw him he was standing forlornly on the road; I was driving by. I stopped the car and asked him, “What’s the matter?”

  ‘“Can you tell me why people lose their heads when they drink?” he asked.

  ‘“The effect of the chemical reaction from the alcohol, perhaps,” I said.

  ‘“I’ve learnt my lesson!” he cried. “I’m never going to say anything to those drunkards again. They come to the bar together, they sit and drink together, then they start quarrelling among themselves. The other night, at about nine o’clock, two men were shouting at the tops of their voices, banging their glasses on the table, singing songs. And another group—they’re my best customers, their bills amount to three–four hundred rupees every day—was sitting in the next cabin. One of them came up to me and said, ‘Your bar’s becoming a hooch joint—decent people will stop coming here. You’ve started entertaining people from Hafezji’s pick-up bar. Unless you keep them under control, we won’t come here again.’ I had no choice but to go up to the two rowdies. By then they were broadcasting cricket commentary over the radio. India had scuttled out the MCC in one over and put Australia in the next. One of them was saying that wasn’t allowed, while his companion said he would do as he liked, no one need interfere. This was followed by a barrage of filthy abuses. I was forced to say, you can’t behave like this, you’re disturbing other customers. The man burst into tears immediately, called all the others and complained, he’s threatening to throw me out because I’m drunk—look at the nerve of this man, just because he’s the bar owner! Some of the other customers took his side immediately and started shouting, ‘How dare you, we are leaving right now. What does he expect us to do after drinking—read the scriptures instead of enjoying ourselves?’”

  ‘Sohrabji’s eyes brimmed over. “You know what the funny thing was? Those who had originally complained also left their tables and walked out. I pleaded with them, told them it was because of their complaint that I had warned him. Do you know what they said? ‘We’re drunk, even if we did say something you cannot insult one of our brothers. Who do you think you are? Do you think there are no other bars in Calcutta? We’ll make sure no one visits your bar—we’ll resort to picketing if necessary.’ My bar’s been closed for nearly three weeks now—nobody comes any more. Finally, I decided to go to this gentleman’s house. I managed to get hold of his address and visited him today. I apologized to him profusely, saying, if I’ve made a mistake I beg your pardon for it—but you asked me to stop the noise, that’s why I requested them to quieten down. The man was satisfied and has agreed to bring his group again. But he’s warned me, never trust a drunk again and insult anyone at his behest.”’