Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  He didn’t believe me, but I really didn’t know Sreelekha Devi. I saw her for the first time that night. Bose-da greeted her and gave her her room number after looking it up in the register.

  What she said next astounded us to say the least.

  ‘Can you get me a sari?’

  ‘A sari? At this hour? But all the shops are closed,’ Bose-da replied.

  ‘I came out just as I was. I couldn’t bring any clothes.’

  I like to think of it as my one contribution to the world of films: I woke up an employee of a sari shop I knew in Dharamtala, cajoled him to get the key from the owner, and managed to buy a sari for the most famous actress of the time. A very ordinary sari—but she was grateful.

  Later that night, we were sitting on the terrace when Bose-da smiled, ‘Sreelekha Devi has worn many saris in her life, her saris have sparked off many fashion trends, but I don’t think she’ll ever forget this one. I’m inclined to put down this extraordinary event in my notebook. It’ll come in handy if I ever write my autobiography. Satyasundar Bose will abandon his suit and bow-tie for a dhoti and kurta and turn into a celebrity author overnight. Hundreds of admirers will line up to meet the one and only Sata Bose.’

  ‘Really, why don’t you write a book?’ I asked.

  ‘Writing never got anyone anywhere,’ he said, gazing at the sky. ‘I’ve been told that the written word has wrought many changes in this world, that civilization has often changed course at the behest of authors. But I don’t believe it. I don’t think you can change anything about this blind, dumb, unfeeling society of ours. You can shout from the rooftops, you can write a hundred Mahabharatas, you can bathe evil in thousand-watt light bulbs—but it will all be in vain.’

  I was more than a little surprised. I had no idea there was a cynic lurking within Bose-da. ‘If only we could gaze at the sky for aeons perhaps one day we would find the answer to those eternal questions: why we do what we do, why the so-called pillars of society abandon their souls to crowd our bars and cabarets. Man has devoted himself to conquering poverty and want. Perhaps he reasoned that once the problems of everyday existence were wiped out there would be leisure to address the problems of the soul. And what happened? Those who don’t have to worry about two square meals a day, those who have all they need and more, they are the ones who have become morally bankrupt, who make a fool of themselves under the multicoloured lights of Shahjahan. Ridiculous, ridiculous.’

  I listened to him in rapt attention. ‘In one of his books Aldous Huxley has written about his travels in India,’ Bose-da went on. ‘In the bookshop of some hotel in Bombay, he saw countless books on a particular science. “Rows of them and dozens of copies of each.” Yet it wasn’t as though doctors or scientists interested in the subject bought those books. It’s ordinary people who bought them, said Huxley, and tried to explain it as a “strange, strange phenomenon! Perhaps it is one of the effects of climate.”

  ‘I, too, thought it was the fault of the climate, but later I asked myself, was Huxley’s own country any better? I don’t know the answer to that, but I did find a partial answer in D.H. Lawrence’s writings, for which he can be given at least pass marks, if not full marks: “The God who created man must have a sinister sense of humour, creating him a reasonable being yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance.”’

  That night Bose-da seemed to be intoxicated with words. ‘There’s probably no simple answer, though. The question paper of life is filled with conundrums to fool you. You’ll go mad if you try to decipher them. It might be better to talk about Sreelekha Devi.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to bed?’ I asked.

  ‘I will. But you’re going down for night duty, so you’d better be warned. Sreelekha Devi’s husband might turn up tonight. It seems he’s threatened to throw acid on her face. The poor woman is terrified of him. He had called earlier, remember? I did tell him there are no rooms available, but you can never tell with him. He just might come by. If he does, don’t let him in under any circumstances.’

  He was about to say more, but someone seemed to be approaching us in the darkness. It was Mathura Singh. We had never seen him come to the terrace before. He saluted us and stood there looking forlorn. ‘You haven’t gone to bed yet, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t, Mathura, I’m on night duty.’

  ‘Even if you had, I would have had to wake you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This has never happened before.’

  He told us that Marco Polo had gone out earlier in the evening and hadn’t returned.

  ‘Did he go out all of a sudden?’ I asked Mathura.

  ‘It’s a dry day, sir. He usually goes somewhere for a drink. But sir, in all the years I’ve been here, he’s never been out so late.’

  Bose-da seemed worried too. ‘Now this is a real problem,’ he said. ‘Have you informed Jimmy? He’s the second-in-command at Shahjahan. If anyone is authorized to do anything, it’s him.’

  Mathura knew human nature. Smiling sadly he said, ‘We’re lowly workers, sir, we shouldn’t be saying this, but you know Mr Jimmy—he’ll be the happiest person if the manager were to come to some harm.’

  For a while Bose-da sat in grim silence, then said, ‘You carry on, we’ll see what we can do.’ After Mathura went away, he said, ‘Mathura’s sized up Jimmy perfectly. The man’s greed has no limits—he even makes the bearers share their tips with him. Nobody dares blow the whistle for fear they will lose their jobs. And though Marco Polo knows everything, he doesn’t say anything either. After all, Jimmy is a veteran, he was here even before Marco Polo arrived. And Marco Polo’s lost his old spirit too. He’s changed—he sits by himself all day long and mopes over something. And Jimmy has started resorting to daylight robbery. The only person who keeps track of things is Rosie, but she’s also under Jimmy’s control.’

  ‘Marco’s all alone in a strange land. We should do something; it’s our city, after all.’

  ‘Go downstairs,’ said Bose-da. ‘William Ghosh must have pushed off by now, you’d better hold fort at the counter. And about Marco, let’s wait a little longer. He might get back on his own.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t? You’ll be in bed...’

  Bose-da laughed. ‘I won’t go to sleep. Sleep is like a switch for me. Until I turn it on the fellow dare not show up. You carry on.’

  I went downstairs. William Ghosh had indeed gone, leaving a bearer in charge.

  It was very late. Like the quiet, obedient, well-behaved children of Calcutta, Shahjahan Hotel, too, was asleep. I alone was awake at the counter and, somewhere in the city, so was Marco Polo. Where was he? Had he fallen into the clutches of the police, drinking on a dry day? Drinking itself wasn’t a crime, but getting drunk was.

  I looked at the reservation register. Nobody was scheduled to leave that night, but some guests were due to arrive. A call from Dum Dum Airport a little earlier had informed us that they would be slightly delayed. At that precise moment, a plane was cutting through the inky blackness, carrying passengers from distant lands to Calcutta.

  When the guests finally arrived, the night had progressed considerably along Calcutta’s mysterious roads. Against my wishes, and despite my best efforts, sleep had started gathering about my eyes. I was startled by the sound of a bag being set down. Sleeping at the counter was a major transgression. Straightening up quickly, I saw Sujata Mitra.

  Dressed in a sky-blue sari, her airline uniform presumably, she was smiling at me. ‘Poor fellow,’ she said.

  Embarrassed, I stood upright and wished her a good evening. ‘Good morning is more appropriate,’ she said, holding her watch out towards me.

  Her companions signed the register and went in. ‘You carry on, I’ll be along in a short while,’ Sujata told them. To me she said, ‘I feel bad for you!’

  ‘No, no, I’m not sleepy at all, Miss Mitra,’ I said quickly.

  Widening her large oval eyes, she said with great affec
tion, ‘How sad, you have to talk to me as politely as to a customer!’

  Ignoring her remark I looked at the register. ‘You’ve got a very good room this time, Miss Mitra. Number two thirty. It’s time to dispel the bad impression you must have got of Shahjahan after staying in Bose-da’s room the last time.’

  Sujata was very affable—she had no problem standing around talking to an insignificant hotel employee unlike many of her peers who just walked by, their high heels clicking away. My remark had obviously upset her.

  ‘Your face shows you haven’t been working at a hotel very long,’ she said. ‘So how did you manage to pick up all these sophisticated professional courtesies so soon?’

  I was enjoying the exchange. Her sincerity touched one in spite of oneself. I smiled. ‘The only reason I’ve learnt so much so soon is because of Sata Bose—’

  Sujata didn’t let me finish. She laughed and said, ‘What a strange name! I remember him telling me that night that he used to be Satyasundar. This hotel of yours isn’t a safe place at all. Satyasundar is a far cry from Sata. You’d better be careful. One day you’ll find you’ve become Sanko; maybe foreigners have already started calling you Sanky.’

  I believe I behaved quite childishly. ‘Indeed! I’d like to see someone mess with my name—it’ll be a fight to the finish.’

  Sujata burst out laughing. ‘But your guru has gone and relinquished his.’

  ‘So what! It’s his name—he can do what he likes with it. What business is it of anyone else?’

  Changing the subject, she said, ‘I caused you a lot of trouble last time...I still feel bad thinking about it.’

  She might have said more, but suddenly her expression changed. I hadn’t realized that Bose-da had tiptoed up to the counter and was standing beside us.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ Bose-da was the first to speak. ‘This chap must be talking his head off in the middle of the night. He likes nothing better.’

  ‘Oh yes, and he takes pride in introducing himself as your worthy disciple,’ Sujata laughed. ‘He’s learnt a lot of lip-service from you. You were the one who opened up your room to let me stay that night and now your disciple oozes politeness and tells me, you must have been uncomfortable, this time we’ve got a good room for you.’

  Bose-da did something I never dreamt he would with a lady. Dead serious, he said, ‘And you didn’t even say thanks before leaving.’

  I still remember the smile that appeared on Sujata’s face in reply. It was like the early morning sun spreading its first rays on a snow-capped mountain peak. ‘I know I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Those who give up their rooms of their own accord to unknown guests and stay awake all night are either stubborn or foolish—it’s no use thanking them.’

  ‘Stubborn, foolish, stupid—you’ve managed to call me a lot of names, taking advantage of the fact that you are our guest!’

  ‘Such imagination! Where did the word “stupid” come from?’ Addressing me, she added, ‘Before leaving the other day, I did go up to say thank you, but neither of you was there. Now I see it was just as well—people like you are not worth thanking! You really don’t deserve it.’

  Bose-da apologized. ‘I had no idea you came looking for me.’

  I added, ‘How would you know? If all day you’re bothered only about breakfast, lunch, dinner and banquets or reservations and floor shows, how can you keep track of anything else?’

  ‘Don’t you people ever feel sleepy?’ asked Sujata.

  Bose-da didn’t let the opportunity go by. ‘As Sade has shown, God has given sleep to the unholy so that the innocent are not disturbed.’

  ‘Do both of you stay up all night?’ Sujata wanted to know.

  ‘Bose-da isn’t supposed to tonight,’ I said, ‘but our manager has gone missing.’

  Bose-da turned to me. ‘I was thinking of informing the police, but that’ll lead to complications. Besides, I just spoke to Mathura Singh. He told me that Byron had come by a couple of days ago and the two of them had had a long conversation. Why don’t you go and see him? I would have gone, but I don’t know where he lives. It’ll be very difficult to find his house at this hour. Take a taxi. I’ll manage at the counter.’

  Sujata was listening to our conversation silently. ‘May I say something?’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, take the airline car. I’ll tell the driver—he must be sleeping inside the vehicle.’ Have you ever seen the Calcutta of dark nights and deserted roads? The ferocious trams and buses had fallen asleep, lending the city an unreal calm. A taxi or two could be spotted now and then. I wondered who the passengers were. Only if one of Calcutta’s taxi drivers wrote his autobiography would we ever know!

  From Chittaranjan Avenue our car hit Chowringhee. The neon lights of the night were still dancing like clockwork dolls on an empty stage. I couldn’t help myself. I told the driver to turn right. Behind the iron railings of Curzon Park, Sir Hariram Goenka still stood, the emperor of insomniacs, waiting for dawn to break.

  I can’t say why, but no living person has held me as much in thrall as he has. For some reason, to me he has always appeared omnipresent. Sir Hariram looked through me with eyes that had uncovered intimate secrets of this ancient city ages ago. There wasn’t a trace of affection or pity in his petrified body. From the distance, I felt as though the annoyed gaze of the sleepless, hard-hearted Sir Hariram Goenka Bahadur, KT, CIE, held me, of all the people on earth, responsible for all his unpleasant experiences. He seemed to think that the insolent people of the city had sent me there on purpose to humiliate and insult him and to disturb his peace in the dead of night.

  I could have carried on my childish musings on Sir Hariram, but the driver broke my reverie. ‘Are you expecting anyone here at this hour, sir?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s go—we have to go to Eliot Road.’

  With Curzon Park to its left, the car turned eastwards. Sir Suren Banerjee stood there as if addressing a crowd of thousands under the monument. He had paused for a moment because of a malfunctioning mike and in that brief interlude the unappreciative audience had fled the meeting. In despair, the spurned and insulted Surendranath had turned to stone.

  Crossing Corporation Street, the car entered Wellesley Street, and my thoughts turned to Byron once again. I hadn’t met him in quite a while. I had seen him from afar in the banquet hall a couple of times, but he had signalled to me telling me not to talk to him. He must have been silently stalking his prey, perhaps shadowing someone. I even saw him sitting quietly at the bar with a bottle of beer one evening, but he had looked through me. I knew he did not want me to recognize him and strike up a conversation.

  Still, I should have enquired after him; I should at least have visited him at home to convey my gratitude. But I hadn’t. Shahjahan seemed to have swallowed everything I had in one big gulp. Its ravenous appetite hadn’t spared even a part of me.

  ‘Which way, sir?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Drive on,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  ‘This isn’t a safe neighbourhood, sir,’ he said. ‘There might be trouble if they see a car here at this hour.’

  ‘I came here by daylight a long time ago,’ I told him. ‘Though I don’t remember it very well, I’ll recognize the lane when I see it.’

  I did spot the lane eventually. If it hadn’t been for Sujata’s kindness, I wouldn’t have had the courage to take a taxi to that place at that hour of the night. The car didn’t go into Byron’s lane, though; I got off and walked the rest of the way.

  I should have brought a torch. The street lights in the city, perpetual targets of the local boys’ pebble shooting, didn’t enjoy a long lifespan. I practically groped my way to Byron’s house. A solitary street light nearby had somehow eluded the eyes of the ace marksmen of Eliot Road and survived to illuminate that broken nameplate.

  Byron’s door was closed and there was no light on inside. Was it right to wake him at his hour? Muttering a prayer, I rang the doorbell. There was no response. Maybe no
one was home. I rang the bell again.

  This time someone stirred within and a female voice let loose a volley of filthy abuse. ‘Go back to your dustbin, why have you come to disturb me in the middle of the night?’ I shrank with fear, while the lady fired a second round. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you swine, no income to speak of, now waking me in the middle of the night? Go sleep with the dogs in the dustbin—you expect me to work all day and earn your bread for you, then stay up all night like a whore? Not a hope. Get out, get out!’

  By then I was terrified. Marco Polo was the last thing on my mind. I was debating whether to run away but before I could make up my mind I heard the door open. About to take a swipe with a broomstick, the lady froze when she saw me instead of her husband. She started screaming, ‘What is it? Tell me, what is it? Something must have happened to him. How many times have I told him not to be a detective, it won’t work in this lousy country. It’s better to hawk newspapers, or even sit at home. As long as I have a job what do you have to worry about?’

  In any other locality the neighbours would have come running out by now, but in this Anglo-Indian neighbourhood that sort of thing didn’t happen. Even at the pain of death, no one intruded on another person’s privacy.

  Mrs Byron started whimpering. She wanted to know whether I was from the police or the hospital. It was beyond her capacity to imagine that anyone else could visit her at that hour. ‘Where’s my husband?’ she whined. ‘I want to go to him immediately.’

  I managed to say, ‘I don’t belong to either the police or the hospital, Mrs Byron. I work for a hotel. Our manager Mr Marco Polo can’t be found, so I’ve come to enquire about him.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Mrs Byron became her former self again. ‘You’re talking about that fat fellow who sometimes brings packets of sandwiches for us? That swine is at the root of all the trouble. They ask me to leave the room and then whisper between themselves. My husband says he’s a client, but I can recognize a leopard by its spots. All lies! Actually, he’s a crony. And now that the two good-for-nothings have gone out, who knows where the hell they are.’