Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  She went on showering filthy abuses on me, but I had regained my composure. I had at least managed to get some information about Marco Polo’s whereabouts.

  ‘Did he say when he’d be back?’ I asked.

  ‘He said nothing. He went out as soon as that swine came. To hell with them,’ she said and slammed the door in my face.

  When I returned to the hotel, Bose-da was waiting for me. ‘You needn’t have gone, after all. Marco Polo has just returned. Byron was with him. It was he who helped Marco out of the cab and entrusted him to the bearers before leaving.’

  Marco Polo was standing stock still near the counter, as though he was a stranger at the hotel. Bose-da asked him where he had been and told him how worried we all were. But the Marco Polo who was obsessed with the hotel, who had to have every detail at his disposal, had disappeared into the night. This one stared blankly at Bose-da and asked, ‘Why do you stay up all night?’

  Bose-da was nonplussed. ‘You sign the duty charts yourself every day.’

  Marco Polo shook his head. ‘Useless...completely useless. When everyone in the world is asleep, it’s no use keeping the party going.’

  Just then my eyes fell upon Sujata. Marco Polo noticed her too. But before he could say anything Bose-da told him that she was an air hostess, our guest. Marco Polo became wary. He may have wanted to talk some more, but he bade us good night and left.

  ‘I get to see hundreds of people up there in the clouds every day,’ Sujata said, ‘but you have even stranger creatures here. I wanted to tell your manager the night has ended.’

  Bose-da smiled, but then became serious. ‘His life is as dark as the night. I feel sorry for him.’

  I was not a little surprised to find Sujata still at the counter. Bose-da said to her, ‘I should thank you, but I don’t have the words. You not only offered your car, you even stayed up with me all this while.’

  She looked at me and said, ‘Now your guru can’t find words—see if you can help him!’

  I smiled, ‘That too is a way of saying thank you.’

  Sujata’s pigtail swayed like a snake. ‘We don’t like formal people very much.’

  Without a flicker on his face, Bose-da said, ‘There you go again. No wonder, passengers don’t like Indian air hostesses very much.’

  ‘Really? If they didn’t, why are new girls being taken on?’

  ‘Perhaps those who are new are better and much more polite,’ Bose-da answered with a twinkle.

  ‘That’s like a lawyer...did you practise at the courts before joining this hotel?’

  ‘Don’t bring up the subject of courts,’ Bose-da said. Then pointing to me he added, ‘This poor fellow feels bad. He had a very close relationship with the courtroom once.’

  I looked at the clock. Clouds of sleep were gathering over Sujata’s oval eyes. Bose-da probably noticed as well. He said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s very late, there’s no sense in keeping you up any more.’

  There wasn’t a single porter at hand. Sujata was about to pick up her suitcase herself, but I looked at Bose-da out of the corner of my eye. Interpreting my signal, he took the case out of her hand. Sujata was probably a little surprised, but Bose-da was his usual self. ‘Ask this fellow here,’ he said. ‘What difference would it make if you carried your own suitcase? But he glared at me, as though he couldn’t stand by and watch a lady carry her own luggage while an able-bodied porter like me stood around.’

  Both of them now looked at me, Sujata shrugged, and then, leaving me in charge at the gates of Shahjahan, the two of them disappeared.

  I had got used to Shahjahan’s hushed nights by now. The ancient inn of the nineteenth century no longer surprised me in my solitary moments. Having reached an intimate phase in our relationship, this antique palace no longer held back any of its secrets from its dear friend.

  But that was only as far as the bricks and mortar went. Who could track the many dramatic acts that were being played out at that very moment in its chambers? Were those mysteries revealed to a dispassionate sleuth, the world’s literature would have been richer, helping to develop insights into the human condition.

  The most onerous task on a taskless night was to keep sleep at bay with a stick, prevent it from approaching. So this luxury of reminiscing had to be indulged in despite oneself. Or perhaps the disembodied soul of Shahjahan had picked on this poor receptionist to weave a pleasing web of thoughts, using the golden thread of the past.

  Suddenly the phone rang. ‘Hello, reception? This is Sreelekha Devi.’ Hadn’t she gone to sleep? Was she feeling uncomfortable in the hotel, away from home?

  Sreelekha Devi said, ‘What instructions do you have about me?’

  ‘I’m not to tell anyone your room number. And I’m to tell your husband to go back if he shows up.’

  She sighed and asked, ‘Did anyone come looking for me?’

  ‘It’s very late at night, madam. Nobody comes to the hotel at this hour.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. How much of this hotel do you know? Ask Mr Sata Bose. Every time I’ve left home in a rage, my husband has shown up here.’ It was my turn to be surprised. ‘Would you go outside and check?’ she said. ‘I’ll hold on.’

  Sure enough, outside I saw a man in an expensive Indian outfit standing like a block of wood on Chittaranjan Avenue. Thanks to the pictures in the newspapers, I knew it was Sreelekha Devi’s husband.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ I asked.

  He was annoyed. ‘I’m not in your hotel, am I? I’m standing quietly on the road—why do you have to come and pick a quarrel with me?’

  I went back in and informed the actress. This was just what she was waiting to hear, it seemed. She would probably have been surprised had it turned out differently; perhaps she would have broken down in disappointment.

  ‘You may send him to my room,’ she directed me. I was about to mention my inability to do that but she said, ‘No buts, please. Charge me for a double room.’

  Putting the phone down, I went out again. The man was still standing there holding on to a pillar. I went up to him. ‘Excuse me, why are you standing outside? Please come in.’

  He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ he said firmly.

  I informed him that Sreelekha Devi had asked for him to be sent to her room. I could show him the way.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, taking a matchbox out of his pocket and lighting a cheap cigarette. I was a little surprised to see the husband of the city’s top film star smoking such a cheap brand.

  Glowering at me with his clouded, sleepless eyes, the man with the famous wife said, ‘I haven’t allowed my habits to change. When I brought Durga to Calcutta, we used to eat at Little Shahjahan—you couldn’t get a cheaper meal anywhere else. I used to smoke this cigarette then and I still smoke it now. Durga may have been transformed into Sreelekha Devi, she may have abandoned Little Shahjahan in favour of the real one, but I haven’t changed.’

  He refused to come in. ‘If I could stand here all this time, till four in the morning, it won’t be difficult to remain here a little longer.’ He turned his face away.

  Back at the counter I heard the phone ring again. Sreelekha Devi was impatient. ‘Hello, have you sent him up?’

  ‘He refuses to come in,’ I had to tell her.

  She disconnected immediately. What one earth was going on? First she leaves home in a huff, then the reconciliation drama begins here before the night is over. The man seemed strange. His eyes scared me.

  I hadn’t expected Sreelekha Devi to leave her room and come down to the counter. I haven’t yet forgotten how she looked without make-up. Her hair was tousled and her face mirrored the exhaustion of the night, as though she were enacting an intensely emotional scene in the studio.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Please come with me to the door. You never know, he may have brought acid to throw on my face.’

  Even hotel employees feel like weeping in despair in such a situation. Who kne
w what I was getting involved in? Perhaps the first act of a sensational criminal case was about to unfold before my very eyes.

  I tried to dissuade her. ‘Do you really have to go out at this hour?’

  She didn’t reply, making straight for the door. I had no option but to follow.

  Once we had reached the door she told me not to go any further. From a distance, I saw her approach her husband. He was facing the road now. She went and stood in front of him. I couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other, but it suddenly seemed to me that she was sobbing, and that her harassed husband was trying to pacify her.

  I was baffled. Before I could figure out what was happening I saw both of them get into a car. Without another word, her husband started the car. I came back to my senses only after the car had disappeared down the road. It suddenly struck me that Sreelekha Devi had gone. Who would pay the bill now?

  I started fretting. The tariff for the night would probably be deducted from my salary, because it was my responsibility to ensure that the bill was cleared. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask for payment, given the situation.

  I was miserable. Meanwhile, the sky was getting lighter; the sun was about to come up.

  ‘Kali, Kali, o ma Kali,’ Nityahari chanted as he came downstairs on his way to the Ganga for his ritual bath. When he saw me, he said, ‘Why don’t you take a dip in the Ganga every day? Sin will destroy you otherwise. It’s only thanks to Ma Ganga that I can still walk around with my pillows, my head held high, even after being immersed in sin twenty-four hours a day. Every day I rinse and wash this dirty body and clean it—let sin do its best to harm me.’

  I said nothing. An annoyed Nityahari grumbled, ‘Of course, a prophet’s words are never heeded till he is dead. I had told her too, whatever you do, take a dip in the Ganga every day. But she didn’t listen. It was fate that brought the English-speaking girl from a decent family to this abode of sin.’ His eyes suddenly started glowing like embers. ‘Who on earth am I? She never knew me all my life. All I did is supply matching linen to her. Why does she, of all people, have to come into my dreams?’

  ‘Maybe you loved her, maybe she loved you too,’ I said.

  His eyes brimmed with tears. He couldn’t keep his pain under wraps any more. ‘I’ve never seen such a stupid person in my life. Taking poison—how does it help? My wife—that hag also took poison and killed herself, all because I didn’t get back home at night. I told my mother that some thugs had kidnapped me. She believed me, but my wife didn’t. “What are you smelling of?” she asked. “Onions,” I had said in English. “Onions? What’s that?” the girl had asked like a fool. In anger I had said, “Onions are what you use to cook; your father taught you nothing.”

  ‘I used to reek of hooch—it almost made me want to throw up myself. She was a clever girl, she knew what onions were, she sensed everything. And then...the one weapon they have. She didn’t even give me a chance to reform myself. Women can’t do anything except take poison. Ever since then, I’ve suffered. The son of a Brahmin spending his days washing dirty linen. But it could have been worse. I could have been struck down by a bolt of lightning, but Ma Ganga saved me.’

  Pressing my hands with fervour, he said sadly but affectionately, ‘Be very careful, son. Nobody knows what Chitragupta, the superintendent of Yama’s office, has written down as people’s fates.’

  He left, and my mind filled with unease. At last I seemed to have understood Nityahari. I had somehow emerged from a night that was actually one long nightmare; I simply couldn’t bear to man the counter any longer.

  I woke a bearer. ‘Take care of this place for a while, I’ll be back soon,’ I told him.

  15

  Dawn had arrived. Our rooms seemed to be blushing like a bride in the tremulous expectation of a meeting with the sun.

  With the door ajar, Bose-da was sitting on his bed, sipping tea. He smiled at me. His smile never failed to lift my spirits. It had a strange way of reassuring one that all would turn out well.

  I told him about Sreelekha Devi. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I have her address. We’ll send a note for the payment if the need arises. But it won’t. She’ll send the cheque on her own. This sort of thing has happened before—she’s taken refuge for the night, away from her husband, and by morning they have made up.’

  Bose-da got up and handed me a glass tumbler. ‘Go wash this in the bathroom and have some tea Indian style—you’ve had a rough night.’

  After a cup—or rather glass—of tea with Bose-da, I went to my room and fell asleep. I have no idea for how long I had been in the arms of Morpheus, but suddenly I was woken by Gurberia. Someone had apparently come up to the terrace without permission.

  I went to the door and found Byron standing there. Bidding me good morning, he came in. ‘I thought you might be asleep, but I came all the same. And I met Marco, too, in the bargain,’ he said.

  ‘I was rather worried about the two of you last night,’ I said, after ordering some tea for him.

  ‘Last night will probably remain eternally memorable for Marco and me,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Did you manage to shed some light on the darkness of poor Marco’s married life?’

  He peered around suspiciously. Then, settling down comfortably on the bed, he said, ‘You remember the whole story, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘How can I forget it?’

  Byron’s face that morning reflected the joy of success. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘we’re detectives only in name. Our clients come to us when all else has failed, hoping we’ll somehow solve their problems. The police view us sometimes with suspicion and sometimes with pity—but they don’t help us at all. Why call the doctor when the quack is good enough? they laugh. So I didn’t harbour any hope at all where Marco was concerned. I had never really expected to be able to help him.’

  Apparently, one of Byron’s sources had brought him the information. In a dank, dark slum in Chhatawala Lane, he had tracked down a woman who once used to sing in a restaurant. The name of the road brought back memories of my previous job. The previous night the two of them—Marco Polo and Byron—had gone to Chhatawala Lane in search of that woman. But she had a guest in her room, so they had waited for ages outside, hoping to meet her after the guest left. But they couldn’t.

  I was finding in increasingly difficult to keep quiet. Byron gathered from the look on my face that there was something in his narrative that fascinated me. He wanted to know what it was. I asked for the address, and his answer stunned me. It was the same building which housed Magpil & Clerk, the company I had worked for! There was good reason to be suspicious about how the women there earned their living, but they had often helped me out. They would count the baskets and tie them up in bunches. If I was thirsty, I’d ask them for some water.

  ‘Do you keep track of them any more?’ asked Byron, excitedly. ‘Do you know any of them?’

  There wasn’t a single woman in the building whom I didn’t know; they had been my colleagues, after all. During the afternoons, they would sit on low stools in their torn skirts and sandals, painting our baskets and putting them out in the sun to dry, getting a pittance for their efforts. Whenever it rained, they had to move the baskets away. Though Pillai had fallen on bad times, they helped him out in various ways.

  They treated me well, too. ‘You’ve been walking around in the sun—take a break before you go out again,’ they’d say, ‘or you’ll fall ill.’ One of them would add, ‘We depend on our bodies and you on your health—both have to be kept in good shape, it’s a question of one’s livelihood.’

  A small board outside the building said, ‘The gates of this building are closed at ten-thirty. No one is allowed in or out after that.’ In that dark building, I had had another strange experience, but that tale will have to wait for another time.

  Byron said, ‘This is God’s will! Will you make some enquiries for me? I’m sure the women will recognize you.’

  I wen
t back to the old place later that day along with Byron. He’d wanted to go immediately, but I told him there was no use going before eleven—it was the middle of the night until then as far as the women there were concerned. They’d be sleeping.

  When I turned up, the women crowded around me enthusiastically. My clean clothes made it obvious to them that a revolutionary change had taken place in my life.

  ‘Have you won a lottery?’ they asked.

  ‘I’ve got a job at Shahjahan Hotel,’ I said.

  ‘Shahjahan Hotel!’ they exclaimed. ‘I believe you get a fabulous dinner there for eight-and-a-half rupees? We would love to try it—we’d have all gone if we could afford it. It was very easy during the war.’

  Those who had joined the profession after the war looked curiously at their senior colleagues.

  ‘Those days the soldiers took you gladly if you asked them, and these days they think you’re cheating them even if you ask for a cigarette!’

  ‘Did any of you know Susan Munro?’ I asked. ‘She used to sing on Park Street.’

  ‘We haven’t heard of anyone by that name—why on earth would anyone who sang on Park Street end up here?’

  But one of them said, ‘Why, what about Elizabeth? That old woman says she used to sing once, that it’s fate that brought her to this hellhole.’

  ‘Who’s Elizabeth?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you remember her? She used to keep the accounts for your baskets, you used her towel to dry off after getting wet in the rain one afternoon.’

  Now I remembered. ‘Where is she?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s in bed, ill,’ someone said. They showed me the door from a distance. It was shut. I knocked, and a weak voice responded, ‘Come in.’

  She recognized me at once and tried to sit up in bed. Everything in the room was dirty, very different from what it used to be. She waved me to a stool.