Chowringhee

by Mani Shankar Mukherji

  ‘So the receptionist and the air hostess cancel one another out; like cures like,’ I replied.

  Bose-da smiled. ‘But you’re forgetting that if I’m the bootlegger you’re the drunkard. I work in a hotel, we have a bar, so of course I could be involved in bootlegging as a side business, but this lady here has gone and slurred your pure-as-the-driven-snow reputation!’

  All of us burst out laughing, shattering the silence of the night on Shahjahan’s terrace.

  Sujata-di said, ‘So that’s how things turned out. A nurse instead of a doctor, an air hostess instead of a pilot.’

  ‘An uncle of mine wanted to be a police superintendent but became an office superintendent,’ Bose deadpanned.

  ‘You’re laughing at me, but what does he know of the agony of the poison who has not—’

  Before Sujata-di finished her statement somebody switched on all the lights in the terrace and Gurberia came running towards us in great agitation.

  ‘What is it, Gurberia?’ asked Bose-da.

  Marco Polo wanted to see me after dinner, Gurberia informed us.

  He should have left after conveying his message, but he stood there like a slab of prose in our poetic world. Looking at him I asked, ‘What is it?’ He hemmed and hawed, whereupon Sujata Mitra took the hint and said, ‘I’d better be off, then.’

  I stopped her, while Bose-da said, ‘Gurberia, my boy, you may reveal the most secret news of the world to this trio. The lady gathers a lot of information flying up there in her plane, and all of it stays secret.’

  Reassured, Gurberia told us that when I met Marco Polo, I could be of great assistance to him if I wanted to. And not just he, someone else—Shahjahan’s head waiter Parabashia—would remain eternally grateful if I did him that favour. It was very simple. Dedication and patience had made the impossible possible. Parabashia had been won over, and he had adjudged Gurberia suitable for the hand of his youngest daughter. But it was not possible for him to approach the highest authority to recommend a promotion and leave of absence for his would-be son-in-law. Besides, he wanted to test the intelligence and acumen of the match for his beautiful, talented, housework-expert daughter. Desperate to get married, Gurberia had with a pounding heart suggested using the tried and trusted trick—a telegram from a distant village in Orissa: ‘Mother serious, come soon.’ But his would-be father-in-law had not approved of that. He had to be present at the wedding ceremony, too, and he intended to use the telegram ploy. In this enemy-infested fortress, it was particularly dangerous for father-in-law and son-in-law to use the same excuse for taking leave.

  Mortified about having discussed his marriage in the presence of a stranger, Gurberia left hurriedly. Bose-da was delighted. ‘This is a memorable day for the inhabitants of the terrace. We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome some day! Gurberia’s long-standing dream has been fulfilled.’

  ‘Poor fellow,’ said Sujata-di.

  ‘Tell the manager and arrange for some leave for him,’ said Bose-da. ‘We don’t have too many people, and Mrs Pakrashi’s banquet is round the corner, but tell him we can manage by ourselves here on the terrace for a couple of weeks. We can do without a bearer.’

  ‘I can see you’re quite an avid champion of Gurberia’s cause,’ said Sujata-di.

  ‘All the world loves a lover. Gurberia had vowed he wouldn’t marry anyone but her.’

  In his enthusiasm Bose-da called for Guberia at the top of his voice. Gurberia sprang up from his perch near the lift, and came up looking a trifle worried.

  ‘You can start shopping for your wedding,’ said Bose-da. ‘Your leave is assured. If there’s anything you want in particular, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

  Thus encouraged, Gurberia expressed a long-nurtured desire. He wanted a cake from Shahjahan for his wedding, wrapped in coloured foil. He was willing to spend up to one rupee.

  ‘Certainly,’ Bose-da said. ‘I’ll tell Juneau to have a three-pound wedding cake made—with your name on it.’

  Gurberia was rendered speechless at this unexpected windfall.

  ‘You’ll bring your wife to Calcutta after the wedding, won’t you?’ Bose-da asked him.

  ‘No, sir, it’s too expensive here.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for you to be transferred. If you’re on duty at Mumtaz, you’ll earn a lot more from tips.’

  ‘They make a lot from tips, don’t they?’ asked Sujata-di after Gurberia had left.

  ‘Yes, they do. Earlier, people tipped to ensure prompt service. Now they do it to show off. And to ensure peace, to avoid squabbles over the sharing of tips, many hotels have simply slapped on a service charge of ten or fifteen per cent and stopped the practice. Marco wants to start the same system here. Had he been in his former frame of mind, he’d have done it by now. Jimmy is a good-for-nothing scoundrel.’

  Sujata Mitra looked at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic vehemence in his voice.

  There under the starlit sky, I experienced a strange sensation. Each of us had been born in a different place, at different times and yet, floating on the tide of time, the three of us had gathered at the same moment on the terrace of Shahjahan.

  Bose-da’s life had been flowing at its own pace all this while, like a stream meandering through human habitation. Now, some unknown girl had emerged, to ask a single question and complicate matters: Where are you off to, all by yourself?

  None of the people who had accepted the hospitality of Shahjahan all these days, all these months and all these years, had asked Satyasundar Bose of Sahibganj that question. Momentarily disturbed by the simple girl’s profound question, the stream had answered: Why, ever since I bid goodbye to college at the dawn of youth and willingly took refuge in this eternally young inn I’ve been flowing continuously. Drunk on its own rhythm, the river of life has been coursing forward.

  But where to?

  I have no idea.

  Bose-da’s mother had died long ago at the Sahibganj hospital, giving birth to another child. Bose-da was in class five then. If she had been alive, she might have asked this question. And his father? He had discharged his responsibility by wiring money every month to his hostel address.

  That evening Bose-da revealed to Sujata Mitra what he had not told even me. ‘I have a stepmother, you know.’

  ‘Doesn’t she worry at all about the future of the gentle, romantic young man?’ asked Sujata-di.

  Satyasundar Bose of Sahibganj stared at the stars billons of light years away, and then said softly, ‘Why blame her? She’s only a few years older than I am. She must be caught up in the anxieties of her own dark, uncertain future.’

  Bose-da had no one to call his own anywhere in the world—he didn’t have an address either. All he had by way of responsibility was to send money to his widowed stepmother occasionally.

  Breaking through the silence, the poignant sound of a violin floated into Shahjahan’s melancholy sky. Amidst our gathering in the dark of the night, someone seemed to be mourning the loss of his beloved, far from prying eyes.

  In his room, Prabhat Chandra Gomez was paying homage to some tragic maestro from the seventeenth century, or perhaps the eighteenth or the nineteenth. In the musical worlds of Handel and Bach, Beethoven and Schubert, Schumann and Wagner, Brahms and Mozart, Chopin and Mendelssohn, there was only anguish. The playful breeze seemed to have carried the cries of torment from some distant land many centuries ago to Shahjahan that night.

  I could no longer keep sitting. The suffering, agony-stricken, joyless sages of Western music, snubbed by all, had come to my cottage with their begging bowls. While Sujata Mitra and Sata Bose sat there mesmerized, I went to Gomez’s room.

  In the dim glow of a light, he was lost in his world, playing the violin. Who are you, blessed child of music? Whose curse has hurled you from heaven and condemned you to the agony of hell in Shahjahan? Did the disembodied soul that took possession of your accursed body to create such melody belong to the rich man’s son Mendelssohn? Or was it the inf
ant prodigy Mozart? Or perhaps the blind, dying Johann Sebastian Bach? Or even the luckless, deaf Beethoven? Or Chopin, afflicted with tuberculosis? I have no idea—if I did, I could have given your art the appreciation it deserves. You are presenting music to an audience of deaf and dumb people. You have arranged for fireworks in the land of the blind.

  That everyday musician of Shahjahan no longer seemed to belong to this planet. Transcending the insults, the neglect, the sorrows, the suffering, Gomez paid homage by the light of the five elements, tears coursing down his face.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  My shadow startled him. With the appearance of the hunter in the sacred grove of music, the birds of melody disappeared.

  He spoke slowly, ‘No more noisy, loud words from me—such is my master’s will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech in my heart will be carried on in the murmurs of a song.’

  The god of poetry seemed to have glanced at this ordinary employee of Shahjahan with compassion. Softly I recited the Bengali words of the song which Gomez had referred to.

  He picked up his violin again. This time the tune was familiar to me.

  Give me not just your words

  My friend, oh my dear

  From time to time let my soul

  Feel your touch so near

  Suddenly, he realized it was almost time for dinner. Putting his violin on the bed he picked up his jacket and went downstairs hurriedly. He had to eat before the guests had their dinner. I wondered whether he wasn’t already late and would have to go without a meal that night.

  Sujata Mitra and Bose-da were still sitting on the terrace.

  ‘How long will you be here, Sujata-di?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean, how long?’ she said. ‘I’m leaving tonight.’

  ‘When will you be here again?’

  ‘I have to come here quite frequently—I’ll be bothering you again in a few days.’

  ‘I envy you your life,’ said Bose-da.

  ‘So you should,’ she replied. ‘What a strange life—it’s either up in sky, or in a hotel. While everyone’s asleep at night, I’m off to a hotel from the airport pulling my bag along, and at dawn it’s back to the airport from the hotel. One hotel today, another tomorrow, a third the day after.’

  ‘That’s why they say in Arabia: “Mortal, if thou wouldst be happy, change thy home often; for the sweetness of life is variety, and the morrow is not mine or thine,”’ said Bose-da.

  ‘I can’t match you on quotations or learning,’ said Sujata Mitra. ‘I’m a simple air hostess. All I understand are accompanied baggage, tea, coffee, chocolate, alcoholic drinks, flights. How do you manage to pick up so much here at the hotel?’

  ‘Where else but a hotel would you get a chance for pickups?’ Bose-da punned. Before Sujata-di could come up with a suitable rejoinder, he continued, glancing at his watch, ‘We’ve detained you long enough, you’d better have your dinner and get some rest—you have to be off again at midnight.’

  Sujata Mitra rose. I escorted her downstairs. Inside the lift she asked, ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not very long,’ I said.

  ‘And Mr Bose?’

  ‘He’s been here ages—the hotel wouldn’t survive without him.’

  ‘I wonder why a man like him is wasting himself within the four walls of a hotel,’ she said to herself.

  Before getting out of the lift she smiled at me and said, ‘See you later.’

  I found Marco Polo in his room. He looked dazed. He raised his head when I entered and then welcomed me so effusively, no one would have thought he was the manager and I an ordinary receptionist.

  ‘How long have you known Lisa?’ he asked.

  ‘Not very long—before joining the hotel I had to go to their place every day to buy the baskets I used to sell.’

  ‘But she’s very fond of you—she spoke highly of you.’

  Once again I realized how blessed I was to have the love of so many people. Time and again, such unexpected gifts had turned the desert of my life verdant.

  ‘I took her to the doctor today,’ he continued. ‘I had her foot X-rayed, too. The doctor says it will be all right, Lisa wanted me to tell you. I have to take her to the doctor again tomorrow afternoon, but I’ve given Jimmy the day off. Can Sata and you handle the tea party in the banquet hall?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Please do take Lisa to the doctor. She has been in great pain, poor thing.’

  Marco thanked me. I could make out that he hadn’t been able to get over the meeting in that dark building on Chhatawala Lane. ‘I saw Lisa after ages,’ he said. ‘Her health may have deteriorated, but have you seen her eyes? They still shine like diamonds.’

  Bose-da and I handled the meeting of the cultural association quite well. Honoured guests and enthusiastic members turned up in droves. It was a memorable day in the history of the association; its inspiration, Mrs Pakrashi, was being given a reception on the eve of her departure abroad. Representatives of twenty other organizations in Calcutta were there—all of them had the upliftment of children, the betterment of women, the removal of social inequalities and so on as their objectives.

  Mrs Pakrashi arrived at the banquet hall with the honourable president, dressed in a white sari with a red border and a white blouse. She didn’t have sunglasses on that afternoon, nor did her eyes hold the venom I had seen earlier.

  Tea was served at every table; cakes, sandwiches and pastries had been laid out in enormous quantities. The president said, ‘It’s a day of great pride for Calcutta, as well as for Bengal, and for India. The respect and opportunity we are giving women in independent India are not easy to come by even in England or America. No other woman in the world before Mrs Pakrashi has been elected chairperson of the committee for moral health. She is the epitome of the original ideal of the Indian woman. Despite being a wealthy man’s wife, she has devoted herself to the cause of serving the poor, dressed like an ascetic. When I see her working with a smile in the dirtiest of Calcutta’s slums, I am reminded of Sister Nivedita. That lady from foreign shores didn’t have a family, but this dedicated woman has neglected neither her husband nor her nation in fulfilling her duties.’

  There were many more speeches. ‘Keep listening,’ Bose-da whispered to me.

  Drawing her sari to cover her head a little more, Mrs Pakrashi said, ‘Like many others, I am also an ordinary housewife—that is my only identity. Whatever free time I get after taking care of my husband and son, I try to devote to my brothers and sisters scattered all over the country. The honour that has come my way from abroad actually belongs to all of you. I am merely receiving it on your behalf. I should have returned immediately after the conference—after all, how long can a housewife stay away from her husband and son? But keeping in mind the conditions in our country, I have reluctantly decided to travel for a few months to see for myself the condition of women in different countries of the world.’

  The gathering burst out in fervent applause. She continued, ‘Finally, I would like to draw the attention of Indian women to the essence of Indian womanhood. We must never forget that our husbands are everything to us. The creeper lives and so does the tree—neither is less important. And yet the creeper prefers to grow winding itself around the tree. We, too, will grow winding ourselves around our husbands.’

  Before she left, Mrs Pakrashi happened to look at Bose-da. She turned her head away, pretending not to have seen him.

  After the party was over and Bose-da had seen off the last of the guests, he returned to the banquet hall and said, ‘You know her programme—now let me tell you someone else’s. Remember the foreigner of suite number one? He’s taken leave from his office; he’ll be on the same flight to Paris. Poor Mr Pakrashi!’

  17

  Ever since I first set foot in Shahjahan Hotel, awed and wonderstruck, the clock had begun ticking. Now the time had come for it to strike. Without my having noticed, morning had turned into a tired afternoon and spread long, melanchol
ic shadows; the twilight had pervaded the Shahjahan sky as well.

  All this time, the hotel had offered me not just the exceptional opportunity of learning about human nature, but the infinite joy of meeting soulmates as well. That is why I had never felt lonely even in that unfamiliar world. But now ominous thoughts began creeping into my mind unbidden. The lights were going out one by one in the brightly lit auditorium. All of us were waiting for the last ferry at the Shahjahan jetty.

  Changes were coming over me. The constant arrival and departure of countless guests no longer left their mark. Waiting at the station, a passenger can only recollect fellow travellers from the past. My memories had suddenly come alive with a vengeance, blurred sepia tones from the past becoming sharper with the dust of forgetfulness wiped off them. Whenever I passed suite number two, I recalled Karabi Guha; a visit to the cabaret inevitably brought up images of Connie and Lambreta; at the bar the stories of a helpless barmaid from many years ago came to mind; and at the terrace I could see the tall Dr Sutherland musing on the local boys of Williams Lane.

  In the midst of it all life went on. The river that an English pioneer named Simpson had coaxed into this desert of ours decades ago may have slowed down, but it hadn’t dried up yet. And that’s why Sohrabji’s mind was still on his daughter while he tracked the bottles in Mumtaz bar, unable to forget that he once owned a bar himself. William Ghosh had finalized his marriage with another girl—the announcement had been carried in the engagements column of the Statesman. And poor Rosie’s parents were worse. Unable to pay for their treatment, she was desperately running around for money.

  Phokla Chatterjee spoke to her frequently. ‘Rosie’s a nice girl,’ he told me once. ‘I’ve introduced her to Mr Sadashivam. He’s a highly placed officer with a lot of power. I used to meet him frequently for business, but he kept putting me off. Eventually, he overcame his inhibitions and came to the point: “I’ll give you what you want—but I feel rather lonely in the evenings.” So I made an appointment with Rosie for him. Now they meet frequently at another hotel. Mr Sadashivam’s wife’s been living with her parents for a year now—what business is it of mine! I have to make my living on these quotas and permits and orders. Why should the damned purchase managers and accountants and high officers in bush-shirts alone enjoy the good things of life? Don’t ordinary people like us want a drink, too, sometimes?