A few days later I heard from Bose-da that his job with the airline company had been finalized. He was wondering when to put in his papers.
‘Don’t delay things,’ I said. ‘Lots of changes are in the offing at Shahjahan—Marco’s departure is also imminent.’
He was taken aback with the news. ‘Marco’s leaving? Jimmy’s dream will come true at last. He will rule Shahjahan. Though it might be anarchy now.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘I have no illusions about that man. He’s as dishonest as he is lazy, and as envious as he is incompetent; he’s a master politician. I’d better announce my decision immediately. If my resignation isn’t accepted while Marco’s still here, I may have trouble afterwards.’
When he went to meet Marco, I was sitting on the terrace with Sujata-di. She was to leave in a while on the night flight.
‘You’re feeling terrible, aren’t you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve probably upset all your well-set lives.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked. ‘I’ll get used to it.’
‘Maybe you won’t even remember us a few years from now. You’ll sit here on the terrace talking to others.’
‘After many years, perhaps, I’ll recall that an accursed man was once rescued from Shahjahan by an unknown woman. Entranced by the stupor-inducing light and dazzle of Shahjahan he had turned to stone and was brought back to life by the healing touch of a woman.’
She didn’t say anything. That evening we really were in no mood to talk. All these days I had been like a hyphen between the two of them, so I probably had a duty to fulfil. I asked, ‘So the job’s been arranged, but have the two of you completed your mutual assessment?’
A sad smile spread across Sujata-di’s face as she said, ‘I don’t believe in rushing things. Time will solve all problems.’
‘Have you informed your family?’ I asked.
Her face grew even sadder. ‘I don’t have what people call a family. Like Satya I don’t have anyone either. Just as you’ve never seen him go home on vacation, I, too, can’t think of taking a holiday. The last time I spent some time with you here in Calcutta was the first time I took a holiday in years and had some fun. He has his Sahibganj at least—he can go there if he wants to. I don’t even have that.’
‘Never mind anyone else, there’s always me, Sujata-di,’ I said. ‘I’ve got so much from people that the thought of repaying them scares me; I don’t know how many lives I’ll have to live through to account for the interest. If I can do even the tiniest thing for anybody, my load will be lightened a little.’
‘You’ve done a lot already,’ she said. ‘Whom do I have but the two of you?’
Sometime later, Bose-da joined us. Even in the dark, I could see his face stamped with gloom. Taking a stool, he started scanning the Shahjahan sky, probably for the last time. Not having the nerve to ask anything, I looked at him in silence. But eventually, prodded by Sujata-di, I spoke: ‘What happened?’
He took out a cigarette and started tapping it absently on his matchbox. Still wrapped in his thoughts, he lit the cigarette and said, ‘It takes ages to build something, but just a single moment to destroy it. Everything I have gathered over the thousands of nights and days here at Shahjahan, lie scattered with a single sentence. Marco Polo said, “I’m not going to stand in your way. Burn your bridges and go ahead, young man. If you like, you can come with me to the Gold Coast, the two of us will start a new hotel there. What Mr Simpson did so many years ago in India, we will do in Africa in this century.” He’s signed my papers. He’s very busy now, he has to hand over charge to Jimmy.’
We chose Little Shahjahan for Bose-da’s farewell. The ordinary employees of the hotel said, ‘We’ll never get another Sata Bose in the whole world. He’s done so much for us—he fought with the bosses and got us our free tea; he used his own money to get so many of us treated by good doctors. If it hadn’t been for him, Rahim would never have been able to stand on his feet again. We want to give him a banquet too.’
They passed the hat around and pooled in four annas each, the most they could afford. It is unlikely that any employee in any other hotel in the world has been fortunate enough to be present at a dinner such as the one we had for Bose-da. It was an unusual banquet. Since there was no break from work at the hotel, the farewell reception began at Little Shahjahan at midnight. The bearers of Little Shahjahan weren’t willing to stay back late, so Shahjahan’s employees took the responsibility of serving. I’ll never forget the banquet in that large, tin-roofed room, held by the light of a single, sixty-watt bulb. Nityahari wanted to place a napkin flower in every glass—but where would he get so many napkins? For us there were enamelled plates and earthen cups, but for Bose-da there was a good china plate and proper cutlery, besides a napkin flower.
‘Have you noticed the pattern?’ Nityahari asked me. ‘It’s not a boar’s head, it’s a bishop.’
Bose-da wasn’t pleased with the expensive crockery. ‘This isn’t right. Why did you have to get crockery and cutlery from Shahjahan? Suppose someone objects?’
Rahim looked at him apprehensively and said, ‘No, sir, we didn’t get anything from Shahjahan—we bought these for you from New Market.’
I noticed Bose-da’s eyes brimming with tears. He turned his head to avoid my gaze.
Though the arrangements were modest, they had all the elegance of a banquet: that was what occurred to me as I ate with my hands. Bose-da wanted to set aside his knife and fork and eat with his hands too, but the others wouldn’t let him.
‘No, sir,’ they said, ‘we’d have all eaten with knives and forks if we had them. After all, this is a banquet.’
The only thing missing was music. We hadn’t expected that gap to be filled, but just when the event was in full swing, Gomez suddenly arrived in proper evening dress.
‘What’s going on? You people forgot me? Why wasn’t I invited?’
The bearers had wanted some music; only they hadn’t dared invite Gomez to the dirty surroundings of Little Shahjahan.
Standing in a corner, Gomez said, ‘Gentlemen, if I had the means I would have arranged for a violin concerto for Mr Sata Bose’s farewell. But since I haven’t—I have the manpower but not the instruments—for the past three days I’ve been composing a special piece in his honour. It’s called “Farewell”—farewell to the dinner, to the dance, to the cabaret; farewell to can-can, to hoolahoo, to rock ’n’ roll. Now, gentlemen, this is P.C. Gomez presenting to you a violin recital, composed on the occasion of the departure of Mr Sata Bose.’
The hubbub died down instantly. All of us gazed in awe at Gomez and his amazing instrument. None of us had had the opportunity to learn the language of that instrument, but that evening none of us had any difficulty understanding it. It spoke the words in all our hearts.
19
The first letter from Bose-da came from Santa Cruz.
Dear Shankar,
I’ve put up in a hotel here, courtesy the airlines. The story of the dhobi’s son and the prince keeps coming back to me. Tired of washing clothes, the boy prayed to God for freedom, and God gave him a boon and turned him into a prince. But the prince couldn’t enjoy himself. The minister’s son and the general’s son came to play, but he sat there glumly. Unable to bear it any longer he said, ‘Come, let’s play at washing clothes.’ I’m sitting here in the lounge like that prince, and I keep thinking of all of you and wanting to play at washing clothes.
Sujata was here on duty. I met her for just a day. I will of course keep you informed of what’s happening. I never got the chance to think at length about a home and a family—but now the prospect is becoming increasingly attractive.
My love to all of you.
I was lying quietly on my bed one day when Sujata-di suddenly came in. ‘There you are—how have you been?’
I got up quickly and said, ‘So you haven’t forgotten us yet.’
‘Talk about ingratitude! After flying thousands of miles I come straight
here without even changing my clothes—not that I have a choice—and this is the welcome I get. I have my orders from your friend; the first thing I am to do is to ask after you.’
‘How is he?’
‘Don’t ask,’ she said sadly. ‘It was probably a mistake to uproot a tree and try to plant it somewhere else. He isn’t the same cheerful, happy-go-lucky person any more. He broods all the time, though he won’t admit it.’
‘Why don’t you arrange it so that he doesn’t have to brood any more?’ I suggested.
A trifle embarrassed, she said, ‘That depends entirely on him. I can give up my job anytime.’
‘Then who’s stopping you? Let him complete his probation—and then, in six months’ time, amidst a thousand bonds you will taste freedom! Or to say it with some literary flourish: in a few months a traveller of the skies will travel in Bose-da’s dreams.’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ she said in mock anger.
Rosie was in a very good mood. ‘I have nothing more to worry about,’ she said. ‘Jimmy’s becoming the manager. I know the extent of his education—he can’t do without me for the letters.’
I didn’t answer. She told me that Marco was due to leave any day.
I still remember Marco’s departure. His luggage had been loaded in a hotel car. The bearers and other employees were standing in a long line in front of the pantry. In his white shorts and shirt, Marco looked a lot like the captain of a ship. Jimmy stood next to him. One by one Marco shook hands with everybody and said, ‘Keep the flag flying. If I’m ever back in Shahjahan, I want to see the hotel improved beyond recognition under Jimmy’s leadership.’ Then turning to Jimmy he said, ‘Look after my boys.’
After he left, I felt as though I were living alone in an empty, accursed castle. When I had checked in here, it was filled with known and familiar faces. Some left after breakfast; a few disappeared after lunch; others went away after tea. Now it was time for dinner, and no one was left. With the family, wife, children and relatives having gone, I, the patriarch, seemed to have sat down at an empty dinner table.
Jimmy began to show his true colours now. The hotel would no longer be run in the old manner, he had made it clear. Everything would have to be changed—lock, stock and barrel. To begin with, he had, in the modern fashion, imported a rouge-and-lipsticked young woman in place of Bose-da.
Rosie had aspired to that post, but Jimmy told her in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t be the head receptionist in a hotel looking the way she did. Jimmy used William more and more for keeping the accounts—he had to concentrate on collecting payments and encashing cheques.
One day William told me that Agarwalla had bought the controlling stock in the hotel from the English shareholders. I should have guessed as much, from Jimmy’s obsequious behaviour whenever Agarwalla was mentioned.
‘Good news for you,’ said William. ‘Phokla Chatterjee’s going to be looking after things. You hit it off quite well with him, don’t you?’
Phokla came soon after to inspect the hotel. Falling all over Jimmy, he said, ‘We want to keep the European management on, but everything should be modern; you can’t run a hotel the way Simpson did. At that time women didn’t venture out of their homes, now they’re out on the streets.’
‘Precisely, sir,’ said Jimmy ingratiatingly.
Emitting a cloud of smoke from his pipe, Phokla said, ‘We won’t interfere in your day-to-day work. Both Mr Agarwalla and I want you to bring attractive girls here. Let Shahjahan Hotel be a meeting ground for all races.’
The hotel gradually filled up with many unfamiliar faces. Everything was done in secret. I often thought of Bose-da, Byron and Marco Polo. I wouldn’t have felt quite as helpless had they been by my side. But who could shelter you all your life? As Gomez said, ‘You can’t depend on anyone forever except the Almighty.’
Gomez was sitting quietly in his room with the lights switched off. ‘At last I think I have realized my mistake,’ he told me. ‘We cannot offer our music to anyone but God; we should serve nobody but our God.’ I didn’t respond. ‘Tonight’s my last concert at Shahjahan,’ he said.
In the middle of all the changes, I hadn’t seen this coming.
‘They don’t like me here any more,’ he said. ‘They say my instrument can no longer produce music cheerful enough to dress the Shahjahan hall in the radiant colours of youth. Jimmy and Mr Chatterjee have told me I must give them cheerful music or quit. So quit I must. Such is my Master’s will. I met a priest at Bandel Church the other day. He wants to give me the responsibility for the music in a small church on the coast of South India. I have accepted this gift from God. Tonight’s the last night. I must get ready for my final concert. I don’t know why, but I keep recalling Chopin’s last concert on that dark night in London.’
That night Gomez dressed in the best suit he had. His boys were impeccably turned out as well. He was even grasping the small baton with the ivory tip much more assuredly than before. There was still some time to go before the cabaret. Standing before the mike, Gomez bid good evening to the audience and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I shall treat you to some cheerful music.’
The music began. Was this the same Prabhat Chandra Gomez I had known all these days at Shahjahan? Such provocative, titillating music had probably never been played at the historic entertainment room of the Shahjahan; it sounded like the war drums of a mountain tribe whipping up a frenzy in the breasts of the predominantly male audience. It was probably to just such a rhythm that Urvashi had danced to woo the ancient sages and break their meditations. The guests at Shahjahan simply couldn’t stay still any longer. Their bodies had started swaying, their well-shod feet keeping time on the carpet. If it continued a little longer, everyone in the hall would abandon their drinks and dinner and start dancing.
Gomez wasn’t bothered. Without so much as a glance at anyone, he kept upping the tempo. It seemed that countless nameless and faceless courtesans down the ages had all congregated at that moment at Mumtaz, waiting to expose all over again their much-flaunted bodies. There was Connie, there was Pamela, there was Farida; there were all the rest whom Bose-da or Nityahari might have recognized. It was a night like none before and there wouldn’t be one like it again. All the guests and all the entertainers from history had assembled at Shahjahan. No one had been left out of this special banquet—Karabi was there, and so was Sutherland, the top brass of Clive Street were there, bargirls with tankards in their hands and thousands of other unknown faces were also present.
I might have listened to the music some more, but the bearer said Jimmy wanted to see me.
Rosie and our new female receptionist were standing at the counter. The new lady was busy putting finishing touches to her make-up, while Rosie was chewing her nails by herself. She started when she saw me and then stared blankly at me.
‘Well?’ I asked. She got even more flustered at my question.
I found Phokla Chatterjee in Jimmy’s room too. Jimmy said, ‘I am sorry to have sent for you at this hour, but Mr Chatterjee will be going to the cabaret in a moment. He has to examine all this carefully. Besides, today’s the last day of the month, so it’s convenient for you as well as for us. Starting tomorrow, we don’t need your services any more.’
Taking his pipe out of his mouth, Phokla said, ‘We wish you success in life. I saw in the files that Marco Polo had given you a purely temporary appointment, which means you’re not entitled to a month’s salary. But the new management does not believe in taking undue advantage of existing regulations, so you’re being given an extra month’s pay.’
Jimmy handed over an envelope filled with currency notes, and without giving me the chance to say anything, Phokla said, ‘Good night.’
I felt my world crumble around me. Going to the terrace, I saw Rosie waiting there.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, coming up to me. ‘Believe me, I tried to stop Jimmy when I was in there typing. I pleaded with him. But Jimmy had already spelt out his plan to Mr Chatterjee.
They’re going to have only girls at the counter.’
There were stars in the sky. Looking at them, I said, ‘What could you have done, Rosie? Thanks all the same.’
But that was only the beginning. I didn’t know there was more bad news waiting for me. Gurberia hadn’t heard about my dismissal. ‘There’s a letter for you, sir,’ he said.
I couldn’t finish reading Bose-da’s letter. It slipped from my hands and fell to the floor. Gurberia picked it up and, holding it out to me, asked, ‘What’s the matter, sir?’
It was the inevitable. Those whom I love never find happiness.
Bose-da had written:
Dear Shankar,
Who else can I write to? There’s nobody else left. I just got back after immersing Sujata’s ashes in the Arabian Sea. Late last night I got a telephone call informing me that air hostess Sujata Mitra had been killed in a car accident on the way to the airport in Delhi. She had named me as the next of kin in the form she had signed with the airline company. Among all the people in the world, she had chosen me as her closest one. The airline authorities were very courteous. Honouring her last wishes, they arranged for her body to be sent to me by air.
All my memories now seem like a long-drawn-out dream. Thinking of myself and my career, I had postponed the wedding, but she never hesitated to acknowledge me as her own. She, who treaded the line between life and death constantly, accepted things much more easily than I. Never did she demean herself by putting her interest ahead of everyone else’s.
I believe her office has been instructed to pay the compensation to me. You could call me a rich man now. But the prince has been turned back into the dhobi’s son. I can’t survive here alone. I would have liked to return to Shahjahan, but that’s out of the question. So I’ve decided to join the hotel that Marco’s starting in the Gold Coast in Africa.
I never told you this before, but I want to tell you now, or else I might never get the chance again. Sujata held you in very high esteem. She had said, ‘Mark my words: he is an exceptional person.’
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