Exceptional! Yes, indeed. The rooms on the terrace burst into laughter. I had put Bose-da’s letter in my pocket, but they seemed to have found out what it said and were rolling in mirth at Sujata-di’s opinion of me. All the bricks in the building seemed to be telling one another: Forget not this exceptional person. Like a madman I rushed down the stairs.
It was late. The cabaret had ended and Shahjahan had fallen asleep, but the tables, the chairs, the staircase all seemed to be suppressing their smiles at the sight of me. The counter I had known for so long didn’t sympathize either. It too laughed at me: Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, some woman drunk on love says something to someone and you believe it, you fool!
Central Avenue, Dharmatala Street, Chowringhee Road were all asleep. Only the neon light of Shahjahan kept blinking to mock a sacked and broken employee. I had nothing left to lose any more. Whatever I had was gone. A long time ago an uneducated doorman on Clive Street had shamed me in exactly the same way, and now all of inanimate Calcutta had got the chance to mock me: There goes your exceptional person.
I didn’t realize that I had crossed Central Avenue, Chowringhee and Park Street and, walking on like one demented, had arrived at the Theatre Road crossing. The lamp posts by the side of the road did not fail to laugh at me either.
At the precise spot where Birla Planetarium now stands, I established communication with the stars that night. The huge clump of trees on the way to Victoria Memorial reassured me. ‘We don’t know, maybe you are exceptional, who knows!’ Through the gaps in their foliage, the distant stars expressed the same opinion. ‘We won’t laugh, we won’t mock you. Who knows what lies ahead—we’ll just watch in silence.’
I don’t know whether in the days to come some imaginative visitor to the planetarium will receive a signal of new life from the infinite skies. But on that deserted night it was the stars in the distant sky that assured me of a new life. In that wondrous moment I was reborn. From that moment on, I looked at the world, at Shahjahan Hotel, through changed eyes. I would no longer accuse the Almighty on behalf of Sujata-di, Karabi, Connie, Gomez or Bose-da. I would only express myself. I would share my sorrows with the countless souls whose lives were stricken by as many sorrows as ours.
My mind calmed, I went back, crossing Chowringhee and stopping on Chittaranjan Avenue. In the distance the tireless eyes of the neon-encrusted Shahjahan still blinked. Gazing at the amazing kingdom that was Shahjahan for the last time, I felt strange. I was reminded of an incident I had read about.
Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the English poet Rudyard Kipling, on a visit to Calcutta, had taken shelter for the night at another ancient hotel. Having become acquainted with the dreadful nights of this dreadful city, on his way back to the hotel at the dead of night he had stopped quite near where I had. The arrogant poet had said, ‘All good Calcutta has gone to bed, the last tram has passed, and the peace of the night is upon the world. Would it be wise and rational to climb the spire of that kirk and shout: O true believers, decency is a fraud and a sham. There is nothing clean or pure or wholesome under the stars, and we are all going to perdition together. Amen!’
There in Calcutta at midnight, jobless and shelterless, I too could have prayed for the same perdition. But despite all my grievances and anger, hurt and resentment, I couldn’t do it.
Elated at the thought of perdition, damnation and destruction, the proud poet of the West had said, Amen—so be it. But the countless stars in the sky gave me hope, gave me strength. Generous and infinite, time stretched before me. This sin-infested city would surely be sanctified some day by the healing touch of the good.
For the last time I looked back at my dear inn—the tireless lights of Shahjahan were still blinking.
I walked on.
Acknowledgements
The revered foreigner who inspired me to write Chowringhee is no more. Many people—living and dead, Indians and foreigners, known and unknown—have helped me in various ways, some publicly and others from behind the scenes. I respectfully acknowledge each one of them.
—Sankar
My biggest champion for this translation is, of course, the author of Chowringhee, Sankar—Mani Sankar Mukherji—who has been a veritable elixir of encouragement all through, and whose trust in me I am truly grateful for. My special thanks go to the first editor of my career as a journalist, Sara Adhikari, who introduced me to Sankar and was instrumental in getting me my first translation assignment of the writer’s works, back in 1988.
The first draft of the translation was completed in 1992. That it is being published now is thanks in no small measure to Diya Kar Hazra at Penguin India, who chased down the translator of an English version of Chowringhee that she unearthed when she wanted the novel published in English—thirteen years later! A heartfelt ‘thank you’ goes out to my editor for this translation from Penguin, Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri, whose sensitivity is a joy to work with.
And finally, thank you, Calcutta—the once and future city...
I dedicate this translation to my wife Sanghamitra and son Srijon.
—Arunava Sinha
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First published in Bengali as Chowringhee by Dey’s Publishing, Kolkata 1962
First published in English by Penguin Books India 2007
www.penguinbooksindia.com
Copyright © Mani Sankar Mukherji 1962, 2007
Translation copyright © Dey’s Publishing 2007
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ISBN: 978-0-143-10103-1
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-9-351-18348-8
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