Panty - Bandyopadhyay, Sangeeta.pdf 5s12d

Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay PA N T Y Translated by ARUNAVA SINHA Gappaa.org

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Hypnosis Panty A Note on the Type Follow Penguin Copyright Page

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HY P N O S I S

On a searing summer afternoon, four sex-starved women sat together, knees touching, discussing their sex lives in introspective mode in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s air-conditioned room. Ilona Kuhu Mitra was one of them, of course. The others were Laila, Sunetra and Lavanya. All three were Ilona’s friends. They had never had such a confessional discussion, with so many candid issions, before. Each woman was largely aware of the others’ relationships and sexual experiences. But on that day they seemed tossed about on the stormy seas of their respective stories like dinghies that had broken free of their moorings. They had given precedence to self-respect throughout their long and deep friendship, but that day they abandoned any sense of embarrassment to describe their secret failures, humiliations, sins and tyrannies, bringing each of these to life with laughter, tears, nudges and winks, all the while gulping beer directly from the bottle and using foul, profane language. The women performed suggestive dances for one another, clapping like hijras and made orgasmic noises as they tumbled on the bed with their eyes shut.

The whole thing began when Sunetra said, ‘Women’s sex drive peaks around thirty-five. I no longer care to have my hand held or kissed. All I can think of is: hold me, carve me up, draw blood. And now of all times I have no one to have sex with. I wish I would die.’ A college professor, Sunetra had been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago – still in its first stage, it was being treated. She bled at times from the urinary tract without any apparent cause; sometimes she was racked by pain. But still, Ilona Kuhu Mitra and her friends had never heard Sunetra wish for death. That afternoon, they did. Sunetra’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke. ‘I had sex on the sly at fourteen with a guy from the neighbourhood. My first taste. I’ve always considered myself a bad girl since then. My drive is too strong; I jump into bed as soon as I’m in love. But, I wonder now, does sleeping with more than one man amount to having a great sex life? All I’ve experienced during such random and irregular promiscuity is the urge. How much pleasure did I actually get? It didn’t even last two years with Arindam. Shilajit also went off to Bombay. In my twentyyear-long sex life the number of days I’ve actually had sex can be counted on the fingers of my hands.’ Arindam was Sunetra’s husband. They had been married more than ten years. Sunetra even had a son. And she had only had a short-lived affair with Shilajit. Once the barriers came down, each woman began to tell her own story without hesitation. Ilona Kuhu Mitra revealed that she had been masturbating since the age of four. But no one believed her. ‘Don’t exaggerate, Ilona,’ said Laila. ‘Four? Are you kidding me?’ ‘I’m going out for a smoke,’ said Ilona. ‘I’ll come back and give you the details.’

‘No way. You’re going to make up a story. Tell us now.’ ‘I’ve always known that sex has nothing to do with the heart. What starts with the body ends with the body. That’s why I don’t believe in all these clearly defined identities like homosexual or bisexual. Anything and anybody can give you that pleasure. Our pleasure orientation is concentrated in such a small area. A hole or a penis, around which there are a few nerves capable of receiving the pleasure stimulus. The rest is imagination. I really was four then. I was rocking in my chair one day; the legs rose and fell and there was a thump each time. My mother shouted from the kitchen, “Don’t do that, Kuhu, you’ll fall and hurt your head.” I wasn’t listening, I was being disobedient. Suddenly I had a very good feeling down there. It felt wonderful. I didn’t know that I was having spasms, long spasms. I did it because I enjoyed the sensation. The whole experience stayed with me. I did it whenever I ed. Even in school. I was doing it in school one day, rocking, and we had this teacher … she slapped me. “Didn’t I tell you not to make noise?” My mother slapped me too one day. After that I obviously couldn’t do the rocking thing in other people’s presence. What now? I was addicted. I was so innocent – I discovered that I could get the same pleasure if I lay down, crossed my legs, and rubbed one against the other. It didn’t make any noise. I did it in full view of my mother one day. “What are you doing?” she asked. “It feels good here,” I told her. She collapsed. Then came the scolding, the spanking. So I started hiding it, and by the time I was seven or eight, I had developed a complete method of masturbation, in my own style. And by the time I was twelve, I was inserting things into myself.’

‘Do you know what I used to fantasize about when I began masturbating?’ asked Lavanya. ‘My father doing my mother. Uff, I’d be so miserable afterwards. This is probably why I became so distant from my parents, don’t you think, Ilona?’ ‘If a psychiatrist heard this, he’d call it a case of the Electra Complex,’ remarked Sunetra. Lavanya’s face fell. The last story came from Laila, that too after Sunetra and Lavanya had left. ‘I was raped, you know,’ Laila said. Ilona Kuhu Mitra thought she had heard wrong. ‘We lived in a bungalow on a tea estate in Assam,’ said Laila. ‘When I was fourteen or so, two strange boys moved into the slums next to the estate. Word got around they were ULFA militants. The police even took them away once. Then they let them go. I have no idea if they really were militants. We were forbidden from visiting the slums. Everyone was perpetually scared of the ULFA then. My father practically gave up evening parties. Whenever we went out some people would follow us in a jeep. My father always drove with the headlights switched off. But I liked those two boys, you know. I trembled with some kind of concealed infatuation. When they looked at me, I looked right back at them. One of them called me over to their house one day. I climbed down the spiral staircase behind the toilet under the cover of darkness and visited them.’ Laila paused. ‘They didn’t utter a single world. I entered and they raped me, both of them. Twice each. I never told anyone. Because I was the one who had visited them for an adventure. I have no idea how I returned home that night, how I even

survived. Now I know that I should have had psychological treatment immediately. My life wouldn’t have turned out so weird.’ ‘You can still do it,’ said Ilona. ‘You can see a good psychiatrist, can’t you, Laila?’ ‘I’ve been going to a hypnotherapist for two months now, Ilona. I hope I can continue with the sessions. There’s so much pressure at work that I hardly have any time even for myself. How long has it been since we met like this?’ ‘What’s your hypnotherapist’s name?’ ‘Nirvana Rudrani Khiri,’ answered Laila. ‘A nomadic woman from Tibet.’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra had a strange dream that very night. She saw herself as a girl of fourteen in a school uniform, dressed in a short skirt, blazer and tie, and shoes, her hair tied up in a ponytail. She was walking about in a huge football field. It had no grass, only sand. Her feet sank into the moist soil as she walked. On one side of the field was a tall Gothic building, while mountains ranged on the other three sides. The sun was about to set; one face of the mountains was dark, while the other face was bathed in an orange light. The tall trees seemed to be sighing in time with the sunset. A church bell pealed in the distance. Its ringing was the signal for everyone to return to the school field and line up in rows. After which they had to file off to the dining room for supper. The scene changed at once. Ilona Kuhu Mitra could see a different room, where a table lamp was lit. Someone had laid her down amidst a pile of books on the desk with the lamp. Her skirt had been raised and her panties removed. She lay there with her legs parted, socks and shoes still on, while a gigantic man was poised over her exposed vagina. His penis was

erect. The man was naked. Leaning forward, he pinned Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s arms to the desk. The man was about to penetrate her … and this was where time stopped. Ilona Kuhu Mitra saw the man staring at her. The dreaming Ilona Kuhu Mitra could sense the incredible willpower the Ilona Kuhu Mitra in the dream had exercised to stop the man in this position. The dreaming Ilona Kuhu Mitra could make out that Ilona Kuhu Mitra in the dream felt a pounding in her head. The man and Ilona Kuhu Mitra stared at each other. The hands of the clock ticked forward. There was no other sound. No other movement. Ilona Kuhu Mitra was having the longest dream of her life … she simply could not get it to end, simply could not feel exhausted enough to wake up. What a strange dream, Ilona Kuhu Mitra reflected when she awoke, cupping her cheek in her palm. A couple of days later, Ilona Kuhu Mitra wondered whether she really had had such a dream. Or had she been daydreaming? Ten days later she asked herself: It was only a dream, wasn’t it? A month or so later, she sat by herself, biting her lips – was it a dream, or was it the memory of an actual incident? As more time ed, she forgot that it was a dream – it became real. Increasingly she became convinced that it was an actual event, but she had distanced herself so much from its sleeping memory that she couldn’t the whole thing. She couldn’t recollect what had happened after. Did the man do her by force? Had she fallen asleep while staring at the man? A sleep so deep that she knew nothing about what happened?

In real , there was never anyone named Meghdoot in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life. Here, being in her life refers to a presence with a certain significance and a clear role. Sayan Dey, for instance. There was actually no one named Sayan Dey in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life. And yet Sayan and Ilona worked in the same office. Sayan was a very nice young man. Much younger than Ilona. Like Ilona, Sayan too worked on the night shift regularly, for various reasons. Ilona knew a great deal about Sayan’s personal life. Such as the fact that Sayan liked wearing jeans and kurtas. He smoked Gold Flake cigarettes. He had a master’s degree in mass communications from Calcutta University. He came from a t family. He was getting married to his girlfriend in a few months. Before going to sleep in the early hours of the morning he always sent his girlfriend a kiss on the phone. Sometimes Ilona and Sayan watched horror movies on the computer. Ilona loved to be frightened, so she watched these films and squirmed in fear. She would have jumped into Sayan’s arms if she could have.

At times it so happened that Ilona Kuhu Mitra went to office without eating her dinner, and became ravenous later at night. The office cafeteria was swabbed and cleaned at that hour. All that was available was tea, coffee, cold drinks, potato chips and biscuits. On such nights Ilona might tell Sayan, ‘I’m hungry, any suggestions?’ Sayan may also have come to office not having had his dinner; so at one or one-thirty in the morning, they would get roti-tadka, kabab and Diet Coke from a nearby dhaba and eat at a table in the cafeteria, chatting all the while. Ilona and Sayan. Eavesdropping on their conversation as they sat face-to-face would reveal that Ilona Kuhu Mitra and Sayan did not relate to each other in any way whatsoever. Their lives were so far apart that it was absolutely impossible. But that they chatted in spite of this was true. It had been known to happen. Ilona usually left office before the sun punctured the night sky with a pin. She drove alone from Mandeville Gardens to her home on Sarat Bose Road. At this hour, all familiar faces, even her brother and sister-in-law – Sanjay and Dharitri – clung to their beds in sleep, oblivious to the world. This was the time when the loneliness of Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life seemed at its purest. A cool breeze had sprung up, the roads were empty, there were no petrol fumes, dust particles had abandoned the air to settle on the ground, trees could be seen shedding their leaves. At any other time Ilona suffered terrible guilt when she felt lonely. She believed it was wrong to experience loneliness. But at this hour, she did not hold herself culpable. On the contrary, to extend this period, she made the short way home longer by driving at random through the city. She often drove off to Southern Avenue and took the flyover to Lake Gardens.

Perhaps the street was being repaired. A barricade stood across the road. Stopping, Ilona Kuhu Mitra observed tar being melted in a giant furnace. Several thin, emaciated men clustered around the flames, their faces glowing in the light, their bodies reddened like heated iron skewers. It seemed to Ilona that the men were looking at the fire with a wild, germinating hope, as though it had been lit to conduct a yajna. As if a gargantuan demon would suddenly emerge from the black smoke belched out by the flames, to be controlled thereafter by these desiccated bare-bodied men in rolled-up tros with rags wrapped around their heads. The sight thrilled Ilona Kuhu Mitra. She felt as though she had discovered their real mission behind the façade of melting tar. At this hour, any vehicles on the road travelled at lightning speeds. Pick-up trucks piled with fruits and vegetables; lorries carrying sacks of potatoes; empty, unlit buses. When the drivers of these vehicles saw a woman driving alone at this time, they would sound their horns in primitive elation, they would shout, wouldn’t let her , crowd her into a corner. Ilona Kuhu Mitra knew that no matter how short the way home was, it could be strewn with danger at three or three-thirty in the morning. But an irresistible attraction of some kind made her want to return home at that particular time. And she assumed that if she was indeed confronted by danger, and was in a position to make a call, she would call Sayan before her brother and sister-in-law; and she was confident that Sayan would indeed come to her aid at once. But, in spite of all this, no one named Sayan actually existed in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life. At least, not in a role of any significance.

In exactly the same way, there was never anyone named Meghdoot in Ilona’s life. Or, it could be said that Meghdoot’s presence in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life was not even the minor one that Sayan’s was. But, what happened one day was, Ilona woke up in the afternoon, bathed, and set off for her bank in Chowringhee to collect her bank statement for the past six months. Just as she was about to park in the space allotted to the bank, a taxi overtook her and screeched to a halt in front of her at a wave from the enger. Even before she could begin to wonder what was going on, Ilona had to swerve to the left and brake. The white car behind her also braked, almost colliding with hers. Ilona heard the driver abusing her in filthy language. Driving in Calcutta and never being abused was an unimaginable proposition. So Ilona Kuhu Mitra didn’t pay any attention. A man opened the back door of the car and got out, came up to her window and tapped on it. Ilona looked up and recognized him; it was Megh Roy.

Putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans, Meghdoot said, ‘Very sorry. I realize you were not at fault. Drivers inevitably use bad language in such situations. They cannot be stopped. They refuse to learn no matter how hard you try. This happens by default. Please don’t mind.’ Taking off her sunglasses, Ilona Kuhu Mitra told Meghdoot, ‘It’s nothing. I’ve noticed choice epithets springing to my lips too in similar situations.’ She got out of the car as she was speaking. Finger-combing his thick beard, Meghdoot said, ‘I keep telling them to be extra respectful to women. In their mind, of course, but also in their behaviour. Slow down when an aged lady is crossing the road … but what use is it? They still do what they’re used to doing. Like now.’ ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra. ‘I’m not upset.’ Had she wanted to, she could have said, ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Megh, your music has acquainted us with your tastes and your sensibilities. By “us” I am referring to ordinary people, of course. We who listen to your music and love it. Your music is sensitive, modern, developed, indoctrinated – like civilized people. Maybe we cannot give it a specific label, but it will appeal to all contemporary people. Like ragas and raginis, for instance. They’re so eternal, almost like the sunrise and the sunset. The sun will rise and set whether the human species exist on earth or not. But some people create music that carries the mark of the journey of human civilization. It contains the additional layer of excellence embodied in human evolution. This music is the music of an individual, not the music of nature. You are a music composer of

this stature – a master. I do not have the slightest doubt that you advise your driver to treat womankind on the streets with immense respect.’ But how was it possible to suddenly engage in a conversation of this nature on the road? Had anyone ever stood between two askew cars in the middle of Chowringhee and said such things to another person? People in the cars swerving around their stationary vehicles glared at them. They sounded their horns, too. With a smile, Megh said ‘Thank you,’ and got into his car. She too went back to hers, parked it in a suitable spot and entered the bank.

But a doubt definitely arises now. Does this mean Megh Roy had existed in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life once? In some way? Could it even be said to be as minor an existence as Sayan’s? Apart from the friends, family, colleagues and work associates in our lives, there are some people whom we have never met, never spoken to, who do not know us, who think of us as collective nouns – viewers, audience, citizens, voters and so on – but with whom we nevertheless build a direct, sometimes very personal, connection. Even if they cannot recognize us as individuals, we know them. When we see one of them walking past with a handloom bag slung on his shoulder, we say, ‘That’s poet so-and-so over there. Do you gifting me his book of poems in class nine?’ There are many such people around us, whom we know on a one-way basis. Sometimes this acquaintance intensifies into such intimacy that they become our companions during our trysts with unusual sensations and realizations amidst our reality-driven existence. Our only

companions. But when looked at this way, this circle of acquaintances becomes so large that very few people are excluded from it – there are very few people whom we do not know at all. Why do we grin from ear to ear at the man in the grimy, tattered rags with matted hair who’s scurrying about the crossroads blowing a whistle in an attempt to control traffic? Isn’t it because we identify him as a lunatic? An unknown voice can be heard singing on the music system next door. We may not know the man, but we recognize the singer in him in an instant, don’t we? We label the man on the stretcher a patient. A blazing bright chandelier in the drawing room of an enormous mansion, a woman appears in the balcony and goes back inside after a single glance at the road – we get a sense of her wealth at once. In this way, we inevitably become familiar with at least one of the multiple identities that belong to every person. One of Meghdoot Roy’s songs was Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s caller tune. Ilona Kuhu Mitra used to listen to a particular composition of his night after night at a time in her life when she simply could not sleep; it was then that she had decided to go to office at night rather than during the day. Ilona Kuhu Mitra had been listening to Meghdoot Roy’s music even before she reached puberty. Among the composers whose music she enjoyed, Meghdoot Roy had a unique place. At 10 p.m. on the day Ilona met Meghdoot on the road and spoke with him, she saw him surrounded by a number of familiar and unfamiliar faces on the landing between the second and third floors of the office. He was still dressed in the same clothes. Among the familiar faces, there were two types of people she knew. The first were her colleagues: Devdutta and

Panath. Devdutta looked after entertainment news at the channel as a departmental producer. And Panath was the floor manager. She recognized two of the others as famous faces. One of them was a film director; the other, the lead singer in a band. Ilona Kuhu Mitra concluded that Meghdoot and the rest were in their office as guests for a promotional programme for a film. Major celebrities from Calcutta as well as India frequented their office regularly. When big shots like Katrina Kaif, Abhishek Bachchan or Sourav Ganguly made an appearance, the police had to be deployed outside the office to keep the excited public at bay. Although she worked there, Ilona could no longer witness these special days because she came in late at night, when the roads were emptying out and people were leaving the office. The studio was on the second floor, with a well-appointed waiting room for guests alongside. There was an open terrace right next to it, where the guests often drank coffee and smoked. That Meghdoot and the others were chatting on the landing was certainly an exception. Had she taken the lift upstairs, she would have just punched her card and entered the newsroom directly. She wouldn’t even have met Meghdoot. But because of the crowd waiting for the lift, she took the stairs, and was reminded of the afternoon’s incident when she had seen Meghdoot. She was about to go past them, but Meghdoot raised his voice and called out to her, ‘Didn’t we meet this morning at Chowringhee?’ She turned towards him. ‘Yes.’ ‘Yes, of course,’ said Meghdoot. ‘You work here?’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s ID card was slung around her neck. Meghdoot fixed his eyes unhesitatingly on the card lying over her breasts. ‘Okay, Ilona Kuhu Mitra, MC1014. I don’t have my glasses, did I get that right?’ ‘You did,’ said Ilona. Meghdoot offered her a fluid smile. Returning the smile, Ilona entered the newsroom. It would be a long time before she could get a seat. Shankhashubhra from the day shift was an extremely busy producer. He usually couldn’t leave before one in the morning. Which was why Ilona didn’t come in to work early. When she did, she would wander about between different floors. She might spend some time in the production control room, or in the makeup room. Chat with people, have some coffee. A little later, when Ilona was on her way downstairs to the second floor for a chat with Kathakali the newsreader, she looked out of the window to discover Meghdoot leaving the office compound in the same car as that afternoon. Exactly two days later, it was about 1 p.m., Ilona had not got out of bed yet. Awake, she was lying in silence when her sister-in-law called to ask, ‘Are you up, Kuhu?’ ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Listen, Chiki’s leaving the day after tomorrow,’ said Dharitri. ‘I was supposed to take her shopping this afternoon, but I can’t get out of the office right now. Two clients have turned up together. Your brother’s told me not to go out. Can you do me a favour? Get dressed quickly and pick up Chiki. Take her to buy whatever she wants. I’ll reach the club at five-thirty. Come over to the club when you’re done. Chiki wants to buy some Delhi designer’s kurta-

pyjamas from Gallery 65 for Ronnie. I want to check the place out too. We’ll go there from the club. Sanchari got her daughter-in-law a lehnga-choli from the same place. I’ll have to buy some too when Mizo gets married. So I’ll do a quick survey now. Get out of bed now, okay, call Chiki and tell her.’ Ending her monologue, she disconnected the phone noisily. Ilona rose and went to the bathroom with her phone, dialling Chiki’s number. ‘Get dressed, I’m coming to pick you up.’ ‘I know. Where are you taking me, Kuhu Pipi? ‘You tell me?’ She yawned. ‘First to that shop that Ronnie likes. He asked me to get some kurtas for him. Just look at me – for two months I shopped only for myself, I didn’t even him.’ After the call, Ilona Kuhu Mitra showered, and then, still wrapped in a bathrobe, put the kettle on in the kitchen. While the water came to a boil, she applied moisturizer on her arms, legs and body. Then, as the tea brewed, she brushed her hair and completed her light makeup. Between sips of her tea, she put on her jeans and tunic and was ready for the day. Driving out of the parking lot in the basement, Ilona reached Dharitri’s parents’ house on Sadananda Road. A mansion would be an apt description; it had been built at great expense at the beginning of the twentieth century. Her sister-in-law’s father had been something of a connoisseur, with a fabulous collection of antique furniture. Most of the rooms in this house were locked now, the furniture covered with sheets of cloth. Who was going to dust and clean such a big house and so many things every day? Dharitri’s eldest brother and his wife had moved to the US long ago; their children lived there too. Chiki was the only daughter of

the younger of Dharitri’s two elder brothers. She had defied her family to go off to study in Australia, got married there and settled down with no intention of returning to India. She was visiting for a couple of months, that too after two years. Chiki and Mizo were about the same age – twenty-seven or so. Mizo, Dharitri and Sanjay’s only son, had left for the US at eighteen to study economics at Cornell University. He had been in America all these years. As soon as she reached and gave Chiki a missed call, Chiki came running down the stairs. Ilona sped off towards Hindustan Park. The men’s section was on the first floor of the store. After she had chosen several short as well as long and flowing kurtas, Chiki was suddenly flooded with anxiety. ‘Forty-two seems too big for Ronnie, doesn’t it, Pipi? He’ll be furious if they don’t fit him properly. You can’t even what your husband’s size is, he’ll say.’ ‘Haven’t you bought anything at all for Ronnie in Calcutta this time?’ Ilona asked. ‘You only ed on your last day here?’ ‘Uff, it’s not like I didn’t buy anything. I got him a Gujarati jacket. But that was free-size.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra herself had never bought anything for a man, especially shirts. Her sister-in-law was with her whenever she bought clothes for her brother or Mizo. Himanshu used to buy his own clothes. If Dharitri had been here, she would have figured out how to solve the problem without calling Ronnie. Her sister-in-law was a superb improviser. Ilona called her, but she didn’t respond; she was probably in a meeting. Ilona Kuhu Mitra told Chiki, ‘Go hug each of the people here. The one who makes you feel like you’re in Ronnie’s arms is the one …’

Chiki didn’t let her finish, saying, ‘Good idea, Kuhu Pipi. There, see, that guy there is exactly Ronnie’s size. Same height, same build.’ The man in question was a salesman in the store, his size was forty. With a smug expression, Chiki said, ‘Didn’t I tell you forty-two would be too large?’ Then Chiki wouldn’t take no for an answer. She insisted on buying Ilona a sari. On her part, she bought Chiki two skirts. When they stepped outside the store, Ilona asked, ‘Where do you want to go now?’ Chiki’s phone rang. Answering, she began to jump up and down in excitement. Ilona could make out from the conversation that her college friends were coming to see her. She was leaving in two days, there was no telling when she would be back … it was true that they had all met already, but still, a pre-departure reunion, a few farewell speeches, some hugging and weeping. Finishing her call, Chiki said, ‘Pratik is somewhere hereabouts, Kuhu Pipi. He will pick me up. Let’s wait here for a bit.’ ‘And your shopping?’ ‘One of our close friends is getting married soon after I return to Melbourne. I meant to take a designer sherwani or something for Ronnie to wear at the wedding, but I just couldn’t find the time. And now that my friends are coming, I don’t feel like going shopping for him. I feel like crying. I’m going away. Suddenly that’s all I can think of, that I’m going away. This is why I don’t like staying here for such long stretches. I’m spoilt here, it’s such fun – eat, drink and party, and sleep. Over there I have to hold a job, study, and manage the house, all

at the same time. Oh god, the very thought of it creeps me out, Kuhu Pipi. Heaven knows what sort of pigsty Ronnie’s turned the house into in the two months I’ve been away. And besides, he’s spent every weekend at some friend’s place or the other; as soon as I get back I’ll have to have them over and cook for them.’ ‘When is your friend coming? I’m starving. Let’s go to the South Indian Coffee House, you can leave when he comes.’ ‘I’ll only have coffee, but you must explain to Pipi. I won’t go to the club, I’ll be late getting home. You must come for lunch tomorrow, Kuhu Pipi.’ Ilona and Chiki sat at a corner table in the South Indian Coffee House. Ilona ordered two coffees and a masala dosa. The coffee arrived at once, and as soon as they finished the coffee Chiki got a call. ‘He’s here, he’s here! I’m not taking these packets, Kuhu Pipi, bring them tomorrow, all right?’ Kissing her on both cheeks, Chiki raced out. Realizing that she had left her phone behind, she raced back in again, grabbed the phone and disappeared. Cradling her cheek in her palm, Ilona Kuhu Mitra waited for her dosa. The coffee house was virtually empty. The lunchtime crowd had left. There were just two other people, each in one of the corners. The July sun blazed outside – it was much cooler and more comfortable within. From where Ilona Kuhu Mitra sat, the front yard of a certain house was visible through an open door and window. She could see a large mango tree. Leaves swirled about in the yard. There was a veranda to the right, a little dilapidated. It was clear at a glance that it had not been used in a long time. Plants with enormous leaves covered the walls. Directly in front of her table was the half-open front gate of the building in which the

coffee house was located. Beyond it lay the main road of Hindustan Park. On the other side of the road was a grey house, 15B, its name etched on a slab of white marble, Basanta Nibash. It used to belong to Sudhanshu Mullick, the head of a t family. One of the girls who lived there, Kamalini, was Ilona’s friend. She had a cleft lip, and found it difficult to talk. The white petticoat shaped like the letter U that was hanging from the second-floor balcony of the house was the kind that old women wore. Whose was it? It couldn’t possibly be Kamalini’s grandmother’s. She would be more than a hundred years old if she were alive. Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not know whether the house still belonged to the Mullicks. Ilona and her family had left this neighbourhood in 1987. They had had no need to frequent this street after that. Looking on with blank eyes, Ilona thought to herself that this feeling of emptiness was an actual sensation that afflicted humans. In other words, it had some sort of existence. And how could something that existed be empty? When the dosa arrived, Ilona Kuhu Mitra raised a spoonful of sambar to her mouth. The limited view she had through the open door and window made her think that time had stood still all these years. Nothing had changed. It was this view that had stoked so many different memories. And she could now hear the footsteps of other memories connected to these. This was like the ‘semi-silent’ state described by Nietzsche, this state when she considered herself afflicted by emptiness. When she considered herself alone. When she did not say a word to anyone else, when a million words were being articulated inside her head, a million scenes. A complete world, both friendly and inimical, had come to life within her head.

Just as Ilona Kuhu Mitra was about to call her sister-in-law to convey Chiki’s plan and prove that she had tried to fulfil her responsibilities in the most appropriate manner possible, someone appeared before her and said, ‘Why so pensive?’ Raising her eyes, Ilona saw it was Meghdoot. Startled, she said, ‘How strange, we meet again.’ Pulling a chair up to the table and sitting down without wasting further words, Meghdoot said, ‘I do come here sometimes. Although I’m becoming so busy that my visits are more and more infrequent. This time it’s after six or seven months. Bahadur can tell you the exact duration.’ ‘Who’s Bahadur?’ ‘Bahadur is the durwan here.’ Pushing his glasses up towards his wide brow, Meghdoot glanced at the gate. For an instant his eyes drifted from the present to a distant time … Drawing an invisible line on the table linen with his finger, Meghdoot said, ‘I used to live here once, on the second floor. I lived here for three years. After my relationship with Salilda ended I had nowhere to stay … I used to live, eat and sleep in Salil-da’s house. When I left his house I had no shelter for some time; for a while I stayed at a guest house near Ballygunge Station, and then I moved into this building.’ ‘Who is Salil-da? Salil Deb? The music composer?’ ‘Hmm.’ Meghdoot’s expression was tranquil. Not a single muscle twitched on his face. He was looking at her, but not seeing her. His eyes penetrated her body to fasten on something else. ‘I am his creation.’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra had not noticed when Meghdoot had entered or if he had ordered any food. ‘A cup of coffee?’ she was about to ask, but before she could one of the waiters put a tumbler of coffee on the table and told Meghdoot, ‘Long time, Dada.’ Nodding at him, Meghdoot put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t stop eating,’ he told Ilona. ‘Aren’t you eating?’ ‘I’m sure they’ll bring me something, I don’t have to ask. Back then you know, Ilona, I was struggling, I’d wander about all day and return late at night, I was drinking a lot.’ Ilona observed Meghdoot’s eyes light up. ‘The gate would be locked around eleven-thirty every night. I simply couldn’t wake Bahadur up, so do you know what I’d do? I’d make the taxi park close to the gate, climb on to its roof, and jump over. Do you suppose I could do it now, jump over such a tall gate? Impossible.’ ‘Did you drink a lot?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra had not been prepared to listen to Meghdoot’s tale. But, on that late afternoon, he had begun his story with so many details that she felt no urge to stop him. ‘Oh, I drank like a fish. One morning, I found myself lying on the pavement at Golpark. With bundles of newspaper being tossed on my face and body from a pick-up truck. Did I get drunk, out on the pavement, and spend the night here, I asked myself. I was filled with hatred for myself. That was it, I gave it up at once. I haven’t had even a thimbleful since then. I gave up smoking the same way one day.’ ‘How?’

‘I used to smoke three or four packets every day, uff!’ Meghdoot appeared annoyed with himself. ‘After Jura was born the doctor said, “Don’t smoke in the presence of the child, don’t smoke at all at home, don’t hold your child when you’ve had a smoke.” When I stepped out of his chamber I tossed the packet of cigarettes away. I never smoked again. If you want to give something up, this is the way to do it. But …’ Meghdoot stared at her, ‘Parijat never understood how devoted I was to her and to Jura, how committed. How easily she broke free. How could she … can you tell me?’ Meghdoot was a famous contemporary music composer. Ilona was in the media, besides which, ordinary people were fairly well informed about the personal lives of celebrities. So Meghdoot may have assumed that Ilona already knew a great deal about him. But the truth was that Ilona Kuhu Mitra knew practically nothing about Meghdoot Roy’s personal life. There was a singer named Parijat, some of whose songs had become very popular seven or eight years ago. These songs were still played often on the FM channels. However, no new song by her had been heard recently. Ilona would have noticed if she’d had a new album out. Was Meghdoot talking about the same Parijat? Possibly. Anyhow, in the course of the conversation, Meghdoot had switched from the formal ‘aapni’ to the casual ‘tumi’ with her. How could Ilona Kuhu Mitra know what had made Parijat snap her bond with Meghdoot? Unsure of what to say, she gathered her hair, which she had left loose on her back, at the nape of her neck with a clip. ‘Do you have all the trendy habits?’ asked Meghdoot. ‘What trendy habits?’

‘Do you smoke? Everyone does in your office, even the women.’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘You can’t be modern unless you smoke, is that it? Because you don’t look confident otherwise? Why do you need help from cigarette smoke to assert your freedom? Don’t you think of these things? You look as though you think deeply about everything.’ ‘You can tell that just by looking at me?’ ‘Yes. Just as I can tell by looking at you that right now you’re merely nodding politely. Actually, you’re wondering whether to keep talking with a stranger, and why. But in fact you can talk just as much as I can, you talk a lot.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra burst into laughter at this. ‘What a dangerous girl you are, Ilona,’ said Meghdoot. ‘How this Meghdoot Roy can talk, you were thinking to yourself. Yes or no?’ Ilona itted that that was just what she was thinking. ‘But that doesn’t mean I pick up conversations with any and everyone,’ said Meghdoot. ‘Only one or two people make me feel as though what I’m saying will reach their hearts, find a place there.’ He began to fiddle with his mobile phone. ‘By the way, tell me where you live.’ Meghdoot poured a simpering delight into the ‘tell me’. And it eased the doubts in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s mind instantly. Maybe Meghdoot was a famous person, maybe he was an artist, she reflected, but his behaviour was quite normal. Just like a regular guy. So far Meghdoot had said nothing about his work. All that he had recounted was personal history, something

like a memoir. It was memories associated with the South Indian Coffee House that had made him say all that he had said. He had made no attempt to protect his privacy. As though the identity of the woman sitting opposite him need not be considered in the slightest. Meghdoot felt like talking, therefore he was talking. Meghdoot got a call on his phone. ‘Yes, all right, I’m on my way.’ Ilona realized that he would jump up any moment in the middle of the conversation and leave. She could have said, ‘Just as you have so many memories associated with this house, Meghdoot, so do I. 15D, Hindustan Road was our family house. My father, his brother and his sister lived there. My father used to work in Bhilai. My mother died there, when I was very young. We would visit Calcutta four or five times a year. And my father would lead me by the hand to this coffee house for breakfast. My uncle and his family lived in Jaipur then. So the house was empty most of the time. The ground floor was occupied by tenants, however. Because of all this, after my father and uncle died in quick succession, my uncle’s son decided to sell the house. The house and grounds were so big that we got a very good price. Part of the money went to my father’s sister. And my uncle’s son bought two flats facing each other in a high-rise building on Lake Road. One for me, and one for him. That’s where we live now. Ever since my father died, Dada has been my guardian. He and his wife are my family. Although, Dada was very upset with me once. He wouldn’t talk to me. He couldn’t believe that I had really married Himanshu. Still, when the marriage broke up, I went back to my flat. I have all my meals with Dada and Boudi. I have a job, but he still gives me a monthly allowance. He’s a taskmaster, but Boudi indulges me. They are lawyers,

they practise at the high court. Their chamber is on Old Court House Street …’ But what if Meghdoot interrupted her in the middle of these details, saying, ‘I have to go,’ and left? Ilona would be humiliated. And even in this short span of time Ilona Kuhu Mitra had realized that Meghdoot was restless by nature. And busy too, of course. After one of his film songs became an incredible hit last year, Meghdoot was flooded with assignments and movies to write music for. So all she said was, ‘I live on Lake Road.’ ‘With your husband?’ ‘No, with my brother and sister-in-law.’ ‘And how many marriages have you walked out on?’ Meghdoot’s eyes turned mischievous. ‘One.’ ‘Hmm.’ This hmm was probably a force of habit. ‘You’re probably younger than Parijat, or about her age.’ Meghdoot told her how old Parijat was. ‘Yes, about the same age.’ ‘Give me your number, Ilona.’ Meghdoot lowered his glasses from his forehead to his eyes. ‘Is your phone ringing? Keep my number …’ Meghdoot held his phone to his ear. And Ilona Kuhu Mitra could not locate her phone on the table. She had put it in her bag unmindfully. By the time she found it and looked at Meghdoot, there was a new expression on his face. As though something unexpected had happened. ‘Nice ringtone,’ he said. Ilona smiled at his remark.

‘Did you know that this one is my favourite among my own compositions? When I was writing the music for this film, my relationship with Parijat had begun disintegrating. I was incredibly busy, we were recording in Bombay, and every single moment I wondered whether Parijat and Jura would still be at home when I returned. Parijat had declared that she would leave any day. And I simply could not understand why someone I cherished and loved so much, the mother of my child … we had built a home together after so much struggle, so many battles … and now that I was earning pots of money, with so many assignments for commercials and films – why had Parijat chosen this moment to leave me? What was her grievance? Why was she feeling hurt? What I didn’t know then was that she didn’t care for me any more, because she had fallen in love with someone else. I searched for Parijat’s unhappiness in this song; it’s one of the most important compositions of my life.’ When a man says such things, it’s with a mixture of great sadness, pain and regret. But Meghdoot was speaking somewhat ironically. As if the mist of surprise had still not lifted. ‘You cannot hold anyone back with love, Ilona.’ ‘Then what can you hold them back with? Money?’ ‘Rubbish, I was earning plenty of money at the time. Sex. Sex,’ answered Meghdoot. ‘Probably sex.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra was silent. ‘I bet you did similarly nasty things to your husband. You women can do anything, you modern women. No children?’

‘No.’ Meghdoot’s phone rang again. ‘They won’t leave me alone. Okay, Ilona, I’m going now. I’ll pay the bill.’ ‘No. Why should you? Don’t worry.’ Ilona didn’t say any of this. Collecting her packets, she left with Meghdoot. He walked her to her car, saying, ‘We’ll meet again, talk again.’ She needn’t have, but, starting her car, Ilona Kuhu Mitra told Meghdoot, who was standing near the window with his hands in his pockets, ‘Look, Meghdoot, this house here was ours once. Most of my childhood was spent here, but it was sold later.’ Meghdoot scanned the house carefully. He scanned the house, the road, the coffee house, the entire stretch of Hindustan Park from one end to the other, all the way up to the Baniks’ house, as though he used to live in this neighbourhood at the same time as Ilona Kuhu Mitra, when these flats had not come up, when a bulky Ambassador used to be parked on the road, when people visited one another at home, when the red-and-yellow trucks of P3 company used to be lined up in a row … In his mind’s eye, Meghdoot seemed to be trying to conjure that old neighbourhood out of all the changes that had taken place since then. Then he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ ‘What would that have achieved?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Meghdoot shook his head. As she drove out of Hindustan Park and reached Rashbehari Avenue, Ilona ed that she should have called her sister-in-law. It was five-thirty, why not go to the club directly? She hadn’t been for a swim in a long time. At this time of day there was no chance

of running into Himanshu. It was why Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not like going to the club late in the evening. Of course, Himanshu never tried to talk to her when her brother was present. It had been a long time since Ilona had left him. He had never tried to harm her in any way, apart from attempts to persuade her to return to him. But she was still startled if she saw him unexpectedly; it scared her. When Ilona had gone for coffee to Gurusaday Dutta Road the other evening with Laila, she had been terrified to see Himanshu get out of a car in front of the coffee shop. Ilona knew, and logic told her as much, that that particular building belonged to Himanshu’s family. The building housed the head office of a foreign bank, a well-known restaurant, a coffee shop looking out on the road, and the offices of several other companies as well as of their own family business. It was natural for Himanshu to be there. But still, Ilona constantly felt as though Himanshu was stalking her. She had felt the same that evening too. Ilona Kuhu Mitra had already been feeling vulnerable that day. She had been to Camac Street for some official work, and was supposed to meet Laila at Gurusaday Dutta Road after that. Laila’s office was at Ballygunge Phanri. It began to rain torrentially while Ilona was on her way. At Minto Park, she had to stop her car at the traffic signal. It was getting dark. The force of the rain had made the surroundings indistinct – indistinct people, indistinct vehicles, the vendors of strawberries and roses standing indistinctly beneath the indistinct flyover – and at that precise moment Ilona Kuhu Mitra saw the words ‘Lumbini, This Way’ appear on a hoarding in front of her. Ilona stared at it in stupefied silence.

She didn’t even notice when the lights turned green. The cars behind her honked furiously. Driving away swiftly, she glanced again at the hoarding, discovering a familiar face belonging to an actress. It was an ment for a well-known jewellery shop – Lumbini, This Way. This had happened to her before also. She had seen completely imaginary words on the city’s hoardings, and been flabbergasted on discovering her mistake later. A few days afterwards, she had wondered whether she had really got it wrong. Had she dreamt it? Or had the words actually been there, although she thought she had made a mistake? When she saw Himanshu at Gurusaday Dutta Road, she was about to tell Laila apprehensively, ‘Let’s go somewhere else, I don’t want to be here.’ But she realized that Laila had settled down, with her laptop, phone, earphones, handbag, cigarettes, lighter, water bottle, a half-finished cup of coffee, a half-eaten plate of sandwich, empty pouch of sugar, sugar grains and a redand-yellow hardcover book scattered all over the table. There wasn’t space for even a second cup of coffee. A complete mess. Although only slightly, Ilona Kuhu Mitra had got wet in the rain; as soon as she returned from the washroom, Laila said, ‘I saw this book at Oxford the other day. I just picked it up. When the dance bars in Bombay were closing down, a Bengali girl named Sumita had come to me to work as a maid. She was from Bangladesh, her home was in Comilla or some such place. I learnt much later that she used to be a bar dancer. At first she didn’t tell me anything about her past, but eventually I heard many stories about their lives from her, Ilona. Horrible stories. When I saw this book I thought I’d find out if it matches her experiences. You could read it too.’

Laila had lived in Bombay for several years – she used to work there. She got married there too. She was separated from her husband now, and lived in Calcutta. She had big responsibilities at work, which was why the two friends met rarely. They could never get together without planning ahead. Everyone around Ilona Kuhu Mitra was very busy; she was the only one without pressure at work, without a busy schedule. While she did work nights, there was neither any complexity nor any stress in the newsroom at night. Preparing two or three packages barely took her till two-thirty or three in the morning. The security guards nodded off at that hour. The receptionist too. The studio lights were turned off by then. The OB vans were back at the office, as were the cars used to drop people home. The compound was washed with a hosepipe. Only the soft hum of vacuum cleaners could be heard on every floor. Ilona wandered about silently amidst half-asleep people. Sometimes she entered the make-up room on the first floor. The walls there were covered in mirrors. As she stood in the middle of the empty room, looking at countless, scattered reflections of herself, Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt like an exhausted spirit who had traversed many lifetimes. The other evening, about to expound on the girl from the dance bar in a burst of enthusiasm, Laila had paused suddenly. ‘What’s wrong with you, Ilona? Why are you so pale? Haven’t you done your face? Or are you hungry? Is it something else?’ Haltingly, pronouncing the words clearly, she had said, ‘Himanshu is here. I am scared.’ A frown appeared on Laila’s brow. ‘So? So what? Why should you be scared?’ ‘Let’s never come here again, Laila.’

‘Tell me honestly, has Himanshu ever threatened you in any way? If he sees you and wants to talk to you, does that amount to scaring you? You just feel afraid, that’s all. You have created this fear, nourished it in your head. Because you think you should be afraid of Himanshu. Because you believe that you have been unjust to him. Your guilt has taught you to be afraid of Himanshu.’ Mulling over all this, Ilona took the road home by mistake instead of going to the club. When she came to her senses, she was almost home. Once upstairs, Ilona called her sisterin-law. Dharitri had spoken to Chiki already. ‘It would have been very bad if she had gone back without getting anything for Ronnie,’ said Dharitri. ‘Chiki’s generation is just like this. She’s concerned only about herself, a woman has only one husband after all, but still she leaves him out of things all the time. Such a badly behaved girl.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra chuckled. ‘Today someone told me I’m badly behaved too, Boudi.’ ‘Whom did you behave badly with now, Kuhu? I can’t cope with all this.’ ‘I didn’t behave badly at all. He just assumed that I’m as badly behaved as all women of my age.’ ‘Who was it?’ ‘Meghdoot Roy.’ ‘Meghdoot? You mean the music composer?’ ‘Yes …’ ‘Oh my god! We were just talking about him here. Kuhu, you never told me you know Meghdoot!’

‘Uff, I don’t know him or anything. We just spoke …’ ‘Listen, Kuhu, please ask Meghdoot whether he had a pet dog. Named Dushtu.’ ‘He could well have had one, Boudi.’ ‘No, listen. You know how Sudipta lies, don’t you, Kuhu …’ Dharitri lowered her voice. ‘Sudipta was here with us a little while ago, and we were talking about the new film for which Meghdoot’s scored the music. Sudipta said that Meghdoot and the rest of them had apparently gone to her sister-in-law’s house for lunch during the Bengali Conference in Canada. Meghdoot didn’t want pork or beef or turkey or ham or anything. There was some roast salmon, that was all he ate. Apparently his dog Dushtu used to be very fond of meat, so after Dushtu’s death he gave up meat. You must ask him if the story’s true. Sudipta makes up stories all the time to upstage us. Claims she was about to buy a Husain painting but didn’t eventually because she didn’t like it all that much.’ ‘All right, we’ll see,’ said Ilona. ‘When will you leave for office? Wait for us, Kuhu. We hardly see you all day. I’ll bring something for you to eat, okay? What would you like?’ ‘Mutton cutlets,’ said Ilona. Switching on the TV, Ilona put the kettle on to make some tea. Having freshened up, she was leafing through the newspapers while watching TV when the doorbell rang. Pushpa-di. ‘I saw you come back, Didibhai, are you hungry? Should I make something for you? I have to go to the market after that; Boudi wants me to get some fish.’ ‘What’ll you make?’

‘Soup and bread. Or fries, if you like.’ ‘Make me a thick cheese omelette.’ ‘Basana said your kitchen sink is leaking.’ ‘Let me check.’ Ilona went into the kitchen, followed by Pushpa. She was right, it was leaking. ‘I’ve told the caretaker,’ Pushpa told her. ‘The repairman will come at ten tomorrow. We won’t disturb your sleep. You don’t have to wake up, I’ll unlock the door and get it done.’ She was asleep when Basana came every morning to clean the flat. Pushpa had a key. Taking the key from her, Basana did all the work and then returned the key before leaving. She was an old hand, there was no need to supervise her work. But that didn’t mean the flat could be left to the plumber. As she was leaving, Pushpa said, ‘Your phone’s ringing, Didibhai.’ The flat was so large that if the phone rang in the bedroom she couldn’t hear it in the kitchen. But Pushpa had amazingly sharp ears. She could apparently hold her ear against the wall and describe the quarrel between Bansal and his wife in 3C down to the last detail. Her slippers flapping, Ilona went into the bedroom to discover a call from an unknown number. ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Why haven’t you saved my number?’ asked Meghdoot. ‘Oh, it’s you?’ She was genuinely surprised to get a call from Meghdoot. But she did not reveal it. ‘Are you in office?’

‘No, at home.’ ‘Off day?’ ‘Oh no, I work nights. Night shift.’ ‘That explains it. What time do you go to work? The same time you came in the other day?’ ‘I was a little early that day. I usually go in around eleven.’ ‘You have a lot in common with thieves.’ ‘Really?’ ‘You get angry very quickly, don’t you, Ilona? You’re very sly.’ ‘How can you say this, Meghdoot? You’re in the habit of joking with everyone like this, aren’t you? But you’re a sweet man.’ ‘What?’ Meghdoot was vastly amused. ‘Sweet?’ ‘I say what I think.’ ‘Hmm. But tell me, doesn’t a man seem more attractive to a woman when he’s a little daring and flamboyant, something of a flirt, carefree, even slightly notorious? You’re not supposed to like him when he’s sweet.’ ‘The combination matters, actually. If your voice is manly and your comments witty, if you’re good at the work you do, even your sweet nothings will make you appear attractive as a man.’ ‘Uff, my god. Wait. You really have a way with words, don’t you? Amazing! Anyone home? Get me a cup of tea, get me something to eat, don’t you think I get hungry? I’ve

worked like a dog all day.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra was startled by the volume at which Meghdoot shouted. ‘There’s no one to look after me, you know,’ said Meghdoot. ‘Saikat is staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream; your channel is interviewing me about it. When I got their call I was reminded of you. So I thought I’d call you for a chat.’ ‘I see.’ ‘I’m surrounded by producers and financiers and advertising people and aspiring singers all the time … they’re either tucking CDs into my hand, or the director is chasing me to get the job done – don’t let me down, Megh-da. All I hear is business, business, work, work.’ ‘When do you compose your music?’ ‘What do you think – that I lock the doors, get some mood lighting going and then compose my tunes? Hah! Nothing like that. I don’t need an instrument to write a tune. What Salil-da used to do was, he’d sing the tune, while I quickly put down the notation on paper – that’s how I do it too. It’s all in the head – get it? – everything’s in my head.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra could make out that Meghdoot was not boasting in the slightest. This was how he spoke, uninhibitedly. Ilona herself was the serious sort. She had never taken life lightly. So she had become close friends with people who were themselves serious by nature. She had never met anyone like Meghdoot before. Ilona had seen some of these qualities only in her sister-in-law. Dharitri was intelligent, poised, candid and direct. All of these at the same time.

‘Muri and beguni? Aren’t you people ashamed of yourselves? You expect me to have this rubbish now? I’m not eating any of this. Call Pradip, tell him to bring me a couple of pantuas. Enough of this!’ Ilona could hear Meghdoot screaming, but pantua? ‘Do people actually eat pantua?’ ‘Why not? Rashogolla, pantua, khirer chop … don’t you like sweets?’ ‘Khirer chop? That’s different. I love khirer chop.’ ‘You do? There’s a small shop next to my studio, they sell sweets. They make a fabulous khirer chop. Okay wait, tell me your address, I’m sending you some through my driver.’ ‘Absolutely not, out of the question.’ ‘Oh, never mind, hang up now. I’ll take care of it.’ Meghdoot disconnected without giving her a chance to protest. Ten minutes later he called again. ‘No, it’s okay, here’s the plan, let’s meet tonight. Leave a little earlier than usual for office. Pick me up at Golpark, I’ll tell my driver to take the car back. We’ll go somewhere, chat a while. Then you can drop me at Gariahat and go on to work, I’ll take a taxi home.’ ‘And my khirer chop?’ ‘Uff, I haven’t forgotten.’ ‘Where shall we go at that hour of the night?’ ‘Hindustan Park, of course. Where else can we go?’

That night and the next three days in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life – all twenty-four hours of each day – were consumed by Meghdoot Roy, who in truth never existed in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life, a truth that had not changed despite their meeting each other several days in a row. On a long-distance train, for instance a train running from Calcutta to Kanyakumari, the intimacy established between two engers travelling on facing berths ends when the journey is over – Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s intimacy with Meghdoot Roy was somewhat similar. At about quarter to ten that night, Ilona got dressed for office and called her sister-in-law. ‘I’m driving, Kuhu,’ she replied, ‘I’ll be home in a few minutes.’ ‘I’m going out, I have something to take care of.’ ‘Can’t you wait till I’m back? Okay, go, we’ll talk in the morning.’ ‘I’ve put Chiki’s things in your bedroom.’ Ending the call, Ilona Kuhu Mitra went down to the basement to get her car and drove off towards Golpark. When she stopped at the crossing of Southern Avenue and Sarat Bose Road, a long-haired man wrapped in a shawl knocked on

her window. As soon as she pressed the switch and lowered the window, he asked, ‘How long does it take to walk to Ujjaini Nagar from here?’ ‘Ujjaini? Where’s that?’ Ilona asked in utter surprise. Throwing her a strange look, the man crossed the road and strode off towards the lakes, disappearing in the darkness. Biting her lips, Ilona sat with suspicions milling about in her head till the signal turned to green and she sped off to Golpark. She saw Meghdoot’s car parked in front of the bank. When she sounded the horn, Meghdoot got into her car, while his driver drove off towards Dhakuria. ‘So you wear saris?’ Meghdoot asked her. ‘Yes, I do sometimes.’ ‘Let me see how you’re looking. Lovely!’ ‘Where shall we go?’ ‘We’ll drive around a bit first, and then go to Hindustan Park. Here’s your khirer chop.’ Ilona opened the packet and popped one into her mouth at once. ‘Good?’ Ilona used gestures and expressions to indicate that it was delicious. ‘Have you had your dinner? I haven’t. I must eat first. Let’s go to the Oberoi. Carlos plays there every Friday. We go back a long way, you know. He and his band are so happy when they see me.’ Her sister-in-law called just then. ‘Have you reached office, Kuhu?’ ‘I will soon.’

‘I thought you were going somewhere else. Is someone with you?’ ‘How did you guess, Boudi?’ ‘Who is it? Your brother has never been happy about this night shift of yours, Kuhu. He gives me hell every day. Sanjay still hasn’t realized that you will do exactly as you please.’ ‘I’ll talk to Dada.’ ‘It’s been a year and a half since Mizo visited. But your brother will blame me for whatever he’s doing in New York. I am responsible for your actions too. Apparently both of you act on my advice. I am tired of this, Kuhu. And as for you, couldn’t you have waited for the food I brought for you? Whom have you gone to meet?’ ‘Please, Boudi, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’ ‘Listen, you’re coming with me for lunch to Sadananda Road tomorrow. I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re becoming very unsocial. You flit about like an owl at night and sleep all day. Don’t come back home before daylight, Kuhu. I can make out what time you return. You come back at three in the morning – do you think no one notices? What if someone’s planning something bad?’ ‘Oh my god! You’re getting too old, Boudi.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra blurted out. ‘Suit yourself.’ Dharitri ended the call. ‘You said you live with your brother and sister-in-law, didn’t you?’ said Meghdoot. ‘Yes.’ ‘And your parents?’ ‘Dead.’

‘Since childhood?’ ‘Almost.’ Meghdoot placed his hand on her head. It lingered there for a long time. The touch spread a sensation of calmness, of stillness, through Ilona’s body. ‘What was your sister-in-law saying?’ ‘They don’t like my working nights.’ At once Meghdoot went back to his earlier mood. ‘Yes, why do you work nights? Why do you smoke? Why did you divorce your husband? What do you get from all this?’ Ilona turned on the ignition. Meghdoot said, ‘Listen, Ilona, I’m a much more complex person than you. But I can tell that life is actually quite simple. We complicate it deliberately. All those things that Parijat did – what was the outcome? She only filled Jura’s life with unnecessary complications. My son doesn’t know me as his father. He’s growing up with his stepfather; although I’m an able father, I can offer him nothing. I had so much to give Jura. My father made me sit on his lap and taught me to play the violin. All this fame and influence that I have now … do you know, Ilona, when I’m on TV I wonder whether Jura’s watching me. Does he clap his hands when he sees me? Does he ask, “Is that my father?” But they have taught Jura to call Mainak “Baba”. Jura calls me “Megh Baba”. Nonsense! Jura, Jura … I don’t allow myself to forget Jura for even a moment, Ilona. I mustn’t forget, I must suffer in my sleep and in my dreams. I stoke the agony of being separated from Jura like you stir a blaze in a fireplace. I don’t teach anyone music, Ilona. Since I couldn’t teach my own son, I’m not going to teach anyone else.

Music and all this rubbish mean nothing to me. Everyone does some kind of work, so do I. I don’t even believe in labels like “artist”. I am like a factory worker, a labourer. I do not have the qualifications to contribute an iota more than a labourer does to society. I observed Salil-da with my own eyes for thirteen years, men like Salil-da and Gautam-da … I can’t possibly be impressed with myself after knowing them.’ Meghdoot paused for breath. ‘And tell me honestly, Ilona, if I had really been so special, would Parijat have been able to leave me? How bitterly Salil-da and Tapati boudi used to quarrel! Once Tapati boudi decided to leave him, she wouldn’t stay another minute. She packed all her bags. “Yes, leave, all of you,” Salil-da said and went into the music room. And simply composed a new song by humming it. What lyrics, what a melody! Tapati boudi stood near the door, turned to stone. Her eyes streaming with tears. Later she told me, “How stupid I am, Megh. Whom was I going to leave?” When Parijat was leaving, my father summoned me and said, “Make her sit before you and play the violin for her, Doot, just once. She won’t be able to leave you.”’ ‘Did you?’ ‘No. My hands trembled when I tried to play. I actually gave away my father’s violin to one of his students. I was in very bad shape then – I couldn’t drive, couldn’t even cross the road. I had to see a psychiatrist. I still take medicines regularly.’ Putting his hand lightly on Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s shoulder, Meghdoot said, ‘You must be getting bored. You don’t need to hear all this.’ ‘No, I’m listening. With great attention.’

‘Yes, I see you are, I’ve been observing your face. You’re listening, you can understand … which is why I can tell you, Ilona.’ It was nearly twelve-thirty by the time they returned to Hindustan Park from the Oberoi. By then Ilona Kuhu Mitra had learnt that Meghdoot had indeed had a pet dog named Dushtu, who had died a year ago. He had loved eating meat so much that Meghdoot gave up meat after his death. It was Parijat who had brought the newborn puppy home in her arms from the streets of Jodhpur Park one day. Jura had not yet been born. Meghdoot believed that Jura was his and Parijat’s second child. In fact, he felt that Dushtu thought so too, even if he couldn’t say it in as many words. Dushtu was very jealous of Jura. Every time they cuddled Jura, they had to cuddle him too. When Parijat was leaving, she took Jura, and all her own things, but she left Dushtu behind. Just as women love with all their heart, ready to barter away everything they have, their cruelty when they leave is equally terrifying. They don’t look backwards, severing all ties unemotionally. Dushtu had understood everything. Long after she had left, just before the divorce was finalized, Parijat had come to Meghdoot’s house one evening. Dushtu crept under the bed on seeing her, refusing to emerge till she had left. He was very upset. ‘So I mean nothing to you? You’re Jura’s mother but not mine?’ Dushtu had died with his hurt intact. Meghdoot knew that Dushtu and his kind had a heaven of their own. They had their own Rabindranath Tagore there, their own Einstein and their own Beethoven. They held conferences sometimes, and even had their own news channel. Dushtu was waiting for Nengti. She was a little old now, but during their hormone-fuelled youth she used to be Dushtu’s girlfriend. Meghdoot gave her food every day. And every day

he expected to see her lying dead somewhere on his way back home. Ilona Kuhu Mitra burst into tears as she listened to all this. ‘Yes, please cry,’ Meghdoot said. ‘No one has ever wept for me, Ilona, no one. I left home very young in order to earn money. My mother loved my elder brother more, she never wept for me either. She was proud of him because he was a fantastic student. But she was never proud of me for paying for my elder brother’s education out of my own earnings. I know you struggled a lot, says my mother. You know nothing, Ma. You’re like an unfeeling child, you don’t even know one of your own sons. Even if you are proud of me today, what difference will it make to me, Ma?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s eyes closed as she listened. She felt her body grow heavy. Meghdoot’s entire life seemed to weigh down on her. She pictured a room on the second floor of the building where the South Indian Coffee House was situated. She could see a slender young woman named Parijat, her hair reaching down to her waist. Parijat was visiting Meghdoot in his second-floor room. She was the only daughter of rich parents. Meghdoot could not decide where to offer her a seat. He could not make out whether he had really fallen in love with her. Because there was another young woman who visited him regularly. In his room, every day. This other woman was also very pretty. This other woman was also a terrific singer. She had sung a song composed by Meghdoot, and it had become a big hit, especially among young people. Her name was Writambari. Writambari loved Meghdoot madly. In his second-floor room, Meghdoot went to bed with both Writambari and Parijat, though at different times. Eventually Writambari got out of their way. And Meghdoot truly fell in love

with Parijat. Hurt, the other woman fled to Bombay, where she began a new life in music. Meghdoot and Writambari lost touch with each other. But the song kept playing on music systems and on FM radio. It became a cult classic, the kind of song that is never wiped from people’s memories. Even when people didn’t plan on listening to it, it wafted into their ears like a gust of wind, over and over again, on the streets, everywhere, at all hours. Meghdoot could not ignore it even if he wanted to. Writambari returned to Calcutta after several years. Once again Meghdoot wrote a song for her. But when he saw her in the glass-covered recording room, he realized that Writambari had not held on to a single moment of their old love or their frenzied lovemaking. Writambari had outgrown Meghdoot, his love, his music. This realization made Meghdoot’s body tingle after all these years. Through Writambari, Meghdoot realized that the same thing had happened to Parijat. The old love had disappeared, the old desire had died. Parijat had grown eager and restless for the company of another man. ‘I made Writambari cry so much. Shame on me, no one’s love should ever be insulted like that, Ilona.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra could see Meghdoot buying jasmine garlands from a florist and performing the wedding ritual of exchanging garlands with Parijat right there on the pavement. She saw Meghdoot sobbing with his arms around Parijat because he had not been able to come back from his recording in Bombay the day their son was born, while Parijat said, ‘Why are you upset? You know you work so hard only for our sake.’ Ilona saw the Parijat who put her child to sleep with an overdose of cough syrup while she went to meet

her lover, returning with love bites from another man on her breasts and neck. And she saw Meghdoot, spurned by Parijat, masturbating next to his sleeping wife while picturing her making love to another man. Meghdoot was fantasizing about the very scene that had destroyed him as a man, a lover, a husband. Which was a source of extreme fear and shame, pain and humiliation for him. And from this suffering spurted an unbearable pleasure. ‘How foolish the body is, Ilona, how unthinking. And how complex the human mind in comparison. Parijat pushed me away. I rolled off her hard, cold body. And then I made Mainak take off her black bra and panties. At my wish, to fulfil my desire. Driven by my need for pleasure, Mainak ran riot over my woman’s body, my lover’s body.’ It began to drizzle lightly as the sun rose. ‘Did we spend the entire night in the car?’ said Meghdoot. ‘I have a recording at eight. And you didn’t even go to work.’ ‘I can go home and sleep; you’re the one who won’t have slept at all.’ ‘All right, enough, let’s go.’ It was six in the morning when Ilona returned to her flat after helping Meghdoot get a taxi at the petrol pump next to her house. But Meghdoot woke her up at ten again. ‘Look at me. I only just left home. Everyone’s waiting for me at the studio. Two hours late! And you can’t imagine the number of things I have to finish in the next two or three days.’ ‘Don’t you ever have late nights?’ ‘As if I go to parties! I don’t like them. I’m irritated when people drink in my presence, I’m repelled.’

‘I see.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra stretched. ‘You’re very sexy now, aren’t you? Clinging to your bed in your nightclothes. I can picture you. All right, okay, you’d better sleep, little girl, I’m off now.’ Ilona couldn’t go back to sleep. Getting herself a cup of tea, she went out to the balcony. Pushpa came with the plumber a little later. She was surprised to see Ilona awake. ‘What is it, Didibhai? You’re not sick, are you?’ ‘What do you mean! Why should I be sick?’ Pushpa informed Dharitri, who turned up at once in a rather good mood with her own cup of tea. She didn’t harp on last night’s conversation. ‘Good news, Kuhu,’ she said. ‘What?’ ‘Your brother’s finally agreed to visit Mizo. Around September, he said. I mailed Mizo last night. Mizo said, “Don’t prolong the discussion, Ma. I’m buying you the tickets. Just make sure Baba doesn’t change his mind.” Want to go to America, Kuhu?’ ‘Not now, I’ll go in February. And if Mizo’s wedding is finalized before that, he’ll be here.’ ‘Shut up, you liar. Anyway, listen. I saw a fabulous girl at the club last night. Mr Satpathy’s granddaughter. So lovely, Kuhu, and so attractive too. She has a chipped front tooth, you know, makes for such a sweet smile. A little short, though. She won’t even reach up to Mizo’s shoulder. But she has a great sense of style. She’s in the film studies course at Jadavpur University. Do you know what your brother said? “She’s been with a lot of boys. You can tell from one look at her.” In this day and age, Kuhu, is it possible that a girl of

twenty-one has never been with boys, never fallen in love, is absolutely untouched? Where am I going to find such a paragon of virtue? Your brother always has a problem with everything. Listen, Chiki’s leaving tomorrow. Her mother will be tearful afterwards, very depressed; I’m going to stay with her tomorrow evening. And I can’t make it the day after either. So on Saturday you and I will visit Mr Satpathy at home. But if that seems too formal, we could invite them to tea at the club. What do you think? Mrs Satpathy and her daughterin-law seemed quite interested. Even the girl wants an NRI. You’d better be ready by twelve.’ ‘Are you going to see Chiki off?’ ‘Yes, I’m going to pick her up at two.’ ‘Tell me something, Boudi, does Chiki love her husband?’ ‘She does, Kuhu, girls today don’t live with their husbands if they don’t. Especially selfsufficient girls like Chiki. You didn’t stay with Himanshu, did you? What did he do to you? Did he beat you up? Did he have relationships with other women? Nothing. You had nothing to complain about. But still you ran away. The fact is that people fall in and out of love. It happens. I don’t know whether you accept this, even though you’re a modern girl.’ ‘Love is an ideal, Boudi. It’s a tremendous thing.’ ‘How many relationships have you had, Kuhu? I know of three, but there are some of which I don’t know. Your brother doesn’t know, but I know that you visit the seventh floor of the building next to ICR in the afternoon sometimes, it’s not like you don’t go at night either. I

understand, Kuhu, your body has its needs. But can you tell me what sort of ideal love you’re in search of?’ ‘Who said I’m searching for love? I’m not searching for anything any more,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra with an annoyed expression. She was not surprised that her sister-in-law knew as much as she did. Dharitri socialized a lot, she had many friends, someone must have spotted Ilona and told her. It was even possible that a friend of Dharitri’s lived in the flat next to the one she visited.

Meghdoot called as soon as Boudi left. He didn’t speak to her for long, only ten minutes or so. He called her twice or thrice more between the time she went for lunch to Sadananda Road and said goodbye to Chiki and returned home in the evening. At nine-thirty Meghdoot said, ‘Let’s go out.’ ‘Again?’ ‘Don’t you want to?’ ‘What about your sleep?’ ‘I’ll let you off early. I simply have to sleep tonight. Otherwise, given the pressure of the next two days, I’ll mess everything up. Pick me up at Golpark at ten o’clock.’ When they met, the first thing Meghdoot asked her was, ‘Whom did you have your first relationship with?’ ‘With Mr Lama,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra. And at once she choked.

‘Have some water,’ said Meghdoot and began to blow on her head anxiously. When she had recovered, Meghdoot said, ‘Who was this man?’ Rummaging in the pocket of his jeans, he handed Ilona a bar of chocolate. ‘I was at a boarding school in Darjeeling for a year after my father died. All those other things were going on here – the house being sold, flats being bought. Dada brought me back afterwards. Mr Lama was our maths teacher at Victoria School. Very handsome. In a threepiece suit and an overcoat, always with an umbrella in his hand … it rained all the time in Darjeeling. Mr Lama walked very quickly. His black overcoat streamed behind him like a pair of large wings because of the pace at which he walked. He had a long, sharp nose. I have never seen anyone from the hills with such a sharp nose. He used to scold me without any provocation, you know. Whenever he saw me he’d say, “What are you doing here? Why don’t you complete your lessons?” And I deliberately ran into his path whenever I saw him. I’d see him coming from a distance. And at once I’d run out of the dorm and lean against a pillar, gazing at the Kanchenjunga in such a manner as to attract his attention. I worked hard at maths to impress him. We were forbidden from leaving the dorm after supper. Everyone used to say that wild dogs from the jungles behind the school wandered into the campus at night, some claimed to have spotted pythons, others said they had seen leopards. But I wasn’t scared. I would often stroll out in the darkness and go to Mr Lama’s quarters. I would knock on the door, but he never opened it. “I want to show you some maths problems,” I would tell him. “I am busy now,” he would answer grimly. “Come tomorrow morning.” He was so cruel …’

‘That means this relationship didn’t really happen, no sperm reached your uterus.’ ‘You mean sex?’ ‘No, you fool. There wasn’t even an exchange of hearts, was there? You call this a relationship? Love means actually having a love affair with someone. Pythons! Leopards! Ridiculous! What on earth have you got up there in your brain? I’d ask Jura, “What have you got in your brain?” “I’ve got intelligence in my brain,” he’d say. “What does intelligence look like?” I’d ask. “Like ice-cream,” he’d say. You’ve actually been with a lot of men, but you won’t tell me. You’re very clever. I caught Parijat at once, but I’d never have caught you. Look at your eyes, they’re glittering. Man-eater eyes. Hasn’t anyone told you that before? What, you’re angry now? You seem to be snorting.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra burst into peals of laughter. ‘This is what they call demonic laughter. Really, the things you say!’ When she had stopped laughing, Ilona Kuhu Mitra said, ‘But it was because of Mr Lama that I came away from Victoria School. I kept writing to my brother, “Take me away, take me away.” I could not accept Mr Lama’s indifference. Then, many years later, I ran into him at Flury’s, I couldn’t recognize him, Meghdoot. He came up to me and said he’d always ed me.’ ‘You must have enjoyed that? Must have felt victorious? The man hadn’t forgotten you.’ ‘How jealous you are, Meghdoot. And why do you keep referring to him as “the man”? Call him Mr Lama.’ ‘Same thing.’

‘Did I feel victorious? I may just have. You keep talking of Parijat all these years after your divorce – that too is a form of self-evaluation. You’re constantly trying to understand how Parijat could have left you. How she could have dismissed your talent, your creativity, your personality, your love, to run away with a corporate executive. How she could evict you from the circle of her emotions. You’ve developed doubts about yourself. You wonder about your own ability and worth. When so many thousands of people are overcome by your music, you can see Parijat with her back to the masses. This contrast in recognition is so stark. You simply cannot accept this defeat.’ ‘That’s the way it is, isn’t it?’ said Meghdoot. ‘So it seems.’ ‘I must it Parijat was bold. She called me one day to ask, “Would you like to meet Mainak?” I said, “Very well.” But actually I only wanted to see Parijat … you know what I mean? They came around eight. We chatted, they told me their plans. “Could we have a mutual divorce?” I kept talking to them too, I brought up Jura. Where would Jura live, how would things be worked out, and since this was at the Oberoi, the steward gave me the bill. They left the table. When I was leaving, I discovered Mainak outside the ladies’ washroom. “What are you doing here?” I asked in surprise. “Parijat is using the toilet,” he said. In other words, Parijat was his woman now. When she went to the toilet, it was he who would wait outside, naturally. Earlier, I was the one to wait, outside the toilet on the train or plane. Just in case she locked herself inside and couldn’t get out, I would be on guard. I realized that the rights had been transferred. From me to him. Till then I had been the depressed, miserable,

thwarted lover. That evening I became angry. Our battle began, continuing for two years. My wrath would be appeased at the thought that they couldn’t get married. It turned out to be a complete waste of time and money. It served no purpose at all. I realize now that I was fighting only for Parijat’s body. Just flesh! Her white-skinned body in black lingerie, her full thighs, the fragrance of Poison. I try to picture her sometimes. I disrobe Parijat, I prise her legs apart and try to enter her by force … I no longer get an erection. Parijat’s body does not attract me any more. I ran into her at a movie premiere the other day. No, her body does not attract me. All I feel is pain for Jura. But how crazy I was once about that body. This possessiveness of the man over the woman’s body … I had emerged from all this.’ It was three-thirty in the morning; two police officers on a motorbike stopped at the place where they were parked on Hindustan Road. ‘Please come out,’ they said. Meghdoot stepped out. ‘Oh, it’s you, Megh-da,’ said the police officer when he saw him. ‘Sorry. We got a call from the neighbourhood. Two people in a car on two successive nights …’ The officer looked at Ilona Kuhu Mitra. ‘That’s why we came. All right, it’s all right. Carry on.’ ‘We’re not misbehaving, my friend,’ said Meghdoot. ‘This is Ilona. She used to live here in this house. So did I. Do you see this building here? It was full of girls, all of them my muses. I used to play my guitar and sing to them. And they gave me delicious hot food.’ Meghdoot winked at the officer. ‘Women always have a thing for men who are into music, the absent-minded types who live by themselves, don’t they?’ ‘That is true, Dada.’

‘So you could say we were bathing in the memories of the old days, in the old moonlight.’ ‘Yes, there’s a lovely moon tonight. No clouds, I was a little into music too. I know a little about this business.’ ‘Do you have a CD by any chance?’ ‘No Dada, I didn’t get that far.’ Meghdoot put his hand on the officer’s shoulder. ‘I understand.’ After the police officers had left, Meghdoot put his hands on either side of Ilona’s face and made her turn towards him. ‘Were you scared?’ ‘Why should I be scared? I have a press card.’ ‘Uff, such a bitter pill. You told me straight to my face that I have lost. That I’ve lost.’ That day too, it was five in the morning when Ilona Kuhu Mitra returned home.

The same thing happened on the third day. Meghdoot called several times despite his busy schedule. ‘How are you managing without sleep?’ she asked him. ‘And so much work, too.’ ‘I’m used to it. I can do it when I have to. At one time I used to travel so much that I could only sleep on flights. I went off to Korea on an ad assignment. Then to London for a huge orchestration involving a choir … from there to Iran for a film. Then to Pakistan, Bangladesh … I was like a revolving chair. After Parijat left, it was these assignments that kept me alive.’ That night Meghdoot paid for a full tank of petrol for Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s car. ‘You’re wasting a lot of petrol on these drives of ours all over the city. I won’t let you spend a paisa on me. All of us have to work hard for our money.’ ‘You won’t take anything from me?’ ‘I already have. Your time.’

Next afternoon, Ilona was lying in bed, emailing the HR department untrue reasons for not going to office three nights in a row without applying for leave through the official dashboard, when Meghdoot called. Hearing his exhausted voice, Ilona Kuhu Mitra said, ‘Sleep is calling out to you, Meghdoot. You can’t hold out any more.’ ‘No, I can’t. I had to go out again soon after getting home. I finished Tridib’s assignment, and now I’m home after giving him the master disc. I’m in bed now. I’ll sleep a bit and then start working again in the evening. I have to finish Paolo’s assignment tonight. A Baul song needs to be recorded. I’ve had a young singer named Krishna brought over from Santiniketan. He only sings on trains, but he pours his heart and soul into it. You’d know if you heard him. What are you doing? Are you in bed?’ ‘Hmm.’ ‘I want to move out of this flat, Ilona. I keep thinking of it, but I never get around to doing it. So many memories here – Parijat, Jura, Dushtu. All the relics of the evolution of a callow

young man from Bohemian youth to responsible householder are to be found here. Parijat performed a puja on a whim once – the vermilion and turmeric marks are still bright on the wall after all these years. When he was three Jura drew a boat on the wall, I drew a little water around it, Parijat added a red sail and an oar on either side – I can still see the picture. How can I not protect them? How can I abandon them? You know, nearly a year after Parijat had left, I took the lid off the dustbin in the bedroom toilet and discovered it full of bloodstained sanitary napkins, dried black by then, crumbling. I don’t know what happened to me at the sight – my body went out of control. I felt as though I simply had to enter that blood-smeared vagina again. I would die otherwise. The scent entered my nostrils. I began to call Parijat in a state of beastly arousal. I got the same smell when I got into your car last night, Ilona. Have you got your periods?’ ‘Yes, I have. Started yesterday.’ ‘I knew as soon as I got the smell. But I didn’t ask. In case you got offended.’ ‘I wouldn’t have been offended.’ ‘Oh god!’ ‘What is it?’ ‘If I ask you for your body, you won’t reject me. Am I right?’ ‘No, I won’t.’ ‘You like me?’ ‘Yes.’

‘Ilona, I’ve got an impossible erection on hearing this. Your voice seems to have changed. I feel as though you’ve moved closer to me. Hold me, Ilona. Hold my head to your breasts.’ ‘Hmm.’ ‘Part your legs, I can’t take it any more. Draw me in, let me enter you. Invite me. Say, “Come in me.” Plead with me, “Come to me.” So that I understand that you want me too. You want me inside you so badly.’ ‘Come, take me,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra.

Meghdoot called in the evening. After a long silence, he said, ‘I don’t enjoy this performance any more, you know.’ ‘What performance?’ ‘This naked woman’s body, undressing, going to bed, kneading, breasts, belly, navel, thighs, knees, wet vagina, ejaculation. It annoys me. Feels like meat. I feel like leaving. I feel a powerful sexual urge, I am riven apart by it. But when I give in to it, I feel as though I’m contradicting myself. I feel bereft, powerless, repentant. Pathetic situation.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra was silent. ‘You know what, love can come to a person many times,’ said Meghdoot. ‘Attraction, love, lust – all this can happen several times in a lifetime. But a man falls in love only once in his life. Only once. Do you know why Salil-da abandoned me?’ ‘No, I don’t, you didn’t tell me.’

‘I was in love with Mimi. Salil-da’s eldest daughter. When he got to know, he called me and said, “I won’t let you have my daughter. You are like me. You won’t be able to make anyone happy. As a father, I could never hand my daughter over to someone like myself. Go away, Megh, don’t ever come back.” After I had left, after I had mourned for Mimi from one end of the city to the other, I knew this poison would not be able to claim my life a second time.’ ‘Then what about Parijat?’ ‘No idea. Creating a space for oneself, establishing a few other people in that space, settling down, life with your family, attempts to understand bonds, progeny, blood relationships, a sense of possession over someone’s body … where is a man to return to when the day is done? It has to be itted that Parijat gave me all of these. I respect her for that. I am grateful, gratified. But I have done you no harm, Ilona. I have not touched you.’ ‘I think so too,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra.

After this there wasn’t a peep out of Meghdoot. That night, Ilona went to office after three days. The next afternoon, she had just made herself a cup of coffee and switched on the TV when, surfing channels, she spotted Meghdoot on her own channel, in a show on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Recorded, not live. The playwright who had adapted the play was present, as were the actors. Meghdoot was explaining the things that had to be kept in mind when scoring a Shakespeare play. Ilona wanted to listen attentively, but her phone rang. Dharitri. ‘Srabanti pounced on me as soon as I entered the club. Apparently she saw you and Meghdoot Roy at the Oberoi? The night before last? You were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t even notice her and Samir at the next table? Really, Kuhu? Tell me, please. Your brother’s glaring at me. Tell me, I’ll be happy to hear that something’s on.’ Ilona had had no with Meghdoot since the previous afternoon, and she had not thought about this at all as yet. She phoned Meghdoot. When he answered, the ‘hello’ was

accompanied by loud background noise – some sort of announcement was being made. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes,’ said Meghdoot. He called half an hour later. ‘Sorry, Ilona, I was checking in. It took longer than I thought. Tell me?’ ‘Nothing in particular. Where are you going?’ ‘To Korea, for an ad assignment. Then to New York to attend a film festival. I’m supposed to go somewhere else after that. A long trip. Take care, Ilona. I’ll see you when I’m back.’ One Meghdoot was before her eyes. Another Meghdoot had checked in for his flight, he was going far away. She knew neither of them. Was there a third Meghdoot somewhere between these two? Suddenly sobs gathered in her throat. Flinging herself on the bed, she kept saying, ‘I shan’t go to office at night any more, I shan’t go to office at night any more.’ When Dharitri returned home that night, she came to Ilona. ‘You’re lying here in the dark? Pushpa saw you crying when she brought your dinner.’ Lying in her bed despondently, Ilona Kuhu Mitra was sure that Dharitri would bring up Meghdoot, she was bound to. But Dharitri said, ‘I have decided that unless you want to tell me something on your own, I will not ask any questions.’ Scrunching up her face, she prayed in her head for her sister-in-law to mention Meghdoot. Let her repeat what Srabanti had seen. Then she would know for sure that she had indeed been with Meghdoot that evening. That there had actually been a Meghdoot these last three or four days. That a Meghdoot had told her that she was cunning, clever, badly behaved, and

a man-eater. That a Meghdoot had run his fingers through her hair. She would have proof if Dharitri brought it up, she would have proof of all this. This was where Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s problem lay. She had dreams, and then she couldn’t tell dreams apart from reality. Sometimes, when walking down a road for the first time, she felt as though she had been there many times before. She would realize this when she had walked part of the way. Sometimes, when she had watched only half a film, missing the second half for some reason, she would imagine the rest. When watching the rest of the film later, she would question the changes: This was not how it had been. In Meghdoot’s case, she felt that reality was a dream. And eleven or twelve days ed in a blur in this state. Deeply suspicious, Ilona checked the call list on her phone one day to discover that there was no one named Meghdoot listed under incoming, outgoing or missed calls. The last number on the call list was Sunetra’s from nine days ago. Sunetra was going to Delhi with her son. He had topped the state in the All-India Mathematics Competition. Now there would be a national test among the toppers. Sunetra had called to tell her all this. None of the calls from the previous eleven or twelve days could be seen on her phone, they had all been erased. That night, instead of going to office, Ilona Kuhu Mitra drove directly to Hindustan Park. She parked in front of 15D, as she used to with Meghdoot. A torrential downpour began, which made Ilona feel that the view had been transformed so much by the rain that it was not possible to concentrate and go back to the old place of a fortnight ago. The sheer force of the

rain made her feel that Hindustan Park, along with all these houses and the South Indian Coffee House, would melt away. They would dissolve into mud and through the drains. Ilona Kuhu Mitra turned homeward. That night, in her dreams she saw a sea. The place was similar to Bombay. The Gateway of India, near Colaba. A paved set of steps led down into the water. And the seawater kept splashing on the steps. Meghdoot and she were climbing up those stairs, Meghdoot in front and she, following him. Suddenly Meghdoot turned around and kissed her. Awaking, she tried to convince herself that this was what is known as a dream. What sea? What steps? She had been to Bombay a year ago. Strange things happened in dreams. People, places and periods were unconnected. The four days that she had spent with Meghdoot were not a dream. Never. They had happened. Meghdoot would indeed call her when he returned. If he did, she would check the authenticity of the incidents with Meghdoot himself. Once again, as she was on her way to work one night, the same man in the white shawl tapped on Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s car window to ask her, ‘Can you tell me how to get to Ujjaini Nagar?’ Ilona looked away. Eleven or twelve days later, she had to go to Hindustan Park in the afternoon for a completely different reason. She felt a terrible sense of regret as she stood on the road. In the past, when she came here, she thought of her father, she ed standing on the terrace and looking at people ing by, neighbours’ faces – she recalled things that she alone had

been a part of. But now, she realized, that all she ed when she got out of the car was Meghdoot. He used to live in that second-floor room. This is where he jumped over the gate, or chatted with Kamalini with the cleft lip. Parijat would visit him with her long hair flowing loose, so would Writambari. That was where she and Meghdoot had parked the car and chatted. Ilona Kuhu Mitra saw that her own memories had been torn apart. As a month, a month and a half ed, she felt as though her life had also been torn apart. And yet she could find no evidence that Meghdoot had been in her life. That he had come into her life. One night, while having a dinner of roti and mutton stew with her sister-in-law at home, she ed that Meghdoot did not eat meat. She decided to give up meat that very day. Another day, while eating fried fish that her sister-in-law had brought from the club, she ed that because Meghdoot did not eat meat, she too had never had meat when out for a meal with him. Meghdoot had asked her to, but she hadn’t. Meghdoot would have fried fish or prawn cutlets, and so would she. After this she did not feel like eating fish either. She gave up fish as well. When Dharitri learnt of these two decisions, she asked in surprise, ‘I don’t want to know why you gave them up. But do you how big an issue it had been once? How you fought with Himanshu over eating meat and fish!’

Obviously there’s no question of eating any of this at home,’ Himanshu had said. ‘If I ever find out that you have brought fish or meat into our house, there will be hell to pay.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra had answered, ‘I never said I’d bring fish or meat home or eat it at home. I’m asking why I can’t have them elsewhere. Why can’t I have meat or fish at the club or at a restaurant? Your eating habits are different from mine. Why can’t you have the generosity to accept mine? Why must I adopt all your practices? Why would you force me to?’ Himanshu’s response had been: ‘I cannot tolerate the idea of going to bed with someone who eats meat and fish.’ ‘Then don’t go to bed with me. I’ll move into another room.’ ‘Which means you’ll live your way and I’ll live mine. Why did we get married then?’ ‘You’ve married a Bengali girl. I have developed certain tastes, certain preferences and aversions from childhood. They will not come in your way. How will it affect you if I eat

meat or fish elsewhere? This is just you being stubborn. And if that’s the case, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I wouldn’t have married you.’ ‘I expected you to reform.’ ‘Reform? Meaning I was bad, and that Himanshu Mewar’s magic touch would make me good?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s conflict with Himanshu Mewar over everything had begun soon after their marriage. ‘Actually, Ilona,’ Himanshu told her, ‘you never loved me. You loved my money and status. Easy money. A husband who would be your ATM. But, Ilona, if you don’t behave properly, you won’t get any money at all. Don’t spoil the game. No matter why you married me, you can still live happily.’ Now Ilona Kuhu Mitra asked herself consciously: Why would a Bengali girl choose to marry a much older Marwari widower? She concluded that she had indeed married for money. She was convinced that no one was happy in their marriage, and that wealth, status, property, income, and such things were in fact important factors. Had her brother arranged her marriage, he would have taken all these things into consideration. She had merely come into with a little too much money after marrying Himanshu. The affluence was very obvious in his world. She also wondered why Himanshu could not ignore the issue of money despite all his property, all his riches, all his inherited wealth. Could he not have decided to be someone special over and above his money? This meant that Himanshu had no ego. This conclusion made Ilona Kuhu Mitra think of Himanshu as nothing more than a mediocre

person. It was true that she had not considered matters of the heart even once when marrying Himanshu. On the contrary, she had marvelled at how well dressed he was. It wasn’t as though she had particularly expected love from him. She still thought that an ideal kind of love did indeed exist. But she had never seen a real-life manifestation of this elusive love. Ilona Kuhu Mitra had often been absorbed in her thoughts about love, overcome with melancholy when she sensed an ethereal emotion. But her inability to find a resolution for this yearning in any particular person had exhausted her. And it was in this state of fatigue that she had married Himanshu Mewar. Plunging into the Mewars’ demonic prosperity, she had discovered how still, how placid, how safe life could be. She had taken the right decision, she concluded. But why did she have such an identity crisis, then? The day Himanshu got drunk and wept, ‘You don’t love me, do you? You never loved me. I am nothing to you. All you want is to enjoy my money!’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra realized that the wealth had become its owner’s enemy. The man had become impotent. His ability to lord it over her had been destroyed. Her stomach turned. Her brother had refused to talk to her all this time. It was him she called to say, ‘I want to get rid of him.’ ‘Better late than never,’ said Sanjay. ‘Come away.’ She went away. Himanshu Mewar had never even dreamt of such a possibility. And her brother had imagined that Ilona’s life would go well after this. That he had the ability to compensate for a marriage that his sister had mistakenly entered into. But Ilona Kuhu Mitra knew that human beings can actually live

only one kind of life. She had to live her life in her own way – in this matter she was subservient to herself.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not know exactly who this man Arvin was. She knew his name, knew his house. Because she visited Arvin Sinha at home now and then. But Ilona neither knew what the man did for a living, nor any of those other things that one should know about a person one knows. In fact, if she were to suddenly see this man Arvin outside his curtained bedroom, in some other circumstances, among other people, somewhere in the city by light of day, she might not even recognize him. In spite of this Ilona was ready to it that she liked Arvin. But the place where she liked him was a small, narrow, fleshy, liquid tunnel. This part of her wanted to draw Arvin to itself like a magnet. Sometimes Ilona Kuhu Mitra realized that, just like a forest where crickets can be heard on desolate nights, her body too was a dense jungle; crickets sang there too, and when she tried to listen to them closely, she thought of Arvin. Over a long period of time, Arvin and Ilona Kuhu Mitra had known each other only in this limited space.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra was not interested in any other qualities of Arvin. Arvin too was indifferent and uninformed about anything else concerning Ilona. Only one season was acceptable in Arvin’s flat all year round. Only one atmosphere was desired. There was not a single irrelevant conversation, no redundant references, and, most important, there was no error or omission in the relationship. At most Ilona Kuhu Mitra might part the window curtain slightly from the sofa in Arvin’s bedroom and say, ‘It’s nearly evening. Time to go.’ At most Arvin might sit hunched on a corner of the bed and say, ‘Is the coffee all right?’ A relationship might well be illicit to the world at large, but Ilona Kuhu Mitra and Arvin seemed to have tly kept their relationship illicit to each other. There was an art to what they attempted to accomplish. If they tried to go further, there would be errors and omissions. Neither of them was inclined to commit this transgression.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra had managed to read a carnal story by an unknown writer even before she had entered her teens. She had discovered the folded book unexpectedly, tucked into the driver’s seat of the car in which she went to school. In the story, the heroine steps into a boat to cross the river on a dark night. A lamp burns in the covered portion of the boat. From where she sits, the heroine sees the light from the lamp falling on the boatman’s bare torso. His muscles bulge with every stroke of the oars. He is facing the other way. The sight makes the heroine’s will waver. Overcome with desire, she draws the boatman into the covered space. Then followed several pages describing the heroine’s pleasure from lovemaking. But from the time she stepped into the boat, through the lovemaking, till she arranged her clothes and got off the boat, the heroine did not exchange a single word with the boatman. Ilona Kuhu Mitra had ed the story only because of this silence. She had fantasized about it. She had wanted to experience this silence in her own life. In her head, she would often enter the covered section of a boat. In her mind, she often wanted to cross a

river in the darkness. She would see a boatman’s face in the light from the lamp. With acne marks on it. Ilona Kuhu Mitra seemed to have discovered the boatman in Arvin. More than his coppery, well-built body, his coarse hair, or his brown beard, it was Arvin’s silence that attracted her. She knew that Arvin didn’t talk. He didn’t try to convince her about anything, true or false. He had nothing to articulate to her. So Ilona Kuhu Mitra trusted him. She sensed no danger in visiting the sixth-floor flat of Nakshatra. Ilona usually felt the urge for sex three or four days after her periods had ended. It wasn’t unique to her. Many of her friends felt their bodies grow restless around the same time. Dharitri had not denied it either. But she believed that those who did experience the urge and fulfilled it immediately could not make it last very long. While she was at work and during her free time, hundreds of jump-cut scenes of sexual intercourse floated in Ilona’s mind over and over again. Ilona Kuhu Mitra thought of Arvin on these occasions. This time too she thought of him when her periods ended. ‘Should I come?’ she asked on the phone. ‘When?’ ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘What time?’ ‘Around three.’ ‘Come.’ ‘Okay.’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra thought of Meghdoot all the time. There was no end to it. The mobile phone she used had Meghdoot’s songs as pre-installed ringtones. The music in the commercial for the car she drove was composed by Meghdoot. The jingle for her chewing gum was Meghdoot’s creation. Meghdoot on the FM channels, Meghdoot on Page 3, and besides, Meghdoot had said many important things. Meghdoot had said, ‘Man becomes insignificant without a huge Random Access Memory, Ilona.’ Meghdoot had said that things like gratitude, empathy, sympathy or dutifulness require a good memory. Which will remind a person of these qualities. And he had said, ‘Love is like pudding. Tastier when cold.’ Waiting for the lights to change, Ilona Kuhu Mitra would cover her ears with her hands when a Meghdoot song floated in from the car next to hers. She felt as though Meghdoot was chasing her. She had given up meat and fish, changed her mobile handset too; she was wondering what to do with her car. She never went to Hindustan Park any more … now she even gave up listening to music. She didn’t know what to do when she received an SMS saying, ‘Your monthly caller-tune subscription has been renewed.’ Whenever she got into her car she could smell Meghdoot. Even with a new, strong air freshener, she could not eliminate his scent from her car. She felt that, big or small, her Random Access Memory held nothing but Meghdoot. That particular day she lay down in silence on the bed in Arvin’s bedroom. Arvin said nothing to her. He didn’t draw her close, didn’t even touch her. He sat on the sofa for a while, and then began to iron the jeans lying on the ironing board in silence. She looked at Arvin, bare-bodied, dressed only in a pair of shorts. A fine, hairless physique, reddish

nipples, a pendant at the end of the gold chain around his neck. Clearly there was a photograph inside the pendant. Getting to her feet deliberately, Ilona Kuhu Mitra took the pendant off the chain. There was no photograph inside, only two gilded roses. When she put her arms around Arvin, raised her lips to his, and placed her hand on his shorts, in a searing flash of lightning she saw Meghdoot’s face. A tremor ran through Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s body. Her senses reeled. Two months had ed, she thought, but Meghdoot had not called her yet. She pushed Arvin away. Without demur, Arvin resumed ironing his jeans. Ilona sat for quite some time on one side of the bed, and then went into the bathroom to splash some water on her face. Emerging from the bathroom, she went directly to the apartment parking lot. Ilona Kuhu Mitra went home that day and flung herself on her bed, trying to masturbate. But even rubbing herself for hours did not help. She didn’t get even slightly wet. Ilona Kuhu Mitra resorted to every possible fantasy, conjured up every illicit relationship she could, imagined herself in bed with three or four men, even added two or three women. She tried to fantasize about Meghdoot too, over and over, but all she discovered was unwillingness. An unwillingness to perform. A tragic face seeking release from the fascination for this body, this flesh, these contortions, this panting, this mixture of sweat, blood, saliva, vaginal juice and sperm. Grooves of irritation on the brow. Deep disdain and hatred in his eyes. Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt the mercury trying to rise within her, but falling each time. She let herself go. The next month, her body created no more trouble for her in the days after her periods. She felt no physical desire at all. She had completely forgotten about sex. She thought she

had forgotten.

The names Lumbini, Magadha, Vaishali and Ujjaini had abandoned the history books to descend into Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s everyday life. She began to see the names of these ancient Indian cities on hoardings. With arrows pointing out the different directions. Strangers tapped on the car window to ask the way to these places. At first she wondered what was going on, and why. But after some time ed, she thought she had been dreaming. When Meghdoot didn’t call her again, she assumed that their meeting at the South Indian Coffee House had been real, but everything after that, starting with the phone call later that day, was a dream. She came to this conclusion because while there was indeed a number with Meghdoot’s name saved on her phone, Ilona Kuhu Mitra would stop short of actually calling it. In fact, she could not rid herself of doubt. She talked to Meghdoot in her head all the time. ‘You talked so much, Meghdoot,’ she said, ‘you talked so much, you didn’t listen to anything I had to say. I too wanted to tell you many things, but I couldn’t.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra told Meghdoot all the things left unsaid, a few at a time, every day. And Meghdoot responded

too. As time ed, the dividing line in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life between what Meghdoot had actually told her in reality or in her dream and what he had said during her conversations with him in her head blurred. Were the questions and counter-questions, the responses and counter-responses continuing in her dream? Everything became confused. A long essay by Meghdoot on the city of Calcutta was published in a major magazine. When she read it, Ilona felt she knew every sentence in it. She was aware of Meghdoot’s experiences. During this time, at three o’clock one night, Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s car took a turn to the left halfway up Southern Avenue instead of heading home. She felt drawn to the Lake Gardens bridge. She felt she had to drive towards Jodhpur Park. Meghdoot had told her the precise location of his house. A corner plot, a single-storeyed building next to a florist. His car was parked on a patch of land in front of his house, for he had no garage. But Meghdoot had said he would be moving out. Ilona Kuhu Mitra braked in the middle of the Lake Gardens bridge. And at once she saw a man walking in the air, floating, his feet not touching the ground. His body was suspended three or four feet above the surface of the bridge, making not even the slightest . His bare feet gleamed, as though they were of gold. The man’s head was completely shaven. He wore a dhoti the colour of ash, and a scarf wrapped about his shoulders; moonlight tumbled on his brow, while the gesture of his hand suggested that he was showing himself the way as he crossed the bridge with miraculous skill. A desolate flyover in the heart of the city at three in the morning. A dangerous curve just before the flyover began. Large cars roared along this road at night without slowing down

even slightly. But there wasn’t a single car that night. The bridge was deserted. From the boundless shores of wonder and disbelief, Ilona Kuhu Mitra observed the man. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds … several minutes ed. Her eyes followed the inexplicable, extraordinary journey. Ilona Kuhu Mitra tried desperately to figure out whether she was dreaming. Whether it was an illusion. She saw the man moving further away from her. Ilona got out of her car. She concluded that the man was either a god or endowed with divine powers. She ran back to her car and, accelerating, caught up with him and reassured herself that he was indeed floating. Shaking with excitement, she tried to call out to the man, but not a sound escaped her throat. Suddenly the man stopped still in mid-air. When his scarf began to billow in the wind, he adjusted it securely around himself. Getting out of her car, Ilona Kuhu Mitra went close enough to reach out and touch his feet with the golden glow. Unable to summon words to her lips, she asked in her head, ‘Is this encounter real or is it my imagination?’ ‘I am an explorer,’ came the answer. ‘And you are wandering, from one lifetime to the next. We were bound to have met someplace, sometime.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ she responded. ‘I am wandering from one lifetime to the next … What about you? Is ing through several births an inconsequential matter for you?’ ‘There is a difference between my revolution and your whirling about. I am revolving in the same orbit. In your case each lifetime is only a journey in a tight circle. Just as the sun and the moon enter each other’s orbits during an eclipse, so too have you entered mine tonight, at this moment. This will only be a brief moment, it will end very soon.’

‘When it does, you will go your way and I will go mine – is that all the significance there is to this encounter?’ ‘No. You don’t . I had pledged myself to you. The city of Vaishali was once inundated by three days of continuous rain. My ancient house at the edge of the city was submerged. You were a resident of that house too. But there was a difference between us. You were an ordinary mortal, whose body had been wasted by a waterborne disease. Your death was inevitable. I wanted to save you. But you knew that you would re-enter life after death. You requested me to leave. You said, “Do not save me from the hands of death. Come back for me, to release me from the life that I will not want to forsake, but which will have grown unbearable for me, forcing me to my nights without rest or sleep; if the sleep I pray for is granted, it will be filled with nightmares; the rejection of a proposal which I will not make will haunt me with its shadow; when I stand before the mirror and look beyond my own reflection I will see someone who harbours nothing but doubts about me; I will be possessed of a knowledge which will fill me with hostile doubt about myself; a life which will make me lonely, extremely lonely.” All this has happened many, many times in your different lives. In one birth after another you have been cleaved apart by doubts born of nightmares. But only in this lifetime, at this point, has it been possible for us to meet.’ ‘What does release mean?’ asked Ilona. ‘Does it mean no more rebirths? Only floating about in my grand orbit? Will I not be ordinary any more? Will I be able to release others too from the tight circles of their lives? Will I be able to release Meghdoot from the whirl of rebirth?’

‘You have been pining for one Meghdoot or another in each of your lifetimes. You have been burning in the flames of despair.’ ‘Let me remain contained in my lives for now,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra. As she was about to continue, another car appeared and stopped behind hers. Two men poked their heads out through its windows. Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt no fear at the thought that there would be no one to save her if these two men attacked her. She knew that the person she had been talking to all this while would not step forward to protect her from being assaulted. Besides, his time had ended. Dawn was beginning to break, the birds were waking up. Ilona Kuhu Mitra said to the two men, ‘Yes?’ She looked at them resolutely. The Scorpio drove off soon afterwards. Ilona Kuhu Mitra went back home. As she went to sleep, she mused on how weak-minded she had become. But Ilona Kuhu Mitra knew that there were always two participants in a love affair – one strong and the other weak.

Ilona called Laila a couple of days later. ‘What did you say your hypnotherapist’s name was?’ ‘Nirvana Rudrani Khiri.’ ‘A Tibetan nomadic woman?’ ‘Yes. Why?’ ‘Do you still consult her, Laila?’ ‘I wish! I have to go out of town again. Just got back from Bombay the day before yesterday. Now I’m off to Chennai on tonight’s flight.’ ‘When are you back?’ ‘In about a week.’ ‘Will you take me to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri when you’re back?’ ‘Why?’ ‘Why what?’

‘What do you need a hypnotherapist for suddenly?’ ‘Nothing in particular. I’ve never met a hypnotherapist, that’s all. You used to tell me whenever you met anyone interesting. You used to call me whenever you discovered a new restaurant or a boutique tucked away inside a lane. When you were in Bombay, do you how you would keep a list of everything new you ate, for me to try when I visited? Caribbean rolls, paneer sizzlers, coconut ice cream, coffee pudding.’ ‘Consulting Nirvana isn’t particularly interesting, Ilona.’ Laila sounded lukewarm. ‘And besides, she isn’t a doctor or anything. I don’t even know whether she has an educational degree of some kind. She certainly doesn’t have the qualifications that a hypnotherapist should. She seems more like a witch-doctor to me. Her methodology is spiritual. She uses chants and incantations. You can’t trust her.’ ‘Was she able to help you or not? You don’t believe in witch-doctors either.’ ‘She asked me to chant some words in my head all the time. For seven days in a row. I would be ready for her treatment only after I’d done that. But I couldn’t. I tried twice and failed. I must give it another shot.’ ‘Can you give me her address and phone number? Or would you rather take me to her?’ ‘You’d better go alone.’ Laila texted the address to Ilona. Nirvana Rudrani Khiri had no phone number.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra had been forced to call two people the day Stephen Court caught fire. One was Gangotri, and the other, Dr Boota. When she had called, Gangotri had said, ‘Don’t worry Ilona-di. I quit the company a fortnight ago.’ Then she had dialled Dr Boota, her dentist, whose chamber was on the fourth floor of Stephen’s Court. She hadn’t been able to reach him on the phone. She had seen his chamber on the news channel she worked for. Because the fire had not spread to that part of the building, Ilona Kuhu Mitra had watched everyone from firemen to reporters and cameramen ing through the chamber. She had asked Maqbool later, ‘You were in Dr Boota’s chamber, did you see any of the people there? Any idea what happened to them?’ Maqbool replied, ‘There was no one there, Ilona. All the flats were lying abandoned. The fire brigade had to break down the door of the chamber to enter, and we went in along with them.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra had met Dr Boota at the club a couple of months later. ‘Oh god!’ Boota said. ‘I was abroad. My chamber was completely destroyed. I’ve shifted to Elgin Road now. Here’s my card with the new address. That flat

belongs to us – let’s see what we can do with it. Some people have stayed back despite the circumstances. But I don’t want to go back.’ Dharitri had been to his new chamber later. Dr Boota was devoted to Harry Belafonte. His chamber was a neat, clean, quiet set-up with an array of imported equipment, and Harry Belafonte playing at very low volume. Or, Bob Dylan, The Carpenters, or Kenny Rogers. ‘Jamaica Farewell’. Ilona didn’t know what the new chamber was like. Now, when she read the address Laila had texted her, Ilona Kuhu Mitra realized that No. 11, Stephen’s Court, Block A, Fifth Floor, Flat No. 5C was on the floor above Dr Boota’s former chamber. Many of the people walking along this road had not yet forgotten the day a year and a half ago when a fire had blazed in the building. Still, so far as she could see, there had been no ebb in the rhythm of a bustling Park Street at three in the afternoon. Flury’s was packed. Outside, the man who peddled cactus plants and the seller of balloons and masks were hawking their wares. There was a crowd of beggars near the Jet Airways office, while numerous people strode along the pavements on both sides. There were two pavement kiosks selling cigarettes, perfumes and condoms. Ilona Kuhu Mitra entered Stephen’s Court through the gate between these two kiosks. The compound was full of cars. When she looked up, she saw the walls that had been blackened by the fire. Repairs were under way, but lots of thin and thick wires still dangled everywhere. She went towards Block A and entered the lift. The shaft had walls of iron mesh, encrusted in grime and cobwebs from the ancient past. The staircase ran up and down around it. The fire had spared this part of the building, spreading towards Peter Cat restaurant instead. A long age led out of the lift, its floor

matching the ageing architecture of the building. The marble tiles were cracked and stained in several places. Cobwebs hung from the rafters in the high ceiling. Paint was peeling off the walls. There was just one pale tube light. Sunlight had never entered these parts of the mansion. There was a scorching sun, the heat of October in Calcutta. Durga Puja wasn’t far away. The age was ice cold and silent. The light was dimmer than it had been in the lift. But as soon as she drew the collapsible gate of the lift shut, it descended with a shriek. The iron cables vibrated uncontrollably. Then there was no sound, just a gaping darkness in the shaft – the kind of pit that made your head reel when you looked down it. The first day that she had visited Dr Boota, she too had been unwittingly terrified by this dark pit. Moving away, Ilona Kuhu Mitra shut the grille gate to the shaft. There were three enormous doors. Two of them had nameplates, with worn polish and corroded motifs. A Punjabi and a Sindhi family. The door on the left had no sign, only a Tibetan mask. Ilona Kuhu Mitra rang the bell. A plump Tibetan woman opened the door. She was by no means young; she was at least sixty. Dressed in a white silk shirt and black tros, she had too much make-up on. A white opal necklace hung around her neck, reaching all the way to her heavy breasts. The stone gave off the seven colours of the rainbow. She had drawn her eyebrows like a black bow, and was sporting bright red lipstick. Her fingers, several rings on them, ended in nails with scarlet nail polish. The flesh on her face overflowed, making the eyes practically invisible. ‘Yes?’ she said, opening the door wide.

‘Nirvana Rudrani Khiri?’ ‘Do you have an appointment?’ ‘No.’ ‘Come in.’ The woman shut the door after Ilona entered, stepping into a narrow age with a wooden floor that led to a sort of waiting area with sofas. Ilona sat on one of them. Apart from her, there was a middle-aged woman and a young foreigner, blonde, with thick glasses. A little later the Tibetan woman instructed Ilona to write her name and the purpose of her visit on a slip of paper. Unable to decide what to state as her purpose, Ilona Kuhu Mitra drew three question marks. The middle-aged woman was sizing her up, her curious eyes moving up and down. From her Kota sari and the diamonds in her ears and nose, Ilona assumed she was not a Bengali. At one point the woman whispered to Ilona, ‘Are you here for past life therapy?’ ‘No.’ ‘Actually, we are not supposed to discuss our problems with anybody. Nirvana doesn’t like it.’ Ilona shrugged. ‘Your first time here?’ ‘Hmm.’ Speaking as softly as possible, the woman said, ‘Do you know what her problem is?’ indicating the foreigner with a flick of her eyes.

‘How would I know?’ Ilona smiled. ‘She used to take drugs. She came to the Can Rehab Centre in Mussoorie from America. She’s stopped the drugs, but still has bouts of hysteria.’ ‘How sad.’ ‘If that’s how you feel, you’ll go crazy if you hear my story. We had a very bad relationship. The thirty years of my marriage were a constant struggle. Now, even after his death, my husband is trying to harm me continuously. Do you know that he wants to kill me? Yesterday he kept the oven burner open so that the gas could leak out and … He still tries to force me – you know what I mean? He tries to have sex.’ The woman raised her palm to her cheek in a gesture of astonishment. Ilona was summoned after an hour or so. Meanwhile, the foreigner had gone inside and then come out again. The other woman too. In the interim a middle-aged man had occupied the sofa. He had a jacket on although it was only October, and looked as though he was very cold. When Ilona Kuhu Mitra heard that Nirvana dealt with ghosts and spirits too, she assumed she had come to the right person, but Nirvana Rudrani Khiri turned out to have no resemblance to a witch-doctor or an exorcist. Ilona saw an exquisitely beautiful woman in jeans and a black T-shirt sitting on one side of a large glass table. Her hair was straight, and streaked red. She wore plenty of make-up on her face and around her eyes, and had pink lips. A completely modern woman, around the same age as Ilona. Nirvana Rudrani Khiri asked her to sit down. Lighting a cigarette, she blew out the smoke and said, ‘You smoke, don’t you?’

‘I do.’ ‘Want one?’ ‘Not now, later.’ ‘What can I do for you?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra recounted the morning’s incident in detail to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. As she was telling the story, she expected Nirvana to make a perceptive comment and win her trust. Nirvana listened closely, but did not say anything that would suggest to Ilona that the woman opposite her had any special power or ability compared to herself, something that could be dubbed miraculous. ‘Why are you looking for a hypnotherapist?’ ‘I want to know whether this really happened.’ ‘So you thought I would be able to hypnotize you and find out whether this actually happened. Do you really think it’s that simple?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Your problem isn’t particularly serious. You can live with it.’ ‘The problem may not be serious. But what of my right to know?’ ‘How will it help to know? Didn’t you enjoy seeing a person like that?’ ‘But I could have been in danger. Those two men in the Scorpio could have abducted me. Why can’t I sleep at night? If I could have slept nights, I would have worked day shifts. Wouldn’t it be better if I got over this addiction to wander about at night? Besides, I want to know what this business of hypnotherapy is. I want to know how it works.’

‘May I hypnotize you for a couple of minutes?’ Nirvana Rudrani Khiri asked. ‘Go ahead.’ Nirvana Rudrani Khiri didn’t do anything specific; stubbing the rest of her cigarette out in the ashtray, she flashed a look at Ilona. There was something in her eyes that startled Ilona Kuhu Mitra. But she didn’t experience any unusual sensation. Nirvana took a few slices of garlic from the drawer and held them out to her. ‘Eat,’ she said. Ilona did. The room filled with a pungent smell. ‘I am hypnotizing you now. Have one more.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra did. She giggled. So did Nirvana. ‘I have no idea what you just ate. I wanted you to have oranges.’ Ilona nodded. ‘These are oranges. Hypnotherapy is different,’ Ilona said. ‘This is fun. You want me to play such games? Where’s the therapy here? I have come to you. Show me the way.’ ‘Doubts cannot be dispelled so easily, Ilona. I can hypnotize you right now and find out the incidents that really happened in your life, and identify the ones that were merely dreams. You will find out too, and you will leave. Two days will , three – and then you’ll wonder, is what Nirvana told me right? You’ll wonder whether this was really what Nirvana discovered. Besides, you’ll continue to dream even in your hypnotized state. Those dreams will merge with reality. And after a few days you will be confused again. Doors within doors in your head. When you open your mind, you’ll see that maybe this quest for the truth is just an excuse. Perhaps it’s something else that you’re looking for. Then you have to go

through this whole cycle again. I have seen what sinister proportions even insignificant problems acquire when your mind is opened up. Are you ready for so much trouble? Think about whether you really need all this.’ Nirvana gave her an incantation to chant for the next seven days. Ilona Kuhu Mitra made an appointment to meet Nirvana again in ten days. Paying the fee of a thousand rupees, she left Stephen’s Court. When she was waiting for the lift outside Nirvana’s flat, a man coming down the stairs told her, ‘The lift doesn’t work, you’ll have to take the stairs.’ ‘What do you mean it doesn’t work?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra was astonished. She had come up in the lift, after all. ‘The roof of the building is damaged. So none of the lifts can run.’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra decided to spend a week at the family house in Jasidih. It was an old house, a small one-storeyed building constructed in the time of her great-grandfather. She hadn’t been there in several years. Sanjay and Dharitri always managed to visit twice or thrice a year, staying a week or so each time. The area around the house was still relatively uninhabited. The red gravel road was lined with sal trees on both sides. From the time spring began to blossom till the time the rains came, red flames of the forest were visible everywhere. There was a tribal village in the distance, and oxen grazed in the fields. A well stood in front of the house. The last time that Ilona had visited with her brother and sister-inlaw, they ed the late autumn nights on cots by the well. No attempt had been made to repair and modernize the house. Only the kitchen had been renovated a little. A fridge had been purchased. There was no power most of the time, however. Lanterns had to be lit, and hand-held fans pressed into service to keep mosquitoes at bay. The house was looked after by a local named Bindu Mahato. It was her responsibility to do the shopping and the

cooking. Newspapers were not delivered to the house in Jasidih; they were available only at the station. Even the mobile signal was not always within reach. But still, whenever Sanjay grew bad-tempered, Dharitri suggested a trip to Jasidih. Both of them were surprised to hear she wanted to visit Jasidih. ‘But Kuhu, we can’t go now,’ Dharitri said. ‘We have some things to take care of here.’ ‘Has your corporation tax bill come, Kuhu?’ asked Sanjay. ‘Give it to me, Das will deposit the payment. I think a hearing is coming up.’ ‘You don’t have to go,’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra said. ‘I’ll go by myself.’ ‘By yourself?’ both of them said in unison. ‘Oh no, there’s no question of your going alone,’ exclaimed Sanjay. ‘The Mullicks and Chowdhurys have all sold their houses. The area behind our house is completely empty now. The Maoists are only thirty or forty kilometres away. Ramsharan simply refused to drive to Shimultala last time.’ ‘Even I feel a bit scared at night,’ said Dharitri. This was true. The house stood on a plot about 6500 square feet in size, and not a soul lived nearby. If something were to happen, no one would hear her even if she screamed. Still Ilona Kuhu Mitra declared that she would go. Sidling up to her, her sister-in-law pinched her hard. ‘Go to your room, I’m coming.’ ‘You need to get married now,’ said her brother. ‘There’s plenty of time for Mizo to get married, Dharitri, get Kuhu to marry first.’ Returning to her bedroom, Ilona began to glower. She would go to Jasidih.

Dharitri arrived a little later. She was never willing to discard her old nightdresses or housecoats. When Ilona had visited her brother and sister-in-law’s flat on Sunday for tea, this was what they had been arguing about. Her brother was threatening to toss all of his wife’s old nightgowns from the balcony, while she whined, claiming that nothing was more comfortable than old nightgowns. ‘I shall now do what neither my father nor my grandfather ever did,’ Sanjay had said. ‘I shall dress in a chequered lungi at home. And pose barebodied in the balcony.’ Standing with her hand in the pocket of her belt-less housecoat, Dharitri said to Ilona, ‘What’s all this, hmm? We have our visa interview tomorrow morning. It’s been such a pain to persuade Sanjay to visit Mizo … are you trying to ruin everything?’ ‘What does my going to Jasidih have to do with your trip to America?’ Without answering directly, Dharitri said, ‘I’m visiting my son after five years. I don’t want any rows. Your brother will be bad-tempered, he’ll say all kinds of things at the visa office tomorrow … I don’t want to hear a single word about Jasidih now, Kuhu.’ ‘When are you likely to leave?’ asked Ilona. Dharitri looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Attitude!’ Ilona had no idea what Dharitri had made of her quesion, but she went back to her own flat, her sandals flapping loudly. At the dinner table that night Dharitri said, ‘Who’s going to stop you if we’re not here? You’d better finish your trip before we leave. Your brother’s called Bindu, she’ll sleep in the next room with her children. Don’t get in her way. Have a safe trip.’

Ilona applied for leave from office on Monday afternoon and left for Jasidih on Tuesday. When the train was ing Digharia hill, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to ask Nirvana Rudrani Khiri whether she could sleep during this week. Surely no one could chant continuously in their sleep. She decided to solve the problem at once and made up her mind not to sleep at night. And to spend as much of the day as she could asleep. When she reached, Ilona Kuhu Mitra found Bindu Mahato bustling about. Since there was power, the pump had been switched on to fill the tank. Bindu was cooking wild chicken for her with great care – she was in despair when she heard Ilona had given up meat. Ilona set out to explore the garden. Her dress was snared in the brambles behind the house. Digharia hill and the train lines were visible in the distance … she sat down on a cot to pluck the brambles out of her clothes. Then she bathed, ate lunch, and went to sleep. It was night when she awoke, and dark. There was no power. As soon as she opened her door and stepped outside, Bindu brought her a lantern and a cup of tea. Sipping her tea, she

told Bindu in Hindi, ‘Don’t ask me any questions about the things to be done. Just do whatever you think is necessary.’ ‘Bhabhi had called,’ said Bindu. Ilona Kuhu Mitra called her sister-in-law, and switched her phone off after the conversation. Then she lit mosquito repellent coils beneath the cot in the garden and looked up at the night sky. A clear sky. A partially melted moon, and countless stars. Looking up at the moon and the stars, Ilona chanted the incantation in her head for the first time. As she sat in this manner for hours, Ilona Kuhu Mitra realized that three separate streams of thought were flowing in her mind. One of these was of spontaneous thought, which runs continuously. Another was the instruction for the chanting, and the third, the simple, straight line of the incantation.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra discovered several strange memories in her head during those seven days. Unable to understand why her mind had held on to those insignificant memories and why they were surfacing at that time, she was increasingly surprised. For instance, she ed going to watch Jurassic Park with Rupu-da at Nandan. Rupu-da was Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s cousin – her aunt’s son. They used to be in love. But instead of delving into their entire history, all she ed was going to watch Jurassic Park with him. She ed another ancient dream too. She was surprised at the realization that the dream was just a dream – there was no conflict over this within her. For seven days, Ilona Kuhu Mitra chanted the incantation continuously, except when she was asleep. In the train on her way back to Calcutta, it occurred to her that Meghdoot had not been in any of the memories that had floated up unexpectedly. Did that mean there wasn’t room yet for Meghdoot in the memories lodged in her unconscious, she wondered.

When she returned, Ilona Kuhu Mitra found out that her brother and sister-in-law had got their visas. They would be taking a flight to America on the day before Lakshmi Puja. Ilona had a long chat on the Net that night with Maurya, or Mizo. ‘Why aren’t you coming too, Kuhu Pipi?’ Maurya said over and over again. ‘I wish you were.’

On the afternoon of the tenth day, Ilona Kuhu Mitra visited Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. The same plump woman opened the door. Ilona sat down in the waiting area. There were four American youngsters there that day, who entered Nirvana’s chamber and then came out. Her turn came after an hour of waiting. Nirvana was dressed in jeans and a silk shirt. Her skin was smooth and shiny, like silk. With blue eyeshadow and glossy lipstick, she looked ravishing. Asking her to take a seat, Nirvana lit a cigarette. When she offered Ilona one, Ilona accepted it. Ilona Kuhu Mitra had a strange sensation on her first drag. Her head reeled. ‘This is different, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Handmade cigarettes, I get them from Lhasa,’ said Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. ‘So, how was it? Tell me the truth.’ ‘I think I made it. You didn’t tell me whether I could sleep or not. But except when I was asleep, I chanted the incantation every second. I’m sure I did.’

From her drawer, Nirvana pulled out an instrument for measuring blood pressure and checked Ilona’s. ‘Normal. All right, Ilona, I’m going into that room there. When the red light over the door is turned on, come inside. Finish your cigarette, okay?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra concluded that the cigarette had something unusual in it. She wondered whether the foreigners visited Nirvana Rudrani Khiri for these cigarettes, or for whatever was mixed with the tobacco. She realized that her senses were gradually becoming numb. She felt afraid. Was she needlessly inviting danger? No one knew she was here. No one would know if something happened to her. What if her brother and sister-in-law’s trip to visit Maurya was stalled because she fell ill thanks to all this? Should she run away at once? Her head really did feel funny. While Ilona Kuhu Mitra tried to gather her thoughts, her fingers pressed to her temples, the red light above the door to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri’s antechamber came on. Nirvana was calling her. Ilona stood up, went forward, pushed the door open … it was absolutely dark inside. But in the brief flash of light that appeared when she had opened the door, she saw that there was no furniture in the room except a narrow bed in the middle. And Nirvana stood next to it in a robe, her hands clasped near her breasts. The door closed on its own after Ilona Kuhu Mitra entered. Then there was utter darkness – groping, she went forward. Nirvana Rudrani Khiri appeared to take her hand. Her voice sounded unusually solemn. ‘Lie down.’ When she did, her body sank into the soft bed. But it was a strange bed, for her head hung downwards at an angle, while her feet dangled over the edge.

‘Shut your eyes,’ Nirvana told her. Ilona did. Nirvana placed something heavy, like an ice-cold disc, on her forehead. Ilona’s hand moved up automatically to feel it. A stone, a smooth stone. ‘Move your hand away,’ said Nirvana. ‘And relax, just relax.’ ‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘You are absolutely safe,’ Nirvana told her. ‘We will begin now. Chant in your head. When I ask you to stop, say the first word that comes to mind. This word is a handle. I will turn it to open the door to your mind. Can you hear me, Ilona? I will move about inside your mind. You will not stop me. You will not come in my way at all. This stone will suck many useless memories and thoughts out of your head.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt as though Nirvana Rudrani Khiri’s voice was coming to her from a great distance. She was sinking, she was sinking … but still she tried to lift her head and ask, ‘Is this therapy?’ ‘You wanted to know what was in your mind, Ilona. You didn’t want therapy, did you? You can call this soul treatment. All of us need soul treatment from time to time. It’s like washing your dirty clothes with detergent and putting them out in the sun to dry. Are you chanting?’ ‘I am,’ said Ilona and fell asleep. And as soon as Nirvana said, ‘Stop,’ she surfaced somewhere far, far away. When she did, Ilona blurted out, ‘I want to make love with him.’ ‘Go on,’ said Nirvana.

‘I want to make love with him, make love with him. Nothing else. He had sex with me on the phone that day, he drew me close with words, I wasn’t able to say anything. But since then my heart and my body have been crying out in the expectation of making love with him. The longing whirls about within me. I cannot think of anything else even if I want to. I cannot hear anything else. I only hear a bugle, the notes signalling the beginning of lovemaking. Nirvana, you’re saying that I want to express this tremendous desire to make love to him because I think in simple . I want to forget language, I want to overcome shame, I want to throw aside the hidden faculties that keep me from stating all this, I want to reveal the storm that rages within me day and night. How my body annihilates all its limbs and planes and organs and every part of itself to become a single drop, a very dense drop, in which is concentrated only the desire to make love with him. You are telling me, Nirvana, that there is no need to reach this point so swiftly. For when I reach it, everything will be so condensed that there will be nothing left to say. You keep telling me not to stop talking. You tell me to breathe slowly. But my breath is tied up in knots. While I gasp for air, you say, relax, relax. But I can’t relax, you see. I just want him back. My voice trembles as I say this, I want to cry. I am crying. I want to make love with him, make love. Go away, Nirvana Rudrani Khiri, I want to leave, I want to leave this place … What’s all this I’m saying? I feel as though I am lying here unclothed. I have become naked after exposing all my emotions. But I am not leaving. Because I have promised not to come in your way. You said I am becoming purer, Nirvana. You said that we have to give up ourselves to become purer. We have to give up all we have. But I won’t give him up, Nirvana. I want him. This desire blazes within me. It

keeps burning. It does not allow me to be at peace. You say that a desire to make love burns within everyone constantly, without interruption. Maybe. I don’t know. No one’s ever told me this. I am fasting today according to your instructions. The techniques of soul treatment are diverse. All religions have such practices. Fasting, roza, prayers … you know my prayer. You know this helplessness. You know these sighs. He is here, in this very city. I know his house. A pink building, with a circular veranda in front, eucalyptus trees that surround the house like sentries. It’s near a market … the market comes alive before dawn … yes, I go there before dawn …’

Nirvana Rudrani Khiri called Ilona to her chamber again two days later. ‘I didn’t see anyone floating inside your head,’ said Nirvana. ‘It’s not as though it’s a very troublesome question for you. It’s not at all important to you whether you met him or not. But you are pursuing Meghdoot. He occupies a very large part of your mind. It is true: Meghdoot did come into your life, it did happen. You aren’t happy with your life. None of your relationships has been successful. None of them has matched up to the notion of ideal love that has grown within you since childhood. As a result you are overcome by disappointment. You have seen that none of your love affairs is able to come anywhere close to your ideal of love. What has happened is that love has gradually become something of a spiritual quest for you. One of two things usually happens in such cases. You grow averse to love, come to despise it, possibly become a man-hater. Or you try to rise above the physical existence of love to a different plane. The two options have different objectives; they’re different in nature too. Hate is a strange thing. Hate is a constant struggle, a difficult ethic to follow.

Every moment is like being nine months pregnant. Major baggage. You have to pay a very heavy price for it. But you prefer the easier path all the time. Spirituality is a very subtle, light affair, without any physical form or existence; it personifies consciousness. That is why the path of spirituality points upwards. Meghdoot came into, and then left, your life in a way that did not allow you to understand whether you were in love with each other or not. Every time you fell in love, you thought, “This is the love I have been looking for.” But you were proved wrong each time. Even if Meghdoot and you had fallen in love with each other, the same thing might have happened as before. But your mind will not accept any of this right now. After watching part of a film you imagine the rest, but you’re unable to do that in this case. Because you are helpless right now. But don’t look so hopeless. I can show you what would have happened.’

Sanjay and Dharitri left for the US the day before Lakshmi Puja. So Ilona Kuhu Mitra didn’t go anywhere the day before that, spending the entire day with them. In the evening she visited the club with them. Late in the evening, as Ilona was coming out of the club, while her brother was in the washroom and her sister-in-law was talking to Sharmila and her husband at a distance with her back towards Ilona, she spotted Himanshu. Ilona Kuhu Mitra grew wary when she saw him. Himanshu halted in his tracks on seeing her. Usually she slipped away when she saw him, but she didn’t this time. Himanshu walked up to her. She saw that he was limping, and his arm was bandaged. Himanshu came up to her. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m fine,’ said Ilona Kuhu Mitra. She was speaking politely to Himanshu, without running away, after nearly a year and a half. She realized that there had been a time when she really was afraid of him. But she had never quite hated him. When she thought about him, she realized what a waste of time it was to harbour those emotions. She had succeeded – she had

shaken him off. She ed breaking up with Rupu on a 12 July; she had wept all night. After that, Ilona Kuhu Mitra had not shed a single tear for him. Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not wonder why she hadn’t slipped away on spotting Himanshu. ‘What’s the matter, why are you limping?’ she asked. ‘And what’s wrong with your arm?’ ‘I slipped and fell here in the club last week. I fractured my arm, hurt my foot too.’ Himanshu was scouring her face for something. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you?’ ‘I’m just fine.’ ‘But you look sad.’ Himanshu was trying to establish that something was wrong with her. Just as Meghdoot had tried to establish that something was wrong with Parijat. ‘Why do you suppose Parijat goes to parties alone?’ he had asked Ilona one day. ‘Why doesn’t she bring her husband along?’ She had answered, ‘Maybe her husband is busy.’ Pursing his lips, Meghdoot had said, ‘Rubbish, nothing like that. They don’t get along.’ When Ilona had asked, ‘How do you know?’ Meghdoot had answered with the air of someone who knew it all, ‘Take it from me, they’re not on good . She comes to parties by herself, wanders around. I feel bad for her. You got married, put in so much effort to break one marriage and settle down with someone else, shouldn’t you be holding hands all the time? Why are you here alone? When I look at Parijat, I can tell. She didn’t bother so much with her looks before. Now she’s forever doing her eyes, cutting her hair differently and colouring it, so much jewellery, loud lipstick – all very unnatural. And how much weight she’s put on! Trust me, they aren’t happy. It’s hard to break a second marriage, that’s why it’s surviving, know what I mean?’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra would feel sorry for Meghdoot when he said such things. She didn’t feel sorry for Himanshu. She had not done her eyes or used lurid lipstick. She had pierced her nose though, but the hole had long closed from lack of use. She slept during the day, stayed up nights. She had no man in her life. No love. There was nothing to distinguish one day from another. She had dark circles under her eyes, scattered wrinkles on her face, her hair was thinning in front, she often frowned absently at other people. The person she stared at this way probably wondered why she was so annoyed. One day she had caught herself staring at the CEO of her company and then wondered, oh my god, what must Mr Shankar have thought. She had even feared losing her job. For a few days she had expected to be summoned any moment, breathing a sigh of relief only after the CEO had returned to Delhi. She herself had no doubt that she looked unhappy. Her beauty and youth were on the wane. Sunetra had said that this was the age at which a woman’s sex drive was at its strongest. But Ilona no longer felt the urge, the excitement. She had rejected Arvin. When she stood naked before the mirror, she saw an asexual body. Earlier, she used to feel as though a celebration was under way all over her body, like a village fair. Colourful tents, ferris wheels, bangle shops, sweets, flutes and pipes, crowds, encounters. Nirvana had told her that she was seeking a path to purity. That same old path, leading to purity, piety, salvation, moksha, release. Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not what she had told Nirvana. But it was true that she thought of Meghdoot all the time, missed him all the time. When she stopped her car at a traffic signal, she wondered whether the car behind hers was Meghdoot’s. When her eyes smarted while shampooing her hair, she thought of him. Nirvana had told her that she wanted

to purify herself, because she believed that only in that state would she get Meghdoot. But to be pure, she would have to give herself up first. She would have to relinquish her love for Meghdoot. There was just this conflict, this fear, within Ilona Kuhu Mitra now. Would she get it back if she lost it? ‘I am sad,’ she told Himanshu. Why did she tell him that? Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt as though she had moved a step closer to purity by acknowledging the truth. At that moment her brother arrived behind her with his hands in his pockets, his heels clicking. Putting his hand on her shoulder, he said, ‘Is there a problem here? Can I help?’ ‘No,’ said Himanshu. ‘We were just talking.’ He looked at Ilona as though seeking her . ‘Actually I don’t want a scene in the club,’ said Sanjay. ‘Shall we go?’ ‘Bye, Ilona,’ said Himanshu. Dharitri drove in silence for some time. Then she said, ‘You’re at fault too, Kuhu. Why did you have to talk to him? Everyone was staring, like they were watching some sort of drama. Sharmila looked like she was going to out.’ ‘Drama is exactly what it was,’ said Sanjay. ‘Drama over the marriage, drama over the divorce, drama afterwards too. You needn’t come to the club any more, Kuhu.’ It wasn’t as though Dharitri was furious with Himanshu or that she abhorred him. She was quite rational, and knew that harassment over a divorce was normal when a marriage was breaking up. But she pretended a little extra malice towards him in her husband’s presence. The reason for her brother’s antipathy towards Himanshu and the Mewar family was much

more deep-rooted. He had had a conflict with them long before Ilona Kuhu Mitra had met Himanshu. One of his clients had wanted to sell his Richie Park property, but only to another Bengali. The Mewars had bought it using their Bengali manager as a front. Businessmen did such things all the time. Sanjay had nursed a grudge, and his rage had been further fuelled by Ilona Kuhu Mitra when she walked out of home to marry Himanshu. Ilona Kuhu Mitra never spoke about Himanshu in her brother’s presence. That evening she said, ‘I have no feelings for Himanshu, not even hatred.’ ‘Why don’t you shut up, Kuhu?’ said her sister-in-law. The next day Ilona dropped Sanjay and Dharitri at the airport. They would spend two months with their son in the US. On Lakshmi Puja, Pushpa came sobbing to Ilona. ‘I have to go home at once, Kuhu-di.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ilona. ‘My son had phoned. Last night my husband fought with him, broke open the trunk, and ran away with the land deed. How hard I worked, oh god, borrowed so much money too, to buy the land and build a house … and the man’s such a swine, he’s been plotting all along to sell the land to get money for his alcohol. Luckily the deed he’s got is only the duplicate; I keep the original here.’ ‘What are you weeping about then? The deed’s here, isn’t it?’ ‘So what? He’ll sell the copy to someone. You don’t know what people from the villages are like, they don’t understand anything. Whoever he takes money from will chase me.’ ‘But the deed has your name on it, doesn’t it, Pushpa-di?’

‘My husband doesn’t care. What if the deed’s got your name, he tells me, I have a right to it too. It was best when he had left, Kuhu-di. The moment he came back, I knew there’d be trouble. I’ve just been feeding the devil. I was too weak to throw him out. Since he’s back, let him stay … that’s what I thought. A woman’s silliness. He beat up the boy, cracked his head.’ Pushpa sobbed uncontrollably. Ilona called Abhinav at the office. ‘Ask her to lodge a complaint at the police station, Champahati, right? I’m calling the Sonarpur police station.’ Giving Pushpa some money, Ilona Kuhu Mitra told her to go. ‘Basana is here, don’t worry,’ she told Pushpa. ‘Stay as long as you need to.’ Having sent Pushpa on her way, Ilona Kuhu Mitra bathed and put on a sari. A Dhaka sari. She felt as though Meghdoot was watching her while she dressed. Adjusting the pleats, she looked at him. ‘So you wear your sari with the line beneath the navel?’ Meghdoot seemed to say. ‘Beneath the navel,’ she answered. ‘But my stomach is never visible, have you ever seen it?’ ‘Yes, I have. In the car the other night. Your stomach, your breasts. My god, how low your blouse is cut.’ ‘Nonsense! Liar!’ ‘This entire city is about lies. My life is a lie, my love is a lie, my home is a lie, my role is a lie. I ride a tram of lies all over the city. Have you ever been on a double-decker bus, Ilona?’ ‘Once or twice. It scared me, I always felt the bus would tip over.’

‘Have you ever ridden pillion on a motorbike? The way girls do nowadays, sitting astride and hugging the boys, sometimes burying their lips in their ears to whisper something … have you ever done that?’ ‘Are we becoming the old people in the city, Meghdoot? When I see the boys and girls in front of Jadavpur University, I feel our blood growing stale. Once, on Saraswati Puja, I rode on a bike with Rupu-da, we went all over the city. Just once in my life.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra had to go to Sadananda Road. A lukewarm Lakshmi Puja celebration was under way. No one was around, not even Dharitri. Chiki’s mother was feeling low, so was she. In the evening, Ilona lay on Dharitri’s bed in silence. Shanku brought her a cup of tea. Sitting up in bed to sip her tea, Ilona mulled over the fact that all her love affairs had happened rather easily. She had been swept away by emotion after just a few glances, an exchange of looks, some conversation, a little fondness, confusing all this for love. It was ridiculous to fall in love so easily. What Ilona hadn’t told Meghdoot that evening was that in this lifetime she would never again experience love the way those people on the bikes did, walking around hand in hand, talking incoherently, feeding each other ice cream in food courts at malls, and buying flowers. She was older now. The ash of conflicts and counterconflicts was smeared on her. It was very difficult now to make someone else like her.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra went back to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. ‘There was no love affair between Meghdoot and you, Ilona,’ Nirvana told her. ‘No relationship. On the face of it, you got nothing from it. But still a conflict sprang up between Meghdoot and you.’ Ilona was surprised. ‘What are you saying, Nirvana? Don’t say all this.’ ‘Look, Ilona, you are afraid of Meghdoot. There are many reasons for this. But don’t you understand that this fear holds the signs of opposition? Actually, there is a contradiction whenever each of us confronts another person. The reason is very simple. We are two different people. And because we are different, we oppose each other. There’s nothing to worry about here. This is basic. We nomads believe that every living being is actually envious of every other living being. Envy and – these are the qualities that make the world go round. For instance, we consider the relationship between the teacher and a student a sacred one. But the greatest crisis of this relationship is that one of them knows while the other doesn’t know. Aren’t these two mutually contradictory? The student who is the most

submissive to his teacher is also his greatest rival. There is rivalry between you and Meghdoot.’ ‘Then are you saying that you and I also have a hidden conflict between us, Nirvana?’ ‘You are curious about me. Curiosity is a very complex business, it is a mixture of certain emotions.’ ‘Meghdoot told me that he is a much more complex person than I am.’ ‘Come, let’s start from this point today,’ said Nirvana. Having spent an hour and a half on the bed in Nirvana Rudrani Khiri’s antechamber, Ilona Kuhu Mitra felt much more refreshed. ‘Come the day after tomorrow,’ Nirvana said. ‘One more session and then you’ll have to decide what you want. If you want to be purified, we’ll have to get into therapy. Or would you rather check out exactly what would have happened if Meghdoot and you had indeed had an affair?’ ‘Can you really see that, Nirvana?’ asked Ilona. ‘I can. But your conflict will not go away even after that. At some point you are bound to question whether what I showed you was indeed what would have happened. The truth is that your five days with Meghdoot, your wandering about the city with him for four nights, and then his abandoning you without any warning and not calling even once in three months, have all combined in your mind to create a story already. You already harbour a certain belief about this. I cannot divert you from it. Your willpower will take the story in the precise direction where your belief stands.’

‘But what role will Meghdoot have in all this?’ ‘Meghdoot will remain in all his glory. He will behave according to his own nature. In fact, if Meghdoot were to write a song for you in this situation, it would have his stamp on it.’ Suppressing a sigh, Ilona asked, ‘Are you just going to show me a dream, Nirvana?’ ‘But you won’t have to go to sleep. And the dream will not stop till I stop projecting it. But I don’t have much time on my hands, Ilona. I have to leave Calcutta very soon.’ ‘When?’ ‘I don’t know yet. But when I leave, it will have to be at a few hours’ notice. Haven’t you noticed I’m not seeing new patients any more?’ ‘Give me one of your cigarettes, Nirvana,’ Ilona said. ‘You’re very clear about things.’ Nirvana made a sound of regret. ‘I don’t have any right now. If you need one badly you’ll have to go somewhere else. I’ll give you the address before I leave.’ ‘Where will you go?’ ‘I’ll tell you after hypnotizing you.’ Nirvana smiled. ‘Not right now.’ ‘And what if you have to leave while I’m still dreaming?’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell you beforehand what you’ll have to do.’

It was Sunday. The doorbell woke Ilona up around ten in the morning. Basana was ringing the bell. Pushpa was not at home. If Basana had come at eight as usual, her sleep would have been ruined. So Ilona Kuhu Mitra had asked her to come a little later. Getting out of bed and opening the door, she found Basana giggling to herself. She saw this, but did not it. In her half-asleep state, Ilona wasn’t expected to wonder why Basana was giggling. ‘Make some tea,’ she told Basana. Planning to smoke a cigarette, she went to the kitchen in search of a light. She found Basana’s back shaking as she did the dishes. ‘What is it?’ she finally asked. ‘Are you laughing or weeping?’ Wiping her tears away with her left wrist, Basana said, ‘Laughing. I just can’t stop.’ ‘Why? What’s so funny?’ ‘I’m too embarrassed to tell you.’

‘I’m sure that guy came up to you at the station again. The one who said, “You don’t look like you have two children, Basana.” The one who promised to “take you to the movies”?’ ‘No, Kuhu-di, no. That man gave me a nose-ring. I took the nose-ring but didn’t go to the movies with him.’ ‘Very smart.’ She was about to leave with the matches, but Basana followed her. ‘Tell me something, Kuhu-di? Is there a medicine to stop this thing?’ ‘Stop what?’ ‘As if you don’t understand! This thing the body wants.’ Basana began to giggle again. ‘Who told you all this?’ ‘This woman travels with us on the train, she was saying. Apparently she takes some medicine that cools her down. Otherwise she goes crazy, she says. You wouldn’t believe the faces she makes. Her husband has left her, but she loves him madly. She won’t have a relationship with anyone else. So she takes this medicine. Is there really such medicine, Kuhu-di?’ ‘Never heard of it.’ ‘Nor have we. We were laughing at her. Maybe she’s mad. Claims to have studied up to class eight. But she’s right, isn’t she? If you have to starve once you’ve had a taste of a man, aren’t you going to go crazy? Take my husband – he’s good for nothing, but at least he’s a man, he makes love to me. The children are grown up, but still he’ll push them aside and lie down next to me.’ With a serious expression, Ilona Kuhu Mitra tried to concentrate on the newspaper.

Bringing her a cup of tea, Basana said, ‘I have no idea how you manage.’ She looked at Basana. ‘I know, I know, it’s hard. It’s not like you’re entirely in your senses anyway. Sleepless nights. But that’s because you have crazy thoughts. You wouldn’t be going to office at night if you were married, would you? Would your husband have let you?’ As she was leaving after cleaning the flat, Basana said, ‘By the way, I went to Pushpa-di’s house last evening. I found her and her husband strolling together. They’ve made up.’ At their next meeting, Ilona Kuhu Mitra told Nirvana Rudrani Khiri, ‘I’m feeling very restless, Nirvana. I’ve been feeling this way ever since you said you were leaving. There’s no need for another session, put me inside that dream right now.’ Nirvana didn’t seem in a suitable frame of mind that day. She hadn’t dressed with care, hadn’t worn any jewellery either. Sometimes she wrapped something like a scarf round her head – it had heavy buckles with multicoloured beads in front – covering her brow. Nirvana had it on that day. Instead of jeans and a shirt, she had on a maroon skirt, a grey smock and a leather belt round her waist. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you, Ilona. But I’m very worried today. It’ll be very difficult for me to concentrate. But I can try. If it doesn’t work today, you must come back in a couple of weeks. Serim Puche will be here instead of me. He belongs to our Changpa sect too. We were brought up by the same lama, he’s our guru. Serim Puche left Ladakh today, he will be here in two or three days. ‘I owe you so much, Nirvana.’

‘Listen, Ilona, I will go away. You will spend your days and nights in a hypnotized state. When you need to snap out of it, visit Serim Puche. He will sprinkle holy water on you and break your trance. I’m going to prepare the water and leave it with Nanachi.’ Nanachi was the plump Tibetan woman. Ilona Kuhu Mitra did not know what her relationship with Nirvana Rudrani Khiri was. ‘But how will I know when I need to come out of it?’ ‘You’ll know. You’ll be desperate to come out of it. When you reach this state, you will not be able to stay awake very long … you will fall asleep. Overcome with exhaustion, you will keep slipping into sleep. Your head will ache, you’ll have a runny nose. You won’t be able to maintain your balance as you move about, your mouth will be open when you sleep, your throat will feel as parched as sandpaper.’ Ilona was silent. ‘Think it over, Ilona,’ said Nirvana. ‘Do you really want to take such a big risk over Meghdoot? Your temperature will rise, your heart will beat faster. Your blood pressure will fluctuate. Who will help you in this condition? Will there be anyone?’ ‘Nirvana, do you think I have ever been in any relationship that has not exhausted me?’ said Ilona. ‘That hasn’t made my head want to explode in agony? I often get a cold from sheer anxiety. Fear, bewilderment and worry give me fever and kill my appetite. I have taken these risks every time for the sake of a relationship.’ ‘Then prepare yourself and wait. I will call you when I’m ready.’ ‘But, Nirvana, what will happen to the next stage if you leave? Will I not attain purity?’

‘It may not even be necessary. Maybe Meghdoot will lose his importance for you. The infatuation will . Maybe this will remain in your life as another failed love affair, which you won’t want to worry about any more.’ Nirvana Rudrani Khiri took a soft, yellowish pellet out of her drawer. ‘Goat cheese,’ she said. ‘Eat.’ When she had chewed and swallowed the spongy, rubbery pellet, Ilona Kuhu Mitra found her head reeling.

Meghdoot answered her phone on the first ring. ‘Tell me, Ilona,’ he said. And at once Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s cheeks, throat and breasts were drenched in tears. Holding the phone to her breast, she collapsed on her bed. Every hollow in Ilona’s body seemed to fill with blood. Sobbing, her breath catching in her throat, she said, ‘It’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice, Meghdoot. I can’t stay away from you any more, Meghdoot. I’m dying, don’t make me suffer any more.’ It was the first time in her life that Ilona Kuhu Mitra had said these words to anyone. She had not had the ability to say them in the past. She could not have imagined saying such a thing even in her worst nightmare. Because she knew it would sound false, insincere. She probably didn’t even know what it meant. But when she uttered those words that day, it was by raising herself to the level of ultimate simplicity. When she said, ‘Don’t make me suffer any more, Meghdoot,’ it sounded like surrender.

Meghdoot said over the phone, ‘Oh, Ilona, don’t cry like this. I cannot stand your tears. Why must you cry like a silly girl? Have I abandoned you? I’m holding your hand, don’t you see? You are allowed to cry like this only when I’m not. I know what you’re doing now. You’re crying and wondering what to say to me. Three days have ed since I last called. That’s because all my attempts to explain to you have failed. You had to understand for yourself this time – you had to understand that I’m busy, Ilona. I’m always immersed in piles of work. I don’t have any time at all. And your tantrums in the middle of all this … I can’t manage. I had told Parijat too, don’t scream and shout and make a scene. I can’t take it. Shouting, accusations, tears … all this gives me palpitations. Parijat didn’t listen, and you’re not listening either. That’s why I wasn’t the first to call this time.’

At ten o’ clock that night Meghdoot got into Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s car at Golpark and hugged her. ‘Let me look at you,’ he said. ‘Oh no, I know, I know, I understand everything. You don’t get as much of me as you want. That’s why you’re upset. I couldn’t spare enough time for Parijat either. There was a time when she kept telling me, “You’re so busy, you have absolutely no time for me.” Towards the end I used to behave badly with her whenever she said this. She used to come and sit in the studio, just to be near me. And I?’ Holding Ilona’s chin, Meghdoot pulled her face close to his and kissed her deeply on the mouth. Meghdoot’s lips and cheeks were smeared with Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s lipstick. ‘Lipstick queen, let me see what lipstick you’re wearing. Red lipstick in spite of all these tears? You’re the devil woman.’ Burying his face in Ilona’s breast, Meghdoot took a deep breath and said, ‘Parijat used to come to the studio. Since she was my wife, she had the right to say anything she wanted. She would give orders to the musicians, issue instructions left, right and centre, then Jura would start crying, and Parijat would try to get him to sleep … I would get really

irritated. One day I told her in everyone’s presence, “Don’t come here any more, Parijat.” She left quietly. Back home I saw how much she had cried. I still didn’t take these things seriously. It was my mistake too. But she made me cry just as much afterwards, Ilona.’ Meghdoot put his hand on Ilona’s head and shook her ponytail. ‘Listen, you must never hurt me, okay?’ His voice held that familiar coquettish delight. Ilona Kuhu Mitra began to melt under Meghdoot’s intensity. ‘I know you’ll never hurt me. And one more thing, whatever happens between us, you must never change your caller tune. You must keep this same caller tune all your life. Promise?’ ‘Promise,’ said Ilona. ‘You know, every time we fight, my first thought is that you will definitely change your caller tune now. You know what I mean? Children are always up to these naughty tricks. The way mischievous kids think, the way Jura would think. If he fights with anyone in school, Jura’s first thought is, “Now he won’t invite me to his birthday.” Something like that.’

Ilona didn’t have to go to work Saturday nights. After her night shift on Friday, she went to work again on Monday night. Those who worked the night shift continuously got two days off every week. After driving around till one-thirty in the morning, Ilona told Meghdoot when they were near Deshapriya Park, ‘Do you the story you told me one day, Meghdoot?’ ‘Which one?’ ‘The one where you and Parijat had not been divorced yet, the case was still in court, and you were not being allowed to meet Jura … they wouldn’t let him be alone with you. One day you couldn’t take it any more and went to Parijat’s house, and in that house, where you had once had easy access, which you could visit any time you wanted, where your in-laws were so happy to see you, where you were always welcome – in that house you sat quietly in the drawing room where a servant brought you a cup of tea. The tea was cold, you didn’t touch it …’

‘You’ve memorized it all, Ilona.’ ‘Jura appeared after a long time. You cuddled him, played with him. When you were about to leave, there was a storm. It began to rain. Your mother-in-law said, “How will you go in this rain, you don’t even have your car …” You didn’t have your car because your driver hadn’t come that day. And you weren’t able to drive at the time because you kept falling asleep at the wheel. Your psychiatrist had forbidden you to drive. You couldn’t even cross the road properly, you were afraid to cross the road, your self-confidence was down to zero … And your mother-in-law said, “I’d better give you an umbrella then.” But Parijat stopped her, saying, “No, he’ll lose the umbrella. The taxi-stand is close by; it won’t hurt to get a little wet.” You went out into the rainy night, getting soaked to the skin.’ ‘How cruel women can be.’ ‘The day I heard this story, I made up my mind never to leave you, never. I decided never to hurt you.’ ‘No, you mustn’t,’ said Meghdoot. ‘You mustn’t let me suffer, ever. Keep your promise, all right?’ Meghdoot hugged her again. And was astonished. ‘What’s this, Ilona? You are burning up. You didn’t have fever earlier, did you? When did this happen? See, all this crying has made you fall ill.’ ‘Yes, I think I have fever.’ ‘Well, then? Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘Out of fear. What if you said, go home, no need to drive around today?’

‘Why should you go home? It’s Saturday, you don’t have office. You said you’d spend the weekends with me until your brother and sister-in-law return.’ ‘Yes, I’ve decided to let Pushpa-di go home every weekend till they’re back,’ said Ilona. ‘Come, let’s go home,’ said Meghdoot. When they rang the bell, a boy with a shaven head and bright eyes, dressed in a shirt and shorts, opened the door for Meghdoot and Ilona. Robi. Robi was Meghdoot’s cook, domestic help and caretaker – all rolled into one. When he saw Ilona Kuhu Mitra, Robi said, ‘You haven’t eaten, have you, Didi? I’m frying narkel bawra for you.’ ‘We ate some fish fry and things,’ said Meghdoot. ‘Have you made dal, Robi? Fry up some fish with the fritters. Why don’t you ever cook fish, Robi?’ ‘It’s not that, Dada,’ said Robi. ‘Didi doesn’t like meat or fish, so when you told me this evening she was coming, I thought …’ ‘Didi will eat fish, she’ll eat everything. She’ll have whatever I ask her to.’ Meghdoot led Ilona by the hand into the bedroom. A table lamp was lit. There was no music system in Meghdoot’s room. Several CDs were scattered on the glass-topped table, each featuring a singer in a different pose. None of them had been unwrapped. Hundreds of books lay on the table, the bed, even the floor. Next to the bed was a book of poems by Meghdoot’s favourite poet, Baudelaire. There was a guitar in one corner of the bed. ‘Give Didi one of my kurtas,’ Meghdoot told Robi. ‘She’ll change and go to bed, she isn’t well.’ Taking the kurta from Robi, Ilona entered the attached bathroom, took off her jeans, shirt, bra, panty – everything – and came back into the room wearing only the kurta. Meghdoot

helped her into bed, drew the sheet over her, and said, ‘Robi will bring your food here, you don’t have to go out.’ Meghdoot changed his clothes as well and sat by her. Taking a thermometer from the drawer of the bedside table, he checked her temperature. ‘Over a hundred. I’ll give you a Calpol after you’ve eaten. How did you get a fever?’ ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to go out tomorrow. You can just rest here.’ ‘But you have lots of visitors on Sunday,’ said Ilona. ‘Sudip comes in the morning, Babluda too.’ Sudip was Meghdoot’s assistant, and Bablu his ant. ‘So what if I have visitors? You needn’t worry. No one will come into the bedroom. And in any case everyone knows by now. With Biswanath dropping me at Golpark every night, how can they not know? Kamal’s wife asked me the other day, “Lots of nights out, huh Meghdoot-da?”’ Meghdoot drew her head into his lap. He lowered his lips to meet hers, and as he kissed her he slid his hand inside her kurta to place it on her bra-less, limp breasts. His fingers moved around her nipples, and then dropped from Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s breasts towards her back. They reached her belly, and then seemed to stop as they went lower. ‘No, not now,’ Meghdoot said. ‘You’re not well. You’ve been weeping for three days, your eyes are red. Sleep tonight.’

Ilona Kuhu Mitra looked at Meghdoot with tragic eyes. A film appeared to descend over them. Time itself seemed to turn neutral, disionate. As though they were not exactly here, as though they had appeared in each other’s presence as one another’s representatives. Making this companionship somewhat vaporous. It couldn’t quite be grasped. And at this moment, although she was in Meghdoot’s arms, the fever was causing her discomfort … her head was aching.

Ilona Kuhu Mitra had forgotten many things, but she also ed many others. She had forgotten that she knew a hypnotherapist named Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. She had forgotten that, under hypnosis, she had disclosed to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri a burning desire to make love to Meghdoot. But what she had not forgotten was that when it came to sex, she was a girl with independent ideas, who had learnt to recognize the sexual currents in her body even before she had learnt to speak properly, who believed that sex was bound to appear and flourish within love. But there was also such a thing as sex without love, and it did exist. In her own life. She had not forgotten that, after having lived her life the way she wanted all these years, at her age a sudden and unusual choice had forced itself on her. Love had played a strange game with her. Or perhaps she had felt that her affair with Meghdoot was just the love she had been waiting for. She had assumed that this love comes much later in a person’s life, finding its place and blossoming within an experienced self-awareness. In this case, the

clones had come first, with the original following afterwards – she had not forgotten this either. It was like a secret conspiracy hatched by her own mind, because of which she had surrendered her desires to Meghdoot for the price of love. She had not forgotten that, where Meghdoot was concerned, her desires were totally devoid of pride; they were hesitant and submissive. These unforgotten things were a sort of conscious realization, which told her that she wanted Meghdoot, and that, unlike Meghdoot’s desire for her, hers for him had turned into a plea for kindness. But of the things she had forgotten, there was one bit of information that was crucial – Ilona Kuhu Mitra didn’t know whether Meghdoot and she had made love. Ilona was actually in a condition where even these questions were concealed. At the moment she was lying in Meghdoot’s bed, and circumstantial evidence was telling her that she had been here before. Robi knew her. Robi had indicated that she was a regular visitor. The way Meghdoot was drawing her close, touching her, inviting her body, suggested that he and Ilona Kuhu Mitra had made love already. And because they had done it a sufficient number of times, their intimacy had gone beyond the initial excitement. But who was going to tell her whether they had actually made love, the lovemaking that Ilona had desired from the core of her heart, that particular lovemaking? Ilona herself was in doubt. Was this information going to remain unknown, then? If Meghdoot and Ilona Kuhu Mitra had sex tonight, it would be obvious whether they were making love for the first time or not. Because the first lovemaking was usually very dramatic. It came with certain signs, certain statements. Had this lovemaking taken place before the hypnotic trance was broken, the

information would have emerged from the conversation between Meghdoot and Ilona. Whether for the first time or not, when Ilona was churned by Meghdoot and had intercourse with him, when she sank into her ion, we would come to know of this fulfilment. We would learn that Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s ultimate relationship with Meghdoot had been fulfilled, the relationship that had already reached a climax in her purely unconscious desire. Ilona was gazing at Meghdoot. ‘Why are you looking at me with such a darling expression?’ said Meghdoot. ‘How long can I look at such eyes? I feel something so strong for you. You love me so much, I feel helpless. I keep thinking, what do I give this love, what?’ ‘Write me a song,’ said Ilona. ‘A song? Wait.’ Meghdoot drew the guitar from the corner of the bed and began strumming it. ‘Wait, let me record it on my phone,’ said Ilona. ‘All right.’ Switching on the voice recorder, Ilona said, ‘It can record up to eight hours.’ Meghdoot played a few chords, and then said, ‘No, this isn’t working.’ ‘It’s recording,’ said Ilona. ‘It is? Okay, listen. Multan clouds, boatman’s songs, yes, fine, let’s go on, I didn’t see, I didn’t see, la la la, wash this wish, in my dark mind, you never came, it wasn’t the same, who’s to blame, Multan clouds, staying up nights, all those sounds, all those songs, playing on a flute, light of dawn, stored them all, stored them all, not Multan, Multan clouds, all

those sounds I hear, please love my wish, please love my wish, found them all, Multan clouds …’ With a final chord the guitar fell silent. ‘Jump up, jump down, leap over, heartbeat, small feet, I see you leaping at the door, your face wet with tears …’ As the song progressed, Meghdoot said, ‘This is Ilona’s song, let’s not publish it, let’s not take it to the people. This song, this is our song. Private moments that we share, all of them with you, my dear, this joy, that boy, Multan clouds.’ When the song ended Ilona kissed Meghdoot over and over. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it? Now all we need is to put some words in while maintaining the metre, and we’re done. Happy?’ ‘Very happy.’ They ate in the bedroom, balancing their plates on their legs. Then Meghdoot went into his study to check his email. Ilona took her medicine and fell asleep. She woke up at midnight to find Meghdoot sleeping soundly, his arms around her. She felt as though her fever was very high. But when she awoke, she found herself in the mood to be kissed. She considered waking Meghdoot up and saying, ‘Kiss me.’ But her head felt heavy, and her brain seemed to be wobbling. As though the organ in her skull had turned to jelly and was sloshing about. She kissed Meghdoot. Groping under the sheet, she found and held his penis. Holding on to it, she wrapped her leg around his body and sank back into sleep. And as she did, a deep sense of security spread over her mind. She felt assured. Had she ever slept so well at night before?

Ilona Kuhu Mitra was woken up by the ringing of her phone. When she opened her eyes, she found Meghdoot missing, and the door shut. She was in the same position as last night, and still had a fever. Her head was throbbing, and her nose and eyes were burning. When she answered the phone, her sister-in-law said, ‘Did I wake you up?’ ‘No. How are things over there?’ ‘Why do you sound hoarse?’ ‘A fever, and I have a cold too.’ ‘Go to Dr Ganguly then?’ ‘Oh no, no need.’ ‘Listen, I have terrific news. I’ve found a girl! Bengali. Lives right here in New York. From Calcutta. Works as a curator at an art gallery. Very pretty. Mizo has known her for quite some time; they work in the same building, keep running into each other in the lift or at the coffee shop. But he hadn’t even noticed her. Do you know what he told me? “Are you

bored now? You want to do something exciting, so you’re on this trip of getting me married.” Apparently I’m in a trance – whenever I see a girl I picture her as my daughter-in-law. “Get Kuhu Pipi married first,” Mizo tells me. There are lots of boys here, Kuhu. You’d better visit while we’re still here. I found this boy named Dibanath Palit in Mizo’s office quite amazing. He’s studying for a PhD in economics. He’ll UNESCO after this. Divorcee. Oh great! Your brother is saying I plotted to send his son to America, and now his sister too … Okay, such a long call, bye now.’ ‘Who was calling?’ asked Meghdoot, entering the room. ‘Why are you laughing?’ ‘That was Boudi,’ said Ilona. ‘When they’re back I should go and meet them, shouldn’t I?’ ‘Of course you should.’ ‘Let me check your fever, I don’t like the look of your face.’ Meghdoot checked her temperature. ‘Hundred and one. Wait, Kamal’s wife is a doctor, let me call her. Put on one of my pyjamas. Robi’s bringing you a cup of tea.’ It was nearly eleven. ‘Are you going out?’ asked Ilona, sipping her tea. ‘I simply must go out in the evening. I’m planning to get Srijon to write the lyrics for Diptajit’s film, we’ll have a discussion at Diptajit’s house. You mustn’t go anywhere. I’ll be back by ten. Robi will look after you. He’ll go out for a short while to meet my mother in Tollygunge. I have to send her some medicine. She’s not well either. You know she’s under Kamal’s wife’s treatment, don’t you?’ ‘I do.’

‘I must take you to see her.’ She was feeling quite tired. She wanted to go back to sleep. She gazed at Meghdoot. Combing her hair away from her face, Meghdoot said, ‘Why do you look at me that way, girl? I feel funny.’ ‘How do you feel? As though I have man-eating eyes?’ ‘Oh no. You look like you’re hypnotized. In a trance.’ ‘Of course I am.’ ‘Because of the fever?’ ‘Maybe. And love hypnotizes anyway. Just like Boudi thinks of every young woman as a prospective bride for her son. Mizo is right, she’s in a trance … I too am mesmerized. Whether you really are in front of me or not, I see you standing before me any and everywhere.’ ‘So much?’ After helping Ilona Kuhu Mitra lie down, Meghdoot went into the bathroom to shower. A producer would be arriving shortly to discuss a new film. Meghdoot came out of the bathroom naked and quickly donned a pair of jeans and a freshly ironed kurta. Combing his hair before the mirror, he said, ‘You should have brought a change of clothes yesterday. You knew you were going to stay. Never mind, you can leave some clothes here next week …’ Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come in, Robi, it’s open,’ said Meghdoot loudly. The door opened slowly, revealing Robi … but behind him, Parijat. Robi stood there, his eyes large with apprehension, his expression troubled. Parijat and Jura. Jura stood stiffly,

clinging to Parijat’s hand. Parijat appeared frantic. Her eyes looked as though she had stayed up all night, her face was awash in tears. There was silence in the room. You could have heard a leaf drop. Robi’s face was ashen. Parijat was looking at Ilona in astonishment. Jura was looking at his father. Meghdoot was staring in shock at Parijat, his comb still in his hand. Ilona was looking at both Jura and Parijat. Even the sparrows sitting on the windows of Meghdoot’s single-storeyed house seemed surprised. They were looking at the situation inside the room, forgetting to chirp. No one knew exactly what to do. Ilona considered going into the toilet. But she hadn’t put on the pyjamas yet. Ilona Kuhu Mitra discovered her throat was parched. She was incredibly thirsty. She would die without a drink of water. When the comb slipped from Meghdoot’s hand, Ilona reached out for the bottle of water and drank from it. Meghdoot turned to glance at her before saying to Parijat, ‘You here?’ Parijat’s expression had changed in the intervening minute. Her desperate, forlorn manner had been replaced by a tightening of the jaws. Her eyes had grown sharp, narrow and cruel. Parijat was looking at Ilona. ‘I came for a specific reason. I hadn’t expected this sort of a situation.’ Freeing himself from his mother, Jura went up to the photograph of himself and Dushtu together. ‘Dushtu, Ma,’ he said. Meghdoot’s forehead was full of creases. ‘Specific reason? You could have called … Suddenly …’

‘I told you, I hadn’t expected this,’ Parijat screamed. ‘I didn’t know you lead this sort of life.’ ‘What do you mean? This sort of life? What are you trying to say?’ ‘What’s to say? I can see for myself. The woman you’re sleeping with …’ ‘Cut the crap, Parijat. This is Ilona, I love her. If you have a problem, tell me. Don’t you dare point a finger at her! She is ill. Come into the other room, we can talk there. And you should have thought about whether you have the right to come directly into my bedroom.’ Meghdoot was screaming too. Parijat was seething, realized Ilona. And her throat was parched again. Her head felt like it would snap backwards from her neck. Jura was staring in surprise at his mother and Meghdoot, whom he called ‘Megh Baba’. ‘I don’t have the right. But Jura does, doesn’t he? Jura is visiting his own father.’ ‘It’s a matter of convenience, isn’t it? “His own father”? Do you let your son near his father? You don’t even let my shadow fall on Jura’s life. You don’t allow him to address me as ‘Baba’. His school is felicitating me. I can see my child sitting in the front row. But I cannot say, there, that’s my son. Because in the school records his father is someone else. You have made my life hell. How dare you talk? Do you have no shame? You dare just turn up without warning?’ Trying to be furious, Parijat burst into tears. Taking a step into the room, she tugged at Jura’s arm and left with him.

‘I was in the garden, Dada,’ said Robi. ‘Suddenly I saw Didi going in … before I could …’ A typhoon of about three minutes. And then everything was calm again. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Dada,’ said Robi. Meghdoot was rooted to the spot like a statue. Suddenly he shouted, ‘Jura was here!’ The next moment, Meghdoot raced out of the room.

Meghdoot raced out of the room and, amidst tremendous physical pain, Ilona Kuhu Mitra ed for a few fleeting moments that she had actually been hypnotized by Nirvana Rudrani Khiri. She was dreaming. Let the dream end, or let me control this dream, she told herself. The chant flashed in her mind. Oh god, why was the dream moving in this direction? Why couldn’t she even have a simple, beautiful dream? Meghdoot stormed back wildly immediately. Sitting on the bed with a thud, he covered his face with his hands. He was weeping. ‘Jura was here! Jura was here! And I didn’t pay him any attention.’ Meghdoot looked at Ilona Kuhu Mitra, his face contorted, smudged, destroyed. ‘What have I done?’ Meghdoot began to rave. ‘Parijat has never tried to get in touch with me. She must have been in trouble today; she couldn’t have come to me for herself. She must have come for Jura’s sake. And I? I drove her away. What have I done?’ Meghdoot looked at her with eyes that did not trust her. ‘Did I do all this for you, Ilona?’

Meghdoot rose to his feet, took his wallet from the table and put it in his pocket. He called someone. ‘She isn’t answering … Parijat isn’t answering. She won’t, she won’t answer ever again, I will never see Jura again. It’s all over, the last few nails have been driven in. Robi, Robi? Is Biswanath here? Tell him to get the car out.’ ‘Biswanath-da isn’t here,’ said Robi. ‘He isn’t? Get me a taxi then.’ ‘Where are you going?’ asked Ilona. ‘I’ll have to go to Parijat. I have to. I’ll beg and plead if necessary for Jura.’ ‘I’ll leave then.’ ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’ Meghdoot took his glasses and left. Ilona took her time and got out of bed. She managed to slip her jeans on somehow, and got her bag and phone. She tottered towards the door. ‘Why are you going away, Didi?’ said Robi. ‘Dada will return at some point. The first day you came here, he told me, “This is Didi’s house too from now on, Robi.”’ ‘No, Robi, I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I came later, I saw Parijat-di for the first time today. She’s never been here before. Dada really is crazy about Jura. If Jura had come some other day, Dada would have gone mad with joy. Dada was shattered when Dushtu died. On most days he’d have nightmares and be terrified, he would wake up drenched in sweat, then he would wake me up too. He’d dream that Jura had died. How he’d cry! Dada is so unhappy about Jura. It’s only since you’ve

come that he has looked happy. I hear him talk to you on the phone. I think he loves you very much. You go out together, you have fun … Dada teases you, scolds you, fights with you – I love all this. You mustn’t worry, everything will be fine. Dada is concerned about everyone. Every afternoon he phones me, “Had lunch, Robi?”’ ‘I know he’s a very unusual man,’ said Ilona. ‘It’s my luck that’s bad.’ Ilona drove back home with great difficulty. She considered taking a shower. Her skin was burning; fever or not, she would take a shower. But when she turned the shower on, the water felt like an electric shock. Turning it off at once, Ilona towelled herself dry and went to bed, going to sleep instantly. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. Ilona Kuhu Mitra awoke when afternoon was fading into evening. It was November, and darkness fell before six o’ clock. Sitting up in bed, feeling incredibly thirsty, Ilona discovered that she had a very high fever, and that her nose was streaming continuously. She gulped down an entire bottle of water. And then called Meghdoot. The phone kept ringing, kept ringing … Ilona went back to bed, and slept again. She could not understand that people have to sleep to dream. But in the dream that she was having, sleep was a waste of time.

She slept in fits and starts, waking up at intervals. She drank some water, slept, awoke. Her head seemed ready to burst with pain. Eventually Ilona Kuhu Mitra managed to reach Meghdoot on the phone at midnight. ‘Are you back home?’ Ilona asked. ‘Hmm.’ ‘Did you talk to Parijat?’ ‘We’ll talk about that later.’ ‘Do you have something to tell me?’ ‘That old obsession with women. The woman’s body, the woman’s love, lust, desire, aaah … that same old attraction, losing myself in the blood and sweat and saliva and sperm, the fear of loneliness … I didn’t want any of this, didn’t want it at all. You drew me into all this all over again. But it’s not your fault. The mistake was mine. Infatuation blinds. Infatuation intoxicates. The pain of not having Jura to myself – I had wanted this to be the focus of my

life. Not “does anyone really want to dig into the heart and resurrect the pain”, but excavate a monument to pain for Jura … Jura is my obsession. And how easily I forgot. My son came to me, and I didn’t even take him in my arms? I simply let him go?’ ‘Will you leave me?’ ‘Leaving you isn’t all that simple. I have an ownership in this relationship too, Ilona. But I will have to leave you. So you’d better leave me instead.’ ‘Leave you?’ ‘I know you can’t. You won’t be able to leave me. I know this love, I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen you gazing at me like a fool. I have to give you up. Like giving up cigarettes or alcohol … in an instant. Totally.’ The call was disconnected. Ilona sank back into sleep.

We know that Nirvana Rudrani Khiri had told Ilona Kuhu Mitra. ‘There is a conflict between Meghdoot and you. No love affair, no relationship, no communication, but a conflict.’ Nirvana had said, ‘Whenever two individuals come face-toface, some variety of opposition is bound to spring up.’

The next day Ilona called Meghdoot continuously. He simply wouldn’t answer. Late in the afternoon, Ilona finally heard Meghdoot’s voice, which had by now become light years distant. ‘What is it, Ilona? Why do you keep calling me?’ She wept copiously. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Why will you leave me?’ ‘You’re not at all intelligent, Ilona. I’m not in a pleasant frame of mind at all. I’m in no mood to discuss love right now. Give it some time, let me sort things out about Jura. From what I’ve heard, Parijat’s husband has decided to go abroad with her and Jura. Parijat doesn’t want to go. And naturally I’ll never want Jura to move abroad. Impossible! If this leads to a rift between Parijat and her husband, I’ll have to stand by Parijat for Jura’s sake. Do you suppose Parijat will trust me if you’re around? But why am I giving you so many explanations? I never give explanations to anyone, Ilona.’ ‘But we are in a relationship.’

‘So what? “We are in a relationship.” You want a written statement from me to that effect?’ ‘How can you talk to me this way? You know very well I can’t leave you unless you leave me. Isn’t that why you’re behaving so badly?’ ‘The fact is that my conflict over Jura doesn’t matter to you at all. You listened to everything I told you about Jura all these days, you gazed at me and listened. You wept. Not just out of comion. You listened because the sharing that happened through your listening created a bond between us. That was what was important to you, not Jura.’ ‘Then who was I as far as you were concerned?’ ‘Everyone and everything. Where I could bare my heart, attraction, love, bonding, infatuation – all of it! But compared to Jura, you are nothing.’ ‘You’re just using Jura as a pretext. Actually you’re hoping this is an opportunity to get Parijat back.’ ‘Shut up!’ ‘Don’t you see she’s using you? She only turns to you when she’s in trouble. Why was she angry to see me in your bed? Didn’t she bring her lover along to meet you at the Oberoi? Didn’t she come home with love bites on her breasts?’ ‘Ilona!’ Meghdoot screamed. He shouted at her. ‘She’s taught her son to think of someone else as his father. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten this cruelty?’ ‘Not another word! Not another word about Jura.’

‘I’ll say what I like. What’ll you do?’ ‘I won’t let you hurt me where I’m vulnerable. You want to be a bitch? Is that how mean you are? I’ve been taking your calls all this while. I won’t any more.’ ‘You don’t have to. But I’ll say what I like. I will! I will!’ Meghdoot disconnected the call.

Ilona fell asleep again. And woke up again at night. She kept calling, over and over. This time Meghdoot really did not answer. Ilona Kuhu Mitra realized that she had made a mistake. She had said the wrong things, acted the wrong way. She sobbed alone, loudly, unable to fathom how to get Meghdoot back. Her eyes streamed, her nose ran, her throat was parched, and her fever rose. She texted Meghdoot, ‘I made a mistake. Forgive me. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to say all this. I thought I was losing you. Losing you. I feel so much love for Jura, your Jura, how could I not love him?’ There was no response. Not at night. Nor the next day. Trying to get out of bed, Ilona stumbled and fell on her face. She wanted to take a shower, but she found it unbearable to come into with water. She texted, ‘I’m very sick.’ Then Meghdoot called. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Ilona. ‘I’m just crying. I can’t control myself.’ ‘You have to. You have to do it yourself. No one will do it for you.’

‘You don’t love me any more, do you?’ ‘No. And more important, I have no responsibility towards you. I don’t owe you anything.’ Ilona began to perspire profusely. She was in indescribable agony. Three days, Nirvana Rudrani Khiri had said. She should try to come out of her hypnotized state after three days. She should go to see Serim Puche. She wouldn’t be able to endure this beyond three days. Ilona Kuhu Mitra took a taxi and sped off to Park Street. To ensure that she remained alert, and didn’t start dreaming again, she called Sunetra and began to babble. ‘I desperately need to stay awake, desperately,’ she told Sunetra.

Sanjay and Dharitri returned from the US in the last week of December. Dharitri was on cloud nine. Maurya had agreed to get married. Thanks to Dharitri’s mediation, his relationship with the young woman named Triparna had developed into a friendship, followed by something like love. Taking advantage of this, Dharitri had slipped in the idea of a wedding. America-to-India conversations with Triparna’s parents had also begun. Dharitri was planning an April–May wedding. ‘See, Kuhu, Mizo couldn’t find a girl on his own,’ Dharitri had said, ‘so I had to fix everything. Whatever you may say, I’ll be much more at peace if my son marries a girl of my choosing.’ Sanjay had said, ‘When you dashed off to America, I just knew you weren’t going to return till you’d found a bride for your son. You’re so extraordinarily efficient!’ Soon after Dharitri and Sanjay returned, Triparna’s parents and uncle met them at the club. Ilona Kuhu Mitra was also present at this gathering meant for getting to know one another. Everything proceeded smoothly. Between regular mutual visits and a string of phone calls to the US, the wedding date was set for April.

Maurya wouldn’t be able to come well before the wedding; he would come a week earlier, and stay a month. But Triparna would arrive a month in advance, and would return with Maurya, with vermilion in her hair and the identity of Maurya’s better half.

January had ended and February had arrived. Ilona had been to see Serim Puche a couple of times, just to enquire about Nirvana. She went, waited for a long time before being called into the chamber. Serim Puche told her the same thing every time – that he had no news of Nirvana. Ilona returned disheartened. Her brother and sister-in-law were much more comfortable with her. She was pleasant, trying to cooperate on everything. She was quite enthusiastic about the wedding. The only grudge Sanjay held against her was over her refusal to eat fish or meat. But Ilona Kuhu Mitra had promised to switch from the night shift to a regular day shift well before the wedding. Despite appearances, however, within herself she was still the old Ilona Kuhu Mitra. She sometimes still tried to cross the bridge at Lake Gardens at three in the morning on her way back from office. She still wondered after a dream whether it really had been a dream. She still saw the words ‘Lumbini, This way’ written on billboards. She still drove to Hindustan Park at night occasionally, parking and waiting quietly, or driving around.

At the end of February, when Ilona Kuhu Mitra entered the South Indian Coffee House for a cup of coffee after some shopping, she ran into Meghdoot. Meghdoot saw her and acknowledged her too. He jumped up joyfully. ‘Ilona? Look! Have you noticed?’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra chuckled. ‘What?’ ‘Do you accept the fact that we’re genuinely drawn to this place?’ ‘I do.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra really was pleased to see Meghdoot after all this time. ‘How are you?’ Meghdoot nodded. ‘Sit here’. She sat down at his table without hesitation. Her body felt as light as a feather. Meghdoot ordered coffee. ‘Believe me, Ilona, I lost your number. I lost my phone and all my numbers abroad, such a mess. And I’ve been so busy ever since my return, I keep travelling, either to Bombay, or abroad. Did you know I went to an international guitar festival in London? Guitarists from all over the world were there. I composed some music for them. It was great. I really enjoyed it. I was the only Indian there, you know.’ ‘I read in the papers. That’s why I didn’t call you either.’ ‘No, I should have called you. I could easily have got the number from your office. Do you still work night shifts?’ ‘Yes, but I’m going to stop now. Dada objects.’ ‘You still harass your brother and sister-in-law, don’t you?’ Ilona burst out laughing. ‘Shut up!’

‘What’s new with you?’ ‘My nephew’s getting married in April. Very busy.’ ‘Big show coming up, hmm?’ ‘Bound to be, he’s the apple of everyone’s eye.’ Pushing her smile to the corner of her lips, Ilona asked, ‘How’s Jura, Meghdoot?’ ‘He’s very well. I don’t get to see him. He’s in the next class now. Class three. I get to hear, that’s about all.’ They finished their coffee quickly. Ilona rose to her feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ ‘Bye, see you sometime.’ Ilona walked through the canteen, down the steps in the veranda, and towards the compound gate. When she was beneath the mango tree, Meghdoot called out to her. ‘Ilona.’ Darkness had descended. The street lights were coming on; Ilona turned around in the dimly lit stretch and found that Meghdoot’s expression had changed. His face was stormy. Gripping her shoulders, he said, ‘I didn’t lose your number. I chose not to you.’ ‘Why?’ Ilona’s voice thickened at once. ‘Why?’ she hissed, grasping Meghdoot’s arm. ‘Because I knew from that afternoon onwards where we were headed. I shouldn’t have involved myself with you. I don’t want to be distracted. I don’t want anyone to get involved with me. I don’t want to be drawn away from Jura towards anyone else.’ Ilona looked at Meghdoot with violent eyes, and released his arm. ‘Did you suffer?’ Meghdoot asked. ‘Did you wait for me?’

‘Of course, I suffered a bit. Waited a while too.’ Her eyes blazed, but Ilona’s voice was completely unemotional. ‘Just because you didn’t see any of it, or don’t know any of it, doesn’t mean things didn’t go out of control. But everything’s all right now. There’s no problem any more.’ Ilona Kuhu Mitra remained standing beneath the mango tree, while Meghdoot went out through the gate. She walked out slowly five or six minutes later, leaving the building behind her. Her car was parked close by, in a dark spot. Getting into the car, Ilona Kuhu Mitra took advantage of the darkness to put her head down on the steering and sob. ‘Why did you leave, Meghdoot, why? Come back. Come back to me. I called so many times, so many times. You didn’t take a single call. I begged and pleaded, you didn’t even spare me a glance. What crime were you punishing me for? I left your house with a fever, but you didn’t even try to find out how I was, Meghdoot.’

In actual fact, there had never been anyone named Meghdoot in Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s life. But still, all these things took place. Actually, love is a struggle for women like Ilona Kuhu Mitra. Love lasts as long as the struggle persists. When the struggle ends, love is extinguished. This is a sort of ritual. A habit. It can well be termed a kind of madness. Love continues to be inspired through this conflict. Without the possibility of grief, love loses its substance for women like Ilona Kuhu Mitra. Women like Ilona Kuhu Mitra … meaning? Meaning women who are independent. Independent in body, mind and social standing. Independence is dull to them. Is it to escape this boredom that they pawn their hearts sometimes? And then, is their connection to the earth, wind, air and water on this planet preserved through the hurt that’s inflicted on them, the humiliation they endure, the flames of separation in which they burn? Or would they have flown off like balloons in the process of becoming more and more independent? To another world? Thank goodness the force of gravity on earth is also a form of subjugation.

Exactly three days before Maurya’s wedding, Ilona Kuhu Mitra’s phone rang at night. An unknown number. ‘Hello,’ said Ilona, answering it. ‘Ilona?’ Ilona was startled. ‘Nirvana?’ ‘Yes, Ilona.’ Ilona paused. She was so happy that she didn’t know what to say. Then she said to Nirvana Rudrani Khiri in a voice that suggested an embrace over the phone, ‘I miss you so much, Nirvana. Even you left me incomplete and went away, Nirvana.’ ‘Why? I showed you all there was to see.’ ‘You did. But I was supposed to have reached a different place after that, wasn’t I, Nirvana?’ ‘You want to be purified? You’ll have to give Meghdoot up for that. You’ll have to give everything up. Do you understand? It’s a very difficult path. That rock will suck up all your

memories and leave you with nothing. This world will also be wiped out in your head.’ ‘I want to see that floating man once more, Nirvana. I’m inexperienced, not very perceptive. That’s why I didn’t pay any attention to this dream. Please help me reach the dream again, Nirvana.’ ‘And Meghdoot? Don’t you miss him, Ilona?’ ‘Forget about him,’ said Ilona, sounding hurt. ‘Wretched man. He came into my life just to make me even unhappier. How can I not miss him? I think of him all the time.’ ‘But still, you are far calmer now, aren’t you?’ ‘Far calmer. If only I could meet you.’ ‘Will you come?’ ‘Where?’ ‘To Ladakh. To our nunnery.’ ‘Yes, I will.’ ‘Then go to Serim Puche. He will help you. He will tell you what you have to do.’ ‘I’ll go, Nirvana. I definitely will.’ ‘Don’t stop the chanting till you do. Isn’t there a monastery near your home? Go there sometime, Ilona. Spend some time there. Maybe a couple of days a week? Sit there. Pray.’

Maurya’s wedding was held amidst much gaiety and celebrations. The newlyweds spent a month in Calcutta before flying to the US. The situation at home returned to normal. Sanjay and Dharitri left for the courts in the morning. Ilona went to office by two o’clock for the afternoon shift, returning at ten o’clock. She still couldn’t sleep at night. Watching the city roads emptying out, Ilona pondered from her rocking chair in the balcony about how familiar this world was to her. Some nights, she sat there till dawn broke. And on one night, at that moment of transition, she got goosebumps. She stood up erect, staring into the distance as though she would see the floating man any moment. Grasping the balcony railing with both her hands, she told herself softly that she would go to Ladakh. Ladakh! Ladakh … As soon as she spoke the words, a cold gust of wind appeared from nowhere, cooling and soothing Ilona Kuhu Mitra with its touch.

Ga p p a a.org

PA N T Y

— Ask me no more. — But I wanted to know whose lips those were in the darkness. — Those lips in the darkness belonged to the kiss. — But he didn’t kiss me. — He didn’t? — No, he raced away towards a deserted Park Street. — But I had the taste of blood on my tongue. — Not blood, it was my favourite rum-ball. — Not favourite – I always loved the taste of the first drops of water drawn from a freshly dug well. — But the water was drawn on a January night, when I was deep in sleep, dreaming. The dream ended after fourteen years. — Where did that dream of mine end?

— Beside an earthen pot. The pot lay in front of a teashop. The shop was there, where the pavement curved. The pot was there with the broken pieces of many other pots, lonely. The spot was like a rhododendron wood. Although each of the trees had a car parked beneath it. — It rained when the dream ended. So the dream turned into mud. Melting, it flowed to the earthen pot. The perforated drain cover was close by. A feeble stream of rainwater made the dream flow down the drain. — The stream came from the city. It contained thousands of newspaper clips, innumerable stories and novels, a multitude of plays and travelogues. And each of the travelogues ended up in the drain. Who knows whether that isn’t where the journey actually begins. — I was about to by, ignoring this stream. But, at that precise moment, a woman, about my age, leapt from the roof of a building. She writhed for a moment after the impact and died. A man came running down the stairs. Screaming, ‘What have you done, what have you done, didn’t you even think of the child?’ the man flung himself on the woman. — At once I made the death my own. ‘This is my death,’ I said. I seemed to rid myself of a weight after some seven or eight months, and set a completely new foot on the pavement.

29 I entered the apartment at eleven at night, using the key to unlock three padlocks in succession. The flat took up the entire first floor of a multi-storeyed building. I paused for a few moments after entering, trying to gauge my surroundings in the light coming in from the age outside. I found the switchboard near my left hand. Taking a step forward, I turned on all the switches. One after the other. No, not a single light came on. But I could tell that a fan had started whirring overhead. Once my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I found myself standing at one end of a hall. The main road below me had begun to quieten down. The light from the streetlamps entered the dark hall through large glass windows, creating an unfocused chiaroscuro effect that came to my aid. As I advanced in this glow of light, I realized that there were rooms on both sides of the hall. On a whim I turned towards an open door on the left. The room I entered was a large bedroom, with an attached bathroom. This time, too, I succeeded in locating the switchboard. I turned on all the switches swiftly. No, not a single

light came on this time either. But this time too the fan in the centre of the ceiling began to spin. I tried to understand the layout of the room. It wasn’t as empty as the hall; it was filled with furniture. I found myself standing before a mirror stretching across the wall. The reflection didn’t seem to be mine, exactly, but of another, shadowy figure. I touched my hair. Eerily, the reflection did not. I paid no attention. Putting the bag in my hand on the floor, I returned to the hall. Closing the main door, and groping till I managed to switch the fan off, I went back to the same room. I was very tired. The train had arrived seven hours late. I had scrambled for a taxi and reached the flat to collect the key. He had been waiting for me here since afternoon. On calling the station and learning that the train was late, he had gone back home, returning to the flat later. Handing me the key, he expressed his regret that all the restaurants in his club were closed at this hour of the night, or else he would have taken me to dinner. Thanking him, I told him that I had bought myself a slice of cake at the station. He had seemed relieved to hear this, and had dropped me off at the gate of the multi-storeyed building. Despite the darkness, I sensed another door on the other side of the hall. I went forward and opened it. A cold, moist wind began to blow into the room at once. The taxi driver had told me it had drizzled all day. I stepped on to the balcony. There were several tall buildings in front of me. Fourteen storeys, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one – you could climb up, but you’d be trapped, unable to

climb down if the building caught fire. I retreated to the room quickly. All I needed was a shower. Fumbling for the towel in my bag, I pulled it out and entered the bathroom. My eyes adjusted to the darkness gradually. I undressed in the light from the streetlamps and turned the shower on. A phone began to ring somewhere close by. It kept ringing, no one answered. Wringing my hair dry, I returned to the room wrapped in the towel and lay down on the bed, feeling the touch of fresh, soft bedclothes on my body. I was cold but I didn’t have the strength to even switch the fan off or shut the balcony door. I stayed in bed. I stayed awake. Awake, I saw dawn break. I saw colours. The bedclothes were a light blue. The pillow was a light blue. Three of the walls were off-white, while the fourth was a mismatched brown. As the darkness lifted, the wardrobe, the couch, the mirror – all of them became visible one by one. An ancient, radiant sunlight fell on my bed now. Which meant there was no rain any more. The towel had come loose long ago. As I lay there, the sun rose on my nakedness. By the time I got out of bed, the day was well advanced. I checked out the kitchen. There were plenty of pots and pans. It was equipped with a cooking range, a toaster, a mixer … everything. In the dining space there was a fridge that worked. I thought of exploring the rest of the flat, but a moment later the wish was gone. All I needed was a room. A phone began to ring somewhere in the hall, startling me. The sound was just like last night’s. Following the sound to its source, I discovered the white handset. ‘Hello?’ I said into the receiver.

— I called last night to check if everything’s okay. Everything’s all right, isn’t it? I gave my man a list of the things you might need. I hope you’ve found them all. The gentleman’s voice was courteous. — Oh yes, I’ve got everything, thank you so much. I was in the shower when you called last night. — I see. I hope the toilet’s clean. — Perfectly clean. — Check whether the iron’s working. It’s essential. — You’re right. I’ll check. — Okay. See you, bye. Oh! I didn’t tell him about the lights, I ed after putting the receiver down. The flat was fully equipped, but it didn’t have a single light. The phone rang again. It was him. ‘Should I call your friend and tell her you’ve settled down?’ — Please, no. There’s no need to tell her anything. I … I want to be lost to everyone forever. Just tell her I’ve reached. He was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘You don’t have any clothes or anything. How will you manage?’ — I’ll buy some soon. — Okay then. — Excuse me …

— Yes? — How long am I allowed to stay in this flat? — As long as you like, more or less. He laughed. Unless I need it suddenly for some reason. — Won’t your family object? — Object? Why should my children concern themselves with a mere flat? — And your wife? Most people would not take it well if you allowed a woman you don’t know to stay in a flat belonging to you. — Wife? I don’t have one any more. — Do you mean … — She is dead. The thing about the lights was on my mind throughout this round of conversation. But I didn’t bring it up. Heaven knows why. After a shower, I went down to the street. Calcutta! I wandered around this unknown city all day, in taxis, on foot, by the metro. When I returned to the flat after watching a movie and having dinner at a restaurant, it was eleven o’ clock. Unlocking the three padlocks one after the other, I entered the unlit interior. Then, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I slumped on to the dark bed and lay on it the same way as the previous night. Once again I stayed awake. The next day I opened my bag. I arranged the few clothes and the documents I possessed in the wardrobe. It was completely empty except for a hanger. It would be useful to hang up my tros, I thought. And in that moment, I caught sight of the crumpled panty.

I picked it up. Imported. Soft. Leopard-skin print. At once I wanted to know whom it belonged to. Many years ago I had found a blue bangle in a bedside drawer in a hotel room. When I took it in my hand, it seemed to be dripping blue water. That day too I had had the urge to find out who the owner was. The panty gave off the smell of moist earth. I saw a white stain on it, like mould. A stain like this in a woman’s panty could mean only one thing. I wondered what to do with the panty. Strangely, I felt a tug at my heartstrings at the thought of throwing it away. The panty seemed to offer itself as a second presence in this solitary flat. A sensation of companionship. I didn’t throw it away. I tossed it on to one of the lower shelves in the wardrobe. Then I washed my hands with soap in the toilet. Filing away my documents properly, I took care of the phone call first. — When can I meet you? I’ll need your letter. — The letter is ready. You can take it today. As I dressed after a shower, I chided myself for not ing about the lights today as either. I exited the flat again and entered the streets. After two or three meetings, I ate a light meal at a restaurant. I bought a loose gown to wear at home. The nudity of the last two days would come to an end at last. I met him in the veranda of his club at eight that night. He was reading a Bengali book raptly, making marks in it and taking notes. He also had a Bengali-to-English dictionary by his side. I asked him, ‘So you can read Bengali?’ Smiling, he nodded. ‘I read it very well.’

After accepting the letter and eating a dinner of soup and bread rolls with him, I unlocked the three padlocks again late at night and re-entered the flat. While I was lying in bed, I sensed a discomfort and went into the toilet, discovering that it was just as I had suspected – my periods had started quietly. And my panty was soaked in blood. I had no sanitary napkins. What was I to do now at midnight? I didn’t have a second pair of panties. I should have ed to get a few more things when buying the gown. Unless I changed the panties I was wearing, I wouldn’t even be able to sit down, let alone go to bed. As was the practice with my body, the bleeding would intensify in two or three hours. How would I stem this flow of blood? Would any of the shops be open now? If only I could at least get hold of some sanitary napkins … When I went out to the balcony, wondering what to do, I discovered that a shop named Park Medicine was indeed open across the road. There wasn’t a soul on the road other than the occasional car speeding by. The roads were now under the control of dogs. So many dogs? Slipping on the black tros again with a sense of revulsion, I took the lift down and got the durwan to open the gate. I’ll be back in a minute with medicine, I told him. The first thing I did after getting the sanitary napkins was enter the toilet. By the glow of the streetlamps, I realized that my panty was a mess. Would any shop where I could buy undergarments open before ten o’ clock tomorrow morning? How would I tolerate this one all night? The thought that I would have to set fresh sanitary napkins inside the blood-soaked panty was unbearable. I had to buy a bulb tomorrow and get at least some light in the toilet. I

had noticed in the morning that none of the sockets held a bulb. Why had all the bulbs been removed at the same time? I tried to think of all of this as I stood there, drops of blood trickling down my thighs into the darkness. I stood beneath the shower, miserable, while the cold water pounced on me. And then I ed the black-and-yellow panty I had found in the wardrobe. It was a panty worn by someone else, and that too mouldy – I simply could not use it, could I? Who knew whom it belonged to and how long it had lain there that way? A woman who wears a leopard-print panty must be wild by nature. At least when it comes to sex. The question was, how wild? Wilder than me, or not as much? As these thoughts ran through my mind, I wasn’t even aware of just when I took off my blood-soaked panty and began to wring and knead it clean beneath the tap. I stood in bewilderment for some time when I realized this; eventually I washed it thoroughly and spread it out to dry on the towel rod. I persuaded myself that I had no option now but to put on the other panty. I wasn’t going to come in direct with the mould, I rationalized. There would be a layer of the sanitary napkin in between. Towelling myself dry, I returned to the bedroom. I groped for the panty in the dark and found it. I paused for a moment before fixing the sanitary napkin laid out on the bed within the panty. I slipped on the panty. What I did not know was that I had actually slipped on a woman. I actually slipped on her womanhood.

I slipped on her sexuality, her love. I slipped on her desire, her sinful adultery, her humiliation and sorrow, her shame and loathing. I did not know that I slipped on her life. I even slipped on her defeat and her withdrawal. I slipped on her nation too in that moment. Trite thoughts about her world ed through my mind. How fine the material was, I reflected. Soft. A perfect fit. As though tailored especially for me. After putting it on, I was no longer repulsed. I lay down, spreading my hair out on the pillow. Although I do not it that I fell asleep, it is undeniable that I was woken up by a series of sounds in the room. They were making out. Kissing. Fucking wildly. They were panting but they could not finish their sport. Hours seemed to this way. They remained engaged in their intercourse – till I ed out. I had not understood them that first night. I had opened my eyes at the sounds of ion and felt afraid – who were these people in the bedroom! But there was no one in the bedroom – they were on the wall. The wall which was painted a dark brown. Both of them were on that wall whose colour did not match with the rest – naked, having sex, delirious, tearful. Gradually I realized that they appeared on the days when I wore that particular panty. The leopard-print panty. I heard the woman say, ‘If only the past, present and future would while we were coned with each other, if only they would waste away …’ When I heard this desire articulated, I felt as though the big, bigger, biggest expectations whirling

restlessly within my vagina had died. So I could not be in pursuit of life any more. A disease had been born within me. My road was coming to an end gradually … The days ed without form or shape. When the day ended, I could not just how I had spent it – in what meaningful activities, and in what meaningless ones. Before midnight, I would forget all that had happened during the entire day. I didn’t get round to buying a bulb. I didn’t even get round to buying a panty. Sometimes I found them unbearable. I wished they would end it one day … but they didn’t. Their lovemaking went on and on. In desperation I would take off the panty and fling it into the balcony. They would disappear at once. When it was morning I would go to the kitchen to make tea. As I sipped my tea, I would feel the pangs again. Strolling out to the balcony, I would pick up the panty and put it back in the wardrobe. The panty definitely smelt of me by then. Of me. How strange!

15 One day I suddenly feel a burst of love. It is only after living here all this time that I suddenly feel this way one day. Every day I see how they survive. As I watch them, I realize that I cannot blame the country or the government. For they are always lying down. In dangerous positions. They sleep. Whenever I look, at least three of the four are asleep. The fourth sits, limbs splayed, with a blank stare. All they do by way of movement is scratch their heads, pick their noses, and spit. In fact, I never see them eating all day long. Sometime after midnight, when the restaurant next door downs its shutters, the first thing the waiters do is dump the remnants of all kinds of delicacies from a huge bucket into the dustbin on the section of the pavement where they live. A pack of dogs pounces on the trash at once. The ones who have been sleeping sit up then. Soon afterwards, someone from the restaurant gives them quite a lot of food in plastic packets. That is the only time I see them eat.

I don’t know where they have come from. I don’t know why they have no home. There is such a vast wasteland in and around villages, which no one owns – why don’t they go to those parts and build houses for themselves? Why do they languish in this blind city? Why do they linger on the pavement? What attraction does this place hold for them? Why have these two healthy young men been unable to get even one of those three-by-four dark, dank rooms of mud and bamboo in some slum or the other? I don’t know where they go during the rains. When it rains at night, I go out on to the balcony – to look for them. I never see any of them. Like the cockroaches that infest bathrooms in the darkness but always disappear somewhere the moment the light is switched on, so too these people vanish into thin air as soon as it starts raining. Their body language makes it clear they aren’t rural folk. They are not people who have abandoned a plot of land overcome by a flood or a famine, or furtively escaped their arid farmland – house, cowshed, temple, evening gatherings, village plays – in terror, bundling up a few paltry belongings and finally taking sanctuary as penniless beggars here on this pavement. I wonder whether they are even beggars – I have never seen them beg. They are quite detached from things. Under the open sky, this detachment is fitting. They sleep, wake, eat and rinse their mouths unselfconsciously beneath the krishnachura tree on the pavement. They make love there too. I don’t know how they find any privacy, given that every nook and cranny of the deserted road is visible in the light from the tall streetlamps. The pavement was empty when I had moved into the flat. They came some time later. The

wife had a two-month-old baby girl in her arms then. And before the year was out, she was holding a ten-day-old infant. There is no doubt that they have sex right there on the pavement. But it isn’t as though they have no possessions at all. They own plates, bowls and polythene sheets. They have blankets for winter; they light coils of mosquito repellent when they sleep. They also have a small gadget to listen to music; I’ve seen it. I believe they have other belongings too, all neatly arranged in a wooden packing case. The group consists of two men, about twenty-two or twenty-three, a boy of eleven or twelve, and the woman – who’s between sixteen and twenty – with the two children. I have often seen another young man and woman, about the same age, visiting them. I’ve learnt from their conversations that one of the two men is the woman’s husband, and the other her brother. I have never seen signs of suffering on their faces. I don’t think they have any regrets. They don’t think of this form of existence as a failure. This is the way I see them, day after day – the man sleeping, the woman sitting with her legs stretched out before her, leaning against a tree, a distant look in her eyes. The daughter, about a year old now, parts her mother’s dirty, tattered blouse to fasten her mouth around her emaciated breast. The mother doesn’t even seem to feel the . Her expression is dense, exhausted, disionate. The very next moment the baby might crawl to the edge of the pavement where the mouth of the drain yawns wide without a lid to cover it. The child may fall in any moment, but she doesn’t. Had she been a restless baby, she might have pitched headlong into the stream of moving cars a couple of feet away. But she’s frail; she doesn’t scream or cry,

doesn’t demand food. All she does is sleep. When she wakes up, she gropes for her mother’s breast. And crawls back without fail to her mother from the edge of the pavement. Only once did I wake up to the sound of the woman’s sobs. I went out to the balcony in the middle of the night. I saw the woman rolling on the ground and the man who was her husband raining kicks on her back. The woman’s brother, short, squat and well built, was not exactly stopping him. He was only pleading, ‘Let her go, she won’t do it again.’ ‘Ask the bitch why she won’t let me do it,’ said the husband. ‘You can see she’s pregnant,’ said the brother. ‘Don’t hit her. What’ll you do with the baby if she dies?’ The woman, who had ively allowed the man to hit her all this while, flared up. ‘Let him kick me, let the bastard kill me!’ I looked on in astonishment. Why wasn’t she trying to defend herself? ‘There, her water’s broken, let her go, let her go,’ screamed the brother. Flinging the piece of wood in his hand at the woman’s head, the man disappeared into the darkness. And, to my surprise, the brother ran off in the same direction, coaxing the husband back to the spot after some time. The woman was still groaning. I clearly heard the brother say, ‘Why did you lose your head suddenly? Just look at the state she’s in. Be a little patient. And then you’ll have a lovely family. You already have a daughter, if you have a son now, you can tell everyone proudly, I have one son and one daughter. What more can you ask for? Show me a person here who’s happier than you are.’ He began to point at all the airconditioned high-rises in this plush neighbourhood with their dim lights and closed

windows. I flung myself away from the balcony and into the room before he could point to me. That same night I had a dream. In it, nothing else existed from one end of the city to the other apart from the taut lines of pavements. No houses, no buildings, no shops, no metro, no Victoria Memorial, no transportation – only miles of concrete pavements, coiled like a gigantic reptile. The climate on Earth had changed as well. The air had acquired colour, a shade of red. Like a transparent red scarf floating over everything. And the sun was red too. How peaceful the pavements looked in this red hue. This is how it has been all these days – but suddenly I feel a burst of affection. When … When the woman has another child. She begins to nurse the baby in her arms. And I see the one-year-old child lying face down on the ground, heaving with tears. Only heaving. That’s it, no other form of protest. Because every time she has approached her mother’s breast, her mother has pushed her away. Slapped her. So the girl is weeping. Her lips are puffy, wet with saliva. The weight of unhappiness in her tiny breast is evident. I did not know that I wanted to go beyond my role as a bystander. I do not hold the state or the government responsible. I do not even consider their situation dismal. Because I know they sleep all day. Because I know that those who eat and those who don’t both die. But I did not know that when the older child glanced at me during her meal of rice, she would look lovely, lovely enough for me to feel jealous. I stuff a polythene packet with a little rice, boiled eggs and salt, and then cross the bedroom to go out on to the balcony. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I find

my wings have fallen off, the backache is gone too. I forge a relationship with them – for the first time. Actually, my relationship with you has also flowered by then. Actually, I have already told you by then, ‘I want to live with you.’

11 She was walking. Along an almost silent lane in the city. Work – she had abandoned her work a long time ago to walk. The sky had just turned a happy black. As she walked, she mulled over two words – ‘legitimate’ and ‘illicit’. She reflected how totally the existence of an individual had surrendered to the intrinsic opposition between these two words. And yet the illicit was the greatest attraction for all that was legitimate. Once, in an urge to ascertain the meanings of legitimate and illicit, she had wanted to visit the kind of empty but balanced space that defied nature. She had looked for such a space, but never found it. Having walked for hours, when she came to her senses she discovered herself in the lane she was in now. And saw that the place was unfamiliar. The lane was narrow and deserted. With ramshackle houses on either side. The bricks were exposed on the crumbling walls. The windowpanes were broken, while dirty water dripped from the pipes. Sucking out all the life force from this water, a banyan sapling had begun to rear its head. There were three or four antennas on the roof of every house in this

lane full of potholes and crevices. Thousands of crows sat on the antennas. So many crows that the city would turn dark if they were to all spread their wings simultaneously. Just one or two rickshaws – pulled by hand or the kind with pedals – ed by. One or two pedestrians walked past, humming, cigarette tips glowing. Suddenly a dog whined at the sight of one of the ers-by. As she went a little further down the lane, it was abruptly plunged into impenetrable darkness. A power cut swooped down like a black panther, gobbling up the lane. Everything was annihilated by the killer paw of darkness. She couldn’t decide what to do. Carry on? Go back? Both options appeared equally futile. She sensed the blindness even within her consciousness. Surprised by her awareness of the extreme silence all round, she jumped out of her skin on feeling a very strange touch on her lips. Someone’s lips descended on hers; on the lips alone. They didn’t touch her anywhere else, the rest of her remained untouched and absolutely free; in the utter darkness an unknown pair of lips kissed hers deeply. A mild pain of being bitten and mauled, the warmth, the saliva, and the fire of an unfamiliar ache spread simultaneously across her lips. A kiss! A kiss! A kiss! She felt the kiss right down to its roots. So this was a kiss? So this was a kiss, when it was detached from the rest of the body? When – completely dissociated from the heart, from the consciousness, from even the obstacle of knowledge – a pair of lips united with another? When it was the coming together only of two pairs of lips? An isolated union?

In that darkness, the disembodied lips filled her lips, tongue and the fleshy cavity of her mouth with the taste of the kiss and she stood erect, savouring this novel feeling. She was hooked. When the lips left her after the kiss, the first sensation that returned was of sound. She heard, in turn, the sound of metal being hammered, of bus wheels, of anklets from a nearby house. The streetlamps came on at once, and the movement of people resumed. A dog howled. She wanted to cry. She stood for a long time, touching her own lips. All this time she had thought she knew what a kiss was. Just as she had thought she knew what love was, what the body was, what art was. When, in fact, she had known none of these. She resumed her slow walk and exited the lane. And suddenly the meaning of ‘illicit’ became clear to her. She had returned to the same lane many times since then, just as evening descended. There she had waited for the lights to go out, for a kiss.

18 I would have left. But the plants grew so beautifully in the rains that my fondness for them wouldn’t allow me to leave. Even that evening when you told me to go, I bought a casuarina with slender, shimmering leaves. ‘Do you really mean what you said?’ you asked. I looked at the fountain. There was no one else on the veranda of the club. ‘Yes,’ I said. You downed your vodka in a single swallow. ‘If that’s what you think,’ you said, ‘then promise me you’ll go.’ I turned my eyes towards you. ‘You’ll need a week or so to recover from your surgery, you can leave after that.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a deal …’ You held out your hand. ‘It’s a deal,’ I repeated, extending my hand as well. I found your hand excessively cold. Unable to accept my touch. ‘We’re done with the need to talk about this any more,’ you said.

‘Very well,’ I responded. ‘Come, let’s go.’ Taking the car keys from the table, you crossed the hall and walked towards the portico. I followed you. There was still quite a crowd in the hall. Many of them waved to us, saying, ‘Good night.’ ‘Leaving?’ asked some of them. I nodded, smiling, at the familiar faces. ‘Staying or leaving are actually distinct decisions,’ I said to myself. The word ‘decision’ immediately reminded me of an incident. We had had a long discussion over tea with a friend of yours and his wife. Your friend said, ‘This has happened to me many times, you know. I cannot see what lies ahead. Everything seems to be shrouded in a mist. Should I advance or retreat? Or perhaps I’m standing at a fork in the road. One or more paths lie ahead. But I cannot decide.’ You said, ‘Your soul will tell you which road to take. You will hear your soul.’ ‘Very often it’s not even a clear instruction,’ your friend said. ‘Your experience cannot always tell you the outcome of a decision. The soul has no clue to help it proceed. So it’s confused. What then? How will you decide? Tell me.’ ‘You have to know yourself well,’ you said to your friend. ‘You have to understand what you want. Actually, all our decisions have been taken even before our life begins. We only come to know of each decision when we accept it. We learn that this decision or that has in fact been taken already, even before you or I or whoever’s decision it is is aware of it.’ Your friend’s wife put down her cup of tea. Looking at you eagerly, she said, ‘Explain.’ ‘It’s difficult to explain,’ you said. ‘Probably impossible to. I can give you an example. Let’s say I’m driving down the road, when I suddenly run over a pedestrian. Now, the

decision about what I should to do with the injured man has already been taken at the beginning of my life. I will only stand at the confluence of time and feel a mild throbbing in my brain. That’s where all the decisions are gathered, waiting to emerge with the flow of events.’ You were driving and, sitting beside you, I was thinking of that day. As we crossed Elgin Road, you said, ‘Take the medicine at night.’ ‘No, I won’t take the medicines any more.’ I sighed. — Don’t call me and cry when the pain goes up. — No, I won’t cry. — I’ll go to bed tonight with all the phones on silent. I’ve put up with enough disturbance all these months. Not any more. — Give me a couple of day. I’ll leave. You braked. ‘What do you mean? I told you, you can go after the surgery.’ — I won’t have the surgery. You looked for the bottle of water impatiently. I did not help you. Unable to locate the bottle, you started the car again. After you dropped me, you waited a couple of moments and then sped off furiously. Once inside the flat, I lay down without changing my clothes. I told myself that I would have to find a place quickly. I would have to pack my things to move. One or two at a time, I had accumulated many things over the past year and a half. I had added baggage needlessly, I told myself. I should have kept in mind that I might have to leave any day. The biggest

question was: Would I find a flat to rent in Calcutta whenever I wanted one? Would I get a space of my own? I went out on to the balcony very early the next morning. There was a cool breeze. The city appeared tranquil. I noticed the plants. Standing in the balcony, I observed them. I had so many plants in my collection now. Some hanging, some in their special pots. Here was someone on a morning walk. The city would be awake in another half an hour – hundreds of people and vehicles would emerge on the roads. It would become noisier. Clothes washed in the morning would be blackened by the afternoon, even before they had fully dried. Layers of dust would settle on the plants and make them unrecognizable within a few days. But it was the monsoon now and there was no grime on these plants in my balcony. In fact, they were all shooting up. Now, at this moment, they seemed so happy to be close to me. They were all nodding and smiling in the cool breeze. Was I upset? Was I upset at the thought of having to leave these plants? Would I get a house in the next two days with room for them, these glowing plants that had been reborn in the rains? If not, would I abandon them, leaving them to die for lack of water after the rains ended? Or should I tell the durwan to take them away? All they needed to stay alive was a little water at the end of the day, nothing more. How many things could I possibly pack into the next two days? Look for a flat, pack my things, make arrangements for the plants … Would I be able to do it all? The white kochupata plant was dying. I had revived it with great effort. It had five open leaves now, and another one half open. If this leaf unfolded itself, I’d know for sure that the

plant was completely healthy. Would it happen in the next two days? The vendor had said that the hanging vine would sprout blue flowers round the year. Were blue flowers round the year just a dream? Would I have to leave before the flowers bloomed? Impossible! No, I couldn’t leave in two days. I wouldn’t. The phone rang in the hall. Who else could it be so early in the morning but you? Who else do I know in this city anyway? I turned to answer the phone, walking towards it slowly. ‘It’s absolutely no use being angry with you. It’s stupid,’ you said. You laughed. You didn’t sleep all night, did you? You thought of me, didn’t you? It was you who wanted to call, it was you who didn’t want to call. You battled with yourself – I could tell. ‘What are you trying to say?’ I asked. I laughed. I hadn’t slept all night either. I’d thought of you too. I had wanted to go, but I had to change my decision for the sake of the plants. For the sake of the plants. — Have you taken your medicine? — Yes. — I think I have a fever, my eyes are smarting. My whole body aches. — I’m calling the doctor right away … — No, let it be … I’ll be fine. — Are you mad? Haven’t you heard everyone’s getting this viral fever? — Listen, let’s take a break after your surgery. We could go to the jungle … or the hills? It’s been a long time.

— For how long? — A month, say? — So long? — Why not? — What about my plants? — What? I can’t hear you clearly, the line’s bad … — All right, I’ll put the plants out in the age. I’ll tell the durwan to water them every day. — What? — Nothing. — Listen, you must have said what you said yesterday because you felt that way. I’m not angry about it. What use is it being angry with you anyway? I can’t live without you, after all. It’s not possible any more.’ — Actually, the decisions to go or not to go, to live without someone or not to live without someone have all been made in a time we’re not aware of. Only when confronted with a particular situation do we get the chance to find out what the decision was … — What the hell are you saying, woman? — Try to get some sleep now. I’ll ask the doctor to drop by later, okay? — You won’t go away because you’re angry, will you? — Don’t worry. The plants alone can stop one from leaving. And anyway, how far can one go because one is angry? One gets angry, but one stays on too …

23 One overcast dawn she stood before a mass of water. A sprawling, mysterious, complex body of water. A row of trees where the water ended. A capricious sky overhead. A crane half submerged at the edge of the water, geese flying over it. She tried to absorb this entire scene fervently – and without reason – into her senses. Absolutely without reason. At that moment, her eyes sensed some sort of churning in the distance, in the water at the far edge. Fixing her eyes on the spot, she tried to ascertain the cause of the ripples. A little later she saw someone swimming towards her side of the waterbody. Towards her? There was no way for her to see the full figure, though. Only two sturdy arms that rose and fell in the water. The same movement was repeated in quick succession, rhythmically, as though the man was swimming because of an acute compulsion. The wet skin of his arms glistened in the sunlight, his muscles flashed. She felt strangely aroused, a forbidden warmth spreading to the hidden parts of her body, a primal sensation compared to the numerous experiences from her past.

The concealed body approached, surfacing in stages. She shut her eyes at once. Did she go to sleep when she shut her eyes? Did she imagine the whole thing in her sleep? The man emerged from the water and instantly the eternal, unquestioning game between man and woman began, creating two opposing but complementary forces. Which, if generated with integrity, would eventually leave behind on the grass the principles of pure sexuality in which you had tried to educate her, but which she had not understood – out of fear. Fear.

1 She had stayed up all night. Had she not stayed up all day too? Waiting. Waiting to write the rest. She had in fact written nothing for months on end. She had only practised walking. Walking far, far away, and then coming back on foot from far, far away. She had got hold of a bag with great effort. Then she had begun to gather paper while she walked. She gathered paper, put it in her bag. She walked. She had only managed to write a single line this way. She would be able to sleep as soon as she had written the second line. Sleep by day, sleep by night. But even after all her walking, she had not found her second line. Was this solitary line the only thing she would write in this lifetime, then? Was this one line all the blood that would flow from the wounds? She continued walking. When her bag filled up with the paper she had gathered, she went to the riverbank. Perhaps the sun was setting then. She emptied her bag into the water. She tried to say that she loved this water, that this star was her favourite, that this wandering

death was the outcome of her ambition. This disease, this defencelessness – this was actually how she lived, how she survived. And she tried to say that not writing could achieve more than writing could. The wounded pride of the solitary line she had written touched her today. For, on one side of this line lay one eternity, while on the other side lay eternal time. In the process of writing the line, she had introduced a deathlike silence into it. The line had died despite all its possibilities. The possibility of creating something from creation. The possibility of life emerging from life. ‘Weep,’ the river had told her. And the moment you did, you thought of him? You ed that you had not seen him in a long time. The way it happens after a break-up. ‘Maybe we’ll meet after we die,’ you had said. Believing that she had found her final or second line, she postponed her tears and began to run. And realized this was how it was, this was the poet’s life. The poet’s manuscript was actually all these suppressed tears. The failure of the tears. The poet did not weep for herself, nor for others. The poet only wept for poetry. What use was writing? No, writing was of no use. So much had been written in the world, but none of it had come to be of any use in that sense for people. Or, people had not wanted to put any of it to use. They had read, and forgotten. She too had asked herself when writing each of her words, ‘What did you write? The words have vanished behind the tree.’ Besieged with doubt, she stopped writing. Then night fell. And the worms in her head began to wriggle. Trying to crawl out through her eyes and ears and nose and mouth. The look in her eyes changed. There was a toxic

vapour in her breath; she uttered obscene words, heard them too. And writhed on the floor. Eventually, she quietened down, looking at the whirling fan and twisting her scarf. Like a hangman, she practised making a noose. Then someone pushed her back to writing. Trembling, she wrote. Writing, she slept. This is release, she thought.

10 This newspaper at the start of the day. Every page of the newspaper that touched her halfasleep body at dawn had pictures of burnt bodies. She felt miserable, distracted. Grief flowed easily through her limp body. All these children had burnt to death together at a school in Tamil Nadu. They had been holding one another as they burned. As though it had helped mitigate the agony in some way. As though they were telling us that if we ever got the chance to burn to death collectively, we should also hold one another. At first it was said that several teachers had also died along with the children. But with the age of time it was learnt that no, none of them had died. They had managed to escape in time. Eighty children aged seven or eight had died. Many more were on a countdown to death in the state general hospital. A photograph in an English daily brought her to her knees. A Tamil father was weeping, holding a blackened piece of wood in his arms. It was actually his child … No, she couldn’t take any more of this early in the morning.

Folding the papers quickly, she threw them into the bedroom. She switched on the microwave oven, to make herself some tea. She wanted to escape from the news. Instead, she arrived helplessly at the time between the beginning of the fire and its being put out – the time when those eighty, ninety, hundred children had burnt to death – and stood stock still, picturing the flames on her own skin, flesh and marrow, while the water for the tea boiled away into steam. Then she went into the bathroom to allay her agony and wept, heaving, in a terrible rage as she showered. The phone rang. Wrapping herself in a towel, she came out to answer it. She said that she had been showering. Yes, showering naked. Yes, she had soaped herself. Yes, she would soap herself again with you in mind and, placing her hand on her private parts, say exactly thrice – ‘I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.’ She would need ten minutes more to get dressed. You could leave now, she would finish showering and get dressed meanwhile and wait for you downstairs. Yes, you were coming over to take her to buy the things she needed to turn the flat into a home. A house, a householder, a home. That’s what you wanted. ‘Make it your home.’ She went back to shower. When she was done, she put on the clothes she had set out. Combed her hair. Sprayed perfume. Went downstairs. You picked her up. She bought many different things all day. Then, after dinner with you, she returned at night. Unlocked the padlocks one by one and went straight into the bedroom.

When she switched the light on, she found the morning’s newspapers on the bed. The photographs on page one of each of the newspapers seemed to come alive when they saw her. Shrinking back, she burnt in those flames, the fire that ranged all around the circle of life, engulfing the escape route in flames. The phone was ringing. It was you calling to tell her to ‘go to sleep’. Answering, she said, ‘I had a son, he was six. One day our high-rise building caught fire. That afternoon I was lying beneath a man whom I knew only slightly. I was far away. So was his father. My son was with the live-in maid. When she came to know of the fire, the girl ran away, leaving him behind. He called me on my mobile and told me about the fire. The floor beneath his feet had become very hot, he said. The flames had come into the room through the glass windows. He was coughing and choking. As he coughed, he asked me, deeply hurt, “Why did you go away, Ma, why did you leave me and go away?” Then I heard an explosion. That was all. There was no other sound, only the crackling noise of things burning …’ You were silent. She was the one to speak. ‘I ran away. I escaped to the centre of the fire that rages around the circle of life.’

27 The foreign woman is pinching the girl’s cheeks. She has leaned over so far that her long skirt is sweeping the ground. They give her a battery case to sit on. I return to my room from the balcony. When I go back, the foreign woman hasn’t left yet. She is sitting on the battery case. And they’re sitting around her, on the pavement. The little girl stands on tottering legs, staring at the foreign woman in astonishment. She really is worth staring at. The sunlight is blinding on her white skin. Both the skirt and top she has on are white. A multicoloured Jaipur scarf is draped around her throat. Perfect proportions, strong build. She might be German. Her shining red hair is piled high on her head. A Rajasthani sling bag covered in shells and tiny mirrors hangs on her shoulder. She is explaining something to the woman, waving her hands. She takes the little girl in her arms. Lighting a cigarette, she offers it to the woman’s husband. She kisses the little girl’s filthy cheek.

While crossing the road from that part of the pavement a few days ago I had noticed that they had had the little girl’s ears and nose pierced. I had recoiled in horror. What kind of unreasonable behaviour was this? How it must have hurt – she isn’t even allowing her mother to wipe her nose now. It must still be hurting. I watch the foreign woman take tissues out of her bag to lovingly wipe the dark green mucus streaming from the child’s nose towards her lips. It appears to me that she is making them a proposition, which they don’t quite accept. The husband and wife smile doubtfully at each other. I’m worried that the foreign woman wants to take the child away. I cannot make out how or on what conditions she plans to do it. But I realize I reek of burnt flesh. The scene appears incredibly vulgar. I come away. The child has grown quite a lot over the past few months. However filthy she might be, one look at her plump fists and you want to cuddle her. Her smile is just like the fronds on the flower-print dress she is wearing. When I go downstairs, she retreats behind the tree at first when she catches sight of me. Then she peeps out, smiling shyly. But when I go up to her, she looks away, trying not to smile. I look in surprise at the way her eyes sparkle with intelligence. At such times I long to take her away, to teach her to read and write. To give her a full meal. To give her brushes and colours. To sing Rabindranath’s songs for her to learn … Even after leaving the balcony I fret. What’s going on? What does the foreign woman want?

I give the child food every day. Have I claimed her as my own in exchange? Why am I feeling so restless otherwise? If what I fear is true, if the foreign woman does take her away and bring her up as her own child, if she gives her an opportunity for a decent human existence, I should be happy. For I know very well that my involvement is partial. None of this child’s needs are fulfilled by it. Will I ever be able to risk anything more than one square meal a day for her? Although this truth has staked its claim over my mind, it cannot touch my heart. Instead, I feel sobs welling up in my throat. My agitation grows. I glance at the clock, pack the rice and boiled egg in the polythene packet and go downstairs. I look as arrogant as the midday sun. I stand at an angle to the mother of the child and the foreign woman, who says ‘Hi’ to me. But the mother doesn’t even notice me. She stretches out her hand for the packet and hangs it up on the tree. When I take a couple of steps towards the child, she runs to her mother, burying herself in her mother’s breast. I come back quickly, jabbing impatiently at the lift button. I call you. Choking with tears, I pound the table. ‘No more food for her. No more. I’m telling you, no more food for her.’ I stop her food the next day onwards. The days one by one. She doesn’t go anywhere. The foreign woman doesn’t come back to take her away to some affluent, secure life under a shade of love and affection. Her sleeping fist lies on the dust in the pavement, which ers-by step over with ease.

I go out to the balcony when the sun is overhead. I check whether her mother looks towards me with expectation. No, she does not. Instead, it is I who repeatedly keep looking. And dream that the baby is lying on the end of my sari in the veranda outside a hut with a thatched roof on a green plot of land very far away from here. A sandbank risen out of the water is awash with silvery water under the moonlight. Rice is boiling in a pot in the corner of a courtyard swabbed clean. Our sleep deepens under the fragrance of rice, of potato, of lime. The pain that covers the length and breadth of the world is obliterated.

19 She had called. She wanted to tell you about the pain. Although she had her doubts about whether it could be called a pain. There was a strike in the city, a bandh. There was no need to get out of bed in the morning. But she had risen early with the sensation of pain. Pain, in the sense of a hive of discomfort gathered around a single nipple. The uneasiness had begun with a tingling feeling on the tip of her right nipple. It intensified gradually. She began to scratch the place with the nail of her left hand, small scratches, and realized that the tip of a nipple was completely different from the rest of the body. It was made such that it could not be scratched. Trying to do anything to this tiny piece of flesh with wrinkled skin only meant hurting it further. But still, when she had tried to rub it with a piece of cloth for some comfort, her right nipple and the brown aureola became swollen and warm. She had even massaged it with a little olive oil, but to no effect.

Suddenly she had thought of your teeth. She was convinced that your teeth might give her some relief. With her eyes closed, she had imagined her nipple being taken care of in the cavity of your mouth. You were using the sharpness of your teeth, your saliva and the warmth of your mouth to slowly relieve her of her agony. She had called you immediately afterwards. ‘I’m in pain,’ she said. ‘Why?’ you asked. ‘What pain?’ ‘I’m very lonely,’ she said. ‘I know you are,’ you answered. She began to speak, in part to herself. ‘Yes, I feel lonely. Terribly lonely. I suddenly became lonely in childhood. I used to live in a dark house, a dark and damp house, like a cave in a hill. And yet just outside the cave there was habitation, sounds, ups and downs, sirens, tears, laughter. But there was an impossible wall of thunder and lightning and rain between me and this human habitation. I had imagined that the rain would end at some point, allowing me to run out to where all the people lived. But that impenetrable, continuous rainfall never stopped. My jaws began to ache from not talking. I just paced from one room to another all day. Because of the strike today there is no dust, so smoke, none of the usual sounds. The emptiness is becoming more palpable. No call from you all morning, no call from you all afternoon. Why didn’t you call all day? Was it deliberate?’ — Yes, I’m busy with work today. — Didn’t you think of me even once all day?

— Of course, I did. — Then why didn’t you call? — No time. — No time? Didn’t you shower? Didn’t you eat? Did you postpone all that for work? — Don’t quarrel with me, please. I’m tired of quarrelling with you. — No, I don’t want to quarrel. I only want you close to me. — Now? There’s a strike. How’ll I come? — But you came the last time there was a strike. — I hadn’t let my driver off last time. I don’t want to drive alone today. And besides, I had no work that day. Listen to me, please, I’m getting off the phone now. The computer’s on, I was sending an email … ‘No, don’t get off the phone,’ she screamed in desperation. ‘Don’t get off the phone, talk to me some more. Talk to me. Millions of people all around me, but why am I such a beggar? Have I run out of companionship too? Even when I imagine my death people don’t crowd around me. No one follows my funeral procession. Not even you. These days I get fever, I throw up. This flat turns into a ship from whose deck I stare out alone into the darkness. And sharks surface everywhere. Innumerable sharks … and when the ship strikes an iceberg and sinks, I go through two kinds of death at the same time.’ — Be quiet, be quiet. You’ve gone mad. — I’m not mad at all. I am waiting to make a home. I have learnt how to make besan chapattis. I am even waiting for you to scold me loudly, making the windowpanes ring, for

the things I have not been able to learn yet. — You won’t get a home. Not from me, anyway. I can only give you the life you have now. It’s too late for me to give you anything more. She fell silent. You said hello, hello, a couple of times and then disconnected the phone. She broke down in uncontrollable tears, thinking she had gone mad. And kept saying, ‘So I’ve gone mad now, so I’ve gone mad now.’ She repeated the words in an attempt to prove to herself that she was insane. She decided not to talk to anyone any more. She would not eat, would not sleep, would not even bathe. She would only sit staring at the floor. She knew that you would send her to a lunatic asylum then. You would visit her once or twice. You wouldn’t go any more after that. No one would ask you any questions about her because everyone anyway believed that your relationship with her would sink into the darkness any moment. This was natural. Or, more likely, people didn’t know of the relationship between you and her. Feeling overcome by complete insanity she wept on the floor – crawling back into the bedroom. Spittle trickled out of her mouth. The bell rang. The doorbell. Lunatics don’t answer the doorbell, she thought. But she decided to open the door to avoid unnecessary harassment. Lunatics can never wipe the line of spit at the corner of their mouth but still she wiped her face before opening the door. She assumed that she would not have to raise her eyes to look at, or listen closely to, the person who had come. When she opens the door you, yes you, come in and put your arms around her. The more she tries to free herself, the harder you hold her. ‘Really, you do look like you’ve gone mad,’

you say. ‘Yes, I have, but I won’t go to the asylum,’ she answers. You laugh at this. ‘Asylum? Can your madness ever be cured? Why would the asylum make room for you?’ ‘Then where do you want to dump me?’ she bursts into tears. ‘Let’s go there, today, now.’ You crush her to your ribs. ‘What is it? Why so unhappy?’ Your voice grows moist. You realize her body is turning limp in your arms. You drag her to the bed and make her lie down, and realize at the same time that you are incredibly involved with her in fondness, affection, love and lust. So you kiss her helplessly. You think of god in your ion. Your lips descend to her lips, then to her neck. Then, when you remove her clothes and her right breast fills your hand, you see the nipple swollen. You frown. You hold the nipple between two fingers and feel the intense heat. ‘What’s this? What’s happened?’ you exclaim. She lies there with her eyes closed, tears streaming down her face. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘There’s been a tingling ache since this morning. It has absorbed all the pain that this closed desolate room, this loneliness, can inflict. It has brought a pinpoint of agony to my body, destroying all the numbness.’ She thrusts the nipple towards your lips. — This was what I asked you to come for. Because it was hurting – I can’t scratch it … Your eyes fill with tears at once. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ you say, and with great comion you suck out all her suffering through her right nipple.

24 In the middle of an afternoon, when a terrible loo was blowing, she had, without any thought or consideration, got into a ramshackle bus. It wasn’t particularly crowded, but most of the seats were occupied. She found an empty seat and sat down. That was when she noticed that there was no female enger on the bus besides her. She was overcome by an unnatural fear when she realized that everyone on the bus except her was a follower of a particular religion, which was apparent from their clothes, beards, shoes, even the rings on their fingers. She felt a nervous numbness, as though her entire body was on pins and needles. She glanced at her male co-engers but didn’t actually see any of them – her eyes turned blind with fear. And the visible signs of this religion, which everyone on the bus seemed compelled to display on themselves, began to deeply disturb the humanist nature that she had maintained all these years. Assailed by a genuine sense of insecurity, she sat as stiff as stone despite the swaying of the bus. When she tried to turn her eyes towards the streets, she shrieked in surprise before clamping her hand over her mouth. She saw that not just the bus but the entire road seemed to

have been engulfed by this other faith. The architecture of the houses, the names of the shops, the origins of the products on sale, the array of foods, the pedestrians, the men, women and children, the language, music, laughter, movement, gestures, designs, prayers … all of it throbbed and sent a single signal to every crevice in her consciousness, a message from another religion. The road and the bus became a different world, pushing her deeper into the darkness. The flow of blood in her veins had been quickened by the fact that she was the only representative of her faith in this bus – much more than by the fact that she was the only woman here. Was her religion then a stronger and more primal factor than her womanhood? She had had no religion when she got on to the bus. For she considered religion similar to art – remaking that which already exists in natural form. Therefore she thought of religion as an artificial compulsion. But on that moving bus, she felt herself being formally indoctrinated, even as she realized that she was not inclined towards religion in belief or habit. Still, she was connected unconditionally, and to the core, with one particular religion. But her life and existence were now free of the period in her past when this religion had invaded. Had she made it a part of her identity then? But she was attracted to more than one religion. Religion wasn’t born of the intellect, it wasn’t a pursuit of the heart, it wasn’t a particular set of actions either, since she herself had never conformed to prescribed behaviour. But even without following instructions she had held on to a religious discretion. Actually, was religion not just a memory? A memory of dreams from past lives.

So, eventually, she – who had no name, no identity, no family, no city or village, no claim over any property or assets – had still retained a religion. She had got it without effort, ability, reason or question. She didn’t have to make any effort to hold on to it, and yet this religion hadn’t fallen away like relationships did from her existence or objects from her hand. Sitting in the bus, she felt religion was as natural as the nervous reflexes in her body. The bus then arrived at a place where the name of the road, the names of shops, the symbols of religion on a woman’s body, the practitioner of the religion seated beneath the tree, the desire for religion in food, the search for religion on people’s expressions … all of these had changed again. Turning her eyes away from a dog urinating on a broken clay idol of an eternal woman worshipped in her religion, she discovered her fearsome and fear-prone wariness vanishing, she found herself able to ignore her religion again. Back in her flat, she thought of telling you – secularism is not a credo, only a situation that changes, that can keep changing …

13 In her sleep she recognized the music school from her childhood. The building was always under construction. A pile of sand the size of a hill occupied the grounds. Stacks of bricks next to it. Scaling the side of the sand hill, with her small feet slipping down the slope, brought the layers of bricks into view. She went to play in the sand, but she never ventured towards the bricks. She was afraid to. From the experiences in her brief life, she knew that there were snakes in the brick stacks. Climbing on to the sand hill, she pressed down with her feet. Sometimes she sank up to her waist in the sand. She could make out that the sand inside was wet – it was fun. She rolled down the sandy slopes. When she stood up, sand clung to every uncovered part of her body. Even when she dusted it off, something glittered on the skin. She also went looking for snail and oyster shells in the sand, rummaging for the largest and the smallest, and then returning home absently, clutching them in her fist. She thought of showing everyone her collection, but she could never where she had put it, and they were usually lost in a day or two. In her sleep she saw herself gathering shells. The sun

had not set yet. The sunlight glinted strangely on the sand. The reddish sand glittered. She noticed countless snail and oyster shells, and got busy gathering them. That was when she saw the snake. Its hood raised. It was the same colour as the sand; it glittered in the same way. The snake had seen her too. She was afraid – up against a solid, impenetrable wall of fear. Her skin prickled all over, she looked around in desperation – ahead of her lay the peak of the sand hill. Behind her were the brick stacks. To her left, the half-finished music school. There was no one around who could be referred to as ‘someone’, someone whom she could call on for help. Though no sound would emerge from her throat even if she tried. The snake was still at a distance from her, but it was impossible for her to turn and run, because you couldn’t run on sand. The snake was swaying. She felt it swaying. She couldn’t look at it directly – it was repulsive. A slimy quality seemed to have entered her vision. She looked at the sun, picturing the entirety of the snake. But there was no way to shut her eyes either. She was so young that despite the presence of the snake in this desolate place where there was no one to rescue her, the idea of death did not occur to her. She was only worried about the pain of being bitten. She tried to tighten her grip on the shell in her left hand but it slipped out of her perspiring hand, making a gash in her soft palm, and fell on the sand. She felt the blood oozing out but did not look at it, keeping her eyes fixed midway between the sun and the hood of the snake.

She did not know how much time ed this way, but she thought she saw a man on the sand hill. Even without shifting her gaze, she realized what the man was doing. He had taken off his shirt and, after a brief pause, suddenly and skilfully used it like a whip to attack the snake. She ran. Trying to drag her feet across the sand instead of sinking into it, she tripped and fell on the brick steps of the music school and began to cry. The man appeared a little later at the spot where she sat weeping. Sand clung to his thin body. He had sand in his hair too. Looking at her bleeding palm, he said, ‘No poison.’ She sobbed loudly. The man led her by her right hand into a room in the music school. The floor had not been laid. Just bricks. Bricks in the wall. A hole where the window was supposed to be. The room was dark. The air inside was moist, damp. The sun had set outside. She saw a mosquito net rolled up in a corner of the room. A pitcher of water next to it. A shirt, tros and a towel hung on the wall. The man had hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and a tangled mop of hair. She didn’t like the man. She tried to free herself from his grip and go home, but he wouldn’t let go, holding on to her firmly. Now she felt a different kind of fear. An unfamiliar fear, but still she couldn’t tell him to let go of her hand. The man rinsed her hand with water from the pitcher, and then made her sit down on the mosquito net. Looking at the hole that was the door, she wondered why she had run towards the school building.

‘I want to go home,’ she said. The man nodded. Then he pulled a book out from behind the pitcher and held it out to her. She was startled when she looked at it. There was a picture of a naked girl on the green cover. The book was old and filthy. She dropped the book and tried to run away. But the man held on to her arm with his bony hand like a pincer. She panted and sobbed. The man held the book out to her again. She opened the book. A group of naked boys and girls, standing, sitting, lying on their backs, lying on their stomachs, seemed to come alive immediately in the faint blue light from outside. She realized that they were doing strange things with the places from where they peed, and seemed to be calling to everyone to watch them as they did so. Her stomach turned, her heart was hammering, her throat was dry, but she couldn’t toss the book aside. Her hands were numb. Even the gash in her left hand no longer hurt. The man beckoned to her now, and when she glanced at him, he signalled to her to look lower down. She did. She saw that his tros were unzipped and a dark, limp object was poking out of it. She recognized it right away. A comparison popped into her mind: It looked like an unripe but rotten, emaciated jackfruit fallen to the ground. The man shook it a couple of times, and then looked at her. He glanced alternately at her, the pictures in the book, and the limp thing. His eyes shone in expectation. Suddenly she freed herself and ran headlong out of the room. She looked back as she ran. No, there was no one chasing her.

She hadn’t told anyone about this. Not about the snake, not about the man. She never went back to the music school. She didn’t even leave home for a long time. But she saw the man. She saw him standing under a drumstick tree in the distance, looking into a book. A book with a green cover. Or ing by her house, peering into the book. Turning over on her side in her sleep, she reflected that for a long time she had seen a dry, dark, emaciated jackfruit dangling in clumps of darkness whenever she shut her eyes. The man had chased her all her life, holding the book with the green cover. She had run through crossroads, turns in the road, past broken walls, beneath dark trees in the courtyards of ruined temples – and recognized him at first glance. When she did, she ran away. But today, instead of running away in her sleep, she stopped abruptly. Swiftly she returned in the semi-darkness to the room in the music school where the man had sat with his tros unzipped, his diseased penis poking out, and the book with the green cover open before him. By now she knew that very few people possessed the kind of penis that could reach as far as a woman’s desire, her womanhood. Then why be afraid? Why run away? Returning, she held the book open for the man. She turned over the pages, showing them to him, shaking the book. ‘Erect, erect …’ she screamed sharply. And the man shrank back, spittle trickled out of his mouth, he stared blankly at his inanimate penis. In her next dream, she prayed for every growing girl to get a tender green penis, like a vine, growing longer every day.

20 I didn’t know where the lice came from. One day, just as I had begun eating, something suddenly dropped on the plate from my head. Squinting, I found it waving its limbs. Plucking it out of the food, I placed it on the table and crushed it to death with my nail. It didn’t bleed. A viscous fluid emerged – I couldn’t go on with my meal. As a child my hair was infested with lice. My mother would get tired of having to exterminate lice all the year round. Sometimes she’d be so irritated that she would have my head shaved. But that didn’t help. As soon as the hair grew back a little I would come home from school with a head full of lice. The elderly woman who worked as our maid loved killing lice. Whenever she had time on her hands she’d tell me, ‘Come, let me clean it up.’ One day my mother discovered that using a hairdryer killed lice easily. From then on, whenever I had lice in my hair, I was instructed to use a hairdryer after my bath for several days in succession. Both my mother and I were relieved. Because the insecticide was ruining our hair. Whenever I got lice in my hair, so did my mother – inevitably.

The last time I had lice was twenty years ago. She had been my best friend since birth. Our house was cheek by jowl with theirs. We used to play together all the time. This woman I called Kakima had come to our neighbourhood as a new bride. She would perpetually be in her veranda, eating pickles and munching on guavas. She’d spit the guava pulp out. Whenever the local young men ed by on their cycles, she’d call out to them and chat, smiling. She would pretend to pummel them on their backs and giggle. The two of us were walking past hand in hand one day when Kakima called us. After some small talk she asked me jokingly, ‘Why is your hair so brown and coarse? People with brown hair are very quarrelsome. Do you love quarrelling? Does she fight a lot with you?’ Kakima looked at her. She glanced at me. ‘Yes, we fight a lot and then we make up too …’ she answered. ‘You don’t look like you can fight,’ said Kakima. ‘Why doesn’t she?’ I asked. ‘Just take a look at her hair. Black, neat, beautiful. Not unkempt like yours.’ ‘Is that all there is to it?’ my friend asked. She seemed upset by what I had been told. But it was she with whom I felt angry. It was getting dark. ‘Let’s go sit on the culvert for a bit,’ I said. ‘I know you’re feeling upset,’ she said. ‘Kakima is too smart for her own good. My mother says so too. You haven’t done her any harm. What good did it do her to hurt you?’ I was silent. — We’ll never behave badly like this, all right?

Sitting next to her on the culvert, I touched her head with mine. I know the lice were being transferred from my hair to hers, one at a time. One, two, three, four … Her hair was indeed soon infested. Her scalp began to itch. Lice eggs were visible all the way to the tips of her long hair. Her mother also had thick, long hair. I kept telling her, ‘Just put insecticide in your hair every night. It’ll be fine.’ One day her mother made her sit down next to her and chopped off her hair. Then she chopped off her own hair too. Hand in hand, she and I watched all that hair of theirs being burnt to ashes in an instant … Then they began to apply the insecticide on their scalps. That was the last time I had lice. I had never allowed it to happen again. I had taken care of my hair, stayed on my guard. But no one knew how I had suddenly got lice in my hair again. It was horrible. It was true that my head had been itching for a few days. But I hadn’t noticed. I couldn’t make out how I got lice. I hadn’t met anyone here. I had no friends or family to meet. No neighbours either. I didn’t visit anyone at home. I didn’t use the trams or buses, preferring to walk most of the time. I didn’t know a woman whose head could have touched mine – lice are usually to be found in women’s hair. Had an old lice egg survived in my hair for two decades only to hatch now? Not that there was any need to fret so much. These days there is anti-lice shampoo. Washing my hair with it and using a hairdryer would kill all the lice, including the larvae. I had thought of going shopping in the evening. But I showed no sign of going. Procrastinating, I ed five days. The itching intensified.

Eventually I did go to the shop. The anti-lice shampoo glowed amidst all the other brands of shampoo. But with a pensive look at it, I walked out of the shop. On my way back, I came across a man hawking all kinds of household goods on the pavement. Nylon clotheslines, strainers, small baskets, hangers … Amongst all this, I noticed a small, thin comb for removing lice. I bought it. Having waited all day, I sat on the bed in my white skirt at around midnight, maybe later. Taking a position directly beneath the light, I ran the thin comb through my hair. The lice began to stream on to my white skirt. And what fun – they scurried off this way and that. No, none of them could escape – I killed them in droves. Sometimes I simply held them between my fingers instead of finishing them off. Possibly I did not want to exterminate the lice this time. I didn’t kill any more lice, I only plucked them out. And then I returned them to my hair. My days ed in anticipation. In a room on a distant roof, someone played the mouth organ deep into the night to comfort some living being.

5 She was writing a letter. To whom? She was writing to time. She would put the letter in a bottle, seal its mouth, and throw it into the sea. Because she was going to visit the seaside soon. In the letter she wrote, ‘I don’t know why I went. I don’t know why I used to go. Why I used to go over and over again. Or why I even thought of going again and again. Why did I consider Shwetaketu and Babhravya wrong on matters of sexual choice? Why did I think Vatsyayana was ignorant? Why did I believe that the identity of an object should be sought in its insecurities? Why was I convinced that an object blooms by leaning on its own uncertainties? Why did I tell the man to take into my internal clock? Why had I asked him to stop at those moments … to stop … to stop … I did not have the answer to any of these questions. All I knew was that no matter what I sought in life, all I got instead were ‘relationships’.

22 Taking off her clothes, she had called to you that day. You shook your head to say ‘No.’ You said, ‘I want you to get on top of me instead.’ There had been something unfamiliar in your words. She stopped, a sexual conflict beginning within her. She was unable to make out what exactly you were looking for. That was when you repeated, ‘Get on top of me. Get on top the way a man mounts a woman, and establish yourself. Find out for yourself how your manhood is aroused in your being. See if you can discover the woman within me lying beneath you.’ You had already identified each of the insecurities that had made her a ‘woman’. Which was why you said, ‘The conditions that are set for sex or for a relationship are not the same for men and women.’ You said, ‘Come out of yourself for once and take a man as a man.’ She had mounted you then, conducting herself like a rider on a horse. Every time she leaned towards you she discovered the man hidden within herself – she tried to cup a pair of non-existent breasts, your lips appeared as pleasurable as a woman’s. Weeping, she held you in her arms.

All the doors and windows of a repressed sexuality opened at that moment. She became aware of the wind and the sunlight. She looked at your erect member with the deepest love. She felt tears welling up again, and allowed her teardrops, like pubic hair, to fall one by one through the lips of your member. And she began to torment it. It trembled, made you tremble too, and the very next moment spurted an introspective, penetrating stream. Which she had never observed before with so much attention. Which she had never seen, never touched, never sniffed, never tasted. Her consciousness accepted this liquid. She drank the sperm. She went back home. And wrote the same day, ‘I know the taste of sperm!’ She described the taste. ‘The juice from sliced and grated tender green shoots of wheat, ten days after the seeds were planted in soft earth, tastes exactly like sperm. Just like the beating heart of the wheat seedlings in that juice, the spirit of life can be clearly discerned when drinking sperm. When the liquid slides down the tongue, its effervescence spreads all the way to the windpipe.’ Dying without getting to know this extraordinary taste is a failure of being born as a woman. It is the duty of a man to help a woman experience this unique taste. This helping hand is known as love.

3 — Have you understood what your nation is? — Yes. One day I woke up very early and went out to the balcony … Overnight rain had washed and scrubbed the streets clean. The water dripping off the leaves was so clear that I wanted to hold open my mouth and drink it. That was when I saw a sanyasi walking up the road from the east. That dawn, he proceeded to awaken all the people he encountered sleeping on the pavement, muttering incantations I couldn’t hear. He had a large bag slung over his shoulder – the young sanyasi carried it with ease. I expected him to take food, clothes and medicine out of this bag and distribute them amongst the pavement dwellers. But all he did was awaken everyone as he walked along, not offering anything from his bag. There wasn’t the slightest sign of kindness, love, affection or sympathy in his eyes – all his eyes held was steely, cruel rejection of every human expectation with a ‘No!’ There was only an invitation in those eyes – ‘Come.’ If it was impossible to him, no explanation would suffice – such

was the language of his eyes. No one ed him, offering only their respects instead. In that dawn, it was he whom I identified as my nation. Accusing others, complaining, searing another heart with mine, searing with memory, setting a body on fire with mine – I had ed a long time engaged in these activities and little else besides. Even the previous day had been saturated with the feeling of being hurt. Plants and trees have no front or back, but still I felt all day that they had turned their faces away from me – that they had spread out their branches and leaves in the opposite direction. But that particular dawn turned out completely different. I could sense no grievances in my heart – a different emotion oozed out of me. All these plants and trees appeared to be my father, my ancestors. How did this happen? The wet black tree trunks seemed to be dripping with love – just for me. Late that afternoon I went for a walk by the river. Near the ghat, I stopped suddenly. There was the young sanyasi from that morning. I saw an elderly woman weeping into his chest, and the sight confused me. I thought I was seeing my own future. How terribly tragic those sobs were – like water flowing over marble. I heard the sanyasi ask her, ‘What have you done for your nation?’ The woman said, ‘Have I given anything without seeking a price for it?’ The sanyasi said, ‘There’s still time. Your nation lies here on this side of the river. On the other side there’s only the river, flowing – without past, present or future, without demands. You have to choose one of the two sides …’

‘I shall go to the other side,’ said the woman. ‘Then let me take you across,’ said the sanyasi, escorting the woman down the steps. Overcoming my bewilderment, I followed them. They got into a boat. But before I could take another step, I heard someone calling me in a strange voice. It definitely seemed to be me they were calling. The voice floated up, pulsating with feeling – ‘O Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e, e Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e …’ – the call seemed to be intent on turning around my perspective on my life. A thousand intoxicating fruits burst within its sounds every moment, wrapping themselves around my existence. In it I discovered an irresistible call to return – sounds, compressed layers of sound, seemed to travel from the back of my head to the tips of my hair and enter my consciousness. I left the dark ghat and climbed back to the road in search of the source of this sound. As I walked, came the cry I could get drunk on, ‘Baula, Baula, Baula re … e … e … e!’ Eventually I had to stop, for my feet were entangled in weeds and vines. In front of me I saw a truck. The truck had stood beneath the abandoned bridge for countless years – waiting to carry my corpse away, Baula. Soft tendrils wound around its tyres, climbing up the wooden railings around the back and then all the way to the top of the truck before descending to the headlights, its eyes. It had waited for years, so that I could find it. It wanted me to remove the tendrils and kiss it, to start the engine and to give its motion back to it – but you’ve written such a song, Baula, that my death wish doesn’t go away. It makes me want to turn

into a vine that winds itself around this nation, this land, this river, this light and shade – to kneel in front of the sanyasi and it that this nation has given me a lot. A lot. This is the sanyasi who is no longer someone who has renounced everything. He wants to receive something of his own now – after all this time, I have finally learnt to identify him as my nation.

16 When the sky was normal earlier, we sat in the long veranda outside the club after darkness fell. The large crystal lampshades shed a strange golden glow. I looked at the sky, and my eyes settled on the ment-less white hoarding suspended from the roof of a tall building in Chowringhee. A black bird flew past the white hoarding, though I didn’t this immediately. When I did, I tugged so hard in astonishment at your arm that the vodka spilled from your glass on your tros. ‘What’s the matter?’ you said. Excited, I said, ‘Look, look at the bird flying away from the signboard. For a couple of moments I thought a bird on the hoarding had come alive and was flying away.’ — How did you have such a strange notion? — No idea. Maybe because the hoarding is so white, without any pictures or words, the bird seemed to be part of it. — Yes, maybe … We don’t do or think anything in isolation – there’s always a background, something to this action or thought. But I cannot tell which one is the backdrop here – the white hoarding or the bird.

— But you know what, the scene is actually imaginary. Which is why it brought me a moment’s happiness. You looked at me when I said this. I looked at you too, smiling. At that precise moment, on the lawn of the club, two dogs ran into view from the darkness. One of them black, the other red. The black dog rolled on the grass directly in front of us. There was nothing new in this scene. These dogs belonged to the club. They ran and played about every day. So I took my eyes off the dogs and was about to say something to you when you signalled to me to look at them instead. Something flashed in your eyes at that moment. What flashed in them was familiar – I had seen it flash sometimes in a man’s eyes for a woman. Sometimes … rarely … Overwhelmed, I glanced at the dogs. The red dog had collapsed on the grass, its legs folded. It was probably trembling. And the black dog sniffed … In an instant I was completely overcome by the sound of the black one sniffing, accompanied by the soft, seductive yelping of the red one. The blood began to flow upwards from my toes towards my head. You twined each of the fingers of your right hand with the fingers of my left hand and squeezed them before withdrawing your hand. Your lips swelled. I looked at you closely. In your black tros and black full-sleeved silk shirt you looked like a spirited black steed – thrilling, aroused, hot. The collar of your shirt looked like a pointed dagger against your fair cheek. I felt desire. You said almost inaudibly, ‘If you’re the red one, I’ll be the black one.’

Lightning flashed in the monsoon sky. Startled, the red dog sprang to its feet and raced away. The black dog gave chase. ‘Chasing …’ you said. ‘Chasing for pure sex. Only for sex, nothing else.’ You paused, looked at me, into my eyes, at my hair, at my lips and breasts, and then said, ‘Imagine me chasing you like that.’ My throat was parched. I gulped. The dogs came back running. And as soon as the red one paused the black one mounted her, and you and I forgot everything and watched him trying to enter her. Your impossibly heavy breath brushed my face. My body throbbed. You called the waiter at once, ‘The bill …’ I sensed your urgency – I smelt you in the air. g swiftly for the vodka, you touched my hand briefly to attract my attention and then strode to the portico. I followed. You started the engine impatiently. Calcutta at 10 p.m. rushed past us. You touched your lips to mine briefly in the car, just once. The only additional time it took was to unlock all the padlocks and reach the bedroom. You turned on the air conditioner, put your glasses on the table, threw your mobile phone on the bed. As you tried to get me naked, I was unbuttoning your shirt. You were still dressed in your shirt and I was only in my … I stood in the leopard-print panty, shielding my breasts with my arms. I seemed to stand that way for hours. And then I saw that you were surprised, before you shrank back in hatred. The loathing was transformed into rage, the rage changed to disappointment, and disappointment gave way to tears. Weeping, you left the flat.

Much, much later, I collapsed on the bed. Lying on my back, I tried to release all the tears that I had held back with tremendous effort for a long time. No one could hear me, but I said the words anyway. ‘Can we ever have pure sex again in our lives? Does it ever happen that way with human beings? Pure sex? The way it happened between the red dog and the black dog – effortlessly.’ The next day you told me, ‘Happiness is now like the bird that emerged from the white hoarding and flew away – it may be real, or it may be imaginary, a mistake – we don’t really want to know.’

21 The doctor said my blood count was high enough for surgery. But neither he nor we had considered that this was not the only necessary condition for an operation. You can’t be sure that 10.2 per cent haemoglobin is all it takes for someone to have surgery. Soon afterwards we learnt that we were wrong. We learnt that among others, one of the primary necessities is a signature. Ideally, the signature of a close relative of the patient. But a friend or a wellwisher could also assume the responsibility. Along with the signature, a name and an address were required. Who else would the nursing authorities summon in case the patient needed something? Who would take charge, for that matter, if the patient were to die suddenly during the surgery? Someone had to sign a bond to accept all the risks of an operation. Not that I was thinking of all this at the time. Nor were you, possibly. We went to the nursing home early in the morning. The operation was scheduled for the same evening. They held the form out to you before completing the formalities of ission. Naturally, they assumed that you were my guardian. And you accepted the form without demur.

As you were filling the form, you stopped at one point and looked at me. ‘The risk bond has to be signed,’ you said. I felt a stab of doubt. ‘What do we do?’ I asked. ‘Can you take the risk?’ ‘Risk?’ you asked. ‘If there’s any risk, there’s no doubt that at this moment it’s entirely mine. But they want to know our relationship. How is the person g the bond related to the patient?’ My insides began to hollow out. ‘Oh, relation …’ I said. — What is the relationship? — Don’t you know? — I don’t. — Nor do I. — What should I write? — Whatever you like. Or let it go, don’t write anything. Never mind the surgery. Did I want to cry? Was I just trying to cling to someone who could sign the bond? Did I grasp the helplessness – the danger, at times – of not having a relationship with anyone? Did I desire recovery despite all this? Had I realized before this that all relationships in the world are about existence – that even to survive one needs relationships? That you need a relationship even for the benefit of the dead body? Was I staring at the marble floor and white walls of the nursing home in search of a ‘relationship’, just in case I found one lying around? Was my faith in a solid, heavy relationship beyond explanation renewed – a relationship that could accept the risk of death? That could offer its welcoming arms to

death? Did I need a name for a personal relationship that day – like a sound that is born in the mountains and echoes around the same mountains? Like a defeated person, I sat with my head bowed in shame. I was preparing to leave the nursing home, since I had no relationship with anyone. I didn’t actually have to leave, however. On the form you wrote, ‘I love this woman. She loves me too. Out of her love she has given me her heart and her body. So her body is mine, her heart is mine. Therefore, everything that she needs before and after the surgery is my responsibility. The risk of this surgery is mine. If for some unfortunate reason she dies here, I shall accept her body, I shall carry it away. In addition to my address and phone number given below, documentary proof of my address is attached …’

9 The rain starts in the afternoon. From the afternoon till the evening. From the evening till the morning, afternoon and evening again – and still it does not stop. It falls continuously. In the early hours of the morning it turns torrential – by dawn it is evident that the entire city is submerged. I discover that all their things are being swept away in the water. The lid of the wooden packing box in which they store their belongings is floating away. As are their plastic sheets, glasses and plates. Chasing these, they keep falling on their faces in the water and laughing riotously. I lean over the railing in search of the two children, but cannot spot them anywhere. I keep going back to the balcony. Much later, the young woman appears beneath my balcony, in waist-high water. ‘Where are your children?’ I ask. I cannot see where she is pointing. ‘Where are they?’ I repeat. — I’ve left them over there out of the reach of the water. I am worried. ‘Who’s with them?’ — No one.

— What! What if the little one falls in or something … Without answering, she begins to wade through the water, abusing someone, possibly her husband. ‘Couldn’t you get the sheets out of the water in time, you asshole?’ She spits twice into the same water she is wading through. Suppressing my revulsion, I say, ‘Leave your daughters near the staircase. I’ll bring them upstairs. Take them back when the water goes down.’ This time she is genuinely surprised, and, craning her neck upwards, asks, ‘What did you say?’ ‘I said, bring your daughters …’ Throwing me a strange glance, she wades away. She comes back a little later, splashing through the water with her babies in her arms. ‘Take this one,’ she says, ‘the other one can’t manage without my breast milk …’ The durwan and drivers clustered around the gate look at me in astonishment when I collect the naked baby at the bottom of the stairs. Just a moment ago they were in the middle of an uproar over the water in the basement. The first thing I do is call you to tell you that I’ve brought the child home. ‘Bad idea,’ you say in annoyance. ‘It’s not done. Experimenting with human beings? You’ll regret it. Anyway, try it out. At least you’ll realize your mistake. It’s best to realize your mistakes yourself …’ I bathe the child and feed her. I teach her to use the toilet. Sitting on the commode to pee, I demonstrate how she should go to the toilet whenever she needs to urinate. I trim her wild hair with a pair of scissors, and drape my chunni around her like a sari, whereupon she

walks up to the mirror and stands shyly with her eyes on the floor. After much coaxing she looks up at me. The water recedes the next day, but my boldness doesn’t. Your man tells me with a terrified expression, ‘Sahib will give us hell, Behenji, he’ll accuse us of not looking after you …’ ‘Don’t worry,’ I comfort him, ‘you can go now. I’ve informed him.’ A couple of days . I buy clothes, shoes, baby cream and baby soap for her. I am growing very fond of her. Her large eyes, dark pouting lips and snub nose work their magic on me to calm me down. I keep looking at her, expecting her to say something. But she doesn’t. All her communication is through gestures. Even her way of looking for her mother is subtle. She goes out into the balcony, blushes when she spots her mother, or just picks her nails with her eyes lowered if she doesn’t, before coming away. My hopes rise with every ing day. One day she eats some milk and cornflakes with a spoon. Another day, she calls me when the phone rings. Even you ask one day, ‘What’s she doing?’ Even her parents no longer enquire about her … I dress her in her best frock the day you come. She stands up as soon you arrive – yes, she has recognized you – she has seen you come and go from the pavement – yes, she wobbles towards you – and then stands in front of you – and I see her holding her upturned palm out to you, saying, ‘I haven’t eaten today …’ I take her back the next afternoon. ‘Let me take you to your mother,’ I tell her.

I don’t know why I take the staircase instead of the lift, holding her hand. Maybe I did all that I did simply in order to compose these moments when I would send her back – I have taken the stairs to prolong these moments, so that I can feel unhappy, more unhappy, even more unhappy. With each step down, she shakes her head. She takes a step down, and shakes her head. Another step, another shake. She wants to say that she doesn’t want to go – she would rather stay. She does not know what it means to stay, she does not know what it means to go, but, understanding, not understanding, she protests. A silent, quiet no. She goes down the stairs and says no, shakes her head …

30 Eventually she found the wall of death in one of the bathrooms at the other end of this very flat. She happened to venture into the bathroom, all the walls of which were covered in black tiles. The floor and basin table were of black granite. The commode and sink were black. Even the fittings. The windowpanes and lampshades too – everything was black. Only the space on the wall above the sink, which should have held a large mirror, was not black. The bricks were showing. They were a dusty grey, covered in cobwebs, with spiders in them. She paused, wondering. She was aware of a bedroom on the other side of the wall. She knew that the wall was only four or five inches thick. She knew that the wall was solid. But still she wondered. She smothered her sighs, for she knew that this was the wall of death, on this side of which she lived her fearful life. Standing before the wall, she felt afraid and wanted to plug the gap in the wall, but her heart dissuaded her. ‘You’ve spent all your life running away from death,’ it told her, ‘try to understand death now.’

To understand death, she took her face close to the gap in the wall and whistled. She whistled. And as she whistled she realized that the sounds were multiplying – from one to two, two to four, four to many more – and rustling out of the insides of the wall. Rustling. She felt unhappy, and to change her state of mind, she returned to the part of the flat she used, leaving the door to the bathroom open. Many, many years ago, when as she had gone up to a body eager for death, her guardian had instructed her to move away. ‘Go away,’ the guardian had said, ‘if you don’t want to be afraid.’ After that, she had turned her back on many, many deaths, fleeing on the instructions of some unseen person pointing in the opposite direction. Running away was all she had done. This life was nothing but fleeing wherever possible from death as it pursued her. Survival was nothing but keeping death at bay. She had seen death lurking somewhere near fear. It could not be spotted in isolation – separate, pure and complete. Although what happened every minute, every second, on earth was caused by ‘death’, death had no existence of its own. Fear was the key. She went for a swim the next day. It was getting colder. There was a nip in the air. It was the best time for a swim because there was no one near the pool at that hour. It was past evening. The darkness was deeper in the dense greenery around the pool. Despite the bright lights being turned on, the far end of the pool was dark. Only the water on this side was a liquid gold.

Entering the water, she swam to the far end and began to float on her stomach. Twelve feet of water stretched below her eyes. ‘Think of this as death,’ she told herself. ‘Feel this death twelve feet deep.’ No scene remained before her eyes, no sound. She didn’t even breathe – taking the form of a cone, her mind floated down. She could not believe that she had lived an entire life; in the water her brain began to shed, one by one, consciousness, memories, smells, sights, tastes, desires. She went beyond emptiness. And even under the water, light began to spread from a secret source of sunrise. Thereafter! A little boy broke into peals of laughter near her eyes while a poet rose out of the water. She addressed him as ‘Baula!’ Her voice burst along with the bubbles in the water. She tried to accept all of this collectively as death. Back home, she stood in front of the wall of death, on this side of which lay her fear, her survival, her own death, everything – and on the other side of which nothing existed, nothing ever had.

17 I wanted to hear about her from you, over and over again. As I listened, I experienced a certain sensation that I could not explain. I felt jealousy, anger, hatred, curiosity and even pity. I felt anguish too, and pain. Sometimes my heart brimmed over with sympathy as I listened; I seemed to become ‘her’. In my own way I became her. You couldn’t quite make out what I wanted at those moments. You felt helpless to begin with. You searched my eyes to find out what I really wanted from you. The pupils of your eyes looked slightly glazed. Then you began to tell me about her, understanding and not understanding, and the colour of your pupils gradually returned to black. It appeared that the truth of your relationship with her hadn’t changed in any way. On the contrary, it had deepened. You went back to the old days, sinking into them gradually, and I disappeared from your view. ‘I have no idea what happened to her that last day.’ This was how you began, saying in despair and helplessness, ‘When I came to this flat I found her making a painting across the entire wall. I had no idea when she had got the paints and brushes. She had been here only

for a couple of months. She looked lovely in a short pink skirt and a white blouse. Her face held signs of fatigue. I might have mistaken her for a schoolgirl had the breasts so familiar to me not been perked up conspicuously, had I not noticed the snow-white calves and knees – which were not at all girlish and very much a woman’s – and the feet and legs and thighs that had accommodated the tears of men. She looked beautiful. Her hair was gathered at her neck. The paintbrushes were tucked into her waist. Pots of paint were scattered on the floor. She had been painting both sitting and standing, planting the chair here and there as needed. Overcoming a fleeting regret over the disfigured wall, I began to enjoy the scene. The painting came to life gradually on the enormous wall. ‘She painted a life-sized couple – man and woman – on the huge canvas. They were making love in an unusual pose. Strangely, she had brought out both extreme sexuality and total detachment at the same time. As though she was trying to say that sex is self-discovery and the experience that follows sex involves tearing oneself away at the very moment of discovering oneself. Because, actually, you constantly want someone else inside you – and no sooner has sex offered you that sensation than it isolates you like the seed that emerges from the exploding fruit. This loneliness in the period after sex is the root cause of all despair. You want to be coned, that’s all you want – you cannot ask for anything more divine. You, and someone within you – this is the only lifelong demand that a living being makes. Human beings eat, sleep, make speeches, but a part of their mind remains submerged in sex – sex goes on in there constantly, a penis enters a vagina, touches its soft muscles, life touches life, returns, goes back, returns again, goes back again …

‘As she painted, she kept getting aroused, inviting me to make love to her. We made love. Climaxing, she screamed, making the walls shake, “I love it, I love it.” At one point our skins seemed to be fused together. ‘It was late at night when she was done with the painting. That was the first time I stayed back so long. I did, I was able to, because all the doubts in my mind had been extinguished by then. I had decided to tell everyone about her. My aged mother, my children, my brothers and sisters – everyone. I had decided to tell her too, ten days later, on her birthday. I would tell her what she told me over and over again, clinging to my arm. I would tell her and watch the surprise in her eyes. Then she would either burst into tears or stare in silence for some time before jumping up and crying, “We’ll get married? We’ll get married? Will there be music all day and all night?” ‘Maybe it was eleven at night, or a little later. I didn’t want to separate our fused skins. But I had to leave. I kissed her completely bare lips with my tongue for the last time. I wanted to tell her at once, to let her know of all my plans, “I’m ready.” Before this, there had been one other person whom I had not got around to saying “I love you.” She had left me before I decided to tell her. Despite this, I wanted to wait another ten days, and pressed her hand lightly to say goodbye. That was when she gripped my hand. She held on to it, and she kept looking at me. A faint smile on her lips. Then she said, “Everyone at home wants me to go back. They’re not angry with me any more. On the contrary, they’re worried. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve agreed to get married. That same man is waiting, the one because of whom I had left home. I left home to wait here for your decision. Such a chain of waiting. He’s

waiting for me, I’m waiting for you. Let this chain break now. My wedding preparations will begin as soon as I return. There’s very little time. I was afraid earlier – I had already given you all I had. What could I offer someone else to start a life together? But I have overcome that fear now – I can take away all that I got from you in return, and offer it to someone else. What you have taught me – to give and to take with all that one has – you have taught me so much physically too that I know I can make any man happy now. Anyone who becomes my companion will be satisfied, will always turn to me … unless …” ‘“Unless …?” I asked. ‘“Unless you recognize me after today.” ‘I hid my face in my hands. ‘She said, “Even if we do happen to meet, let there be no flash of recognition in your eyes. Let the portion of your heart in which I exist die this very moment. Let us free ourselves from this bond to the best of our abilities.” ‘After this I didn’t try to find out when she left. I went back to the flat several months later. That was when I had the wall painted over in a deep shade. But you tell me that the image can be seen through the paint, that the figures come alive and make love in a frenzy in the room. I cannot accept this as the truth. Because she has left forever, beyond a doubt she has left – like the dead, she cannot return or love or make someone love her …’ Every time I heard you say these last words, I wept. I returned to this flat, weeping. After being chastised by sorrow in its real form, I yearned for you. I wanted to wipe your sorrowful face and draw it to my breast.

Lying in bed, I thought of you. I thought of your heart. I thought of your thighs and your shanks, of your arms and your embrace. But I could not think of myself alongside. I found her taking my place. Naked, poised, eager. You drew together hungrily. I watched your lovemaking. And pleasure coursed through my body. Thinking of you, I came. ‘I love it, I love it,’ I shouted. Then, I didn’t know whether it was I who said it or she: ‘We will be married one day, one day there will be music all day and night. Having played all day and night, the music will stop on its own. It will stop … and gasp …’

2 She had consigned the panty to a flame. She had burnt all her attachment to her life as a woman. As a result she was exhausted now. It was in exhaustion that she had wandered to this place … Rows of whores stood over there like the goddess Durga. Meanwhile, the goddess Kali, full of possibilities, could awaken at any moment over here. In between was the Ganga – or was it just a canal of loathsome filthy black water? The steps of the ghat led down to the water this side, as they did on the other side. A wooden boat to ferry people across was anchored on the opposite bank. On this one, a wooden tray was being washed in the diseased water. She stood on the steps of the ghat. They were broad. Blue aparajita flowers – clitoria – were scattered near her feet. A mangy dog had been following her for some time. A philanthropist was distributing bread to beggars at eleven at night. They were clamouring for more food. Actually, they had no expectations. No expectations of the temple in which they stood, no expectations of the country in which they lived.

The blind beggar played his castanets without a break. He seemed to have appeared before mankind in this form for centuries – but no one had recognized him. His tragic music had made them part with a rupee or two – but one of them had identified the gift they received in return from the blind man. The elderly priest kept ringing the bell of the temple. He was prepared to make one or two more sacrifices to the goddess. A woman wandered about alone, reciting Radha’s script. ‘I beg of you, Shyam,’ she said, ‘I beg of you, may Radharani die, don’t forsake me in the darkness. If you do, I shall set up my own pyre by the Yamuna and burn to death at once. Wherever you may be, the smoke from the pyre will make your eyes water, wherever you may be, your heart of stone will dissolve in tears.’ An old woman with a stoop appeared at her overwhelmed ear to whisper, ‘The bitch whores around day and night the rest of the time. When she’s unwell every month, she pretends to be Radha.’ Neither the prostitute nor the goddess – she had no one to seek forgiveness from. Both were incomplete entities in her life. It was no use ing the time on the bank of the Ganga. She would go back now. Go back and stab herself in the vagina … stab herself over and over … she would stab herself in the vagina until it died.

A Note on the Type Ga p p a a.org

Adobe Jenson Pro captures the essence of Nicolas Jenson’s roman and Ludovico degli Arrighi’s italic typeface designs. The combined strength and beauty of these two icons of Renaissance type result in an elegant, highly readable typeface, with a low x-height and inconsistencies that help differentiate the letters making it appropriate for large amounts of text.

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THE BEGINNING Let the conversation begin... Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@PenguinIndia Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/PenguinIndia Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/PenguinIndia Find out more about the author and discover more stories like this at penguinbooksindia.com

HAMISH HAMILTON Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Johannesburg 2193, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, ed Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England www.penguinbooksindia.com First published in Hamish Hamilton by Penguin Books India 2014 Copyright © Sangeeta Bandyopadhyay 2014 Copyright for the English translation © Arunava Sinha 2014 G a p p a a . o r g

Cover illustration by Robert Nicol Author photograph by Aritra Bandyopadhyay This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved ISBN: 978-0-670-08702-0

This digital edition published in 2013. e-ISBN: 978-9-351-18635-9