Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

“I need some help unpacking,” Nirmal said to her as she emerged onto the roof.

“I have to finish my homework. Chaubey Sir will come soon.”

“It won’t take long, Bakul, we’ll just put some things into the cupboard in the landing. I’ll have to make a dozen trips down the stairs if I don’t get help.”

“Can’t you wait for Shibu?”

“Can’t you be less sulky for a change? Why can’t I get a straight answer out of you?”

Immediately, he tried to placate her. “Look,” he said, “I know … ”

But Bakul had rushed down the stairs again. Nirmal felt heat surge through his face, his forehead began to hurt. He followed her to the stairs. Must be firm. He called out to her again, heard a barked “Bakul, come here .” Bakul came back up the stairs, frowning at her own hand on the banister.

“When I ask you to do something, you are not to rush away. It’s time you started to behave yourself. Is that clear?”

Bakul was said nothing.

“What did I say?” Nirmal demanded, “Can’t you hear me?”

“Alright, alright , tell me what to do, I have to go.”

Nirmal had lost interest in unpacking his trunk and showing Bakul the things in it. It’s all a mistake, he began to think: he had imagined he would be a different father, different from the father he had himself had. He would not be stern and distant and fearsome, he would instead do interesting things with Bakul, they would be friends, especially as she didn’t have a mother to be friends with. Had he left it too late?

Bakul looked resentfully at the red tin trunk, its paint more chipped than before. She had seen it many times. It came and went with Nirmal on each of his trips. She was still filled with rage by Nirmal’s ticking off at lunch. How dare he, how dare he do that to me in front of everyone else, and all of them sniggering at me, how dare he! She wanted to spit on the trunk. She would not speak, she had decided, she would not speak to anyone.

“Do you know, Bakul,” Nirmal persisted, kneeling by the trunk to open it, “we would go to such faraway places on our digs. The dust, the heat, the tents flapping in the wind. And then some days eating just roti and onions and a little daal. That’s how I got sunstroke once. But it’s all worth it, when you find a small piece of pottery, even a broken bit. One day I’ll take you on a dig, the one here.”

He was waiting to be interrupted by eager questions. Bakul continued to pile up the books that emerged from the trunk, stopping only to scratch a scab on her knee now and then. She would not meet his eye. It made Nirmal want to scoop up his daughter and hold her close. Instead, seeing her lift a worn-out, hardbound volume from the trunk, he said, “That’s not just an exercise book, you know. Open it.”

Bakul looked at him with studied boredom.

“Here, let me show you. I have seven of these.”

He opened one and began to turn the pages. Each turn of the page revealed the fragile shape of a dry leaf. On some pages you could still just about discern the colour of the leaf when fresh and alive on a Himalayan tree. Even in their desiccation, some had flecks of red, some were pale ochre spotted with black, in some the veins stood out like skeletons, the body bleached of all colour. On every page Nirmal had recorded the species and the place where he had found the leaf. There was chestnut and oak first, then treasures harder won: the remains of a blue poppy, bits of birch bark, a leaf from the Brahma Kamal, all from the high Himalaya. His notes seemed a superfluity: he recalled to the last detail where he had plucked each leaf and pressed it, the colour of the light that day, how icy the wind had been, how lonely the steep slope.

Nirmal turned the pages, forgetting Bakul. Sometimes his forefinger touched one of the dried leaves with infinite gentleness. He stroked one that was still somewhat red and green and smiled to himself. He did not notice her leaving the room.

* * *

That evening, Nirmal sat in his newly settled rooftop room and began to look through his music. He had not touched his box of records since Shanti’s death. He did not know if the record player still worked: it had wheezed and scraped even then as they lay on their bed listening to the sarangi, watching the luminous night sky sliced up by the window grill. Now that he had opened the box of records again, he thought he would look at the record player next, and maybe get a new needle for it, clean it and oil it, then try winding it up again. He used to be good at that kind of work.

Nirmal poured himself a drink, and with his cigarette smoke curling towards the open door of the verandah, rummaged through his old records, discovering treasures he had forgotten. He settled into a chair with four of them, to read the sleeve notes.

Time passed. Dinner was being laid and Nirmal had not come downstairs.

Mukunda was despatched to call him. He went to the roof, peeped into Nirmal’s room and then ran down the stairs to the ground floor where Manjula was sitting behind the dekchis, looking for the ladles. The room smelled of roasted moong and ghee, bay leaf and fried fish. Manjula felt hungry just being there and hoped the men would eat quickly so that she could start. Steathily, she popped a piece of potato into her mouth.

Mukunda announced, “Nirmal Babu will eat later. He is drinking.”

“What?” Manjula gasped. “Drinking? Hari, Hari! In the house?” Dropping her ladle with a clatter, she pushed back her chair, gathered her sari and lumbered up the stairs. Meera followed, pleading, “Didi, Didi, let it be, he can eat later, I will heat it up … ”

“Quiet!” Manjula hissed. She had reached the room on the roof and she strode to the door and swung it open. She wanted to see for herself.

Nirmal, she saw, was not just drinking. He was smoking too. The incriminating bottle of rum stood on the table with no attempt at concealment. The room smelled to her like a house of vice. She had only imagined what such places were like.

“My god!” Manjula yelped, shutting her eyes in alarm. Then she took another determined breath and tucked her sari firmly around her. “Nirmal,” she called out, opening the door again, but not stepping into the room. Nirmal had stubbed out the cigarette and was standing up, taken aback by the invasion.

“Don’t you remember there are children in the house? Growing children! How can you bring yourself to do something like this?”

Meera flapped about behind Manjula saying, “Please calm down, let’s go downstairs.”

Mukunda had followed them to the terrace. He took a quick look into the room again on the pretext of announcing, “Kamal Babu is waiting for dinner.”

“Run down and start the rice,” Manjula ordered him. “We’re coming.”

Turning to go, she sent a parting shot in Nirmal’s direction. “What would your father have said, Nirmal? This is a decent house. If you must do … all this … do it somewhere else!” She gathered her sari again and flounced away, throwing one last righteous glance in the direction of the rum bottle.

Nirmal leaned on the parapet looking out, his shoulders hunched with annoyance. It was an unusually clear night, stars piercing the black shadows of the trees, the moon hanging in the sky, a fat yellow melon.

“Don’t mind her,” Meera’s voice said in the darkness. “She doesn’t mean badly.”

Nirmal turned and saw her moon-washed face, startled she had not left. He chuckled and then sighed. “We must seem like such junglees to you. How can you bear to live with us?”

For a moment they listened to the foxes beginning their exchanges in the forest.

“Do you like it here? In Songarh, I mean,” Nirmal said, to fill the silence.