Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

Bakul had destroyed it all.

He scraped his chair back. It fell. “I have to go,” Nirmal said to the room.

They watched him leaving. “The man is peculiar,” Negi said. “Doesn’t talk, doesn’t like company.”

Nirmal strode out. He took out his flat silver cigarette case, one of his brother’s rare birthday gifts. He lit a cigarette and breathed out with a deep sigh. The band around his forehead seemed to loosen its grip. He noticed that the verges of the red-earth road were piled here and there with slabs of mica, bright mirrors for the morning sun.

Why had Bakul chosen to destroy the collection he valued so much? She knew what it meant to him, he had told her just the day before! He could not imagine such malevolence in a child of eleven … or was it twelve? That morning, when Meera had told him what had happened — what had she said? “Dada, I think Bakul has ruined one or two of your books” — he had felt as if he would explode. One or two of my books!

* * *

Not far away, Mukunda sat at Mrs Barnum’s table trying to read. Mrs Barnum had not emerged that afternoon, and he felt the page float away from him again and again. The words were hard and unfamiliar, and the bit he had reached in the Library of Literature Volume One did not interest him. All he could think of was the turmoil in the house that morning. He had seen Nirmal on his knees before his torn books, particles of crumbling, old, dry leaves and bits of paper tossing around him in the light morning breeze. Mukunda dreaded the anger that would certainly stifle the house. Why had Bakul done this?

He slapped the book shut and wandered to the back window overlooking Mrs Barnum’s garden, a garden like no other. More a wild forest of tall trees with a large pond at one end, filled with fleshy water lilies. A hidden pond, right at the back of the house, difficult to spot except from one of the upper windows. Today, looking down, Mukunda saw something move in the pond. He ran down the stairs and out into the garden as fast as he could. He was sure Bakul was in it and he knew she could not swim. He was irrationally certain she was trying to drown herself because of the morning’s troubles.

He tore off his shirt and as he tried to wade in he realised the water went quite deep, too deep for paddling. He let himself float, sheathed by the sudden silence of the water. Weeds waved around him shadowy, weightless. Something, a fish he thought, brushed past. He could see Bakul struggling a few feet away and struck out towards her. The stalks of the lilies swayed, dark and fat. He reached her and took hold of her hand, trying to force her out of the water. She came out spluttering and spitting, pushing him away.

“What are you doing?” she yelled. “Leave me alone! I was just starting to float!”

She dived back into the water, flailed about, emerged spitting water and retching, “I think I swallowed something.”

Bakul’s hair was plastered to her skull in strands. She had a water weed over her ear that she flung at Mukunda. Her thin summer frock clung to her new peach-sized breasts. Mukunda stared at them, the darkness of the nipples, the swelling they topped. As if independent of him, his hand reached out to touch them.

“Don’t do that,” Bakul said, slapping his hand away. “It tickles.”

Mukunda gently squeezed her breasts. “It’s not soft,” he whispered, “I thought it would be.”

* * *

When they reached home they tried to slide in unnoticed, knowing their wet clothes would earn them a scolding. But Manjula was waiting outside and so was Meera. “Do you know how late it is?” Manjula asked. “And how disgraceful you both look? Why are your clothes wet? What were you doing?”

“You’ll catch a cold, Bakul, go and dry your hair at once,” Meera said, wanting to smooth over Manjula’s acrid disapproval.

“I fell into the pond,” Bakul said, scowling at Meera, “and he had to come in and get me.” She slipped past her aunt, who had a swift and stinging slap when she had a mind to use it. Manjula’s voice followed her from the garden: “This time I’ve had enough. I’ve told Nirmal once and I’ve told him again, they need some discipline, they’re not babies any more, but does anyone listen to me in this house? Do I count for nothing?”

Bitterly she muttered, “God’s ways are strange, that He should give children to those who don’t care for them and leave me childless.”

* * *

In his room on the roof the next day, Nirmal lay in his bed trying to read a translation of a story by Chekhov, “The Steppe”, but its vast open spaces and the characters’ wanderings under the enormous Russian skies made him feel even more stifled than usual in Songarh. He longed for the desert sky in Rajasthan again, where eyes could not look far enough to reach the horizon. He flung the book aside and got up, wondering what to do.

An office holiday. The two other men in the office loved holidays though their working days were indolent enough. They went home to wives, the demands of children, the muddle of large families. So much seemed to happen in the lives of Negi and Sharma that they revelled in: relatives’ visits, weddings in the neighbourhood, trips to the bazaar; even illnesses seemed to be the cause of drama and gossip. By contrast, Nirmal thought, he had been a bystander for years. People thought him aloof, he knew, arrogant perhaps. He was content with that. And yet, sometimes, he yearned for the populous cacophony of other people’s lives despite the knowledge that it would certainly make him unhappy.

He walked around the room hunting for his box of matches, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, and his eyes fell on the aluminium box. Bakul’s box! It was on the windowsill. He had forgotten all about it. He picked it up. It rattled. He took the box to his bed and looked at it: dented in one corner, the aluminium surface scratched, its latch askew.

Bakul’s box contained many things she had herself forgotten the provenance of. Nirmal picked out, one by one, a pink plastic necklace, some flat, brown seeds he recognized as tamarind, a sad-faced rag doll in a red sari, a small tram car — beneath its windows a smiling girl with starry eyes and yellow hair said “Perkins Nougat” in a speech bubble.

At the bottom of the box he found three envelopes. On one, to his astonishment, he recognised his own handwriting. The postmark said Bikaner. He opened the envelope and saw he had written in large block letters: “Dear Bakul, I am in a place that has animals called camels, and trees called palm.” Something like a camel was drawn next to the words, standing under a palm tree.

There was another envelope, and when he shook it three photographs slid out. The smallest one, curled at the edges, showed Shanti’s house in Manoharpur. He had not looked at it, or at a picture of it, for twelve years. He had almost forgotten — wanted never to remember — that house. But it all came back, every last detail, the moment he saw the picture. There was the tree next to Shanti’s window, the one she had named Bakul after. There was the verandah he and his father-in-law used to sit in to chat over tea, and then those neighbours of Bikash Babu would drop in and begin their interminable conversations about the same things every day: the impending flood; the Scottish engineering firm; the mango and coconut trees; how the neighbour’s court case was progressing and whether it had reached the district judge.

Nirmal gazed at the picture for longer than he knew. Then, putting it aside, he turned to the other two. One was of Shanti: the one that had arrived with the marriage proposal. Nirmal paused, smiling at the recalcitrant look on Shanti’s face. What was it like, having your picture sent to a stranger for his approval? He wondered if other men, other prospective husbands of Shanti, had seen that picture of her. Did some of them still have it lying around in their homes? Or had their eventual wives thrown it away or torn it up?