Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

“We have to verify all this, of course,” Aangti Babu said. “My lawyers will look into the papers.”

“Huzoor, there is nothing amiss,” the man said. In a fit of bravado, he continued, “Others too have seen these house papers.”

“Oho,” said Aangti Babu. “Are you trying to tell me there are other takers? Hah.” He took a paan out of his silver travelling paan-box and stuffed it into his mouth with contempt. “In that case,” he said with his mouth full, “why don’t you sell to these others?”

He chewed a little, then shot out a red stream of betel juice that spattered the white wall of the verandah and coloured the arm of the cane chair standing near it.

As I deduced, Aangti Babu knew that the man had got his master to sign away his property in some illness-induced haze, either by force or guile, I did not like to think which.

“And what about the furniture? You said it’s included? I’ll have to think of disposal, so we may as well get it clear,” Aangti Babu said, making it sound like a casual afterthought.

The man was sullen, having been beaten in the negotiations so far.

“I said nothing about the furniture,” he grumbled.

“Oh well, that is your concern, not mine,” Aangti Babu said, and made as if to leave. “We’ll take the house, but we want it empty. Please get rid of the furniture — and the old man, of course. Let me know when he goes. I can’t wait long. Don’t want money locked up.”

I could see the man making rapid calculations. What would he do with crystal chandeliers and carved Victorian whatnots there, in that little town? The man’s wife had arrived and was standing at the edge of the room. She gave him an exasperated look.

“Oh well, if you want the furniture so badly,” the man said, “you can have it, but for a price.”

We left the house after some more haggling. As we made our way down to the station, having decided to return to Calcutta that same day, Aangti Babu chuckled and extracted another paan from his box. “Thinks he’s very clever, that fool,” he said to me with glee. “Gave me all that furniture for a song. I’ll get three hundred from the auction houses for just one of those chandeliers. Did you see it?”

“What?” I said. The chandelier had looked like nothing much to me, a dusty assemblage of glass, its only virtue being that it was intact in a room full of disabled furniture.

“My boy, you have a long way to go and lots to learn, just stay by my side.” He giggled a little and made a dipping motion with his ringed fingers. “Dip one of those chandeliers into the river and pull it out and you’ll see the crystal. Genuine Belgian, nothing less, nothing less.” He laughed again. His mirth caused a spasm of coughing, red betel juice spewing out groundwards from him like lava from an upturned volcano. “You have a lot to learn,” he said.

We reached the station. Despite his good humour, he did not ask me to travel in his compartment, but as I retreated to the end of the train with our luggage he said in jocular tones, “Now all we need is for the old stick to die.”

When I returned home that night I was feeling unusually melancholy and hardly noticed my wife’s hands straying over me.

“What is it?” she complained at last.

I told her about the house and the river. “The old man,” I said, “dying, so alone, cheated out of his home. Why should anyone spend his last days so alone? It was a place called Manoharpur — have you ever seen it? An idyllic place! And to die in such misery surrounded by such beauty!”

My wife was fed up. “You and your gloomy fits! I tell you! It’s many years yet before you’ll grow old, and you sound ancient already.” She turned on her side, disgusted by my sombre mood and want of ardour.

I stared at the dark ceiling. That feeling I had had, of having seen the house before, was too secret for me to share with my wife. From her lack of interest I knew it had no connection with her, to my life with her. I said no more, though I was awake for a long time.

To end this story: this was the only instance, to my knowledge, when Aangti Babu made a loss. The old retainer to whom we had spoken turned out to be playing a double game. He had apparently taken earnest money from five parties before Aangti Babu, showing all of them forged documents. By the time anyone found out, he had disappeared. Nobody could report him to the police because they had broken the law by trying to buy the property from him. Aangti Babu seethed and cursed, but there was little he could do. Neither he nor anyone else knew where the original deed was, without which nothing could be bought or sold.

I was for once delighted that a deal had been a hoax, and not in the least discomfited by my disloyalty. I felt happy to think the house was to remain as it was, serene by the river, untouched.

In a few days the house became just one among many others, and I forgot all about it as I immersed myself in preparations for another demolition.

* * *

A few months later, Aangti Babu called me early into his office. He had told me the previous day that he would need to see me first thing in the morning, so I was ready, my heart uncomfortably loud, my forehead damp with fear. I tried to reconstruct the week that had gone before, the days immediately preceding, and could think of no mistakes I had made in my work.

It was business he wanted to discuss. He asked me to sit down. I had always stood in his room, and continued to stand, my head a little bent, deferential and attentive. He looked up at me, irritable, and said, “Can’t you sit when I tell you to? I’ll get a crick in my neck looking up and talking.”

I lowered myself into a chair as Aangti Babu stuffed a paan through his betel-red, flaky lips.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “You have to handle this on your own, so take some notes and remember what I say.”

I looked around for paper and a pencil, furtively so that Aangti Babu would not comment on my lack of readiness. But he did not bother, having shut his eyes, joined his fingers to make a pyramid, and begun to talk.

“This is another big house, a little bit like the riverside one we went to some months ago,” he said. “It has a lot of land, and it’s in a locality we think will prosper. The town is a small one now, but I’ve been told there is a good chance of it becoming district headquarters in a year or two.” He opened his eyes and startled me with a question. “Do you speak Hindi?” he enquired.

“Yes, yes, I grew up outside … ”

“Alright,” he replied, shutting his eyes again. He had never been interested in knowing anything personal about me. I was used to it and expected nothing different.

“The house is owned by two brothers. There is a dispute.” Aangti Babu smiled to himself, his eyes still shut. “There always is. Or how would we make a living, eh? One of the brothers has sold this house to me,” he continued. “He needed money — failing business, large family, all the usual things. Now the problem is this.” He opened his eyes. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Then say something now and then,” Aangti Babu said, eyes narrowed, before shutting them again. I began to mumble a response at the end of each sentence. The fan whirred and creaked above us, paddling the still air. The morning had turned oppressive. Sweat pasted back to shirt and shirt to chair. I looked with longing at the covered glass of water on the desk, but did not dare. My pencil was slithery with the sweat on my hand.

“The house was owned by both brothers. The one who has sold it claims he tried to persuade the other to sell and has even given the other his share of the money. Hah! The old story!”

“Huh,” I agreed.