Neel Mukherjee - A Life Apart

‘Oh, yes, we need people to stock, shelve, do the accounts, sell, deal with transport, all that sort of stuff.’

‘Would it be possible for you to give me a part-time job in one of your shops? Nothing fancy or high-powered, just a few hours a day, three or four days a week.’

Shahid Haq looked both triumphant, as if a minor suspicion he had harboured for some time had been confirmed, and slightly embarrassed, because he would have to wheel out the tired, old excuses again to turn down this young man, excuses which would doubtless ring false in his ears.

‘We try to hire people from families we know, you see, other Pakistani families who are in England.’ His words came out halting, with pauses and a breath of a stutter, as if he were making it up as he went along.

Ritwik found this so excruciating that he decided to put Mr Haq out of his misery. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just asking.’

It was Mr Haq’s turn to do the empty politenesses now. ‘No, no, I’ll see what I can do. You see my problem with our Pakistani brothers. .’

‘That’s absolutely all right. Of course, I see your obligations. Please don’t think about it again, Mr Haq.’

‘Do you have a work permit in the UK? A National Insurance number?’

‘No. I don’t.’ Something flitted across the dark pupils of Shahid Haq. Ritwik briefly entertained the idea of telling him the whole truth but didn’t dare. He lied, ‘I’m on a student visa.’

‘Oh, I see, I see. Let me think about it for some time.’ Then he gave a particularly oleaginous smile, which extended to a grin, and slipped into his man-of-the-world mode. ‘Heh, heh, heh, we have to help each other out, don’t we? In this country, we need to stick to each other and have our own community.’

Ritwik wasn’t sure if that was a hope held out or a discouraging reminder that he stood outside the community.

The Hindi film songs had resumed playing upstairs. There was no sign of Mrs Haq. The voice of one girl was briefly heard over the song and then, silence. The younger of the two girls came into the living room; there was a large red bindi in the centre of her forehead, a few more bangles on her thin arms, a dupatta , presumably her mother’s, wrapped many times around her child’s body and a hair clip in the shape of a butterfly, pink, spangled and enormous, poised precariously on her head. She went to her father, not walking, but with the stylized movements of a Hindi film actress in a song-and-dance number, all the while her eyes fixed on Ritwik. There was a loud call — ‘Ameeee-naaa’ — from upstairs and she swiftly hid behind her father. Ameena was going to be in trouble with her mother for dressing up to the nines. Ritwik left the house with a strange, lonely feeling of unbelonging and perhaps, just perhaps, envy.

‘Dighi Bari’,

Nawabgunj,

Bograh Distt.

Bengal. May 1905

Dear Violet,

There is Swadeshi on everyone’s lips, in the food we eat, the clothes we wear — I feel we are breathing it in with the very air. The papers here are full of the impending Partition, the towns and villages resounding with meetings resolving to boycott English goods. The papers call them ‘monster meetings’ and ‘mass meetings’and‘giant rallies’;there are tens of thousands of people gathering everywhere to protest against the division of Bengal which must surely happen soon so why this public furtiveness on the part of Simla I do not understand. My head is full of this accumulating dissatisfaction against the Government, so eloquently expressed, so ubiquitous — meetings in Khulna, Pubna, Rungpoor, Chittagong, Rajshahi, Dinajepoor, Cooch Behar, Presidency College, Eden Hindu Hostel, Ahiritolla. The head reels with the sheer number of these protests — it seems everyone has taken to the streets.

Is it as hectic and mad in Calcutta as I understand from the papers? Are people congregating everywhere? They say here that the boycott of English goods is beginning to bite in Manchester, in Lancashire; even salt from Liverpool has come under the sway of Swadeshi Boycott. The traders are an odd combination of revolutionary euphoria and apprehensiveness, the Bombay cloth mills I read are gearing themselves up for a steep rise in production, while there is the usual division and debate about the comparative merits and demerits of Manchester dhoti versus the Swadeshi dhoti; it is widely acknowledged that Swadeshi cloth will never be able to rival Manchester products in quality and niceness, while the more patriotic allege loudly that Swadeshi cloth is far more durable than English fabric. The Bengali babu is in a quandary: betrayal and luxury on one hand, righteous patriotism and discomfort on the other. I have, of course, politely expressed my desire to Mr Roy Chowdhury that I shall be more than willing to try out Swadeshi goods if that does not extend to my soap: I shall remain loyal to my Pears forever.

Mr Roy Chowdhury explains the complicated business of Trade Boycotts and Surplus and other well-nigh incomprehensible things to me: I sit and nod sagely. He is getting more and more pensive by the day; it has been over a year now that I haven’t seen him without furrowed brow. Bimala has announced her decision to forsake all things foreign: needless to say, she’s having great difficulties — her piano, her silk blouses, her combs, her dressing table, her mirror, her perfumes, her knitting needles, everything is ‘foreign’ — but is putting on a brave face and continuing to wear dull, white cotton saris. I hope her new decision doesn’t extend to me or to the English songs on which we’ve been making such wonderful progress.

Dear Violet, write to let me know all the news from Calcutta: it must see much more than our share of the gathering storm. Will you tell me all about it? I wait with equal parts dread and excitement.

Ever your loving friend,

Maud

Mr Roy Chowdhury comes in during a lesson one day, unannounced and apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt your. .’ he begins, but Miss Gilby interrupts him, ‘Not at all, not at all, please sit down’, before he has had a chance to finish his sentence.

‘Bimala here was telling me,’ she continues, ‘that in the true spirit of swadeshi we should be reading only Bengali books and translating from them as part of our language exercises rather than reading English-language books. I was just on the point of mentioning to her whether asking you to adjudicate would be a fair move. And you walked in, as if you had read our thoughts.’ Miss Gilby smiles, but there is a hint of reserve somewhere behind the thin mouth.

The information gently inflects his question to Bimala. ‘Bimala, is this true?’

This is the first time Miss Gilby has heard him use a language other than his mother tongue in conversation with his wife. Bimala remains tongue-tied and her gaze is steadfastly fixed on to the floor, whether out of the novelty of having to speak to her husband in English or out of the incipient conflict implied in the situation,Miss Gilby cannot ascertain with any degree of sureness.

Mr Roy Chowdhury speaks again, ‘Well, Bimala, I’m sure Miss Gilby thinks it is a good idea but will you abandon playing the piano, or singing your favourite English songs as well?’

Before Bimalahas a chance to answer, Mr Roy Chowdhury turns to Miss Gilby andadds, ‘Did you know, Miss Gilby, our Bimala has become a veritable revolutionary. Swadeshi, swadeshi, swadeshi : she doesn’t seem to think of anything else. Even while humming English songs, or asking her darzee to design a new blouse from a Dickins and Jones catalogue, she thinks and speaks of swadeshi .’ His voice cracks with good-natured and affectionate laughter.Miss Gilby and Bimala, too, follow suit after a few seconds’ hesitation.