Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

Manju looked again at the director’s invitation. The studio was in Tollygunge, at the end of the number 4 tram line, which she took to college every day. All she’d have to do was head in the other direction. It wouldn’t take long to get there. She decided to go — just to see what it was like.

But now a host of practical problems came suddenly to the surface. What was she to wear, for instance? Her ‘good’ Benarasi silk, the sari she wore to weddings, was locked in her mother’s almirah. If she were to ask for it her mother would wring the truth out of her in a matter of minutes and that would be the end of the screen test. Besides, what would people say if she stepped out of the house bedecked in a crimson and gold Benarasi at eleven in the morning? Even if she succeeded in slipping past her mother, the whole neighbourhood would be in an uproar before she got to the end of the street.

She decided that the director wouldn’t have gone looking for a college girl if he wanted a fancily dressed-up actress. She settled upon the best of her white cottons, the one with small green checks. But as soon as this was resolved, a dozen new dilemmas seemed to follow. What about make-up? Powder? Lipstick? Perfume?

The morning came and predictably everything went wrong. The sari she’d decided on wasn’t back from the dhobi’s; she had to choose another one, much older, with a sewn-over tear in the anchal. Her hair wouldn’t stay in place, and no matter how hard she tucked in her sari, the hem kept creeping down and tripping her. On her way out, she stepped into the puja room to say a prayer — not because she so badly wanted to be chosen, but just so that she would be able to get through the next few hours without making a fool of herself.

Sure enough, her mother spotted her coming out of the puja room. ‘Manju, is that you? What were you doing in the puja room? Are you in some kind of trouble?’ She peered suspiciously into Manju’s face: ‘And why’ve you got powder all over you? Is that any way to dress when you’re going to college?’

Manju slipped away under the pretence of going to the bathroom to wipe her face. She walked quickly down the road to the tram stop. Keeping her face down, she looped her sari over her head, hoping that the neighbours wouldn’t notice that she was waiting for the wrong tram. Just when she thought she’d managed to get by without drawing attention to herself, old Nidhu-babu came running out of the Lake Road Pharmacy.

‘Is that really you, Manju- didimoni ?’ He hitched up his dhoti and bent double so that he could look up into her sari-shrouded face. ‘But why are you waiting on the wrong side of the street? This way you’ll end up in Tollygunge.’

Quelling her panic, she managed to invent a story about going to visit an aunt.

‘Oh?’ said the pharmacist, scratching his head. ‘But then, you must come and wait in the shop. You shouldn’t be standing out in the sun.’

‘I’m all right, really,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right. You should go back to your shop.’

‘As you say.’ He wandered off, scratching his head, but minutes later, he was back again, with an assistant who was carrying a chair. ‘If you must wait here,’ the old pharmacist said, ‘at least you should sit down.’ His assistant placed the chair at the tram stop and wiped it clean with a flourish.

It seemed easier to give in than to resist. Manju allowed herself to be enthroned on the chair, right beside the dusty tram stop. But within minutes, her worst fears were realised: a crowd gathered round to stare at her.

‘The Roys’ daughter,’ she heard the pharmacist explaining to the crowd. ‘Lives down the road — in that house over there. Going to visit her aunt in Tollygunge. Skipping college.’

Then, to her relief, the tram finally arrived. The pharmacist and his assistant held the others back so that Manju could be the first to step in. ‘I’ll send a note to your mother,’ the old man shouted after her, ‘to let her know that you got off safely to Tollygunge.’

‘No,’ pleaded Manju, wringing her hands and leaning out of the window. ‘There’s really no need. .’

‘What’s that?’ The pharmacist raised a hand to his ear. ‘Yes, I said I’ll send someone to your mother with a note. No, it’s no trouble, none at all. .’

Already shaken by this inauspicious start, Manju was even more put out when she arrived at the studio. She had expected something glamorous — like the Grand Hotel or the Metro Cinema, or the restaurants on Park Street, with their bright lights and red awnings. But instead she found herself walking into a building that looked like a warehouse or a factory, a big shed, with a roof of tin. Carpenters and mistries were hard at work inside, hoisting canvas backdrops and erecting bamboo scaffolding.

A chowkidar led her to a make-up room, a small, windowless cabin, with wooden walls made from sawn-up tea chests. Two women were lounging inside, sprawled in tilted chairs, chewing paan, their gauzy saris shining in the brightly lit mirrors behind them. Their eyes narrowed as they looked Manju over, their jaws moving in perfect unison.

‘Why’s this one dressed like a nurse?’ one of them muttered to the other.

‘Maybe she thinks she’s going into hospital.’

There were cackles of laughter and then a sari was thrust into Manju’s hands, a length of deep purple chiffon with a bright pink border.

‘Go on. Get changed.’

‘Why this?’ Manju ventured in protest.

‘Suits your colour,’ snapped one of the women, cryptically. ‘Put it on.’

Manju glanced around the room, looking for a place to change. There was none.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the women scolded. ‘Be quick. The director’s got an important guest coming today. Can’t be kept waiting.’

In all her adult life Manju had never undressed in front of anyone, not even her mother. When it dawned on her that she would have to strip under the appraising scrutiny of these two paan-chewing women, her legs went numb. The courage that had brought her thus far began to seep away.

‘Go on,’ the women hurried her. ‘The director’s bringing a businessman who’s going to put up money for the film. He can’t be kept waiting. Everything’s got to be tip-top today.’ One of them snatched the sari out of Manju’s hands and set about changing her clothes. Somewhere nearby a car drew up. This was followed by a patter of welcoming voices. ‘The guest’s arrived,’ someone shouted through the door. ‘Quick, quick, the director will want her any minute now.’

The two women ran to the door to peek at the newly arrived personage.

‘Doesn’t he look important, with that beard and all?’

‘And look at his suit — all dressed up like that. .’

The women came back giggling and thrust Manju into a chair. ‘Just one look and you can tell how rich he is. .’

‘Oh, if he’d only marry me. .’

‘You? Why not me?’

Manju stared into the mirror in an uncomprehending daze. The faces of the two women seemed monstrously large, their smirking lips grotesque in their size and shape. A sharp fingernail scraped her scalp, and she cried out in protest: ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just checking for lice.’

‘For lice?’ Manju cried in outrage. ‘I don’t have lice.’

‘The last one did. And not just on her head.’ This was followed by peals of laughter.

‘How do you know?’ Manju challenged them.

‘The sari was crawling after she’d worn it.’

‘The sari!’ With a shriek Manju leapt out of the chair, clawing at the sari they’d given her, trying to tear it off.

The two women were helpless with laughter. ‘Just a joke.’ They were almost choking on their giggles. ‘It was a different sari. Not this one.’