Buddhadeva Bose - My Kind of Girl

Engrossed in my thoughts, I suddenly heard Bina’s voice, “A penny for your thoughts.”

I replied immediately, “I’m going to Darjeeling.” It sounded discordant even to my own ears.

“Why?”

“Just like that — on a holiday.”

“When?”

“Early next month,” I said.

“Which means very soon. .”

“Very soon. .”

Bina suddenly stopped and said, “Let’s wait, they’ve fallen a long way behind.”

There it was. Since I was off to Darjeeling in a week, why break the routine for the remaining few days? My daily visits continued, and the promenade to the lake became a regular feature too. Bina’s sister was the most enthusiastic about them, running into people from the neighborhood every day and leaving us to chat with them. Bina and I walked a little, sat a little, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent. We discussed many issues those days by the lake, and, amazingly, discovered we thought alike on most of them.

On the first of June, Bina said, “When are you going?”

“Going? Where?”

“So you’re not going to Darjeeling.”

To hide my embarrassment I explained unnecessarily. “Yes, of course I’m going — just that I’m attending to an important case right now, so. .”

“You’re definitely going?”

“Definitely.” The more I said it the more my obstinacy grew — yes, I had to go.

Bina looked at the waters of the lake for a while and suddenly said, “No, don’t go.”

“Not go? What are you saying?” I could feel the tremor in my own voice.

“No, don’t go,” Bina said again. “You don’t know — they’ve really — fixed everything. . for the twenty-ninth — but I cannot — I cannot marry that court officer in trousers. .”

Her description didn’t make me smile, for I regularly dressed the same way, doctors had to. I said severely, “Not everybody looks as good as Ramen in trousers, but that doesn’t mean. .”

Bina took the words out of my mouth, “But that doesn’t mean this idiotic character. .”

I spoke like her guardian, “Should such a thing be said about a respectable gentleman?”

“So, why doesn’t the gentleman stay a gentleman? Take my word for it, none of what they’re expecting will actually happen.”

“But surely you have to get married.”

“Why must I?”

“You’re not a child — you know perfectly well. .”

“You think so too!” said Bina, and gazed at the water again. I looked in turn at her eyes and at the water. They seemed similar to me; black and white, bright and moist.

Suddenly Bina turned to me and said, “No — I cannot — you mustn’t go — you must save me.”

“Me? How can I save you?”

As soon as I asked, I knew the question was meaningless; Bina had answered it long ago!

Ramen was the first to arrive on hearing the news. He leaped in the air, embraced me and spun me around, tipped the servants five rupees each — then left in a whirl and returned an hour later, in a whirl. Handing me an emerald ring and a sari with silver work on it, he said, “Here’s your pre-wedding gift. Don’t forget to visit the Duttas in the evening — they’ve just got back.”

Mr. Dutta smiled when I met him. “What’s all this I hear?”

“So it really turned out to be the ‘new nest’ for you,” said Mrs. Dutta.

“So I see. The new nest for the new guest — it even rhymes,” joked Mr. Dutta.

“Of course it’ll match. The match that they’ve made will now ensure that.”

The couple continued in this vein for a while, and I laughed like a fool, red with embarrassment.

The days passed in a whirl. On the one side were the sharp verbal darts from the two future sisters-in-laws — here too Mr. Dutta found a rhyme, pointing out that brave hearts attract verbal darts — while on the other was the business of finding a new house, buying things needed to set up home. Ramen went everywhere with me, arranging everything. I’d never have been able to do it all myself. And then — and then what else but the arrival of June twenty-ninth? I went to the new house. Ramen had been there since morning — he was the sole representative from the groom’s side, and I still recall the exhilaration shining on his handsome face. Suddenly I felt a little sad too. It was he who had aroused Bina — and I was the one she had ended up with. Was I, then, just someone who was conveniently available? Had it been someone else at hand instead of me, would the outcome have been the same? Perhaps even that court officer in trousers? After our wedding, I had asked Bina about this and she replied, with that air particular to a bride, “Uff!” Later, she added that she wanted to laugh when she thought about the scene she had created because of her infatuation with Ramen. Wanted to laugh? Already? On the chance that she had not married me, after a few months would she have — but it was ridiculous, why think of all these alternatives, life with Bina had turned out to be perfectly happy.

The doctor’s testimony was received with excitement. The contractor might have been feeling drowsy earlier but as he heard the tale of The New Nest he laughed loudly several times, and even on the well-formed lips of the man from Delhi there appeared a faint line of amusement. Only the writer seemed lifeless, silent, with his hands in his pocket, his head lowered, but he was the first to speak when the doctor stopped.

“This was a matchmaking story, not a love story.”

“All right,” said the Delhi man. “Now we’ll hear the love story from you.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly three.”

“Nearly three? How long the night is! How terribly cold! No news of our train yet?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then let’s try for some sleep — even in our chairs won’t be too bad.”

The contractor spoke in a voice hoarse from having been up all night. “Nothing doing. You cannot escape. It’s your turn now.”

The writer stood up abruptly, taking his hands out of his pockets and rubbing them together, then rapidly pacing around the room a few times. After this little show, he sat down again and said, ill-temperedly, “Love story? When it’s as cold as this? Fine, all right.”

All three of us fell in love with her: Asit, Hitangshu, and I. In the old Paltan area of Dhaka, back in 1927. The same Dhaka, the same Paltan, the same overcast morning.

The three of us lived in the same neighborhood. The first house in the area was called Tara Kutir. Hitangshu’s family lived in it; his father was a retired sub-judge who had made a lot of money and built a huge house at the head of the main road. Tara Kutir was the foremost house in the neighborhood, in all senses: the first and the best. Gradually, many more houses sprouted on the land that used to be infested with grass and burrs, but none of them could match up to Tara Kutir.

We arrived some years later, when the roof to Asit’s family’s house was being laid; Asit had arrived second, just before me. There was a time when ours were the only three houses in the old Paltan area; the rest of it was uneven ground, dust and mud, yellowish green frogs soaking in ankle-high monsoon water and plump, wet, green grass. The same Dhaka, the same Paltan, the same overcast afternoon.

The three of us always stuck together, as much and as long as possible. Every morning Asit would wake me at dawn, calling “Bikash, Bikash,” standing near the window at the head of my bed, and I would rise quickly and join him outside. Inevitably I’d see him waiting on his bicycle, one foot on the ground — he was so tall that my elbow hurt when I put my arm around his shoulder. Hitangshu didn’t have to be summoned; he’d be waiting already by their small garden gate, or sitting on the low wall. Then Asit would ride off on the paved road to school, engineering school, while Hitangshu and I would roam around, hand in hand. The wind smelled of something, of someone, I can smell it still, I can remember something, someone.