Buddhadeva Bose - My Kind of Girl

All day and night, Mona Lisa lay on her bed, only half conscious, raving sometimes — so softly you could barely make out what she was saying — but the few words that we could decipher were stored away lovingly in our hearts. Whatever one of us heard simply had to be shared with the other two; whenever we had a spare moment at this busy time, the three of us passed those words around, like three misers gloating over their jewels in a closed room at the dead of night. If she said, “Oh,” it put a flutter in our hearts like the sound of a flute; if she said, “Water,” it made the waters of the rivers brim over within us.

One night, Hitangshu had gone home, Asit was asleep on a mattress on the veranda, only I was awake. A candle burned on the table, large shadows trembled on the walls: the light seemed to be giving up its unequal struggle with the darkness. I couldn’t battle sleep either. Like a pirate, that sleep hacked away my hands and legs, my body melted like wax, every time I whipped myself into not submitting, an enormous wave rose from the depths. As I drowned I mused, Mona Lisa, are you too fighting death this way, is death drawing you in like sleep, still you’re here, how you are here! As soon as this thought came, unbidden, sleep left me, I sat up straight, gazed at your face in that faint light, shadows trembling; that silent moment of greatness at four in the morning. Were you going to die? There was no answer on your face. Were you asleep or awake? No answer. Yet I kept looking, I felt I would surely get the answer, get it from your face, your expression, your voice. And — I watched in amazement — your eyes opened slowly as if in response, widened, after wheeling around wildly they settled on me, your throat acquired a voice: “Who is it?”

I quickly applied the ice bag to her head.

“Who are you?”

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Bikash.”

“Ah, Bikash. Bikash, is it day or night?”

“Night.”

“Won’t the sun rise?”

“Yes, very soon.”

“All right. Can I sleep now?”

I put my hand on her forehead.

“Ah, that feels good.”

“Sleep,” I said.

“You won’t go away, will you?”

“No.”

“You won’t, will you?”

“No.”

You fell asleep, and outside birds began calling. The sun rose.

Raving, fever-induced raving, but let it remain mine, mine alone. I didn’t tell the other two about this exchange, perhaps they too had things of their own that they’d hidden and I didn’t know, that no one else knew. You, Mona Lisa, never got to know, never will know.

Then, finally, you got well. This was good news. As for us, we lost our vocation. On the Sunday that your mother invited us to lunch, about a fortnight after you ate your first full meal, I for one felt that it was our farewell party.

And yet, why? We could now visit anytime, spend time there, play gramophone records for Mona Lisa, plump up the pillows behind her back when she was tired. In the meanwhile, in the sky the white clouds played with the dark, the blue spread itself in between. As soon as autumn arrived they took their daughter off to Ranchi to convalesce, and even then, from the packing to seeing them off on the steamer at Narayanganj, we were with them all the way through.

When the image of Mona Lisa standing on the first-class deck, holding the rail, had faded, I remembered we hadn’t taken the Deys’ address in Ranchi. I wanted to write a letter as soon as we got home and post it, but I just couldn’t.

Asit said, “She’s the one who should write first.”

“But will she?” said Hitangshu despondently.

“Why not, what’s so difficult about writing a letter?”

Who knew what was so difficult, but even twenty days later, there was no letter, though a money order for the rent came, addressed to Hitangshu’s father. We decided to get the address off the money order and write; there seemed no logic to showing our indignation by not writing just because she hadn’t. She was weak, perhaps she hadn’t mended properly yet — it was proper for us to find out how she was. But how would we address her in the letter? Which form of “you” would we use, the formal or the familiar? Of course, she used the familiar form with us, so did we, but how many words had we actually exchanged, surely not so many as to warrant using the same form in writing, gleaming in ink? Besides, what would we write? How are you, all well? That was all we had to say. A lot could be written if we were to talk about how we were, what we were up to, but was Mona Lisa eager to know about us?

When prolonged discussions led to no solution, the other two finally told me to compose our letter. I was chosen because I wrote poetry.

Perspiring that night by the lantern, I prepared a draft. Using a formal mode of address that didn’t require a name, the letter said that we had expected a letter, but that there was none. Twenty-one days had gone by in expectation. Ranchi was wonderful, was it? Of course, it was good if it was, we were happy if that was the case. The ground floor of Tara Kutir was locked up, so old Paltan is dark. There used to be a Petromax light there every evening, you see. Never mind all that, we were conjuring up images of Ranchi. Hills, jungles, red gravel roads, dark-skinned locals. Laughter, joy, health. What an awful illness — may there never be another. But even without anyone falling ill, could it not be arranged so that we could be put to work? Honestly, we couldn’t cope with a life of indolence, the days were dragging. If a letter were to come, at least we’d have to write again, there would be something to do. Our greetings to your parents.

I couldn’t write more without getting myself extricated in the “you” problem. Even this small effort had taken till three in the morning. A look at the paper showed this handful of words, amidst all that were scratched out, twinkling like the sunlight in a darkened jungle. I read our missive several times; one moment, I felt it was quite good; the next, how dreadful, tear it up. I tore it up, too, but before that I copied it onto a nice clean sheet, and the next day we affixed our respective signatures and posted that perfect letter with a prayer.

Dhaka to Ranchi, Ranchi to Dhaka. Four or five days. . all right, six. But no, no letter. Fog in the evening, a little cold. No letter. Summer flowers gave way to winter ones; no letter.

A letter came eventually, or not a letter but a scanty postcard, addressed to Hitangshu and written by her mother. She conveyed Bijoya greetings to dear Hitangshu, Asit, and Bikash, the news was that their days in Ranchi were drawing to a close, they would be back soon, if Hitangshu could get their house unlocked and swept and cleaned this would be a big help. The keys were with his father. And finally, she wrote, Toru was mostly recovered now, she spoke of us sometimes.

She spoke of us sometimes. And our letter? Not even the closest of scrutinies of that postcard revealed any evidence that our letter had arrived. What had happened to it? But where was the time to think of all that — we had to get to work immediately. Within a day we converted the dust laden ground floor of Tara Kutir into a state so spick-and-span you could see your face reflected on the floor. Another postcard a few days later: “Returning on Sunday, come to the station.” Only as far as the station? Off we went to Narayanganj.

Oh, how beautiful Mona Lisa looked, in a pale green sari with a red border, a ruddy glow on her face. She was a little less thin, probably taller too. Lest it became obvious that she was now taller than I was, I stood at a distance, while Hitangshu ran around for lemonade and ice, and Asit harried the porters to get the enormous pieces of luggage loaded onto the train.