Amit Chaudhuri: Real Time: Stories and a Reminiscence

“Yes, dadababu,” said Bishu, happy that Mr. Banerjee’s attention had focused upon him. He glanced behind him.

A man who had so far been in the background stepped forward — a thin man with a lined face, his hair combed backward; he was not more than forty years old. He bowed briefly to Mr. Banerjee. “Namashkar, shaheb,” he said. Mr. Banerjee, pipe in one hand, said to Bishu:

“You know this man?”

“Oh yes!” said Bishu, smiling broadly again. “He is from Khurda district — our district, dadababu!”

“What is your name?” asked Mr. Banerjee.

“Jagan, dadababu,” said the man, bending a little.

He was wearing a yellow cotton shirt and a dhoti.

“You have some experience?” said Mr. Banerjee. He glanced at his wristwatch, because he had to go out.

“I am working for two years at house in Ballygunge Circular Road as watchman,” said the man.

“Then why did you leave?” asked Mr. Banerjee. Glancing at him, one could see he had been out of work for some time.

“Dadababu, children went to America and babu sold house to company,” said the man.

“What is his name?” said Mr. Banerjee.

“Bhattacharya,” said Jagan.

“Bhattacharya … Where is he now?”

“He moved to flat in Landsdowne Road,” said the man.

Mr. Banerjee sighed and said:

“I will put you to work as mali’s helper on three hundred rupees. If you work, you will get a raise in salary. When can you start?”

“I will start right now,” said the man. “Only, babu, three hundred rupees is too little, I have two daughters in the village…”

Mr. Banerjee waved him away.

“Start now, and we will see.”

When they came out of the house, Bishu walked across the lawn and Jagan followed him. The lawn was green and bright. They came to the outhouse, and Bishu took him inside to a room on the right that was adjacent to the stairway to the first storey. It was a small bare room with sunlight coming through the barred window, and it had a narrow bed. “You’ll stay here,” he said. Jagan put the silver-coloured trunk he was carrying on the ground.

“Where can I have a bath?” he asked Bishu.

“There is a bathroom and toilet near the garage,” said Bishu. “I’ll show you. Do you want to bathe now?”

The man nodded and smiled.

“I’ve travelled a long way and I want to get the dust off my body.”

“Then come with me,” said Bishu.

He shoved the trunk carefully beneath the bed, and walked back with Bishu across the lawn towards the back of the white house. Sunlight was in the air.

“Did Mejda send any message?” asked Bishu.

“He was only asking me tell you that he is well,” replied the man.

“Where were you staying before this?”

“Near Shyambazaar. Very far,” said Jagan, smiling.

When they came to the bathroom near the garage, Jagan shrugged off his shirt and went in.

* * *

“NEW MAN IS COME TODAY,”said Bishu to his wife.

He was sitting on his haunches on the floor, with his back to the bed. Uma was stirring something on the stove, and its smell had filled the room.

“Where is he staying?” she asked.

“He is downstairs,” he said. He got up from the floor. “Let me see if he is there. He might want eating some daal.” And swiftly he had gone down the stairs, and he came back slowly after a couple of minutes. “He’s not there.”

The child was sleeping on the bed with her thumb in her mouth. Bishu squatted on the floor again and said:

“I thinks about bringing my brother Amal from the village. I was speaking to Mejda about it.” He looked at her defensively, expecting an outburst. But she went on stirring the pan; in the cup of one palm she collected some onion peelings and threw them out of a window on the right.

“Where will he stay?”

She had never seen any of Bishu’s family except Mejda. She and Bishu had married two years ago, in secret, after a brief courtship in this lane. She had been working in the big multi-storeyed building opposite, on the seventh floor. She had left the job one day and got married without telling didimoni, although didimoni had always been kind to her. But now she was back on good terms with her and visited her from time to time. She had been married once before, but her husband had already had a wife, and so she left the village and came to Calcutta. At the time of her marriage to Bishu, she was already pregnant, and she had had Priti a few months later.

“I asks dadababu,” said Bishu guiltily. “Maybe he gives Amal some work.”

“Wake the child,” said Uma. “She has to eat.”

* * *

THE NEXT NIGHT,it began to rain again. It was late July, the middle of the monsoons, but it had been so hot over the last four or five days that everyone had almost forgotten the rains; it felt like April. But now, at night, it began to rain again with the intensity it had had before, as if to remind people that the monsoons had not gone away. There were flashes of lightning that illuminated the small room on the first storey, Uma’s figure on the bed, sleeping in her sari, with the child, a smaller and darker shadow by her side, seeming even more deeply asleep, unilluminated by the lightning. When there were those vast unexpected rumbles of thunder, the room seemed to shake, and the sky seemed to be falling on it.

“Close that window,” said Uma, still no more than an outline.

“Always raining … always raining,” muttered Bishu.

He got up from the mattress on the floor and went to the window; a cool wind blew onto his face. He pulled the window; already the ledge was wet, and he saw that the rain had begun to blur the lamppost opposite. When he closed the window, the room became darker, but all night it continued to thunder and the sound of rain could be heard. Although Bishu feared the rains and the damage they could do, he was also glad, because it had become cooler and he slept more comfortably.

The next morning the sun was out, but there were puddles of water on parts of the lawn. The sour-faced old mali, in a dhoti and a shirt, was bent over the plants and muttering something. Leaves and branches had fallen on the side of the driveway and had to be thrown away; the birds in the trees had returned to their normal life and business and could be heard all day. But, once more, that night it rained, and it continued to rain, on and off, for the next ten days. It brought chaos to the lane, Southern Gardens, and morning would begin with drivers shouting at each other and car horns being blown because water had collected at the entrance to the lane and made getting out difficult. “Now it’s really begun,” thought Bishu. The days were monochromatic and dull, with light like a suggestion. Then, on the tenth day, when the rain had reduced to a drizzle and there was sun and rain at the same time, the mali shouted to Bishu as he was passing by the lawn, “Ei Bishu, where’s that man of yours?” Bishu stopped. “Which man, dadu?” he asked. “‘Which man, dadu?’—why, that Oriya you brought here — I haven’t seen him for the last three days! Has he come here to work or sleep?” “I’ll see, dadu,” mumbled Bishu, and went off quickly, ashamed. After all, he was a man from his district; but, come to think of it, Bishu hadn’t seen much of Jagan during the last seven days, either, though that could be because he had been busy with other things during the rains; anyway, he worked inside the house and returned to his room only in the evening. But he decided he would look into Jagan’s room later.

In the evening, before going upstairs, he stood outside Jagan’s door and called: “Jaganda, are you there?” A voice came from inside: “I’m here.” Bishu went in, saying, “It’s just that mali was asking me about you — he hasn’t seen you for a few days.” Jagan was lying on the bed; he said, “I began to feel ill two days ago, and I haven’t been well — it’s these rains.” His voice was hoarse, and Bishu went up to him and felt his forehead. “You have fever,” he said. “Yes, it came a few days ago,” said Jagan, “but it’s getting better.” “Okay, then you rest tomorrow,” said Bishu, turning around to leave. Then he saw a mat rolled up against the wall, and Jagan said, “My aunt’s son is staying with me for a few days. He needs a place to stay, and I told him to stay with me for a few days. I don’t know the ways of this place — is it all right?” Bishu thought for a few seconds; he knew it wasn’t done, but he decided not to give it too much importance. “It’s all right, Jaganda,” he said. “You don’t worry.”