The Book

The afternoon deepened into evening. Shadows lengthened on the ground. Soon it would be night. I could feel desperation clouding my thoughts. I had nowhere to go. There was not a soul I could turn to for help. I was alone, alone with a suitcase and some money, a sixteen year old girl who had never been away from home before.

Two months ago, euphoric over the first division I had achieved in my school leaving exams, I had begged my parents to let me come to Guwahati and enrol in Cotton College. Papa had laughed in the beginning, teasing me about the fact that I couldn't even wake up on my own and Ma had joined in, lamenting my inability to even make a cup of tea. I had made a bargain with them. I would enrol myself in the college and get a hostel seat. If I did not get a hostel seat I would go back home to Dibrugarh. I had a friend Sruti in Guwahati. I stayed

there for two days. Today 1 enrolled myself in the college but I could not get a hostel seat. It seemed unthinkable to go back to Oibrugarh just because of that. I could also not think of staying indefinitely with Sruti. They were very nice people but their house was small and I needed privacy. Packing my suitcase I set off early this morning. I scouted around and came across several women's hostels.

However they were all full. Had I been a boy I could spend the night at the waiting room of a railway station. But now .....

I was now in Manik Nagar. I walked past a vegetable market and into a narrow lane between rows of old, ramshackle houses. The road swept past a field lined with Krishnachuras. In the middle ofthe field was a temple of red sandstone. A beU pealed. The aroma of incense, ghee and sandalwood drifted out. I was never very religious but now I took off my sandals, put down my suitcase and entered the portals. A dark Krishna, carved out of black marble stood in the sanctum sanctorum, playing the flute. There was a garland of marigolds round his neck. Asjoined my hands in prayer I had a feeling I had come here before. The gloomy interior of the temple, the pealing bells, the black

Krishna ........ it was so familiar. A purohit, clad in a saffron dhoti

appeared from somewhere. He daubed my forehead with sindoor and blessed me.

"Where is Mohan?" I asked in a whisper.

The old purohit was silent for a while. "You knew Mohan? The fever got him. He p.assed away five years ago ..... my child". In my mind's eye. I saw a tall fair priest with a mole on the side of his nose. Mohan ..... how did I know about him? The old priest stared curiously at me as I hastily got up. wore my slippers, picked up my suitcase and fled outside. The air was cool but I was sweating. Behind the temple was a large pond almost smothered by water-hyacinth. A flock of ducks paddled in a clear stretch of water. I was breathing in short, jerky gasps. I sat down on my haunches by the side ofthe pond. It was then, on the other side of the pond, that I saw the two storeyed house. I saw the large windows and the rounded pillars, the walls cracked and the paint peeling, patches of moss here and there. A wave of panic engulfed me. This was the house I had often dreamed about since my early chilhood ..... every curve and line of the house was known to me. How often I

had awakened and felt a great restlessness troubling me, a heavy yearning to enter that house. And now that house really existed and I was sitting by the pond watching it, feeling I had come home.

I knew then I would stay in this house. It had been ordainesI by destiny. Those dreams had some meaning. I went round the pond and climbed the steps to the firsl floor. I stared at the door knob, the brass head of a lion tarnished with age. I had seen that too. I knocked the door. There was silence, then the sound of approaching footsteps. The bolts slid back and the door was opened by a thin dour- faced woman of about fifty. She had hooded eyes and pursed her lips with displeas­ure as she asked me.

"What do you want?"

"Do you have a room you can rent?" I asked hopefully. "Go away, the master is sleeping."

"There is a room on the top floor" I said firmly. "It has been empty for years."

With a muttered oath she slammed the door on my face.

I was not one to give in so easily. They had to let me live here. It was my home .... those dreams were real. I sat on the steps of the house and waited. I did not have to wait long. Just as the fiery ball ofthe sun sank in the west. I saw a boy riding a bicycle come towards the house. He was a fair, curly-haired boy, about my age, with deep-set eyes and a sensitive mouth.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Hello." I smiled. "My name is Ruchi. I am looking for a room to

stay in "

"Sorry, we don't let out rooms."

I gave him a winsome smile. "There's a first time for everything.

You have such a big house. I know there's a vacant room on the terrace. I'm willing to pay you anything you ask for."

"The room on the terrace!" he looked surprised. "How do you know its vacant?"

"It was a wild guess." I hedged. flY ou'lliet me have it won't you? I won't be any trouble, promise."

"I'll have to see," he demurred.

"Why don't you come in and we can discuss about it."

The dour-faced woman opened the door again. She eyed me malevolently as I followed the boy into the room. It was actually a large gloomy hall with old, heavy furniture arranged haphazardly. The boy switched on the chandelier and I could see several bulbs missing. A faded carpet covered the floor. There was a film of dust everywhere. The boy went to an inner room and came back with a bunch of keys.

"My father is blind", he told me. "He's an invalid. Rathebai here tends to him day and night. I have to go to college and don't have much time for him. For some time he's been looking for someone to read him the paper. If you help us out in that I'll let you have the terrace room. Will that be alright?"

"Oh, yes," I said, hugely relieved.

And soon I was following him up the steep flight of stairs to the rooftop. The view from the terrace waS beautiful. I could see the rolling Nabagraha hills, the evening star glittering over the temple, the smooth, dark field in front of the house and the pond. Ranajoy, for that was the boy's name, struggled with the lock in the darkness. When it sprang open he stepped aside to let me enter the room. The door creaked open and there was a frantic beating of wings and two pigeons flew straight at me. With a cry I dropped my suitcase and shielded my face. Then they swept out of the door.

Both of us laughed, though a little shakily. It was a small semi­circular room. Ranajoy lit a candle and struck it on top of a dresser. There was an enormous four-poster bed with a sagging mattress on it.

"I'm afraid there's no electricity in this room," he said apologetically."

I'll ask Rathebai to light a lamp for you. You don't mind, do you?"

"You've been very kind. How much do I pay for this room?"

"Oh, anything you wish" ,he said bashfully. "And another thing, don't bother about cooking your meals. You can always join us downstairs. And when you're with my father, don't ever say you're staying in this

room ........ ! "

"Why?" I asked curiously.

"Oh, its nothing ... .its just that it was my mother's room .... " saying

that he went out of the door and I could hear him running down the stairs ....

Next to my turret shaped room was a bathroom with running water.

I took a long leisurely bath. Then wrapped in my dressing gown I stood for a long time on the terrace. The candle in my room sputtered out. I hated the idea of spending the night in total darkness. Then at about 9.30 Ranajoy came up with a tray offood and a lamp. Arranging a dish of steaming rice, a bowl of fish curry and cucumber slices on the dressing table, he urged me to eat. I pulled up a stool and began eating. He sat on the bed and putting a harmonica to his lips, began to playa sad, haunting tune. He continued to play on long after I finished eating. I sat by him and listened. Idly, my eyes fell on my shadow on the wall. Goose bumps prickled my arms. I was thin and had short hair, but the shadow was of a plump woman with long curly hair cascading down her shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Ranajoy asked. "Did I bore you?"

"N ... not at all. It was wonderful. It's just that I've had a long day and would.like to sleep now."

"Of course .... how thoughtless of me", he got up from the bed, piled the dish and bowl onto a tray and paused at the door.

"Bolt the door securely" he said. "And leave the lamp on if you're scared of the dark."

I don't know what came over me but I went up to him, and standing on tip-toe, kissed him on the forehead.

"Goodnight". I said softly. I then bolted the door and blew out the lamp. I did not want to be bothered with strange shadows .....

Ranajoy's father was a tall, rangy man in his early fifties. He had a shock of grey hair and a long, angular face with a square jaw. He was reclining in an armchair in a study lined with books from floor to ceiling. The sight of his blind, clouded eyes made my heart ache with pity. He sensed at once that I was in the room and motioned me to a settee beside him. Ranajoy had told him about me and he looked impatient to have me read the paper for him. There was President's rule in Gujarat. House was placed under suspended animation. Three NSCN men were killed bythe paramilitary forces. Mother Teresa was released from hospital. India would not sign the CTBT. He listened intently, his head

inclined to one side, his forehead lined in concentration. I moved to the inner pages. Jealous husband kills wife. Ramendra Kumar, suspecting his wife's fidelity, set his wife on fire at their Model Town residence.

"Stop," his voice was sharp. "That will be enough for today. You may go now." Suddenly be looked ill and haggard. I folded the paper, put it by his side and left the house. I was getting late for college.

My first day in college. It was a memorable day. Sruti and I sat together. We were ragged by the seniors. I was made to sing a song. Sruti had to show a yogic pose. There was no malice involved. It was good, clean fun. As we came out of the history class in the old Arts building. I saw Ranajoy walking towards us. So he too studied in Cotton College. He looked pleased to see me and I blushed, remebering how I had kissed him the previous night. He insisted on us joining him for cold drinks and we accompanied him to the canteen.

We chatted about this and that and Sruti went off for the last class.

Ranajoy and I went to the post office. I wrote a short letter to my parents telling them not to worry as I had found suitable accommodation. Your loving .... daughter .... my head began to ache. The clamourofthe crowds seemed to fade away. My hand was unsteady ... .! couldn't remember my name ....it was as ifmy memory had blanked out.

"Ruchi"Ranajoy's voice came from far away. "Hurry up, we've got to catch a bus home."

Ruchi. That was it. That was my name. Relieved, I scribbled it down hurriedly, wrote the address on the postcard and dropped it on the letter box. But on the way back home, doubts nagged my mind .... what was happening to me? why couldn't I remember my own name? I did not know it then, stranger things were in store for me.

A week has passed by. I am busy with my studies. I meet Ranajoy at dinner. For lunch I have a snack at the college canteen. I read the paper for his father, careful not to mention murders and suicides. A week seems like a month, maybe a year. It seems I have been living in the turret room for ages. For some reason Rathebai absolutely refuses

to come to my room. Ranajoy had ordered her to sweep and swab the floor once a day and she threatened to walk out if she was forced to come to my room. Perhaps she did not like me. The malevolence was clear in her face from the first day. She had been Ranajoy's mother's maid and had come to the house as part of her dowry.

"When my mother died." Ranajoy informed me. "I was only a year old. She has looked after me ever since. She is a sourpuss but very loyal. I don't know what father and I would have done without her.

"How did your mother die". I asked.

" I-I wouldn't like to talk about it, if you don't mind." "Well." I said uneasily "I'm sorry I asked."

A month passed away. My life was moving at a placid, well­ordered pace. But it was the nights that kept me awake. I would be up and about till two in the morning, pacing the terrace, looking at the stars, the lights of the city, hearing the howling of dogs, the harsh shriek of the night jar. Whenever I tried to sleep I had a feeling of falling

down from a great height, the air rushing up from my bed .

One night to divert my mind. I started scribbling on a piece of paper.

What hands will

One day touch this page Stock it in attics

Sell it to men

Who call out

Patiently in noon-day heat for paltry coins

Willingly part

With children of my heart These, so long hidden

from the world

Go out orphans to

Street corners, markets Other homes, wrapped Crumpled, tinged with mould Burned, or buried, in backyards of alien homes this, and not my flesh

Will be the final death. ........ .

As I finished writing I don't know what came over me but I began to weep. My body heaved with uncontrollable sobs. My heart was heavy with love for Ranajoy and pity for his father. My eyes fell on my shadow on the wall. Once again the plump outline and the curly tresses rippling down the shoulders. I knew one thing for certain. I was possessed. And the process had begun years ago ... my childhood dreams· about the house were proof of it... .....

The next day was a Sunday. Early in the morning Ranajoy came bounding up the steps asking how I would like to go trekking up the Nabagraha hills. I was thrilled. I quickly donned my peagreen dress and we set out. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky. We climbed the steep slope chatting and pausing now and then to catch our breaths. The wind tugged at our clothes and ruffled our hair as we sto'od on top, watching the city spread out at our feet, hearing the faint hum of traffic. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Ranajoy to put his arm around me. Then I said.

"I wrote a poem last night. Would you like to hear it." "Wow, are you a poet too ... "

"No, I said." I have never written poetry before. This is my first

attempt."

"Let's hear it..."

I began. "What hands will one day touch this page ..... " When I finished he kept on staring at me.

"What's wrong?" I laughed uncertainly. "Don't you like it.. .. " "Why did you do this, Ruchi?" he asked after a while.

"Do what?" I demanded.

"Why did you pass off someone's poem as your own?"

"It's my poem", I said hotly "Every word is mine, do you under­stand? I think your're just plain jealous I wrote it so well."

He took his arm from my shoulder. "Come with me", his tone was cold. "I have to show you something."

We descended the hill and walked back to the house in silence. I sulked in my room. After some time he came back with an old leather bound diary. Flipping rapidly over the pages he stopped at a page.

"Read this", he said harshly.

"It's the last poem my mother wrote the day she died."

The handwriting was firm and slanting. The words leaped up at me. "What hands will one day touch this page .... "

My mouth turned dry. It was an exact replica of the poem I had written last night. I looked at the date-16th November 1980. That was the day his mother had died. And it was the day I was born. The room seemed to whirl around me. Ranajoy caught me by the waist as I fainted.

For three days I had high fever. Whenever I closed my eyes I had a sensation of falling from a great height. Ranajoy decided I would be shifted to a downstairs room. He carried me to a room next to his father's I remembered the priest I had met in the Krishna temple the day I came to the house. I begged Ranajoyto fetch him. Siddhantpurohit sat on a chair beside my bed and read from the Gita. Smoke curled up from incense sticks burning from a holder on the table. When Ranajoy left the room I whispered to the purohit.

"Tell me about the mistress of this house ......... "

"It was all so long ago. She was a beautiful artistic woman who could not get along well with her husband. Ranajoy's father worked in a company and he was constantly travelling. Ranajoy was born in the room upstairs. Sometimes she used to come to the temple where she met Mohan a young priest who worked with me. Mohan and she would meet on the terrace in the evenings. He would recite the Bhagavad Gita to her. Her husband did not approve much ofthese meetings and told me to keep Mohan away from her. Shortly after that she jumped from the terrace one winter night. People used to say her husband

pushed her in a fit of rage ........ who knows what happened "

Rathebai came to the room with a glass of milk for me. I struggled out of my bed and grabbed her wrist. The glass of milk toppled down and smashed on the floor.

"It was you !" I cried out hoarsely. "You were in love with Mohan but he paid no heed to you. He shared a bond with your mistress and you could not endure it."

"Let me go .. " her lips were drawn back in a snarl. "How do you know what happened?"

Ranajoy had now come into the room.

"She pushed your mother that winter night." I wept. "She died the

night I was born. Ranajoy, don't you recognise me ?"

Fear and amazement flitted across his face. He loosened my grip on Rathebai and led me back to bed. The purohit gently sprinkled holy water on me. I at once drifted off to a deep sleep.

On the following Sunday. Ranajoy helped me pack my suitcase. I was going to leave their home forever. It was best that way, to make a clean break with the past. But I knew the ties of blood would bind me to Ranajoy, my pilgrim soul had once been his mother's .... I had not believed 'in these things but miracles happen .... and I was the chosen one. Rathebai has vanished without a trace. I may see my own shadow on the wall.... and Ranajoy's mother will rest in peace.

But who can tell where she ends and I begin?