The Book

The telephone rang shrilly at six in the morning, I penetrating through the mists of sleep in a way that I thought that the ringing was a part of my dream. It went on and on, like a beast in pain. I stirred, and with a muttered oath reached for it. I remember how cold my hand felt as it emerged from the duvet and the cosy dimness of my room. The voice at the other end was strange, with a guttural accent. It took me few moments to realise that it was your santhal housekeeper Sumathi, that dark saturnine woman who ran your household with such silent efficiency. There was that unmistakable edge of hysteria in her voice as she begged me to come to your house. Something had happened to you. There was a click at the other end and then a silence. I stared stupidly at the receiver, now fully awake.

Then, in a rush, the events of the last few weeks came vividly to mind-the newspaper headlines, the shots of you being taken to court, the dharnaoutside your parlour, the salacious gossip, the endless post mortems on the scandal, the tittering laughter and sly nudges when your name was mentioned ....

Numbly I brushed my teeth, washed my face, wound a sari around my body and combed my hair.

In my heart of hearts I feared the worst. That was why I wore white.

My mind was strangely blank as I drove my Fiat through the deserted streets. The sodium lights cast a diffused light through the ghostly mist. My hands were steady on the steering wheel. During moments of crisis I had learnt to focus my attention on concrete things. My eyes darted frantically to the left and then to the right. Bata, Chowdhury stores, Gazebo fast food, garbage dump, milkman on bicycle, cans clattering. Grows perched on telephone wires. Gaunt man pulling his rickshaw. They were real. My fear wasn't-this was how 1 tried to reassure myself

Then I was climbing the hill that led to your cottage, that haven where you painted and cooked and talked of profound things with me on those days before the shadow fell over your life.

A doctor's car was on the lane outside. The front door was wide open. My footsteps sounded so loud on the gravel walk. For once, you were not there to welcome me With that tinkling laugh, the warmth glowing in your eyes ....

The doctor, a thin stoop shouldered man with an ineffably sad face, was at your bedside. You seemed to be sleeping, Romola.

You were always delicate, now you looked like a child under that coverlet pulled up to your chin. You were opal, alabaster, translucent. Sumathi was kneeling on the floor beside your bed, weeping softly as she gently pushed away a strand of hair from your forehead.

"How?" my voice was a mere whisper and my throat hurt when I uttered it ..

The doctor pointed oto the empty bottle of calmpose tablets beside the pillow. When he spoke, his tone was calm, matter of fact. Death had occurred four hours ago. He had summoned the police. I was to inform your relatives ....

Romola, we have been through it all, the good and the bad.

Now, that your are gone, the truth must be told Romola ....

Do you remember the wrought iron gates of the convent, Romola? The calmness of Mary's visage in that rock grotto near the chapel? I used to wait for you there-I. mousy, short, diffident. waiting for you to run towards me, your hair flying, your face alive with the joy of living, your feet scarcely touching the ground. We held hands, we giggled and whispered and I gladly bit the chewing gum you took out of your mouth. I was terrible in Maths and you did my sums for me under the very nose of old Miss George. And you clapped the loudest when my essays were read out in class. You bought tiny traingular sandwiches or pastries to school and pretended not to

notice when I bit into my plain roti. You rudged me when at Assembly we carolled "Love it was that made us" and helped me shorten my skirt with safety pins.

When the first blood gushed between my thighs it was to you I turned for. help. And when you befriended other girls after one of our quarrels I turned to stone. You saw the emptiness in my eyes, the rigidity of my shoulders and came back to me. I loved you with, an intensity I never felt for anyone, not even a man. I slapped the senior who hit the volleyball in your stomach and you fainted. I helped them carry you to the classroom and loosened your clothes and sprinkled water on your face. My heart almost burst with love for you.

Free from the ugly school uniform, you were beautiful in college with your vibrant saris and daring cholis, the silver toe-rings, the dozen glass bangles, your hair tumbling down your back. What an incongruous pair we made, your beauty and my ugliness, your vivacity and my sullenness, your grace and my awkwardness.

Jealousy seared through me like a knife when Avi came into your life. I tried to extinguish the stars in your eyes. I told you malicious lies about Avi. But you are together everywhere, zipping about in his motorbike, sipping coffee at restaurants, wandering hand-in-hand in the park. It was I who sent that anonYmous letter to your parents. They stopped you from coming to college. You were a prisoner at home.

When I visited you, you wept in my arms, while I lied· to you that Avi was going around with another girl. You believed me Romola and within a month you married the man your family chose for you.

Four months later, I graduated from college. You invited me to spend a week at the bungalow in Balisora Estate where you lived with your tea planter husband. You were frailer ever than before, almost ephemeral. There were bluish shadows under your eyes. You who had always been impeccably groomed, looked shoddy in a worn dressing gown, your hair dishevelled, your face drawn and pale. Pranay, your husband was years older than you. He

was bulky, greasy-haired and uncouth in his manners. He talked with his mouth full, yelled at the servants, cleared his throat noisily. At one point, apropos of nothing he told me crudely. "I like full blooded women. Romola is as bland as continental cusine." Then he threw back his head and bayed with laughter. You sat very still, your head bowed, your finger curled around stem of the China cup. I changed the subject.

Late one evening a full moon rose in the sky and bathed the lawn of the bungalow in.a silver sheen. We sat in the verandah in wicker chairs, silent, absorbed in our thoughts. At about nine Pranay made his way to the outhouse. Ten minutes later a young santhal girl-tall, large-breasted, swung her hips as she made her way to the outhouse. You rapidly gulped the gin and stood on your feet, swaying. Your humiliation was complete. Silently I took your arm, led you to your bedroom. I helped you into bed, pulled the coverlet to your chin, turned off the light and rose to leave.

"Please." You whispered. "Don't go." You sounded so lost, so woebegone. With a lump in my throat I lay down by your side. Moonlight filtered in through the wooden slats of the windows. Somewhere a drum was beating and faint voices rose in song. We lay very still. Then gradually I became aware of the smell of your hair. I touched the curve of your cheek. I felt against my body the gentle swell of your breasts, your hips, the length of your legs. I rubbed your earlobes between my thumb and forefinger, feeling your soft whorls. I kissed you and felt your tongue, sweet as pollen. You gave a little moan, surprise mingled with shame and delight. My mouth found your nipples and they hardened in my tongue. We seemed to be eddying in a slow river of fire. I felt against my cheek the warmth of your belly. Then I explored your secret moist satiny core, petal by petal. We become one. All my love for you over the years burst into light like a shower of sparks. And when you cried, I licked your tears and murmured words of love.

In the morning I knew something momentous had occurred when I saw you. You had washed your hair and

it lay in smooth waves behind your back. There was a sparkle in your eyes and a slow secret smile on your lips. You eyed Pranay with something akin to scorn.

I was to return to the city that evening. In a calm confident voice you told Pranay that you were coming with me. You explained that you needed a change; Pranay shugged his shoulders, totally indifferent. When the car roared down the drive you looked back for an instant. It was then that I realised your life with Pranay was over and you would never return to Balisora.

I took charge of your life. I urged you to stand on your feet, be independent, fmd your place in the sun. Two months later you flew to Delhi to do a year's beautician course under Shahnaz Hussain. When you came back I was there for you. I framed your certificate, I helped you make those endless visits to the Municipality for the trade licence and the bank for the loan. We found a lovely house on M.K. Gandhi Road. A doctor had his chamber on the ground floor. We took the first floor.

You were excited as a little girl when we began to renovate the place. Wearing jeans, a baggy pullover, your hair tied in a pony tail you moved from room to room, chattering non-stop, instructing the workmen, sipping endless cups of coffee. Your taste was impeccable. The walls were blue and white. There were frothy lace curtains on the windows, teak counters, sparkling mirrors. You arranged the lotions, combs, brushes, tweezers, scissors and all the paraphernalia on the drawers. The special chairs arrived and then the other equipment like the rollers, hair driers, the sauna, the basins, containers for hot wax, equipment for electrolysis ....

I'll never forget the opening day, Romola. You were resplendent in a white sari with a blue-green peacock motif in the pallu. Your hair was piled up in an elegant chignon. Jagjit and Chitra Singh sang soulful ghazals on the stereo. We festooned the doorway with marigolds and mango leaves dotted withsindoor. You arranged small fragrant mounds of pot-pourri on crystal bowls. We had hired the helpers a week previously and they flitted about on their chores,

in identical blue saris and white tunics. Soon the guests arrived. Meera Devi, the glamourous film actress cut the red ribbon and there were cheers. Flash bulbs popped. There were college girls, working women, high profile socialites, a couple of journalists. Your grace and beauty drew them· to you like moths to a flame. Every woman who visited "Shringar" thereafter must have dreamed of looking like you.

Romola, how you loved your work. You devoted hours and hours to "Shringar:' I can imagine you even now, standing behind a client. trimming her hair, an absorbed look on your face, a clip between your lips. Or mixing dried pea powder. fullers' earth, lemon juice, neem paste. turmeric and camphor in a bowl. Women relaxed in their high chairs before the mirrors as you moved among them, threading eyebrows, putting face masks. buffmg nails. massaging hair with hot oil or applying henna. Manju, Reena, Lily and Bela, your four helpers were devoted to you. You listened to their wOes. paid them generously and gave them surprise treats at the fast food joint down the road.

Romola, you glowed with happiness. You were grateful to me for helping you to achieve your dream. But after. that night in the tea garden, you did not let me touch you. It was wrong, you whispered. You wanted to quell all desires, move to a spiritual plane. Sick at heart, I let you move. from my flat to that cottage on the slope of Ramshah hill. It was a lovely gracious place filled with flowers, paintings, ceramic dolls, strangely shaped lamps, table stand made of gnarled tea bushes. You always welcomed me there With warmth in your eyes. TQday I remember those wonderful hours we whiled away talking, cooking food, listening to music, reading books. In your presence I forgot, my ugliness, the dreariness of my job at the bank, my agony at having a man's body trapped within me.

Then, as the years flew by, your circle widened. You hobnobbed with the rich and the influential. You were invited to exclusive parties. You became confident, articulate, sophisticated.

One day a package arrived at' the parlour. It was an expensive pearl choker nestling in a box of blue velvet. You were flattered, puzzled and a litle wary. Then came those midnight calls. A man's voice, slurred by drink, whispered endearments. When you were standing on the kerb, just about to hire an auto to take you home, an Esteem glided to a stop in front of you. The back door opened and a dark squat man wearing spotless white silkkurta p!Jjamas offered you a lift.

You refused and walked away rapidly. The car moved slowly behind you, the man calling out your name. You told me nothing about this until it was too late. Every afternoon he, Rana Chowdhury made it a point to sit in the lobby of the parlour. Waving his hands expansively, his hooded eyes boring into yours, he promised you he would help you to establish another parlour, buy you a car, order exercise equipment like treadmills. He told you about himself, his messy divorce, his extensive business, his links with powerful politicians. Later you told me you were simultaneously repelled and fascinated by his arrogance, the aura of power, the brutal directness of his proposal.

Then he invited you to a party at his residence. You went without telling me. It was a boisterous affair. Scotch flowed like water. Music drowned all conversation. Rana Chowdhury devoured you with his eyes as he drank himself silly. You sat in a corner, sipping orange juice. Then, in front of all the guests he pulled you to your feet, trapped you in an embrace and bruised your lips with a savage kiss. There was loud laughter in the room. You fought free and with all the strength you could muster, gave him a stinging slap across the face. Then, in front of the shocked gathering, he called you unspeakable names and pushed you out. You saw the jwhite hot range in his eyes and knew. You had made an implacable foe. You knew he would get even. Only you never imagined how.

The following week three of your helpers stopped coming to the parlour witout prior notice. Puzzled, you went to their homes. They all said the same thing. Two

men had warned them not to work under you. They were scared stiff. For a week or so you tried your best to manage the parlour with Manju but soon you ran into difficulties. Your clients fumed as they were kept waiting, Manju made errors. And you, always so calm, so serene, began to lose your temper. It was then that Shanti came like a godsend. She was pretty, smart and willing to work hard. Relieved, you wasted no time in training her.

Two weeks passed by. That unfortunate incident with Rana Chowdhury was almost forgotten. Then one evening you saw Shanti getting into his car. The next day you questioned her and she said he was her uncle's friend. You believed he:-. You thought no more about it.

That fateful day began quietly. At about 11 in the morning you were applying a facial on a client. Shanti, always so ebullient, was quiet and tense, avoiding your gaze, constantly looking at the wall clock. Half an hour later a reedy young man came looking for her.

"Didf' Shanti said. ''This is my brother. He has something urgent to tell me. May we go to the next room?"

"Alright" you agreed. "Don't be late. You have to warm a pan of water for the pedicure."

Shanti and her brother went to the adjoining room.

Mrs. Barua, your client lay on the high bed, relaxing, her face lathered with a pack. It was quiet except for the ticking of the clock.

Just then the front door flew open. About five constables, led by a lady inspector, stormed into the room.

"You'e under arrest" barked the Inspector. "Bring out that girl and the man."

You rose to your feet, a look of dazed incomprehension on Y0i..lr face. The constables hustled Shanti and her so called brother from the other room. Both were in a state of undress.

'There's been a mistake." You blurted out. "Let me explain."

A constable pulled open a bottom drawer of a wardrobe. He held up a couple of pornographic magazines,

videocassettes, packets of condoms, ginseng tablets and even a vibrator and a dildo.

You turned towards Shanti and she looked away, her eyes lowered. In a flash there passed before you Rana Choudhury's contorted face and hooded eyes, and knew he had got even.

You rang me up from the police station. I rushed there at once, filled with foreboding. They had kept you standing for four hours, harshly asking you questions, insulting you, not heeding your tearful pleas. Outside a crowd had gathered to have a glimpse of you. The jeers and catcalls were audible. Three lawyers I approached refused to touch your case. The evidepce was damning, they said. You had been booked under suppression of Immoral Traffic Act. If convicted, you would have to undergo rigorous imprisonment and a fine. The case dragged on. The young lawyer I finally hired for you argued your case with conviction. In the court, you sat like a zombie, silent, expressionless. Meanwhile, outside your house and your parlour, groups of women stood waving placards, shouting slogans, condemning you in no uncertain terms.

We won the case Romola. But, now you were in a twilight zone. When I hugged you, you gave a little sob and swayed. I brought you home. They had painted "Whore" in your compound wall. I bathed you, combed your hair, helped you into your favourite night-gown. I kissed the blue shadows under your eyes, held your hand and waited for you to fall asleep. Yet you sat up and said in a firm clear voice that you would be alright and that I should go home. I thought then that you were coming around, the worst was over. How was I know Romola, that the worst was yet to be? Just before I left the room I turned back to look at you. You were sitting up in bed, the two braids framing your small heart-shaped face, the contours of your body outlined in the soft, glow of the night lamp. That was the last time I saw you alive, Romola.

* * * * *

Six years have passed by. I am trying to live without you. The job at the bank takes up a lot of my time. Every

weekend I make a visit to Sishu Sadan. There is a fair child there, a frail girl with enormous eyes and a shy smile. I sponsor her education, bring her toys and books. As I step out of the car she runs to me across the field, her hair flying her face alive with the joy of living, her feet scarcely touching the ground. She could have been you. The similarity is startling.

"Romola!" I stretch out my arms and hold her close. Your name lives on, Romola. There is some comfort in that.