Chowringhee Read online

  Sankar

  CHOWRINGHEE

  Translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  About the Author

  SANKAR (Mani Sankar Mukherji) is one of Bengal’s most widely read novelists in recent times. He also has several non-fiction best-sellers, including a biography of Swami Vivekananda, to his credit. Two of his novels, Seemabaddha (Company Limited) and Jana Aranya (The Middleman), were turned into films by Satyajit Ray. He lives and works in Kolkata.

  *

  ARUNAVA SINHA is an Internet product specialist and former journalist. Born in Kolkata, he graduated in English Literature from Jadavpur University and went on to join the team that set up Calcutta Skyline, a city magazine, for which he translated short stories by several modern and contemporary Bengali writers. Arunava blogs at blogs.ibibo.com/readonly. He lives in New Delhi with his wife and son.

  To Sri Shankariprasad Basu,

  the producer, director and composer of my literary life

  Our life is but a winter’s day:

  Some only breakfast and away

  Others to dinner stay and are full fed;

  The oldest man but sups and goes to bed:

  He that goes soonest has the least to pay.

  —A.C. Maffen

  1

  Its formal name is Esplanade, but people like us simply call it Chowringhee. And Curzon Park in Chowringhee is where I stopped to rest when my body, weary of the day’s toils, refused to take another step. Bengal has heaped many curses upon Lord Curzon—it seems that the history of our misfortunes began the day the idea of dividing this green, fertile land of ours into two occurred to him. But that was a long time ago, and now, standing in the heart of Calcutta on a sun-battered May afternoon in the twentieth century, I saluted the English lord, much maligned by history. May his soul rest in peace. I also saluted Rai Hariram Goenka Bahadur, KT, CIE, at whose feet were inscribed the words ‘Born June 3, 1862. Died February 28, 1935’.

  You might remember me as the wide-eyed adolescent from the small neighbourhood of Kashundia who had, years ago, crossed the Ganga on the steamer Amba from Ramkeshtopur Ghat to gape at the high court. That teenager had not only secured a job with a British barrister, but had also gained the affection of older colleagues like Chhoka-da. Basking in the love showered upon him by judge, barrister and client alike, he had revelled in the role of the babu, the lawyer’s clerk, soaking up with wonderstruck eyes the beauty of a new world.

  In the midst of the desert of poverty and penury that had been my lot till then, the kindness and benevolence of my English employer was like an oasis, helping me to forget the past, leading me to believe that this would last forever. However, with the ever-alert auditor of this world always on the prowl for mistakes, mine, too, were discovered. The Englishman died. For the wretched of the world like us, the slightest storm is enough to destroy the oasis. ‘Move again, onward march!’ was the order from the cruel commander of victorious Providence to the vanquished prisoner. Reluctantly, I hitched my battered and bruised mind to the exhausted wagon of the body and started my journey afresh.

  Onward, onward! Don’t look back.

  I had only the road behind and in front. It was as if my tired and weary soul had found an unknown inn on Old Post Office Street for the night. With the first light of dawn, it was time to hit the road again. My fellow clerks at the high court shed tears for me. ‘To lose one’s job at such a young and tender age!’ Chhoka-da said. I hadn’t cried, though—not one drop. The bolt from the blue had dried my tears.

  Chhoka-da made me sit next to him and treated me to a cup of tea. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I understand everything, but this cursed stomach doesn’t. You’d better eat something.’

  That was my last cup of tea on Old Post Office Street. Of course, Chhoka-da tried to comfort me, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get another job, here among us. Which barrister wouldn’t want a babu like you? It’s just that when you already have a wife, getting another one...they all have babus already.’

  It isn’t like me to force my way into a conversation, but that day I butted in, ‘I can’t, Chhoka-da. Even if I get a job I can’t stay in this neighbourhood.’

  Chhoka-da, Arjun-da, Haru-da—all of them were overwhelmed by my grief. A despondent Chhoka-da said, ‘We couldn’t do it but if anyone can, it’s you. Get out while you can—we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that at least one of us has managed to escape from this wretched maze.’

  Bidding them farewell, I slung my bag, complete with lunch box, over my shoulder and set out. The melancholy sun in the western sky set before my eyes that day.

  But then...what next? Did I have the slightest notion that life could be so ruthless, the world such a difficult place to live in, its people so cruel?

  A job. I needed a job to live like a human being. But where were the jobs?

  Matriculation certificate in hand, I looked up people I knew. They were sympathetic, even told me how devastated they were at the news of the sudden disaster, but they blanched at the mention of a job. Times were bad, the company’s financial situation wasn’t very bright. Of course, they’d let me know if there was a vacancy.

  I went to another office. Mr Dutta from that company had once turned to me for help when he was in trouble. It was at my request that our firm had taken up his case gratis. But now he refused to see me—the bearer returned with a slip of paper. Mr Dutta was very busy and had scribbled his regret at not being able to see me, adding that, much as he would have liked to, he would be too busy over the next few weeks to enjoy the pleasure of my company. The bearer asked me to write a note. Swallowing my pride, I did. Needless to say, there was no reply.

  I sent applications by the dozen. I wrote with details of my qualifications to people known and unknown, even to box numbers. They served no purpose other than increasing the revenue of the post office.

  I was exhausted. I’d never saved for a rainy day, and whatever I had was nearly spent. Starvation stared me in the face. O God! Is this what was ordained for the last babu of the last English barrister of Calcutta High Court?

  Eventually, I got a job—as a peddler. Or, to put it more elegantly, a salesman’s job. I would have to go from office too office selling wastepaper baskets. The company’s name, Magpil & Clerk, had echoes of Burmah Shell, Jardin Henderson or Andrew Yule. But the man at the helm of it all, Mr M.G. Pillai, a young fellow from Madras, had nothing besides two pairs of trousers and a tie—a grubby one at that. One dingy room in Chhatawala Lane served as his factory, office, showroom, kitchen and bedroom. M.G. Pillai had metamorphosed into Magpil. And Mr Clerk? None other than Magpil’s clerk!

  The baskets were to be sold to various companies and I would get four annas as commission for each one sold. It sounded like heaven!

  But I couldn’t sell even those. Baskets in hand, I did the rounds of various offices, peering beneath the babus’ tables. Many of them asked suspiciously, ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Your wastepaper basket, sir,’ I’d reply.

  How elated I was if it looked shabby. I’d say, ‘Your basket’s in a bad way, sir, why don’t you get a new one? Look, excellent product—guaranteed to last ten years.’

  One day, the head clerk in
an office glanced at the basket under his table and said, ‘Seems fine to me. It’ll last another year easily.’

  I looked at him mournfully, but he couldn’t read my thoughts. I felt like screaming, ‘Maybe the basket will last another year but what about me? I won’t last another day!’ But in this strange city of Job Charnock, you can’t say something just because you want to. So I left silently.

  I even met Westernized Bengalis in suits and ties. Tapping his elegantly shod foot, one of them said, ‘Very good. It’s very heartening that young Bengalis are going into business.’

  ‘Shall I give you a few, sir?’ I asked.

  Pat came the reply, ‘Six, but don’t forget my share.’

  Selling six baskets meant a commission of one-and-a-half rupees. Clutching the sales proceeds in my hand, I said, ‘This is what I make from six baskets, take whatever you think fit.’

  Puffing at his cigarette, he said, ‘I could have easily got thirty per cent from someone else, but since you’re a Bengali, I’ll settle for twenty-five,’ and then proceeded to take the entire amount, after which he mourned the fact that our race possessed no semblance of honesty. ‘You’ve become quite a pro, claiming you don’t make more than one-and-a-half rupees from six baskets. Think we’re wet behind the ears?’

  Too nonplussed to say anything, I left silently, wondering again at this strange world.

  Amazing! Wasn’t it the same world where I had once discovered beauty, respected people, even believed that God is to be found in man? Now I felt like an ass. Not even life’s blows had bestowed wisdom upon me—would I never learn? This wouldn’t do. I had to become cannier. And I did. I raised the price of a basket from one rupee to one-and-a-quarter, and unhesitatingly gave away one anna to any buyer who demanded his cut. I would even keep a straight face as I said, ‘I make nothing out of it, sir, it’s a very competitive market. I’m selling without a margin to survive.’

  I felt no qualms about the fact that I lied. All I knew was that I was alone in this self-seeking world and the only way I could make my way here was through ingenuity and cunning. I knew I would never be an honoured guest in any of life’s joyous festivals. So I had to gatecrash. It was then that I visited this office in Dalhousie Square.

  It was the month of May. Even the asphalt on the streets seemed to be melting. The afternoon thoroughfares, as deserted as at midnight, shimmered in the light of a raging sun. Only a few unfortunate souls like me were on the move. They couldn’t afford to stop—they had to keep moving, hoping to run into luck somewhere.

  My shirt was drenched with perspiration, as though I’d just taken a dip at Laldighi, and I was parched. There were arrangements by the roadside for even horses to drink water, but not for us. Oh well, the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was not responsible for preventing cruelty to the unemployed, so they could hardly be blamed.

  Spotting a large building, I walked in. There was a lift inside. I stepped in, panting. No sooner had the liftman shut the gates than he noticed two wastepaper baskets in my hand. One look at my face told the experienced fellow who I was. He threw the shutters open and contemptuously pointed to the stairs, informing me for good measure, ‘This lift is only for officers and clerks. The company doesn’t pay me to service nawab-bahadurs like you.’

  Indeed, why should there be lifts for humble hawkers like us? For us there was the spiral staircase. So climb my way up I did, without complaining—not even to fate. This was the way the world worked. Not everyone gets a lift to move up.

  It had been a bad day. I hadn’t sold a thing, but had spent three annas already: one on tram fare, another on a plate of alu-kabli, and then, no longer able to resist the temptation, in utter recklessness, one on phuchka. I knew I had done something grievously wrong, squandering one anna on a moment’s weakness.

  Entering the office, I peered beneath the tables and spotted baskets under each of them. A middle-aged lady seated at a desk near the door asked in an irritated tone, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wastepaper baskets,’ I said in English. ‘Very good madam, very strong, and very, very durable.’

  But the sales pitch didn’t help. She waved me away and I stumbled out of the room on my tired feet.

  On a bench near the entrance sat a doorman with a huge moustache and an enormous turban, chewing tobacco. He was dressed in a white uniform, the company’s name glittering on a breastplate.

  He stopped me and asked how much I made from every basket I sold.

  I realized he was interested. ‘Four annas,’ I replied.

  He asked how much a basket cost. I wasn’t a fool any more. I answered without batting an eyelid, ‘A rupee and a quarter.’

  As he examined the basket closely, I spotted an opening and said, ‘Very good stuff, buy one and you can relax for ten years.’

  Basket in hand, he walked into the office. The lady looked up, ‘I said we don’t want any.’ But the doorman wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘Mr Ghosh doesn’t have one,’ he told her, ‘and Mr Mitra’s is broken, and the manager’s basket too is coming apart. We need to keep a few in stock.’

  Eventually, the lady relented. I got an order for six baskets at one go.

  I practically flew back to Chhatawala Lane. Tying six baskets together, I returned to the office. The doorman smiled at me.

  Sending the baskets to the storeroom, the lady said, ‘Can’t pay you today. Have to draw up a bill.’

  On my way out, the doorman grabbed me. ‘Got paid?’

  He probably thought I was about to make off without giving him his cut. ‘Not today,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ Rising again, he went straight to the lady’s table. His words revealed years of experience. ‘He’s a poor man, madam, has to do the rounds of many offices.’

  A little later I was summoned. ‘Your payment’s been cleared,’ he told me triumphantly and, pushing a voucher across, asked if I could sign—if not, a thumb impression would do.

  Seeing my signature, he laughed, ‘My god, you actually signed in English!’

  Money in hand, I came out. I knew enough of such doormen—I would now have to share the commission, but this time I had already taken that into account.

  When he looked at me, I was ready, and held out one-and-a-half rupees. ‘This is my commission. Whatever you want...’

  I hadn’t bargained for his reaction. He paled visibly, as if all the blood had drained from his face. I still remember how his tall upright figure shook, and the genial expression was wiped off his face. I thought perhaps he was not satisfied with the share. I was about to add, ‘I swear I don’t make more than one-and-a-half rupees on six baskets.’ But I was wrong. I had misunderstood him completely.

  Before I could respond he thundered, ‘How dare you? I felt bad for you...you think I got them to buy your baskets so I could make something out of it! Ram Ram!’

  I could not control my tears that day. All was not lost yet. The world was not devoid of all goodness, after all. Men like him still existed.

  He made me sit down for a cup of tea. As we sipped our tea, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t be disheartened, son. Have you heard of Sir Hariram Goenka, whose bronze statue stands before the governor’s house? He too had to struggle to survive. I can see the same fire in your eyes. One day you’ll be as great as he is.’

  I looked at him, unable to hold back my tears.

  Before I left, he said, ‘Remember that the one above always watches over us—stay honest and keep Him happy, don’t cheat Him.’

  The memory of that day overwhelms me even now. On this long road of life I’ve seen much wealth and an endless parade of splendour. Fame, status, influence, happiness, property, affluence—these are no longer beyond my reach. I’ve even had the opportunity of coming in close contact with those who are revered by society, those who create history, those who strive to better humanity through education, science, art, literature. But the unknown doorman in that unknown office in Clive Building is still the guiding star in my
firmament, an indelible part of my memory.

  Bidding him goodbye, it occurred to me that though he had trusted me, I was nothing better than a liar and a thief. I had charged four annas extra for each basket. I had betrayed his trust. From Dalhousie I walked straight to Curzon Park in Chowringhee. Whether it is people without offices to go to but anxious to get there, or people without a refuge but most in need of it, everyone stops for a few moments’ rest at Curzon Park. Time seems to stop there—no hustle-bustle, no hurrying around, no anxiety; just a sense of calm. On the verdant grass, many vagrants slept peacefully under the shade of trees, while a pair of crows perched silently on Sir Hariram Goenka’s shoulder.

  I silently thanked all those people whose generous donations had made Curzon Park possible, including Lord Curzon. And Sir Hariram Goenka? It seemed he was unhappy with me and had turned his face away. As I sat at his feet, my lips trembled. With folded hands I said respectfully, ‘Sir Hariram, forgive me, I am innocent. That foolish doorman saw shades of you in me, but believe me, I have no intention of insulting you.’

  I have no idea how long I sat there. Suddenly, I realized that like a young clerk playing truant, even the sun had taken a look at the clock, shut his files, and gone home. I was the only soul sitting there.

  What else could I do? I had nowhere to go.

  ‘Hello, sir!’ A voice startled me out of my reverie.

  A man in trousers and a jacket, briefcase in hand, stood before me. The briefcase was unmistakable—it was Byron. If his sudden appearance had surprised me, he was just as astonished to see me dozing in the park. After all, he had always seen me in Old Post Office Street. ‘Babu!’ he exclaimed.

  I haven’t yet forgotten our first meeting. I had been sitting in my chamber, typing away, when a man with a briefcase entered. His skin was the colour of mahogany, but it had a sheen—just like shoes after they have received the four-anna treatment from the shoeshine boys at Dharmatala.

  ‘Good morning,’ he had said, and promptly sat down without waiting for my permission, as though we were old friends. The first thing he did was to draw out of his pocket a pack of cigarettes, a brand which, even in those hard times, sold for seven paise a packet.