Harbart Read online

  Barila’s legs threatened to give way. But Harbart didn’t stop, stopping was no longer an option, stopping was impossible: “They don’t go away, you know. The ties that bind. I’ll die. I’ll burn. But wherever the ties remain, therever I’ll return. Wherelse can I go? Such are the Invisible games, the Indiscernible diversions. Such an abundance of arrangements. But—all that some other day. Now go home, Bari-da, and do as I told you.”

  Barilal’s tender mercies ensured that the champa tree revived, sprouted new leaves. Burst out in a babble of new branches.

  Dhanna had shared the dream story with a handful of his friends, but Barilal tirelessly shared the plant story with as many people as he could—news of it traveled far and wide.

  News of it even reached the Chief Inspector who couldn’t believe his ears: “Really? Just like Nostradamus! I should go see him for myself.”

  Then one morning, perched on a rickshaw, Koton and Somnath brought back a sheet of wood-framed tin—red letters painted on a yellow background—a shiny new signboard: “Conversations with the Dead. Prop: Harbart Sarkar.”

  Before he took Binu’s diary and went back home, Krishna-dada gave Harbart a hundred rupees. That was what Harbart used to start his business. Even Krishna-dada, despite his reluctance and deep opposition, had come to believe, been forced to believe, in Harbart’s dream. To tell the truth, Harbart had completely forgotten that Binu had spoken those words to him in the hospital. When Binu was dying, then when Binu was burning, all those policemen, policevans, policeguns—all that had scared the living daylights out of Harbart, wiped his memory clean.

  *

  A perusal of Mrinal Kanti Ghosh Bhaktibhushan’s Accounts of the Afterlife will result not only in strengthening one’s belief in spiritualism and the existence of the soul but also in revealing ways in which one may speak with or even glimpse one’s departed loved ones.

  Judged from a spiritualist perspective, the techniques employed by Harbart for communicating and conversing with the dead were, at best, a hodgepodge.

  The technique of contacting dead souls by raps on the table, adopted by the Fox sisters of America—making them world-famous—that technique of “rapping” cast no shadow over Harbart’s conversations with the dead.

  The technique of invisible writing on a slate or a sheet of paper rumored to have been displayed by Eglinton-shaheb in 1881 in Calcutta, that too was never done—or rather, could not be done—by Harbart.

  In one sense, perhaps one could call Harbart a sort of medium.

  On this matter of mediums, Harbart had learned from Accounts of the Afterlife:

  Over and above these methods of conversing and communicating with the dead are others that require the presence of an intercessor. Such an intercessor is referred to in English as a medium. One cannot say for certain if all men possess the strength to be a medium. But that not all mediums possess the same strength—that has been proven beyond all doubt. It has been observed that despite their lack of learning and letters, some persons are born with such an ability or somehow attain it during their childhood years. Yet many others have, despite their every effort, failed at such attainment. There are those who believe that persons who are Libran by birth and peaceable by nature, persons who are strong enough to restrain their emotions, these are the people best suited to be mediums. Or, in other words, they are the ones who may most easily be made to surrender to the will of the dead soul. Such reasons account for the great number of women mediums.

  Suddenly, in a dream—Harbart’s attainment of the ability to commune with the hereafter—such instances are rare in the world of spiritualists.

  Harbart had never tried the planchette technique. It could be said, however, that he had, to some degree, put to use the technique of automatic writing. Of course, if one compared the samples of Harbart’s occasional and haphazard use of this technique with those in the collected volumes of William Stead’s Borderland magazine (especially the writings by Miss Julia’s spirit) or with those accomplished by W. Stainton Moses, then one would surely be reduced to laughter.

  There were a few times when Harbart indeed displayed the signs of being a trance medium. Although he never showed any signs of prophecy or clairvoyance. Nor could he have ever become a healing medium. He did not possess the power to mesmerize. And the power to give form to the soul, to cause a materialization—that was beyond him entirely.

  Richet, Crookes, Conan Doyle, Meyers—there should be no attempt to connect Harbart to this glorious tradition. He had no relation either with those in Calcutta who devoted themselves to the study of souls and free spirits, among whose number could be counted a living legend of the cultural world. Harbart was a freak.

  And, of course, once his business began to thrive, his good sense entirely left him. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for money. Sometimes, holding an object that belonged to the dead, or gazing at a scrap of their handwriting, he would pretend to analyze it through psychometry. And besides, it is practically common knowledge that true spiritualists do not approve of establishing contact with the hereafter in the middle of the afternoon, or in the middle of the night, in the dead of winter or at the height of summer, in rain or storm or thundershower, for at those times they are most likely to come across ghosts and ghouls: in such conditions, free spirits are almost entirely absent. But Harbart had no right-time/wrong-time. Harbart had no time—not even time to stop.

  One of his first clients was Binayendra Chowdhury and his wife Atashi. Binayendra’s only son had been a pilot. Who’d died in an Airbus accident in Hyderabad. About a year ago. They had been thinking of getting him married, Rahul, their son …

  Since his death, Atashi had all but lost her mind …

  Binayendra-babu smoked one cigarette after another. Atashi stared unblinkingly at Harbart. And Harbart, Harbart sat ramrod straight, staring unblinkingly at Rahul’s photograph.

  Then, after some time, he closed his eyes.

  (Koton and the other boys had been sent outside.)

  Then, after some more time, he opened his eyes, picked up a dot pen and scrawled M–4 on a sheet of paper. Then, with a gentle smile, he pushed the photograph back toward Binayendra-babu.

  Then he began to speak:

  “Untimely death. Meant to live long, work hard—but who knows why and how, the thread snapped. Grief! Sorrow! Despair! And that’s not all. Your deaths too! Oh, I don’t know where you found such fortitude. I bow before you, I bow before such strength.”

  Atashi burst out crying. Harbart stopped for a moment to wipe his own tears. Then smiled gently again.

  “But there is no more need for sorrow. None at all. Time, death—these are part of life. I see the boy’s mind was full of god.”

  “Peeyu kahaan!” came a roar from the first floor, terrifying Binayendra and Atashi. “Peeyu kahaan!”

  “As far as I knew,” Binayendra said a moment later, “Khoka had no time for religion.”

  “None at all?”

  “None. In fact, he was dead against it. The wife’s a disciple of Sai Baba …”

  “Stop!” screamed Harbart, clapping his hands over his ears, “Stop! Say no more! I won’t listen, no, no, no!”

  Binayendra and Atashi are taken aback.

  A moment later Harbart uncovered his ears and chuckled wryly. “Forgive me. Never went to school, never learned my letters, so never learned to hold my tongue. Now, just for a moment, let us assume you are correct. But if you are indeed correct, then how can this be so?”

  “How can what be so?”

  Harbart pointed to the paper, to the M–4 scrawled upon it.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Mean? If I tell you what it means, then my game is done. Oh, oh, oh, here come Shiva and Durga, such a plan being hatched, I tell you. Tell me, in this super-slick superficial age, how many can achieve even the middle level of virtue? How many can ascend to
the fourth plane? When I die, do you think I’ll get there? No, I’ll be one of the lowest lapsees, slowly devoured by the pests of hell. Your son, on the other hand, now lives in eternal joy—as if in the garden of the gods, as if incarnated in the body of a demigod, glowing with the light of divine bliss.”

  Atashi, entranced, hangs upon his every word.

  “And you know what he said? He said, ‘Puja-prayers, all that stuff’s useless, you have to know how to die.’ He was full of good thoughts when he died, so he’s reaping the rewards now. Such joy, such joy! Mother, Mother mine, why did you not show us all this earlier, Mother … why?”

  A grave Binoyendra-babu led a silent Atashi into the back seat of their Ambassador car and went home, his heart full with the knowledge that his pilot son had attained the state of medium virtue, had acquired abundant joy and ascended to the fourth plane—and his wallet lighter by the weight of two fifty-rupee notes.

  “Your …”

  “My?”

  “I mean, how much should I give?”

  “Give? Give. Don’t want to give? Don’t give. He who lives on alms, he who is spat upon daily, how can he set a price? If I had at least a degree or two, then perhaps I could have told you how much you should give.”

  On the way out, Binayendra tucked two fifties beneath Harbart’s pillow.

  That night, twenty was spent on a bottle and eighty put away in the trunk.

  *

  A few days later, Harbart climbed up to the second floor and gave his Jyathaima a hundred rupees and his Dhanna-boudi a box of sweets. “For Phuchka and Bulan. A treat from their uncle.” Big sweets for their big blows. Didn’t spare a kicking for Dhanna-dada either: “Dada, I hope you tried the sweets?” Dhanna-dada had emitted only a grunt in reply.

  A few more days later, Dhanna-boudi said, “Thakurpo, so many maids and servants, all using that outside bathroom. Why don’t you use the one inside the house instead? Has anyone told you not to?”

  “Thank you, boudi, but I’ve gotten used to it. Besides, my timings are all mixed up now. Really, it’s no trouble at all.”

  “Actually, it was your Dhanna-dada’s idea, to ask you. I’m just passing it along.”

  *

  The one who was the happiest was Jyathaima. Placing a hand on Harbart’s head, she said, “How you’ve brought me joy, Haru. Such torment, such torture, don’t think I didn’t see a thing. I don’t say a word, but I see everything, know everything. This is a sacred task you’re performing, son, and it’s all the goddess’s doing.”

  “Jyathaima!”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me that story, no?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about your wedding …”

  “The sweet! Hee-hee-hee-hee! That was the night before our first night together. The new son-in-law was pecking at his food. If he picked up the luchi on one side, then the potato slid off the other. Almost asleep he was.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the friends who’d accompanied him, they’d secretly brought along some booze. He’d drink every day, he would. So many kinds of bottles … Anyway, then … ”

  “Then? Jyathaima—wake up! What then?”

  “Then, by then all the women were giggling. Why? They’d given the new son-in-law a sweet, a sweet as big as an elephant’s head!”

  “Then?”

  “By then your Uncle was full to the brim. But yes, as strong as Balaram. So he bit into it. But as soon as he bit—as soon as he … oh dear, what a terrible to-do … hee-hee-hee-hee …”

  “But why, Jyathaima?”

  “Because inside the sweet was a shoe! A whole shoe! One of a pair! He put the shoe down on the plate. Began to look around him with those big eyes. And the women, all the women shouting: ‘The groom’s eating a shoe! Oh dear, what do we do?’ Oh, it was such a fabulous joke!”

  Did Girishkumar suddenly recall the memory of that night? Is that why he screamed, “Peeyu kahaan! Peeyu kahaan!”

  “Oof, that peeyu kahaan, peeyu kahaan! When Dhanna–Krishna were little boys, when they’d been bad boys, he’d swear at them. ‘Sons of bitches!’ And they’d mutter under their breaths, ‘Your loins’ riches.’ All a memory now. Such authority, such personality. All sucked up by that peeyu kahaan, peeyu kahaan … Oh Haru, I’ve remembered a song. Shall I sing it for you?”

  “Oh, yes please. You sing so well.”

  “Listen, then. But can I catch the tune again?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course you can.”

  By the light of the moon, Jyathaima began to sing:

  Sister

  How to the Yamuna do I dare?

  On the way to the water

  lo, the beauty I beheld

  Such beauty is surely beyond compare.

  Like a dark cloud full of rain,

  is he, an enchanting sight

  Listen, listen, oh sister of my heart.

  My heart no more my own remains

  the heart I lost, ’twas he who gained

  To whom dare I this shame-truth impart?

  A meek and modest maid am I

  but his splendor when I spy

  I feel my thoughts and senses go astray

  The water pot gapes with barren brim

  As I gaze and gaze and gaze at him

  Tell me, sister, can I go on this way?

  When I hear him play the flute

  I rush from my room down the river route

  Oh but of a calamity I should beware.

  My husband’s mother, his sisters dear

  will shame and scold me I do fear

  How to the Yamuna do I dare?

  The song trails off … and Jyathaima heaves and heaves with sobs. A sliver of moonlight falls upon a cupboard door and spatters everything with silver. Mingled with the light from Dhanna’s television, it paints the verandah with a blazing blue glow. As he walks away, Harbart sees his uncle leaning against the wall and staring with deep tenderness at his wife.

  Harbart cried all the way back to his room.

  Back in his room, Harbart’s heart ached. The top-terrace, the shadows, the night, the morning, the crow’s call—his heart ached for them all. His heart ached for his father. His heart ached for his mother. His heart ached for his uncle. His heart ached for his aunt. Everything and everywhere, a tie that bound, a string that pulled. His heart ached for every one.

  Back in his room, Harbart how-howled into his pillow. Cried for Binu. Cried for himself. Cried for Buki. Cried for all the lies he’d told. Cried and cried until he fell asleep. Then cried in his sleep. Then turned over in his sleep. Then laughed in his sleep. Then cried. Then laughed.

  Father Lalitkumar and mother Shobharani had been observing their child and his rather extraordinary exertions. An astonished Lalitkumar looked enquiringly at his wife, who said, with an enigmatic smile, “Just dream-delighting with the gods.”

  *

  Harbart’s business began to thrive. A doctor came, with his brother’s wife. The brother had died in America, died of cancer. A stewardess came. She wanted to speak to her father. A medium-built boy came one day. For his mother. Couldn’t have been older than the first year at college. But he was not impressed: “Whatever you’ve told me, it’s all vague. Not one concrete word. My mistake—I shouldn’t have come.”

  After he’d left, Harbart sat in silence for a few long minutes.

  Then, “Shouldn’t have come!” he spat. “Father’s sister-fucking son! Did I tell you to come?”

  Six

  I’m lost without a trace, oh won’t you lift your face

  That I may kiss you once, and once again

  —Swarajkumari Devi

  One evening in the winter of 1991, just like the evenings of three or four winters past. Harbart put on his Ulster overcoat and the pants from Binu—dead
twenty years now—looked at himself in the mirror, and was at once utterly charmed by his own reflection.

  “Cat, bat, water, dog, fish!” he whispered.

  What will Harbart do now? Of the adventure he was about to embark upon, he had only a vague idea. A twenty-minute walk would take him to the shaheb neighborhood—just the sound of the street names gave him such a thrill—Loudon, Rawdon, Robinson, Short, Outram, Wood, Park …

  Their successive sightings of such a curiouser character may have led the ayahs and durwans to think he was a madman. At the same time, a closer look may have led them to think that in his veins must be flowing the blood of a white man. Or else how to explain that fair skin, that blueish-eyed gaze …

  Harbart is walking. Suddenly, in front of a packers and movers, he stops. Is he about to say something? There was something he wanted to say. Never mind, it can wait.

  Harbart walks on. “Cat, bat, water, dog, fish,” Harbart mutters under his breath.

  Smells waft out of the cake shop. The cake shop, its windows of tinted glass. Will he go in? Oh god, how large that house is. How enormous the gate. A Maruti is reversing up the driveway, its tail lights flashing white. The homeowners in the car—Harbart knows the house far better than they. There must be a wooden staircase inside. Leading up to a point, and then splitting into a right and a left. Where it splits, a mirror encased in a black wooden frame which rests on a stand whose round feet are shaped like tiger paws. On either side of the mirror towers a tall brass vase.

  Harbart is used to climbing the stairway on the right. But—what were the rooms like upstairs, how many rooms were there, what had happened in those rooms, who lived in them?

  Harbart’s head hurts. He lights a cigarette.

  An old iron water trough, once meant for the horses, sits along the side of the pavement. Harbart perches on its rim. “Cat, bat, water, dog, fish!” he mutters.

  Yet he can see, shadowy and unclear, dressed in white so fine, the skin so fair, so gold the hair … Harbart shuts his eyes and keeps on seeing … A candle, glowing, someone coming closer, someone leaning forward to blow out its flame … the sound of glasses clinking …