Abandon Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m the manager here.’

  ‘How wonderful – a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Have the charges been discussed? Has the name been entered? Unaccompanied women are not allowed rooms here. This is what happens when senile old men run the show. They start thinking it’s their family house, that they can do as they please.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a room on the roof being given out? Huh? We have important things stored there. I’ll have to consider getting you out of here, Gourohori Babu. You’re overstepping all limits!’

  I cannot stand Nikhil Biswas’s pointing finger, his body language. I find myself shaking with anger. I desperately want to start an argument with him. The concentrated mass of his invectives makes me want to retch. Nikhil Biswas’s face merges instantly into the faces of the wealthy man, the legal expert, the bearded poet.

  The poet had once told me, ‘The poet’s job is to take on the burden of the sorrows of the world on everyone’s behalf!’ He believes this statement of Baudelaire’s, heart and soul. And it is from this credo that he has discovered the simplest way to bear this burden of sorrows. He has several overused words in his sling: burning, blazing, skull, socket, skeleton, torch, impoverished, master, rice, spoilt and so on. The sensibility, the purity of these words has long been blunted. But on the strength of these words he writes his poetry of protest, seated far from the flames with his newspaper and before his television. The flames do not singe him even a little but his face is radiant in their blazing glow. Those who have faith in him say that it is not possible to create art in this state of emergency – statements are sufficient in such a situation. They don’t know that in a state of emergency what is needed is not art but humane behaviour, and that words have nothing to do with being humane. A nation that needs to be awakened through song, through poetry, has only emotion as its consciousness. Its sense of humane behaviour is that of a child’s. As a result, the poet, the juggler of words, exploits human misery like any immoral political leader to fight for nothing but his own survival – and deceives everyone. He swindles them, he defrauds them. I know that he will conceal his shame at not letting a woman and her five-year-old son stay a single night in his house by forcing out a withered poem with constipated grunts and jerks, blaming his wife and her reign! He will be satisfied, and then make the rounds of literary associations and gatherings, reading his poem in his baritone to the accompaniment of sighs.

  A suffering mother, a mother who wanders around the city with her child, will display deep respect for him, while he exits the gathering with stately steps, leaving behind an audience enthralled. As he embarks on that brief journey, he will think of himself as Socrates – a great philosopher who has survived two and a half millennia. And although most will not be able to do this, a handful of individuals will realise that no state of emergency will ever breathe life into his poetry again.

  I plunge into an argument with Nikhil Biswas. By now Roo has slipped his hand out of mine and wandered off to the rabbit cage in one corner of the passage.

  I confront Nikhil Biswas. ‘So the roof is always locked? Never used? Really?’ Had the wealthy man or the poet or the legal expert given me shelter for a single night I might not have experienced this furious urge to cling to this space. ‘Why don’t you come upstairs with me right now – let me show you all the things I noticed on the terrace and in the bathroom and in the room on your roof. But we need to gather a couple of witnesses before that. Let people see what’s actually going on here behind the façade of a guest house.’

  The man falls silent suddenly like flames quenched by a jet of water, looking around in confusion and adjusting his collar. He does not display the courage to ask what I have seen. He doesn’t wonder whether I really might know what’s up there on the roof. After all, I have only occupied the room right on top. Gourohori had decided that the larger room on the roof was far too full of rubbish.

  I cannot give Nikhil Biswas much time. ‘Could you kindly tell me what the charge for the room is?’ I ask.

  ‘Five hundred,’ he replies.

  ‘Five hundred? What nonsense!’ Gourohori exclaims.

  ‘Yes, Dadu, five hundred.’ Nikhil Biswas’s eyes dance. ‘You might have felt a surge of compassion late at night, but I focus on business, all right?’

  Gourohori suddenly erupts. ‘Shut up, you crook! Five hundred rupees is the regular room charge, Madam, don’t pay a rupee more than two-fifty. The rest is between me and the owner.’

  ‘You dare talk about the owner?’ Nikhil screams.

  Gourohori looks determined. ‘Let me through,’ he says, standing up, ‘the child is running away.’

  Two women and a man come down the stairs. Tamils. In English they begin to quiz Nikhil about where they can get idlis and dosas. Two or three people arrive simultaneously with their belongings in search of a room, so Nikhil is preoccupied.

  ‘There’s a south Indian restaurant across the road,’ Gourohori tells me. ‘Leave your luggage with me and have breakfast first.’

  ‘He will take his revenge,’ I tell him, ‘and I won’t be by your side then as you are by mine now.’

  ‘What can he do,’ answers Gourohori. ‘I’m old, I’ve lived long enough. If a young woman like you with a child and nowhere to go isn’t afraid, why should I be?’

  It was eleven-thirty. What Roo needed was not south Indian food but a meal of rice, daal, butter and an egg. He desperately needed nutrition after two days of near starvation. The first thing Ishwari bought after leaving the guest house was a bottle of water. She also got two large bars of chocolate, two packets of biscuits and a slice of cake, and put them in her bag. She felt somewhat prepared now. Ishwari had realised yesterday that things like these were potent weapons in her battle for her child.

  Ishwari crossed the road and climbed into a hand-drawn rickshaw. Roo was startled by the sight, just as he had been surprised at the sight of an Ambassador converted into a taxi. When she explained her requirement to the rickshaw-wala, he took a right turn, with the Dhakuria Lake to their left, and brought them to a restaurant, opposite a cinema hall, that served Bengali food.

  The restaurant was small but tastefully furnished. Probably because it was just noon, the lunchtime crowd hadn’t yet materialised. The smell of fish and meat being sautéed hung in the air. Scents like this forced the famished to forget all sense of etiquette and lick their lips and gulp hungrily.

  As did Roo. Drawing his chair back to sit down, he smiled joyously at her. Settling him down, she tried on her part to ensure that they fulfilled each other’s anxious expectations – even though Ishwari had turned her bag upside down to count all her money this morning and discovered that all calculations went haywire when times were bad.

  Drawing the menu card towards herself, she asked Roo, ‘Meat or fish? What’ll it be? Chicken or mutton?’ But she didn’t hear his answer at all. Instead, she read the prices: Rs 295, Rs 350 + tax, packing charge: Rs 80.

  It was so expensive! Ishwari was shocked.

  Roo wanted to change his seat and sit down more comfortably, so that he could eat properly. She read the menu card carefully – the speciality of this restaurant lay in reviving centuries-old recipes with careful research. People could have lunch from the age of the Annadamangal or dinner from Phullara’s banquets.

  Ishwari could not work out a solution. And so, abandoning her self-respect in confusion, she swept up her son and left with him before the waiter’s questioning eyes.

  Such a retreat is a success in this novel of lies and truths – to the reader of this novel, I’m sure, all kinds of humiliation faced by humans, by the hungry, by the afflicted, by the beggar, by the injured, are effective. The more meticulous the description of this humiliation by a writer or poet or painter, the more successful they are, the more triumphant their art. The more the reader is bruised and upset after entering the novel, the more she considers the reading of it profitable. And so this cruelly predatory novel forced Ishwari to race off, holding Roo by his injured hand, in the pursuit of a more hellish and demonic humiliation, while Roo kept saying with a desperation sharper than his pain, ‘What’s the matter, Ma? Aren’t you eating? Aren’t we eating? Ma? Ma…?’

  Just as war, unrest and treachery are the capital of the weapon-manufacturing business, sterile humanity and its humiliation are the invaluable capital of literature. But creating this humiliation is agonizing. When I write that the novel written by a character named ‘I’ has been burnt to ashes, I want to weep. The first ten days, the memory of those pages grows stronger; a year later my relationship with what I wrote turns cold and hurt hovers over my living words. It raises a lament of grief. But the lines describing the midnight rattling of the gates of Dinratri remain just as much a record of ‘events’, just as much ‘fact’, just as ‘practical’ beneath the footsteps of time.

  And just as true. As soon as this agony, this mortification sprang to mind, my novel turned as stiff and inflexible as the body does the moment it is penetrated by a syringe, and I pray in trepidation: oh god, must I churn the poison of this humiliation with my own hands in pursuit of my art? In other words (I’d have to write), Ishwari stopped running abruptly and Roo, panting and pale, extended his blue-veined hand from his shawl before Ishwari could construct an explanation, and said, ‘The chocolate, then?’

  I am defeated repeatedly by Roo’s patience and endurance, and the desire for a tempestuous conflict rages within me. I rush back to Dinratri. If someone could occupy the attic for seven years, why can’t Roo and I? Why can’t we stay for a few days? I cannot abandon this city now. What I need is not a ramshackle room in a ladies’ hostel or a paying guest’s accommodation infested with cockroaches and lizards. I need this terrace.

  Ishwari will occupy this room on the roof. The terrace is enormous, with mosaic tiles, sparkling white. The thick walls take several turns. They can easily play hide-and-seek in the darkness, she and Roo. And there’s the brass tap running down the side of the huge water tank. She will do the dishes there, wash the clothes, spread them out to dry all over the roof and then dry her hair in the sun. Despite the lack of attention, how silky her auburn hair is. While Ishwari wanders, humming in the late afternoon, Roo will chase the tail of an insect.

  Now and then, on the night of a new moon, when Roo slips into slumber, I will emerge from within Ishwari. Throttling myself, I will seek a gruesome resolution to all the things in my life that don’t add up, but because I won’t find one, I will pace up and down the roof, sobbing through my nose like an unloved witch. Even if it is through a conflict, I want this roof.

  —

  When Gourohori sees us he says, ‘Have you eaten? Why so sad, young man? Haven’t you eaten properly?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t eat,’ I answer.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. First I need to talk to you about certain things.’

  As we enter Dinratri, we see a young man standing near the gate, smoking. He begins to follow us in. I cannot bear the look in his eyes.

  When I stop at Gourohori’s door, the man pauses two steps behind me. I am forced to point him out to Gourohori. Looking grim, he says, ‘What is it, Montu?’

  Montu answers, ‘Ashoke Da from Maharani was looking for you, he said there’s some puja or something at the boss’s house and that you’d be going, so you can go with him if you like.’

  ‘I see,’ says the old man. ‘I don’t know if I’m up to it. My foot aches constantly. Let’s see, I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Hasn’t this lady left yet?’ Montu asks. ‘Nikhil Da’s not very happy about this.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ says Gourohori.

  ‘How come you’re accepting guests without Nikhil Da’s approval? Isn’t it better to mind your own business at this age, Dadu?’

  Gourohori suddenly began to cough violently. It was such a strong attack that Ishwari ran to get him a glass of water. Montu disappeared from the scene. I wait for his coughing to stop. I want to have the discussion as soon as he’s recovered a little. There isn’t much time and this is an experiment. If I am unsuccessful I have to find a hotel by evening. ‘You said some people once lived in the room on the roof for seven years,’ I say.

  The old man immediately understands what I’m getting at. ‘Oh no, how can that be possible!’ he exclaims. ‘There’s been a change of ownership, this building now belongs to the second brother. He’s a moody fellow, I’m not capable of explaining things to him.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him. I don’t want to stay seven years, Gourohori Babu, only seven days, ten at most.’

  ‘Can’t be done, Madam. Impossible.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible.’

  ‘What have I got myself into? How did you come up with an idea like this?’

  ‘There’s a very good reason. It’s a story. I don’t want to tell you the story because it’s no use. There’s always a story, isn’t there? The story might vary from one person to the next, but since last night, the course of the story has been the same for everyone. Even the options are identical, Gourohori Babu. Therefore, unable to find anyone to offer Roo and me a place to stay for the night, I came upon a guest house where not a single room was available. But I didn’t have to go without a room. I was accommodated in the attic. And the story is at its strongest at this point. As an artist, am I not going to use it? But how? I have a little money. I can even get a job. But it will take time. Roo will have to go to school. Above all, I have to find some sort of place to stay. I have to make a beginning somewhere. All doors before me are closed and they may or may not open. My proposal has surprised you very much. But where’s the harm in trying? The room on the roof would be good for me, for I have a child with me – how long can he be confined to a room? The roof will let us stretch our legs, and the bathroom’s so far away the rent can’t be high either. Now will the second brother agree to let me have it? And even if he does agree to give the room out, why to me? That’s a closed door too, but it might open, mightn’t it?’

  —

  Rantideb Mullick, the owner of Dinratri, the ‘second son’, was over sixty-five. In superb health, he oozed aristocracy. His hair was almost entirely grey, his eyes held a self-absorbed expression but were sharp nevertheless. Rantideb observed Ishwari and Roo closely as she told her story. As he listened, an entire cigarette burnt down to ash. On her way to Rantideb’s house in Lovelock Place, Ishwari had learned that his family still owned twelve or thirteen buildings in the city. The building in which he lived was huge too. They had to cross an iron gate, gatekeepers and bulldogs to meet him. Gourohori had told her Rantideb was an engineer who had studied in England.

  When Ishwari had made her proposal, Rantideb turned to Gourohori and said, ‘Nikhil has become quite smart, hasn’t he, Gourohori Babu?’

  It was a strange question. The objective wasn’t clear: did Rantideb want Nikhil to become smarter? Or was it a roundabout way of finding out what Nikhil was really up to?

  ‘Nothing escapes your attention,’ said Gourohori Babu.

  ‘Hmm.’ Rantideb nodded.

  Ishwari had been led to a soft sofa. But Gourohori had been standing for nearly half an hour despite the pain in his leg. It is quite usual for an employee to remain standing before the owner but my mind begins to chafe with a desire to mediate. I say, ‘Gourohori Babu was hurt in the leg a few days ago when he slipped and fell. May he sit down? He’s been in a lot of trouble because of me since last night – I’m feeling terrible for him.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Gourohori protests.

  Rantideb transfers his steady eyes towards me before issuing an instruction in his unhurried manner: ‘Sit down, Gourohori Babu.’

  Gourohori leaves the room diffidently, returning with a stool. At this moment Roo raises his ankle to point it out to Rantideb. ‘My foot hurts too.’

  Frowning, Rantideb lowers his cigarette and leans forward. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I cut myself.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I put on shoes without socks.’

  (Roo is rambling. Let him.)

  ‘You must put on your socks before your shoes.’

  ‘I don’t know how to put socks on.’

  ‘Tell your mother.’

  ‘She wasn’t there. I had put on my best shoes because I was going to meet her. She was waiting for me far away.’

  Rantideb fell silent. He had just returned from a game of golf. His towel was in his hand and he gave it to his servant. Then he said, ‘In the process of becoming self-reliant, women in our country grow wayward most of the time. They forget principles and civility. Perhaps your sense of responsibility towards this child will prevent this eventuality. In any case, I am unable to come to a decision. But there is nothing wrong with your proposal. For now…’ Ishwari couldn’t breathe. ‘…for now, let her stay, Gourohori Babu. Let her have the roof. Shift whatever there is on the terrace to the garage. The garage is empty, I trust. I’m telephoning Nikhil. He will have the terrace and the toilet cleaned. Ishwari, you may use the attic as a kitchen.’

  Gourohori was pleased. He rose to his feet, and Ishwari followed, saying, ‘What about the room charges?’

  ‘Just pay a hundred rupees a day. Clear the payment every three or four days. Gourohori Babu?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘See a doctor.’

  Gourohori nodded, satisfied. Meanwhile, Ishwari could not believe she had been given the roof for a mere hundred rupees a day. This meant her philosophy was right – for every door that slammed on her face, another would be opened in welcome. Suddenly she felt relieved. Even after three days of wandering the streets, she was still unvanquished, wasn’t she? Roo’s hand was still in hers, wasn’t it?