My Kind of Girl (13 page)

When prolonged discussions led to no solution, the other two finally told me to compose our letter. I was chosen because I wrote poetry.

Perspiring that night by the lantern, I prepared a draft. Using a formal mode of address that didn't require a name, the letter said that we had expected a letter, but that there was none. Twenty-one days had gone by in expectation. Ranchi was wonderful, was it? Of course, it was good if it was, we were happy if that was the case. The ground floor of Tara Kutir was locked up, so old Paltan is dark. There used to be a Petromax light there every evening, you see. Never mind all that, we were conjuring up images of Ranchi. Hills, jungles, red gravel roads, dark-skinned locals. Laughter, joy, health. What an awful illness – may there never be another. But even without anyone falling ill, could it not be arranged so that we could be put to work? Honestly, we couldn't cope with a life of indolence, the days were dragging. If a letter were to come, at least we'd have to write again, there would be something to do. Our greetings to your parents.

I couldn't write more without getting myself extricated in the “you” problem. Even this small effort had taken till three in the morning. A look at the paper showed this handful of words, amidst all that were scratched out, twinkling like the sunlight in a darkened jungle. I read our missive several times; one moment, I felt it was quite good; the
next, how dreadful, tear it up. I tore it up, too, but before that I copied it onto a nice clean sheet, and the next day we affixed our respective signatures and posted that perfect letter with a prayer.

Dhaka to Ranchi, Ranchi to Dhaka. Four or five days . . . all right, six. But no, no letter. Fog in the evening, a little cold. No letter. Summer flowers gave way to winter ones; no letter.

A letter came eventually, or not a letter but a scanty postcard, addressed to Hitangshu and written by her mother. She conveyed
Bijoya
greetings to dear Hitangshu, Asit, and Bikash, the news was that their days in Ranchi were drawing to a close, they would be back soon, if Hitangshu could get their house unlocked and swept and cleaned this would be a big help. The keys were with his father. And finally, she wrote, Toru was mostly recovered now, she spoke of us sometimes.

She spoke of us sometimes. And our letter? Not even the closest of scrutinies of that postcard revealed any evidence that our letter had arrived. What had happened to it? But where was the time to think of all that – we had to get to work immediately. Within a day we converted the dust laden ground floor of Tara Kutir into a state so spick-and-span you could see your face reflected on the floor. Another postcard a few days later: “Returning on Sunday, come to the station.” Only as far as the station? Off we went to Narayanganj.

Oh, how beautiful Mona Lisa looked, in a pale green sari with a red border, a ruddy glow on her face. She was a little less thin, probably taller too. Lest it became obvious that she was now taller than I was, I stood at a distance, while Hitangshu ran around for lemonade and
ice, and Asit harried the porters to get the enormous pieces of luggage loaded onto the train.

Mrs. Dey said, “Why don't you get into this compartment?”

“No, no, how can we . . . the other one . . .”

“Come along, come along . . .” said Mr. Dey and paid the extra fare to the guard.

Narayanganj to Dhaka. It seemed the happiest time of our lives had been waiting to be realized, all these days, in these forty-five minutes. Ignoring the first-class cushions, we sat on the luggage; the advantage was that we could see everyone. Mona Lisa was happy, her mother was happy, her father was happy, and as we saw them happy we too were filled with happiness. All that had been inhibited and suppressed in us became free at last, all that we had wished for was realized – we made a real din as we traveled, the huge train seemed to be impelled by the force of our happiness. Mona Lisa started calling us by our individual names as she spoke – so many things to say, so many stories – and as the train neared Dhaka station, she was describing a waterfall, when I broke in and asked, “Did you get our letter?”

“Our, or your?”

I reddened a little and said, “But you didn't reply?”

“What do you think I've been doing all this while? There'll be more when we get home, I'll tell you all.”

Mona Lisa wasn't lying. The doors to heaven had opened for us all of a sudden. The three of us became the four of us.

Then one day her mother called us and said, “You did so much for
Toru once, now you have to do it again. She's getting married on the twenty-fifth.”

Twenty-fifth! Just ten days later!

We ran off to see her. “Mona Lisa, what's this we hear?” I exclaimed.

She frowned a little and asked, “What? What did you say?”

I was at a loss momentarily at this unwitting betrayal of her secret name, but why worry now that it was out? With the courage of the desperate man, I looked at her eyes, into her eyes – which I'd never done before. Her eyes were purplish brown, her pupil like a diamond drop. I looked again and said, “Mona Lisa.”

“Mona Lisa! Who on earth is that?”

“Mona Lisa is your name,” said Asit. “Didn't you know?”

“What!”

Hitangshu said, “We can't think of you by any other name.”

“What fun!” Laughter touched her face and colored it, then disappeared for an instant as a shadow descended on it, as though a momentary cloud of sadness had wafted across her face. She looked at us for a while, her lids raised, then dropping.

“What's this we hear? What's this we hear, Mona Lisa?” Our words held bubbles of amusement.

“What do you hear?” she said, and hiding her face in her sari, disappeared with a peal of laughter.

The groom arrived from Calcutta two days before the wedding. Fair of skin, dressed in a dhoti and kurta made with a fine material, he turned your heart into a flying bird with a subtle fragrance if you
went near him. We were enchanted. Hitangshu kept saying, “How handsome Hiren-babu is.”

Asit added, “That dhoti and that border!”

“His feet!” said Hitangshu. “If he hadn't such fair feet a dhoti like that wouldn't suit him!”

I said, “But a little too handsome, a bit ridiculous.”

“What! Ridiculous!” Asit cried out, but no shout emerged for he had already gone hoarse with all the screaming he had done earlier with everyone else, before the wedding. Snarling like an angry cat, he said, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Nothing like Mona Lisa.” I wasn't letting go.

“Can one person be so much like another? They're made for each other. Beautiful!” said Asit, leaping onto his cycle and disappearing in a flash. The entire responsibility for the wedding was his, he'd decided, where was the time to argue?

On the wedding day, I woke to the strains of the
shehnai
, before sunrise. As soon as I awoke I remembered that other last night, when I had rescued Mona Lisa – or so it had seemed then – from the clutches of death. The happiness that had borne me away that night as I watched the emergence of daylight – that same happiness returned to my breast, gave me goosebumps. The
shehnai
brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't stay in bed, I went out and stood beneath the starry sky, heard them blowing the conch shell inside the house. I went close to where she was; if only I could see her at this moment before dawn, when the sky signaled midnight but the clear air spoke of morning, if
only I could see her once in this extraordinary celestial moment. But no such luck, the
haldi
ceremony was underway, she was surrounded by so many unfamiliar girls, so much to do, so much to dress up for – I couldn't possibly steal a glance in the middle of all this. I stood outside and listened to the sounds and activity inside, and over all of this showered the strains of the
shehnai
. The last star twinkled out of existence before my eyes, the trees became visible, as did the body of the earth: once more the sun dawned upon the planet.

That day Asit went so hoarse his voice was reduced to a new bride's whisper; he was so busy he could barely recognize me. Hitansghu was busy too, busy and a little pompous, for the groom and his party had occupied two rooms in their house: he had worn out his sandals ferrying messages between the ground floor and first floor. All day long I tried to help Asit and Hitangshu in turn, but I didn't think I was proving useful. Eventually, when it was time to pick up the bride's platform and move it in a circle seven times around the groom, as was the custom, I stepped forward, only to be elbowed out by Asit and Hitangshu. She put her arms around them and did her seven rounds, I could only stand and watch.

The next day onwards, the three of us became Hiren-babu's slaves. No one was as handsome, no one as learned, no one with as good a sense of humor. Other men seemed monkeys in comparison, even I, his only detractor of any kind, did not feel any more that his face looked silly. In fact, I began to imitate him, trying to sit, stand, walk, laugh, talk like him. The other two did the same, and this made me
laugh; maybe each of us was laughing at the efforts of the other two, though none of us actually said anything.

One afternoon we were listening to a funny story Hiren-babu was telling when he looked around and said, “Could you just find out where Toru is?”

“Should I fetch her?” I said and ran off.

Mona Lisa was combing her hair on the south veranda, her back to the sun. I stood near her and forgot to speak; she suddenly seemed new, different, dressed in a fresh, crisp sari, vermilion in her hair, jewelry glittering on her ears, hands, and neck, and a strange fragrance emanating from her – not Hiren-babu's scent, not the whiff of fresh furniture with its taint of alcohol, not even hair oil or face powder. Instead, it seemed to me that the very soul of all these smells had possessed Mona Lisa's body. I breathed it in deeply, my head reeling.

She raised her eyes, looked at me and said, “What?”

“Nothing . . .” I said, then remembered my errand. “Hiren-babu is calling for you.”

She didn't appear to have heard what I added last, and kept combing her hair serenely.

“Can't you hear me? Hiren-babu is calling for you.”

“So what if he is? Do I have to jump at his bidding?”

“What . . .?”

Pausing in her combing, she looked at me and said, “Not much longer. I'll be gone soon.”

I said, “You'll love Calcutta, Dhaka's no place to live.”

“Will all of you remember me, Bikash?”

I bustled about, trying to hurry her up, and said, “No more talking. Come on now.”

“Can't you see I'm combing my hair? Go tell him I can't go now.”

I was taken aback, but Mona Lisa rose soon afterwards, and I followed. “And then, Hiren-babu?” I said.

But Hiren-babu seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for storytelling. He stared outside through the window, while Mona Lisa sat on a chair and plucked at the tablecloth aimlessly.

I entreated him, “Please tell me the rest!”

“Not now.”

I sat on the bed and, leafing through an English book, remarked, “I've read this. Very interesting.”

Hiren-babu suddenly rose and said, “This one's very interesting too. Why don't you take it home and read it, I'll take a quick nap. All right?”

I didn't say anything and went out slowly; I felt, through my back, the door being closed. I didn't return home, I sat down exactly where she had been sitting on the veranda. The comb with the scent of her hair was still lying there, I picked it up and ran my fingers over its teeth repeatedly.

One more day, one more day. The day of departure came, was postponed, another day, another. And then they left.

This time there was a letter, one letter for the three of us, in a thick blue envelope, addressed to me, this time. I wrote the reply for all of us, a little on the long side, and a poem as well, which I didn't send.
The letters came to an end soon, from both sides, and all I wrote was poetry.

We got all the news from Mrs. Dey. They were well, very well. Hiren had bought a car, they had made a trip to Asansol. The talkies had come to Calcutta, tomatoes were dear, but winter had suddenly receded, one hoped there would be no illness. As soon as it got a little warmer they'd be going to Darjeeling.

I started seeing, in my mind, images of Darjeeling, a place I'd never seen, but Mrs. Dey dispelled them one day, saying, “They're coming.”

Coming! Here! To Dhaka! Why, what happened to Darjeeling?

Answering our unasked question, Mrs. Dey said, “She's not well, she's going to stay with me now.”

“Ill again?” All three of us were startled.

“Not ill exactly, not very well, that's all,” Mrs. Dey smiled slightly.

We felt very disturbed. Disturbed by her voice, her smile. Not well, but not ill – what was going on? Yet Mrs. Dey was serene and complacent, she appeared to be pleased with the news. We felt quite angry, really.

The three of us turned up within an hour of their arrival. Mona Lisa was leaning back on the sofa, a cigarette tin in her hand. We looked at one another – had Hiren-babu's behavior driven her to take up smoking?