My Kind of Girl (8 page)

These same good looks meant that the Anglo-Indian he'd hired as an assistant became so brazen that she didn't relent till she had married him. Friends like us tried our utmost to prevent it, but Ramen whistled his way to the registrar's office. Within a year the marriage was over, but Ramen couldn't have cared less. He ran his shop with the same enthusiasm as he had earlier and promptly hired another Anglo-Indian girl to run the counter.

Arriving at the Lake Road address, I found Ramen waiting for me on the pavement, pacing up and down. Getting out of the car, I said, “At least we were able to meet. We hardly see you these days.”

Ramen smiled in embarrassment, making the obligatory excuse. “Been very busy. Come upstairs.”

Mr. Dutta and his wife Gayatri both welcomed me with smiles. His book had charmed me earlier: I was even more charmed upon meeting him. Both of them seemed to be fine people.

After the greetings and formalities, I asked, “Where's the patient?”

“Please come this way,” said Mrs. Dutta, leading me into the next room. As all of you would have realized by now, the girl who was lying in that room was the one I eventually married.

She sat up apprehensively as we entered. I was amazed – could a mere cut on the foot cause a person to look as wretched as this? An ashen face, lips as dry as those of someone with high fever, reddened eyes, hair disheveled and all over her face. A single glance told me the illness was a severe one.

And yet I could discover nothing, even after a prolonged examination. While I was bent over, checking on her foot, the patient sat still, chin on her knees; I straightened and asked, “Is it hurting a lot?”

She didn't answer.

I asked again, “Does it hurt a lot?”

Ramen said from my side, “Answer him, Bina.”

The girl answered without looking at anyone, “Yes, a lot.”

I wrote out an ordinary prescription, left the room and told the Duttas, “It's hardly anything, and yet she seems to be in bad shape.”

Mr. Dutta said gravely, “Yes, in very bad shape.”

I spoke reassuringly, “There's nothing to worry about. She'll be fine very soon.”

Ramen said, “Small things sometimes flare up into complications, you see. That's why I called for you. I hope the play doesn't have to be called off.”

“No, no, there's no fear of that. She'll be fine,” I repeated, calming him down.

Whether it was because I was a doctor or for some other reason, both Mr. Dutta and his wife seemed to have taken a liking to me. They invited me to attend the upcoming rehearsals; rehearsals were held three times a week at their place. There was a rehearsal the very next day, so if I could make the time . . .

“I'll try my best,” I said, and took my leave for the moment. Ramen walked downstairs with me and said, “I think you should come to the rehearsal tomorrow, you'll enjoy it.”

Now I usually spent my evenings in the company of friends – all of them doctors. Doctors never make friends with anyone but doctors. They don't like becoming friends with others, lest the number of free patients increases. But the same stories and jokes about the medical profession become boring after a while, and as I have mentioned I never participated in the exciting events young doctors organized to dispel that same boredom. So I couldn't dismiss this exciting new invitation. It was bound to be a different gathering there, definitely a novel experience. The next evening, amidst the bustle of Dharmatala, as I wondered whether to go or not, Ramen marched in and instructed, “Come along.”

“Where?”

“Aren't you going to the rehearsal?”

“Are you?”

“I go every day.”

“Should I – really?”

“What do you mean, should you really? Of course! They'll be very happy.”

After dressing for civilized company, I got into Ramen's cream Morris. A little later, we entered Mr. Dutta's drawing room. The concert of voices welcoming Ramen became restrained upon seeing me. Many of them looked at me with an expression that said, and who on earth is this? Mr. Dutta took charge of introductions immediately, announcing my name first and then, one by one, those of the others – no small labor, for at least twenty people were scattered around the room in small groups, some of whom it was rather difficult even to attract the attention of.

I hadn't guessed wrong. The taste of this gathering was completely different, I had not yet experienced anything in my life that I could compare it to. When had I ever seen such an assortment of so many beautiful, well-dressed young people in a well-lit room? Their laughter, conversation, bearing, brief glances around, even the slightest movement of their hands, all signaled that they were citizens of a brave, bright new world, one whose existence was not even suspected in the precincts of a medical college. At least that was my impression that day, though, as I got to know them better afterwards, I realized many of them were as ordinary as the rest of us. It was just that the polish on their casing gleamed more.

I had lost track of Ramen within a minute of entering. Everyone around us sought him out: sometimes with this group, sometimes with that, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, sometimes half-inclined, he was laughing with his eyes, smiling with his mouth, speaking with both his mouth and his eyes. Ramen was fluid by nature, he had no inhibitions; anything he did seemed to suit him because of
his fine appearance. I had always seen him become the toast of the party wherever he went, and here too he was the center of attraction. Everyone seemed to have something to say to him in private, even Mrs. Dutta spoke to him in a low voice by the window for nearly ten minutes.

It appeared that Mr. Dutta had been trying to get the rehearsal started for quite a while, but the conversation just didn't seem to cease. Meanwhile, cups of tea arrived, accompanied by elegant snacks. There wasn't enough for everyone the first time, though as I was a guest, I got some immediately. The second round didn't arrive till eight. Finally Mr. Dutta stood up and said, “Let's start now. We haven't done Anupam and Lalita's scene in quite some time, we'll start with that one. Anupam! Lalita!”

Ramen stood up and assumed a serious expression.

“Lalita! Bina! Come on!”

The patient of the previous day had all this while been sitting quietly in one corner, leaning against the wall. I had noticed that she had not spoken to a single person in the crowd, not even looked up once. She had a book open on her lap, though her face made it clear she wasn't reading. Her face was as ashen as the day before. She had done her hair for the evening, changed her clothes, even applied a little makeup – but there seemed to be not a drop of spirit in her whole body. I had asked after her as soon as I entered, and Mrs. Dutta had said she was better today. But I could see no sign of recovery. I admitted to a twinge of worry. A blood test might be needed, seeing how thin she was; even an X-ray was not a bad idea.

Mr. Dutta called her again, “Bina!”

Bina limped up on her bandaged foot. Mr. Dutta said, “Your lines, Ramen.”

I had not realized all this while that Ramen was acting too. And not any old role either – the role of the young lover. I had enjoyed the romance between Anupam and Lalita the most, in the book. I settled down to watch closely.

Ramen was asking, “Don't you recognize me?”

Bina said something unintelligible, softly. “Speak up,” the author urged her from the back.

Now a faint voice could be heard, “Anupam-babu, isn't it?”

“Look at him as you speak.”

Bina raised her eyes with great difficulty and repeated her dialogue.

“Smile, smile as you speak.”

She smiled wanly. But there was no connection between the smile and her words, both seemed empty. I was wondering why they had chosen her for the role.

Mr. Dutta stood up and began to lecture the girl. “Bina, do you want all our hard work to go to waste just because of you? If you behave this way no one will be interested. Your role's the biggest, you have lines with everyone.”

Bina sighed and said, “Leave me out.”

“What childishness is this,” Ramen smacked her lightly on the head. “Stand up straight, say your lines properly.”

She seemed to tremble on hearing this, her eyes widened, blood rushed to her face. She didn't play her role half badly after that. And
yet the lines of pain just didn't seem to leave her face; it was as though she didn't really want to say her lines, didn't even want to think them; she was just being forced to.

A little later Mr. Dutta said, “All right, let's do act one now. Sarbeshwar, Basanti, Lily, Priyanath . . .”

Four or five people stood up to occupy the floor as he spoke.

The rehearsal went on till ten thirty at night. Many more friends, helpers and fans arrived: the room was full. The chairs had been pushed back against the wall and an enormous sheet spread out on the floor. I was seated on it in one corner, drinking it all in, watching, wondering, and constantly being astonished. The people seated around me all looked talented or proficient in some way. One of them was indefatigably sketching the women present with a fountain pen; some were immersed, with their pencils, in calculating accounts, some were reading proofs. Occasionally three or four people repaired to the veranda, usually for private discussions; although their conversation didn't disturb the rehearsal, some of it reached my ears, as I was seated near the door. I felt a misfit in this bizarre dance, and yet I cannot claim not to have enjoyed it, for though I sat by myself I had no idea how time flew so quickly.

Around ten-thirty, someone said, “Let's call it a day.”

Mr. Dutta said, “Anupam and Lalita's last scene . . .”

Bina exclaimed, “No, no, not that one.” I was surprised at the sudden vehemence in her voice.

Ramen said, “Of course. Come, Bina, it's getting late.”

Bina rose slowly. She looked as though she wouldn't be able to utter a word, but how beautifully she played that last scene. When Anupam said, “I'd better go, Lalita,” her eyes filled with tears as she said, “No, don't go – don't leave me.” I was full of admiration for her performance.

Ramen was the last to take his leave, I had to wait for him. Mrs. Dutta said, “Do come sometimes, won't you?”

I nodded courteously, and Ramen quipped, “Why sometimes? He'll come every day. He has no practice, you see, that chamber's just for appearances.”

Mrs. Dutta smiled and said, “Fine, why not set up your practice right here then? You are appointed medical officer of
The New Nest
.”

I said, “That's wonderful, but I don't seem to have made much headway in my first case.”

“Bina? There's nothing wrong with her – she'll be fine soon.”

Ramen spent the night at my place. I used to work as well as live in my chamber, at that time. I ordered some fried rice and cutlets from the restaurant nearby, and we sat down to chat over coffee afterwards. “Bina acts quite well,” I remarked.

Ramen smiled without responding.

“But she doesn't seem to be in good health.”

“Her health is fine, it's just been poorly of late.”

“It seemed to me her foot injury is nothing – there seems to be something else seriously wrong with her.”

“You're right there.”

Encouraged, I said, “She's extraordinarily pale, I think it's anemia. I could arrange for a thorough examination if you like. Perhaps Major Ghosh . . .”

“Do you really think a doctor can cure her illness?”

“What do you mean? Why not? You're half a doctor yourself – you shouldn't be saying such things.”

“But I know what's wrong with her.”

“You do?”

“Her illness is love.”

“What?”

“Love. What people refer to as falling in love. She's fallen in love.”

His words seemed to plunge me into water, from my safe refuge on land. I managed to compose myself in a minute and said, a suitably doctorlike expression on my face, “I see. Then there's nothing that a doctor can do.”

“Not other doctors, perhaps, but you can,” said Ramen, bending his tall frame a little and lying down. “Ah, this couch of yours is wonderful.” Rubbing one foot against the other, he continued, “The thing is, the object of this girl's illness is me.”

I smiled. “Not a new thing for you.”

Ramen suddenly became agitated. “So what do you expect me to do? Die? Or leave the country? Bina's such a nice girl, I had never imagined she'd create such a terrible situation.”

Now Ramen started his litany of woes. How was he to get any peace if this kind of thing kept happening! He slaved at his business
all day, the evenings at Mr. Dutta's were a pleasant diversion, he had become intimate with them in a short time, they were very nice people too, or else it would have been impossible for him to show up there anymore.

Having heard him thus far, I said, “Well, I'm sure she's not the only one to blame – these things are never one-sided.”