ঋতবাক: গল্প

“I saw Dhirenbabu in the market today”, said Ghoshbabu handing the bag of groceries to his wife.

He mopped his shiny forehead and sat down heavily on the easy chair.

“Dhirenbabu? Isn’t he the writer or something?” Mrs Ghosh, rummaged through the nylon bag. “You forgot the tomatoes”, she said. How can I make chutney?”

Ghoshbabu clicked his tongue. “It’s Sunday. The market is crowded and it’s hot outside. I can’t possibly remember everything on your list. But I got fresh pabda. Send Bhultu for the tomatoes.”

Khokon is not around. He’s off with his friends gadding about in the sun, snapped Mrs Ghosh. If anyone would show some responsibility in this house…”

Ghoshbabu ignored her. He shut his eyes and sat under the slowly moving fan, the warm air stirring the sparse grey hairs on his bald pate. His blue shanjabi – a short sleeved shirt which also looked like a kurta – stuck to his spiny back with sweat. He was in his early sixties, but looked much older.

***

His son and daughter were born in his late years and Bhultu was just eleven. Bhultu’s elder sister, Mamoni was sixteen, and studying hard for her school finals this year.

Mamoni was an average student, homely like her mother, with pimples on her face and a complexion that everyone hoped was this side of what was considered fair in the marriage market. When relatives speculated about her complexion saying doubtfully that the girl was dark, a kind aunt or uncle would intervene diplomatically saying,“ Oh no…poor thing…don’t say she’s dark…she’s wheatish.” Mamoni would cringe when they discussed her like this in front of her and later, would spend hours scrubbing herself with lux soap – the soap of the filmstars – to whiten herself. Hema Malini would smile up at her from the wrapper as if saying, Keep trying. You’ll make it some day too.

Mr and Mrs Ghosh worried about Mamoni, often late into the night in whispers that they hoped didn’t carry over into the next room, but Mamoni heard them just the same. Under the mosquito net, in the dim glow of the blue night light, Mrs. Ghosh would suddenly say, “What happened today?”

Ghoshbabu would stir and mumble sleepily, “About what?”

- “Have you heard anything…did they decide anything at the union meeting?”

-“No…really can’t figure out what is going on…

-“What will happen…Our rent is due…and Khokon’s studies are there…and tuition fees …and Mamoni… there will be expenses…no matter how little…when we have to get her married…

-“Why are you thinking of her marriage now...she’s just sixteen…

Mrs. Ghosh would lower her voice …look, even if she’s our own daughter let’s not wear blinkers…we need to get her married while she’s still of age…she’s dark and we’ll be in no position to arrange a good dowry. Where will you get a good boy for her? We might just about manage while she’s still young …you need to think of such things now.…

Mamoni would bite her lip and burrow into the pillow. How she wished she had been born a boy, like Bhultu in the next bed, sleeping soundly and dreaming of hitting fours and sixers. Boys had it good. No getting called to the kitchen to clean fish or wash rice whenever Shonoka di didn’t come and ma needed an extra hand. No getting the bony pieces of mutton on those rare Sundays when mutton curry was cooked in the house. No having to finish the previous day’s food kept in small containers in the fridge as a matter of duty along with ma. No periods. Especially no periods. No, boys were spared that pain – that and other things – like the embarrassment of having to walk on the road hunched up trying to hide the bumps that were growing on your chest, feeling that everyone was staring at you.

***

Like tiny mourola fish that swim around in monsoon waters, Mamoni’s thoughts would flash here and there, never distinct, never tangible. Sometimes a thought would quiver in one place briefly and she would be able to see in a brittle moment of clarity, the whys and the wherefores and the how’s - or maybe she imagined she did - and then the little fish would dart away. Perhaps only verse could catch them, and Mamoni had tried. With a patchwork net of jumbled words she had delved into that murky stream and caught a wriggling fish or two, mangled beyond recognition in her clumsy hands. When Bhultu had discovered her Bongolipi excersice book – the one she had kept away from the eyes of others beneath her underclothes on her shelf of the almirah - he had whooped and cackled like a hyena. He bawled out her poems like a feverish football commentator, bounding on the bed, dashing into the kitchen, then running into the drawing room, making circles around the sofa, all the while holding up his trophy. Mamoni ran after him screaming for her notebook feeling her world crumbling away. When he finally had enough and gave up the dog-eared notebook with a smirk, she tore up the pages into little bits and then dumped them in the waste paper basket.

“Why are you taking it so much to heart? He’s just a kid. Don’t be so upset with him.” said Mrs Ghosh, as Bhultu grinned at Mamoni good naturedly, his cheeks full of rice, during lunch. “You can always write more,”

“Great poets like Tagore and Nazrul wrote and rewrote their poems dozens of times. That’s how they attained perfection” declared Ghoshbabu with his eyes closed, as he crunched a fish head.

And he quoted sonorously from Tagore, “Life’s treasures are never wasted.”

Mamoni hadn’t spoken a word since the morning when she had torn up the notebook and she wasn’t saying anything now. Nor was she meeting anyone’s eyes. She wished they would stop talking about it. She wished there was a place in the world where she could be completely alone where she could cry without people being solicitous, where she could scream without anyone hearing her and above all, where she could hate without feeling guilt. But that night, after Mamoni had silently cried herself to sleep, Ghoshbabu had come into Bhultu and Mamoni’s room. He had looked at her puffed up face and then at the waste paper basket, collected all the scraps of paper and taken them back his room. He had sat up till three in the morning, piecing and cello taping them together with great care. He had read her poems in the light of the hurricane lamp until the early morning birds started their chirping, and then made himself a cup of tea. Mrs Ghosh had found him standing on their little balcony sipping tea with a faraway look in his eyes and said sleepily, “What are you doing up so early?” And Ghoshbabu had replied, “Our daughter is very talented. Did you know that Roma?”

***

Ghoshbabu decided that day that he had to get someone to look at Mamoni’s poems. Someone well read and knowledgeable, who would be able to counsel Mamoni about her future. A real published writer. And he remembered the journalist.

***

The journalist lived down the street, a few blocks away from his house. People saw very little of him. He stayed in an old crumbling two storied bungalow in the middle of a wild untended garden with a driveway leading to a rusty iron gate. The nameplate on the wall said, Shree Dhirendranath Choudhury. Ghoshbabu had seen a few articles in the Statesman written by this man long ago, though of late he didn’t seem to be writing at all. He would often come across phrases like, “the loaves and fishes of office,” “the hoi polloi”, “the mandarins of South Block”, “all is not well in the state of Denmark” and, “The shibboleths of power…” and although he didn’t understand a word of it, he did understand that Dhirenbabu scolded the government a lot. Ghoshbabu was normally a shy and awkward man before strangers, but that Sunday when he saw Dhirenbabu buying fish from Sunil the fishmonger, he had taken a deep breath and sidled up close.

***

“Mamoni! Come here for a second” called Ghoshbabu from the easy chair, after the fan had cooled him down a bit, and as she came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her frock, he said, “I’ll take you to meet a gentleman this evening. He’s a very important man, a good man. I met him today. I want you to read out some of your poems to him. Look.” And he reached his hand into a book shelf and took out the poems he had rescued. Mamoni stared at the tattered cello taped papers with disbelief. He smiled, enjoying her expression, “And you thought I didn’t care? Didn’t I tell you, nothing in life is ever wasted?” Mamoni’s lips trembled. She looked away and said tightly, “I’m not going. You go.” Ghoshbabu couldn’t believe his ears. He flared up. “What is wrong with you young people nowadays? Constantly negative. No enthusiasm. No fire in your belly…” His voice rose, “I took so much trouble to convince the gentleman and now you are behaving like this.” Mrs Ghosh rushed in from the kitchen. “What’s the matter, now? Why are you shouting? Nowadays you get hotheaded at any little thing and raise your blood pressure.” Mamoni cried out, “I don’t want to go! I don’t want to!” and rushed back inside.

“If I say you will, you will!” Ghoshbabu’s veins stood out in his forehead. “This is for your own good!” Mrs Ghosh muttered, “There’s always a war going on in this house.” She went into the kitchen and saw Mamoni, huddled next to the gas cylinder, crying. She sighed. “Why can’t you do a little thing like this? Will the world come to a stop? Listen to Baba, He must have a reason. Come on. Go, just this once.”

***

When Dhirenbabu found himself next to a short balding man smiling up at him ingratiatingly, he blinked once or twice and tried to look away. Impossible. The man kept looking at him and smiling meaningfully, then cleared his throat and said, “the pabda seems fresh today.” Dhirenbabu gave him a half smile in return and nodded vaguely. Did he know this man? Unlikely. Probably lived in the locality. One of the shopkeepers perhaps? Did he owe the fellow money? He hoped not. His head was aching from last night’s excesses and his tongue felt leaden in his mouth. If he didn’t go back soon with the fish the cook would come, and not finding him home, leave. He waited impatiently while the fishmonger made change for him and then turned away with his bag. The little man followed him. He said, with folded hands, “Namaskar sir, my name is Tarun Ghosh. I live down the street a few houses away from yours. Please don’t mind…I know you are a very busy man, but I have a small favor to ask of you…sir, you are a well known writer and I was thinking…well…you see…my daughter…she has a knack for writing…I mean…if you have some spare time, would you please take a look at her poems…and if you could advise her? What I mean to say is … a few words from you would really encourage her…” the man swallowed and licked his lips. He had shot his bolt. Dhirenbabu looked at him properly for the first time, taking in the sweaty eager face, red with embarrassment and felt the magnanimity that kings sometimes feel for their subjects. Maybe the rum from last night’s press club bash was still working in him. He scratched the stubble on his jaw and said, “All right. Come to my house at 5 in the evening today” and acknowledging the man’s effusive thanks with a regal nod, walked ahead. He couldn’t help feeling a little flattered.

***

“It’s all in Bengali,” said Ghoshbabu apologetically. “It was damaged. I had to patch it up.” The journalist was leafing through the notebook back and forth, as if he was trying to make sense of a vastly inflated bill that the CESC had sent him. Must have been taking a nap when he had rung the doorbell, thought Ghoshbabu, with the sudden feeling he was encroaching. As Dhiren Chowdhury peered at the pages with difficulty, Ghoshbabu squirmed a little and thought: I should have got Mamoni to copy them afresh. Anyway what’s done is done. The journalist had waved them to a rundown cane sofa and there they sat now looking around them. The place had seen better days, Ghoshbabu thought. The curtains were dirty and frayed like the upholstery on the sofas and there were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with books and magazines stuffed carelessly in bookshelves. A dog eared Span magazine lay on the center table under an overflowing Heineken can that served as an ashtray.

.***

Mamoni had her hands on her lap and her eyes firmly fixed on the dusty moss green carpet. They had made her dress up in the shiny pink terry cotton top Chinu kaka had brought from America when he had visited them a year ago. Squirreled away reverently all these days, waiting for a special occasion to come out, it was now two sizes too small for her. Her mother had dabbed too much powder on her face and it was running with the sweat from her forehead. She felt hot and itchy. Perhaps it would all be over soon. The journalist looked up from the notebook and adjusted his heavy frame spectacles gravely. Ghoshbabu leaned forward eagerly. Dhiren Chowdhury looked at Mamoni and smiled warmly. “You know how to rhyme very well” Ghoshbabu beamed, his heart filling with happiness. With a quick sideways look at Mamoni he said, “That’s just what I was telling myself. She’s a natural.” He nudged Mamoni and whispered, “Say thank you.” Mamoni whispered a thank you to the carpet. “She’s very shy. Doesn’t get to meet too many strangers, you see.” Ghoshbabu explained. Dhirenbabu made a steeple with his fingers and sat back. “Do you know what makes up good poetry?” Mamoni shook her head still looking down at the carpet. Dhirenbabu said softly, “Metaphor, Assonance, Alliteration, Onomatopoeia, and Rhythm…so many things.” He smiled again kindly. “And your poems have none of these.”

***

Ghoshbabu was still smiling, but now with a little puzzled frown. “But…you just said they are good?” Dhirenbabu smiled again, with more warmth this time, “I didn’t say that. I just said she has a knack of rhyming. But that’s not enough. Many great poems don’t rhyme at all.” Mamoni’s toes curled and she wiped her sweating palms on the shiny fabric of the dress. There was an uncomfortable silence. Ghoshbabu tried again, “With time perhaps, with practice…”The journalist said dreamily, “Perhaps. But the great poet Shukanto wrote poems effortlessly during his teens. The words from his pen flowed like water. And he quoted, “‘the moon appears like naught but a roti grilled!’ Ahhh! What lines!” And Tagore too! Who can forget ‘Bhanusingher Podaboli’ written at such an early age? It’s a God given gift. I sometimes feel…you either have it or you don’t.” He smiled with sympathy this time, “Nowadays every boy and girl thinks he or she is a great poet.” Ghoshbabu grinned politely in spite of himself, even though he felt he was on a sinking boat, and, to his own horror heard himself saying, “Yes, of course. The golden age of poetry – where is it now?” He felt immediately ashamed of himself, not because he felt like an ignoramus but because he had stabbed his own daughter in the back with these words. But Dhirenbabu wasn’t listening to him. He said avuncularly to Mamoni, “So, young lady, what do you want to do when you grow up?

Ghoshbabu prompted her again. “Come on Mamoni…why are you so quiet? Tell Dhirenkaku what you had said to me once about wanting to join the papers.” He said, “Sir, seeing as she likes to write and all, we thought…maybe she could join a newspaper one day.” The journalist said, “Good! Good! That’s wonderful! Excellent! You’ll have to study very hard, of course. I was the top of my class in Presidency College. First class first, MA in English Literature. I have a PhD. And I’m a Rhodes Scholar too! It’s all the result of hard work. And of course, you have to have very good general knowledge. A world view.” Ghoshbabu turned to Mamoni and beamed, “You hear that? You have to really study hard! And only then will it all happen for you.” Dhirenbabu lit a Gold Flake. Squinting through the cloud of blue smoke he said, “Tell me, what is the capital of Bosnia? Mamoni thought hard but could only shake her head. Dhirenbabu said. “Sarajevo.” He took another drag of the cigarette. “Ok, try this. Who was the third president of the United States? She shook her head again. Each time he drew on the cigarette, he asked a question; each time she shook her head and after a time, she didn’t even do that. Finally the questions ended and Dhirenbabu stubbed out his cigarette, mashing it into the Heineken can with the other dead butts with a finality that didn’t need any explanations.

Mamoni raised her eyes and saw the journalist’s eyes. They were cold and grey behind the thick glasses, even though he never stopped smiling. And she quickly looked away again. They took their leave of him, her father thanking him again and again for his time and both jovially agreeing that she needed to not only study a lot but open her mind to the world around her. On the way, Ghoshbabu said, clicking his tongue. “You couldn’t answer even one question. Start reading the newspapers from tomorrow. Do as he told you to. Open your mind to the world. What a wonderful man he is. So learned and yet he gave us so much of his time.”

He went on like this all the way home and so occupied was he, that he didn’t even notice when Mamoni threw her notebook into the garbage heap as they passed Ghugudanga bazaar.

***

When the man and his daughter left, Dhiren Chowdhury made himself a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. The place was a bloody mess .He had seen those two looking at the cobwebs and the dirty bookshelves. After Sumona had left him, the place had really gone down the tubes. He would have to get it cleaned up. Some day he thought, some day, picking up the envelopes with the rejection letters in them and dropping them back desultorily on the desk. He hadn’t written in ages and this new young lot kept sending back his articles. Sumona had called him a bitter loser and a has-been, but then, she just needed an excuse to jump ship. All women went to the highest bidder, he reflected as he sipped his tea. This house his father had left him would be up in the market soon, and at today’s property rates…well, they would see who was the loser, then. He checked his watch. Still too early. He was a disciplined man. Never did touch a drink before sundown.