My Kind of Girl

by Buddhadeva Bose

  Hiranmayee had been going so far as to send news of their good fortune through the shared domestic help; she didn’t once forget to inform them of her family’s wealth. Certainly not on the day Raghab purchased a half-finished house in Ballygunge. Her messages reached their recipients, but the professor’s family never broke its silence. Its obliviousness to its neighbors equalled Hiranmayee’s inability to forget about hers. Strange was her competitiveness, extraordinary her desire for vengeance.

  It was now said that the professor’s household could no longer afford meals. Perhaps this is what happens when the gods smile on you; even Hiranmayee’s desire to lay waste to her neighbors’ self-sufficiency was almost fulfilled. Very pleased to hear this, she recounted the story to her son in great detail.

  It was certainly a story to be recounted. The professor had apparently not received his salary for six months; his obscure college had never paid salaries properly. They’d pay eighty and extract a receipt for two fifty. So never mind the airs and graces now, the professor’s family was actually bankrupt. He’d survived on private tuitions and writing guidebooks. Now that there was a shortage of paper, nobody was publishing guidebooks anymore, and with everyone getting jobs left, right, and center, who needed a private tutor? Apparently things had come to such a pass that . . .

  Having listened silently till this point, Makhanlal asked, “How did you come to know all this?”

  “Well, Harimati does the dishes at their home too. Yesterday she was saying she can’t continue there – after all, these poor people all do this work for a living, if they don’t get paid . . . Never mind servants, apparently they don’t even get provisions every day – and the girl is supposed to take her exams this year, the fees have to be paid . . .”

  Here the dutiful son Makhanlal may have said something to the effect of, why discuss other people’s affairs; maybe he made an even softer protest. Hiranmayee changed her tune immediately, “You’re right, of course, what business is it of mine – just that I was thinking of the girl, she couldn’t get married and now she can’t take her exams, so what I’m saying is, enough of educational lessons, if you agree I can organize a different kind of lesson!”

  Thickheaded Makhanlal was unable to read between the lines of this subtle proposition, so she elaborated.

  “Should I sound out the professor’s wife? I’m sure they’ll be gratified if we so much as throw a bone their way!”

  Her face suffused with a victorious smile, she looked at her son; but Makhanlal’s normally grave face looked almost stern, and he left without saying a word, only muttering “Ridiculous!” under his breath as he left. It wasn’t entirely clear for whom the comment was intended.

  He was late getting home that night. As he passed the professor’s house he suddenly remembered what his mother had said. Pausing, he raised his head to look at the house. Dark – except for a light in a first floor room where a fan whirred, its huge, dark shadow moving around the wall at regular intervals. This was all that could be seen – nothing else. His mother was probably wrong on all counts, they seemed just fine. At least, this was what Makhanlal tried to believe. But how much could you make out looking into a first floor window from the street?

  A small thorn embedded itself in Makhanlal’s breast. It would prick him every now and then. Were the neighbors really in such a bad way? No, no, all this was his mother’s imagination! She loved to think they were in trouble, she was troubled by needless envy – so she exaggerated and dreamed things up. But what if she were right? She could be, couldn’t she? But what business was it of his, what could he do, what was there for him to do – nothing, nothing. There was nothing for him to do, even if, right next door, they were – assuming his mother was right – short of food and clothing; he would not be able to do anything despite his largesse, which exceeded all needs or expectations. Makhanlal’s thoughts pained him in a strange way and made him angry with himself – am I like my mother, am I not able to forget about them either?

  Meanwhile the turmoil of the war continued, day after day, month after month. It seemed the war wouldn’t end during this lifetime. But where was the hurry: how many times did people get the opportunity to make money, especially Bengalis! And meanwhile, Raghab plunged himself heart and soul into the Ballygunge house: raw material was bought at controlled prices, and the contractor assured him that the work would be completed in four months. The ungainly appearance of their home, the lack of striking furniture – Hiranmayee wanted revenge three times over for all of this too. Brand new beds, tables, chairs, and wardrobes, made to measure according to the dimensions of each of the rooms, were being built at their own factory. Makhanlal bought teak at sky-high prices, and poached craftsmen from Park Street pledging double wages. Yes, Makhanlal joined his parents’ enthusiasm, their “conspiracy” against what they had been – not exactly out of choice, what option did he have? The good thing was that his workload increased. Come hither, O work! You’re the savior of the hapless soul who has nothing else in his life, who has gathered no riches of the mind.

  Makhanlal was now in such a state that he was relieved only when he had pushed through the train of actions and thoughts that made up the day to the deep sleep of midnight. All he wanted from the day was that it should go by. Some days passed without a bath or a meal – he neither noticed nor cared.

  But Hiranmayee noticed, and rebuked her son in a suitably affectionate manner. How long would his health last like this, how could someone who needed to move around so much not get himself a car? Hadn’t Tarapada down the street spoken of a car . . .

  “Couldn’t get it, Ma.”

  “Hah! Not get it once you’ve decided you want it?”

  “Never mind, I’m doing all right without one.”

  “This is a terrible habit of yours, get others all they want, but be a miser when it comes to yourself. How can people take those crowded buses these days!”

  “Everyone does, Ma! Even girls.”

  “Girls! Don’t talk to me about girls. They’re not girls anymore – every last one of them has become male. Bags slung across their shoulders – they’re a sight, each of them. Oh, by the way, the professor’s daughter has got her B.A. and found herself a job. The father is going to live off his daughter now.”

  As soon as this subject came up, Makhanlal sidled away, and started shaving before the mirror. But Hiranmayee followed him and said, almost to herself, “How does it feel? It’s hurting now – oh, if only I’d agreed to her marriage then – if only I’d known – so why not come out and say it?” Hiranmayee inevitably found her way back to the same issue over and over again.

  A few days later, Makhanlal was on his way back from Dum Dum in a taxi when he stopped at a red light by the governor’s residence. It was nearly evening, closing time at offices; even looking at the buses made you afraid. Three or four girls stood on the pavement, on their way home from their offices. How could they take a tram – would they even be able to? Why worry about all this, they did it every day, they were used to it. But Makhanlal glanced at them again. This time it seemed – perhaps it had earlier too – one of the faces was familiar. Yes, it was she – the professor’s daughter. The taxi had stopped close to the curb and Makhnalal could see her clearly; he had never seen her so close. Malati was looking at the road hopelessly. Her face wore the gracefulness of fatigue: weariness seemed to suit her beautifully. Makhanlal glanced at her, then at the empty space on the seat beside him – twice or thrice her glance came his way, but never once did their eyes meet. Should he call her? But how would he address her? And would . . . would it be right? What if she was offended, what if she said . . . What if she said nothing . . . But . . . While he vacillated, the red light turned to green, the taxi started moving; that hopeless anticipation Malati and those other girls had, of taking a tram, was left behind.

  Makhanlal had been headed home, but he suddenly changed his route and went off to Chitpur, to pick out a mirror for their dressing table, for their new home.
<
br />   Several months went by.

  Raghab had almost finished building the house, the furniture was ready; all that remained was to choose an auspicious day to move in. Hiranmayee was busy inspecting everything they owned, selling off useless stuff, trading in old saris for aluminum utensils, distributing worn out clothes to the needy. Still, there were all these ancient trunks from her father-in-law’s time, the paint had worn off, some of the locks had broken, but they were very strong. One morning she was wondering what to do with them, when her youngest daughter Lakshmi ran up and told her the police had surrounded their neighbor’s house.

  “What?”

  “Yes, Ma, the police – and lots of people. Come and take a look!”

  Lakshmi tugged at her mother’s hand, but this was unnecessary. This was, after all, something everyone had to witness, not just children but also adults. Especially Hiranmayee.

  Her first stop was at her veranda facing the road. There was a small crowd outside the professor’s house, and the policemen’s red headgear was glittering in the sun. The downstairs door was wide open – it appeared to have been smashed in from the outside; some people rushed in, while another man hammered at the professor’s brass nameplate and took it off the wall, throwing it on the road. Hiranmayee looked on, hypnotized. Four porters brought out the professor’s yellow upholstered sofa and put it on the pavement; then came the chairs, then the center table . . . Passersby stopped in their tracks; the balconies and windows of all the nearby houses bore eyes that blazed with curiosity and fearful amusement, perhaps accompanied by a little pity.

  Hiranmayee’s gaze moved to the veranda inside the professor’s house. From here you could see their veranda too, and images of daily life; you could hear floating snatches of laughter, of music, of the tinkling of the joys of life, all of them oblivious to the neighbors’ existence.

  That veranda was now empty and silent. The doors and windows were shut, there didn’t appear to be anyone inside. Harimati had revealed everything to her: the professor’s family owed months and months of rent, and the landlord had now asked for their belongings to be taken by the court.

  Everything would be dragged away. And then? Would they be dragged out on the roads too – the professor, his wife, their two young children and that office-going, graduate daughter? Would the professor be handcuffed in full view of everyone and taken away? Oh dear – really? Poor fellow, how sad, what a scene!

  “What a scene!” Hiranmayee ran off to tell Makhanlal. “They handcuffed the professor and took him away.”

  “What!”

  Calculations of wood, steel, nails, and bolts swirling in his head, Makhanlal was preparing to go to the office when Hiranmayee flew in and gave him details of what had happened.

  Makhanlal was late leaving for work that day. What he thought when he heard the news, what he felt, I have no idea. As for what happened afterwards, I will recount it the way I heard it from him, with my imagination filling in the gaps. By then, he discovered as he went out to the veranda, many more of the neighbors’ possessions had been dragged out onto the pavement: bookcases stuffed with books, the dining table, a radio, a gramophone, large, framed paintings. Makhanlal took one look and returned to his room. Hiranmayee arrived to continue her litany: “Oh dear, how sad for them, but then how will our worrying about it help, it was fate, and then again, why call it fate if you don’t keep your spending within your limits” – but Makhanlal neither responded to any of this nor looked his mother in the eye. “It’s very odd,” she continued, “there isn’t a trace of anyone at home, have they run away? But then they’ve been living in the neighborhood for so long, they must be embarrassed to be seen . . .” Etcetera, etcetera. When none of this could get her son to break his silence, Hiranmayee asked, hoping for an answer, “Aren’t you going out today?”

  Makhanlal said, “Hm,” but kept sitting. So Hiranmayee had no choice but to go away, returning to the veranda to continue observing the goings-on. By then it had all become stale. The fresh excitement of the morning had vanished; the curious eyes had disappeared from nearby balconies; the busy morning was underway. Everyone was in a rush to get to work, to get the cooking done; staring with your mouth open at someone else’s affairs wouldn’t get you to the office, and how long could you gape, anyway. Besides, this would obviously take a lot more time to wrap up. On the pavement, under the sun, lay the professor’s impotent furniture – the bed with bedclothes still in place, his writing desk, cups and saucers, the electric fan. More was on its way, households didn’t survive on just a handful of things. Hiranmayee decided not to tarry any longer, asking Lakshmi to man the observation post and going off to the kitchen to supervise the cooking.

  When sympathetic neighbors went back to their own lives, when curiosity was buried under sizzling sounds from kitchens, when the buzz around these sensational events had almost been reduced to the level of daily mundanity, this was when a door in the house opened and a girl emerged – the same girl whose fluttering sari on the next-door veranda had once so touched the thick-skinned Makhanlal. He hadn’t set eyes on her for a long time now, but that day, sitting in his room, Makhanlal saw her, seemed to recognize her, definitely recognized her. He leaned on the railing for a bit, raised his hand to sweep his hair off his forehead, and then suddenly returned to his room, the door shut again. What he did then was a little strange, perhaps you will laugh at it. Why he did what he did was something even he didn’t grasp, but at that moment, he told me later, it “came upon him,” everything seemed to happen on its own.

  Makhanlal refused to delay any longer, slipping his feet hurriedly into his sandals. His ungainly frame emerged onto the street. The heap of furniture on the pavement had almost reached their own home, and the varnish on it was glittering in the eleven o’clock sun. He wended his way through all of it and stood before the house next door. The wide-open door posed no obstacle before him, and discovering the staircase – without hesitation or doubt – he went directly upstairs. The drawing room was like a new widow, only a picture hung on the wall, like a blood-red memory of a long life. In the next room a few blackened, perspiring laborers were tugging at the family’s belongings; Makhanlal went past them in long strides. There was just one more room, in the corner, its door closed. Was the family in there? He knocked on the door – no response. Another knock, and then a light push on the door got it to swing open; the scene inside no longer remained hidden from his eyes.

  It was a small room. There was nothing in it except the four white walls, though the marks on the floor where the furniture had stood had not yet been erased. Huddled on the floor were the inhabitants of the house: the professor, his wife and daughter, and the other two children curled up on the floor, asleep, one’s legs on the other’s body. Having seen these people only from a distance, suddenly seeing them up close in these unusual conditions jolted Makhanlal into realizing how distant, how remote they actually were. Why was he here? What could he do?

  They were silent, too. The professor raised his eyes only to lower them immediately, and his wife didn’t raise hers at all. The only one who stood up, briskly, was Malati – of course Makhanlal hadn’t forgotten her name in all these months.

  She came to the door quickly and said, “You? Why are you here?”

  Her tone was rough, without a trace of welcome in it, and yet Makhanlal heard music. “You? Why are you here?” could only mean that she had recognized him, that she knew who he was. His uncertainty fell away, boldness suffused his soul. He spoke without effort, “I had to come. Something needs to be done.”

  Malati was probably about to say something, to utter some protest born of strong self-respect, but Makhanlal left immediately. The landlord’s people were on hand, and he spoke to them and resolved everything within the hour. The professor joined them, speaking in a feeble voice, even objecting as much as he could in the circumstances to Makhanlal’s intervention. Eventually, when everything was settled, when those same perspiring laborers returned everything to
its place and proceeded to arrange things properly, then – by then – the professor was so exhausted he couldn’t even utter conventional words of gratitude, for which Makhanlal was extremely thankful.

  The rest of the day passed in flight for him. How lovely the day seemed, his work, the people, Calcutta – possibly he loved the entire world that day. And the kindness of the world too seemed limitless; whatever he asked for was being granted with one word, there seemed to be no obstacles at all, anything he wished for seemed to materialize before him instantly. His journey back home after his day’s work was different too. Every day, he returned because he had to, because even exhaustion set its limit – but that day it felt as though someone or something was awaiting his return. The night and the breeze seemed to suggest as much.

  His feet slowed down naturally before the professor’s house. The rooms were lit up, the shadows of the fan blades were whirling as usual on the first floor wall. Surely everything was fine, there could not have been any other problems, but still, he thought, let me check. Was it pure philanthropy? Didn’t he have an ulterior motive? Just as this question occurs to you now, it occurred to someone else too. And that is where this story ended.

  As soon as he knocked softly, the downstairs door opened, and it was Malati who Makhanlal saw standing before him. He would have been happier had it been someone else, but it was too late to retreat now.

  “I just came . . .”

  A completely unnecessary announcement, and when the person he’d addressed said nothing in response, even the dim-witted Makhanlal realized its redundancy.

  “. . . find out if everything’s all right . . .”

  “Please come in.” She spoke like a doctor inviting a patient in. “Yes, everything’s all right.”

  Makhanlal entered. When he looked around everything seemed fine: the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, the radio in the corner, all just as he had seen on his way to and fro past the house. Once upon a time he had imagined a lot of joy in this room, but now, finally here in this beautifully arranged setting, his daylong happiness seemed to fizzle out, to have no basis, no meaning.