That evening nothing happened. Sunil started about the Puja donations, leaving Nila’s issue unresolved. Nila brought tea and biscuits on a tray. She asked Sunil about his friend who was supposed to go to Calcutta. He had gone and reached the Chanel to Nila’s house and he was scheduled to return very soon. Nila wanted to know when he would go again and if he wasn’t going this year, who else would go. This year Sunil himself was supposed to go, after the Puja. When would Nila go? Oh, Kishan knew that, of course.
That night Kishan woke up the sleeping Nila and his dark, hairy hands reached for the buttons on her dress. Nila shoved his hand away. Kishan gripped her hands in steely fists and said, ‘I want a child, Nila.’
She said, ‘Let me sleep.’
She had almost said, ‘Why, didn’t Immanuelle give you one?’ But she didn’t utter that name because she was afraid if she did, Kishan would bring up Sushanta and whether she had slept with him or not. Yes, she had. The guilt that Nila used to feel because she wasn’t a virgin, had disappeared since she came to know about Immanuelle. Instead, she felt rather relieved. In a way, Immanuelle saved her.
At her work Nila found that most of the workers had black, brown or yellow skin. Only a handful were whites. On the very first day Monsieur Gigout described her job and what it entailed in great detail in French. Nila heard him out without following a single word. After Gigout left the room, out of the handful of whites one girl came forward and asked her if she understood anything.
Nila sat with a glum face; she hadn’t understood a word.
Danielle explained it to her.
Since then it was Danielle who always translated Gigout’s words from French to English for Nila. Danielle took her to the nearby café for a cup of tea and Nila talked to her about her arrival in Paris, about her life with Kishan.
One day, Catherine, another white girl, asked her in faltering English, ‘You are from India, aren’t you?’
Before Nila could say yes, Catherine explained that she’d love to go to India the moment she could save enough money. She did this job and saved the money to travel to faraway places. Last year she had gone to Malta and the year before that to Martinique. Catherine had studied Indology and her subject was the bauls of Bengal. Before she wrote her thesis she even went and stayed in a baul’s house in some tiny village of Bengal for two months. She was yet to submit her thesis and she wanted to go again, to that village.
With the baul topic between them, Nila felt close to Catherine very quickly. That afternoon they had lunch together at the brassérie. Over lunch Catherine described how she had eaten with her fingers at the baul’s house and walked for miles through mud and slush. She hadn’t stayed in Calcutta and she hadn’t wanted to. She’d preferred to see the lives of the bauls in villages. The one thing that she liked the most, and she even brought it with her, was . . .
Nila stopped chewing to hear her better.
‘Bidi.’
For a long time Nila forgot to chew the food in her mouth.
After the meal Catherine carefully brought out a packet of bidis from her pockets, extracted one even more carefully and began to smoke it. In her entire life Nila had never smelt a bidi that close. She had seen labourers or beggars smoking it. She had never known that something could smell that disgusting.
That evening Nila went into a café with Danielle and Catherine. They asked for coffee and Nila tea. Nila said, ‘Look there are empty seats there. Let’s go and sit.’ They said no, you were supposed to have your drink standing.
Nila didn’t know that there were three kinds of prices in a café. For example tea: if you stood and drank it was seven francs, if you sat down it was eighteen francs and if you took it out in the terrace it was thirty francs. Danielle rolled her cigarettes and smoked, dropping the ash on the floor. Apparently this was also a rule; those who took their drink standing by the counter, would never get an ashtray.
Nila asked, ‘Do you like Bengali food?’
‘Sure,’ Catherine replied.
Danielle had never had it. She jumped at the invitation. Nila invited them then and there, for dinner the following evening. They decided Nila would collect her week’s pay the next day, go home and cook and they would join her there after work. Nila left her address and phone number.
The next day Nila did just that—she picked up fish and meat from Belle Ville and went home and spent the whole evening cooking. Danielle and Catherine arrived with two bottles of wine. Nila set the table with nine kinds of dishes. Both her friends exclaimed over it and then asked who else she had invited. Nila assured them it was just the two of them. They looked at one another in surprise.
‘Nila, are you in your right mind?’
No, she wasn’t. She was very sad.
‘Why?’
She had wanted to cook two more dishes, but she didn’t get the time.
Danielle uncorked the wine bottle and poured it into three glasses.
‘Santè!’
‘Bon apetit.’
Nila served them the food. But they didn’t like her way of serving. Nila wanted to give the greens first and then the vegetables and then the fish fry followed by the fish curry and finally the meat, because that’s the way to get the best taste. Danielle didn’t agree with that. She took a bit of each of the dishes at one shot. Nila was uncomfortable because her plate looked like the discarded mess of marriage feast plates. She felt they’d never get the taste of the individual items. But Danielle and Catherine exclaimed over the food: it tasted great.
The fish curry made Danielle’s eyes burn, it was too spicy. Catherine was used to some spice in the baul’s house, so she was okay. As they ate, both said they’d never had so many dishes at the same time.
‘But when we invite people in Calcutta, this is how we cook. It’s nothing great.’
Nila served them more fish when they finished one, more rice and more meat. Even if they said no, and covered their plates with their hands, she forced them to take more because that’s how it was done. Danielle laughed and said, ‘Why are you behaving like a grandmother?’
Nila couldn’t explain to them that guests were like gods to the Bengali. They’d always give them the bigger piece of fish, the best seat, the nicest bed. It was difficult for Bengalis to say ‘I love you’, but they’d show it by giving and feeding.
Danielle and Catherine drank wine as they ate. Nila sipped at it occasionally. The feast wasn’t over. Her guests were resting in between the courses. Danielle had smoked twice in the gaps and Catherine smoked her bidis. At this time Kishan arrived, to spoil the fun.
Both Danielle and Catherine said bonjour. Kishan wished them and disappeared into the bedroom.
‘Is this your husband?’
Nila nodded, this was her husband.
Ashen faced, Nila went into the bedroom and muttered, ‘What will they think if you don’t even talk to them?’
‘Who are they?’
‘They work with me. Please don’t misbehave with them. Come on.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t you see, they are white and not black, brown or even yellow.’
‘So?’
‘So come and eat. I have cooked many things today.’
‘What have you cooked?’
That’s where Nila was in trouble.
‘What have you cooked? Why do I smell meat?’
‘They don’t eat anything but fish and meat.’
‘That’s not my concern. You are not supposed to cook it in my house.’ Nila stood with her head lowered in front of Kishan’s indignant eyes.
‘This is the last time. It won’t happen again, I promise.’ Nila pleaded. ‘At least don’t create a scene in front of the guests.’
‘There’s no need for you to cook anymore. Now go away, get out of my sight.’
Nila moved away.
All the time that Danielle and Catherine were in the house, Kishan lay in the bedroom with the door shut.
From Gare du Nord to Gare d’Austerlitz
> ‘Why don’t you leave that house?’
‘Where would I go?’
‘You can stay with me for now and then we’ll think of something.’
Here are your keys and everything else. I have taken my things and nothing else. The house is just as it was. I am leaving because we don’t get along, and you know that as well as I. Life isn’t easy in this foreign country. I’m seeing a different you ever since I’ve started working. You are insulting me at every step. But have you ever thought that I can’t possibly be enjoying that box-packing job and that I didn’t take a degree to do this kind of thing? The reason why I took that job is that I hate begging from you. I know you don’t consider it begging. You feel you’re looking after your wife, doing your duty. But it comes with a price: I have to live according to your wishes because you are the master, you are the boss; without you my life is pointless and I am a mere servant who’ll clean your house, cook, serve and provide sexual gratification at night. Is there any other role in which you see me? Oh yes, the other day you said you need a child. I have to give you an heir. I have to because you want it, as if it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. We could have both wanted it together.
The other night I invited two of my friends and realized that I don’t have the right to do that. Probably I don’t even have the right to have any friends. I have tolerated your nonsense about fish and meat; but you take that smell all day long in the restaurant, don’t you? You just want to force me to give it up. This I, who has evolved over so many years, has to give up her habits, her language, her culture, her nature and fit herself into your mould. You know that I haven’t done anything wrong. The main reason why you are angry with me is that I haven’t obeyed you. I cannot survive within so many restraints and strictures.
If I leave the house, both of us will be glad. I’m setting off for the unknown, for a friend’s place to start with.
Don’t try to find me.
Nila.
The next day, Nila kept the letter on the dining table, placed the bunch of keys on top of it and left the house with Danielle. From the Gare du Nord to the Gare d’Austerlitz. The dirty dishes of the night before were still in the kitchen. ‘Let them be,’ Nila thought.
Danielle lived in one of the tenements in a five-storeyed building just behind the Gare d’Austerlitz. Once these rows of tenements had housed the servants of the rich people. The tiny rooms were hardly eight square metres in size. There was no bathroom and just a toilet at one end of the corridor. When the country freed itself from the class war and got rid of masters and servants, the houses fell empty. These days, they were rented by students or people with very small incomes. Danielle paid eight hundred francs a month as rent. She had stayed in that room for the last two years. She didn’t have much money. Sometimes she took up odd jobs here and there. She wrote book reviews for a women’s magazine. They were usually reviews of books written by women. Danielle was Canadian and was fluent in French, although her mother was Irish. In the nineteenth century, during the famine, Danielle’s grandparents had immigrated to North America. Danielle’s father was born in Canada and he had French and native American blood in him. Perhaps her grandfather on her father’s side was a native American, although Danielle had never seen him and her father never spoke much about him. Her father was so embarrassed about it that if the subject ever came up, he either left the house or he shouted down the person who dared to raise the subject. Danielle’s brother Phillippe had no signs of it, but she bore the marks of that forefather in her nose, eyes and chin, although her skin was white.
In her eight-square-metre room, Danielle had a bed, one table with a small computer on it, a tiny fridge in one corner and a cooking stove on top of it. Next to it was a basin and tap. There were bookshelves on the wall crammed with books, piled one on top of the other and there was one chair with armrests—just one.
‘I have just one bed and there’s no room for another one. I don’t even have spare mattresses to make a bed on the floor.’
Nila said, ‘I’m sure we can squeeze into it and manage, can’t we?’
Nila had slept like that many times before. Whenever there was a village wedding, hundreds would go from the city. Big beds were made on the floor and people would just jostle on them and sleep. She was quite used to it. Besides, even in her home in Ballygunge whenever there was an aunt visiting, they’d be assigned her bed. She would snuggle up to the aunt and drift off to sleep, listening to her stories. She still remembered the spine-chilling ghost stories of Manju aunty!
That night Danielle wanted to treat Nila to dinner at a fancy restaurant.
‘In that case, let me dress.’
Danielle went outside. Nila took her clothes off and got into a pair of blue jeans, a red shirt and a denim jacket. When she said she was done, Danielle came in and raised her eyebrows, ‘I thought you were going to wear a dress.’
‘That’s what I’m wearing.’ Nila laughed.
‘But these are jeans, not a dress.’
Nila couldn’t understand what Danielle was saying. Puzzled, she stood there and asked, ‘Am I looking bad?’
‘Not at all.’
Outside, Nila wanted to dance. She had never felt so happy, so free in Paris. She raised her hands in the air and said, ‘So you wanted to keep an Indian servant. Now where is she, Kishanbabu? Why didn’t I do this sooner?’ She hugged Danielle and shouted, ‘You have set me free!’
‘You would have left that place sooner or later. No human being can live like that.’
Nila laughed and trembled with joy as she watched the lights of that beautiful city, shining down on the boys and girls who were out on the streets. She felt as if she was flying. She took Danielle’s hand in hers and flew along the street.
‘Nila, you look so beautiful. This is the real you. You were hidden behind the mask of Madame Kishanlal. But now, you are so alive! So beautiful! There’s no sign of worry on your face. This is a different you!’ Danielle looked at her with admiration. Her fist within Nila’s hand trembled, sweated.
Inside the Café Jimmare, Danielle browsed through the menu and asked for a spaghetti Bolognese and red wine. Since Nila wasn’t familiar with anything else in the menu apart from the sandwiches, she asked Danielle to choose something for her, even if it was the same dish.
Each time Nila tried to pick up the spaghetti with her fork, it slipped away. Finally she gave up. It was impossible for her to handle it with a fork and even if she did, it tasted too much of flour. Instead she looked around her and watched the people. At the next table a young boy sat, wearing earrings and the girl with him had six in each ear. She also had her brows, lips and her tongue pierced.
‘Why has that girl pierced her eyebrows, lips and tongue?’
Danielle didn’t find it unusual at all. ‘Yes, she’s done it because she wanted to.’
Nila thought of her own life: she never could do what she wanted to. If she ever tried to go out in trousers, Anirban would bear down upon her. She would always have to change into something more feminine.
They left the café and walked. Nila saw some young boys and girls with their hair dyed and raised high and stiff. Why had they done that? Danielle said it was because they wanted to. Nila wanted to know why they had such a need.
‘They don’t like many of the rules of society and so they do this—sort of like a protest.’
Nila also didn’t like many of society’s rules. But she would never dye her hair. She wasn’t spunky enough to do that. She asked Danielle what these people were protesting against, in such a lovely, healthy society with such admirable rules. But Danielle’s eyes were on the peaks of Pompidous and she wondered how Paris would look from up there. Nila wondered aloud if Pompidous was an oil factory and Danielle laughed so hard that she was embarrassed. They went into Café Bo-Bo. It was crowded and there was no place to sit. People stood and drank wine. Nila watched as a girl, tall as a beanpole and mounted on high heels, drank wine and swayed as she talked
to two men. The girl was pretty with a red dress, red lipstick, matching shoes and hat. She puckered her lips like a bird’s beak and kissed first one man and then the next. Nila whispered to Danielle, ‘That girl has just kissed both the men. Who do you think is her lover?’
Danielle was indifferent, ‘That’s not a girl, it’s a man.’
For a long time, Nila was struck dumb, ‘Why has he dressed like a woman then?’
‘Because that’s his wish.’
Fine, Nila accepted that it was a man, but then why would he kiss other men? She shuddered when Danielle told her that they were homosexuals. This was the first time Nila saw a homosexual. She was dazzled by the extent of freedom in this society where they kissed whom they wanted and dressed as they pleased.
They got a seat and their wine was served. Nila sipped occasionally.
‘Why aren’t you drinking?’
‘I am not used to drinking wine.’
‘Not used to it? So what do people drink in your country?’
‘Whisky.’
‘That’s before the meal. What about during the meal?’
‘Water.’
‘The other people in your country?’
‘Everyone drinks water.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Yes, everyone.’
But Nila was realizing that it was customary for the French to drink wine at all times of the day. In Calcutta she had seen people buying liquor surreptitiously, wrapping the bottle in newspaper so that others couldn’t tell. When Nikhil drank, he bolted his door from within. If someone came visiting then, he’d wash his mouth umpteen times before presenting himself to the guest. Molina always thought bad people drank alcohol. Nila thought so too. But when she saw Sushanta drink a few times she was disabused of that notion though she still believed if you drink, you should do it in secret. Now, in this amazing city of freedom, Nila realized she need never do anything in secret. In this city, she noticed, it was wrong not to drink; people thought you were uncultured and uncivilized.
Since the spaghetti had hardly gone into her, Nila wanted to eat something at Café Bo-Bo. She wouldn’t have beef, and lamb had a funny smell; would grilled chicken do? That’d be fine. And what would she have to drink? Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola? The waiter at Bo-Bo laughed his head off. Who was this strange being who drank Coke with meat? Nila noticed Danielle was looking embarrassed.
French Lover Page 9
