The Fifth Man

by Basu, Bani

  This chair could be tilted back as he pleased. Mahanam reclined it a long way and sat down, his hands clasped behind his head. His house in Duff Lane was the Marble Palace by another name. A trace of mildew had appeared on the black and white floor with the floral pattern. The antique mahogany chairs were intricately carved, without offering the slightest possibility of reclining. Marble-topped tables lay in front of them. Mahanam was saying, ‘You know what, Ari, I have tried too many things in one life. I pursued literature while studying medicine, then I got involved in symbolic logic and applied mathematics even before I’d finished my literature course, and now I’m obsessed with homeopathy. Nothing else but the Materia Medica running through my head. A one-track mind. I cannot possibly teach you Baudelaire now. And frankly speaking, I’m afraid of Esha.’

  ‘What! Whatever for?’ Esha almost jumped out of her chair. Mahanam laughed. ‘Girls who study poetry often ask such difficult questions that dilettante teachers like me cannot offer answers.’

  Aritra’s eyes were still questioning. An intelligent young man, he had not believed the explanation. Mahanam had inadvertently blurted out something that lay deep in his mind. Doubt gathered in Aritra’s eyes. Couldn’t boys who studied poetry ask difficult questions too?

  Yagneshwar had brought in luchi, alur-dom and deep-fried hilsa. All of them white. The first two were milky white. The fish had acquired a golden hue because it had been fried.

  ‘I’m something of a gourmet too,’ Mahanam was saying, dividing a luchi into four with a fork and a knife. ‘Quite primitive in that sense.’

  ‘Are you going to use a knife and fork for the fish too?’ asked Esha in wonder.

  ‘Not knife and fork, but just the fork.’ Spearing a piece of fish with his fork, Mahanam transferred it into his mouth. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’

  Aritra took a sip of tea. Esha said, ‘Both tea and hilsa are off-limits for me, Mahanam-da.’

  ‘Still on milk?’

  ‘Not just on milk, on luchi and alur-dom too. But I’m not used to such a heavy breakfast at this hour of the morning. Makes me uncomfortable,’ Esha replied.

  ‘Yagneshwar!’—Mahanam called for him— ‘Yagneshwar!’ He appeared in a dhoti and shirt, a duster slung over his shoulder, a bristly moustache, and grey hair.

  ‘Never cast pearls before swine. Take away your Begumbahar luchi and Mughlai alur-dom at once. These two think gastronomy and academics are mutual enemies. Let them, but I am not allowing your cooking skills to be humiliated.’

  Yagneshwar picked up the tray of food while Esha said, ‘Begumbahar luchi? Mughlai alur-dom? What are all these, Mahanam-da?’

  ‘You’d have known if you’d tried them,’ answered Mahanam, carefully folding the second luchi with his knife and fork. ‘If you can have rumali roti, why not Begumbahar luchi? Invented by Yagneshwar Mal, esquire. Practically transparent. If you’d only tasted the alur-dom you’d have known it isn’t your everyday stuff.’

  What had Aria and Esha discussed on their way back that day? A smile appeared on Mahanam’s lips. Aritra must have said, ‘Actually he doesn’t know anything. Claims to know French like his mother tongue. Humph!’

  ‘Strange man, you know.’

  ‘More peculiar than strange. Begumbahar luchi! My foot!’

  ‘No but I should have tasted it. I made a mistake.’

  ‘You made nothing of the sort. He’s actually a miser. Complete skinflint. Thinks he’s very clever. Just flashed the tray before our eyes. Always does that. Yagneshwar cooks just once during the day and passes it off for breakfast, lunch and dinner. This one Yagneshwar is my cook-cumservant-cum-cleaner-cum-errands-boy . . .’

  This conversation was not entirely imaginary. These were the stories that circulated about Mahanam, who had just returned from Oxford. He quite enjoyed them. Apparently he had grown a beard to hide a burn on his chin. From acid. Which he had acquired when trying to kill himself. Had a colleague not snatched the bottle of hydrochloric acid out of his hands he would have been the late Mahanam by now. And the suicide was apparently for the blue-eyed Irene McCutcheon. Mahanam would hear these stories, but never protest. This was how legends were created. His beard, Joggeshwar, Marble Palace and the strange things he said had given birth to long-standing fables on the university campus—he found it all quite amusing.

  There was always a kernel of truth in every legend. Her name was Iris, not Irene, she had gifted him a triangular pebble of granite when he was leaving. She said she had picked it up in Salisbury, near Stonehenge. A polished, swollen, triangular stone. Others gave him different sorts of gifts, but Iris gave him a pebble. When he asked her about it, smiling, she said, ‘Do you seriously mean you don’t recognize it?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘It is my heart that I am giving unto you.’

  ‘And it is made of stone.’

  ‘Oh no. It is as long-lasting and heavy.’

  About to burst into trademark laughter, Mahanam became quiet.

  ‘Look, Iris, I look upon you as my sister and friend.’

  ‘Do you people in India kiss your sisters the way you did on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. One never knows what one can do under the influence of strong liquor. One doesn’t even remember.’

  ‘You needn’t beg my pardon, Nam. We are used to being jilted ever since the goddamned war. Men have thousands to choose from.’

  Iris gave him a gift of an entire heated heart, as heavy as granite. If there had to be an acid burn on the chin, it should have been on Iris’s, not Mahanam’s. His students had heard the opposite of what had happened. The truth was that they could not imagine spurning a white woman. And Mahanam hated the familiar tale of going to ‘Blighty’ and returning as a white man with a white woman in tow as wife. But coming as she did from the land of Annie Besant, Margaret Noble, and Maud Gonne, how could Iris have said so easily, we are used to being jilted? This was some sort of feminine complex. There was no basis to such ideas. Mahanam had always considered women equal in every respect. He knew nothing about having a sister, the sister whom he had invoked to fob Iris off. In his youth there must have been an excess of emotion in the hidden recesses of his mind over family relationships. But he did not know the taste of parents or siblings. Although his knowledge of governesses or friends was more than a hundred per cent.

  Mahanam had a broad forehead. If not quite like Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar’s, nor hairless, it was expansive. The sharpness of his nose was evident. His chin was small in comparison. Every time he shaved his mirror would scold: divide the canvas into two. If you overload the upper half with so much colour, the balance will be destroyed. That was when Mahanam began to grow a beard. A nice, black, wavy beard, which he had to trim every day to match with his face when he was at Trinity College. When he returned, bearded, his friends couldn’t recognize him. Not just his appearance, they claimed his entire personality had changed because of the beard covering his face.

  Sambaran would say, ‘What is this Oxo-Iranian personality you’ve created for yourself. I feel like I have to look at you through a telescope. Get rid of the beard.’

  Mahanam would reply, ‘Why don’t you understand that even without the beard I’d be the same person. It’s the personality that’s changed, though not entirely—that’s a misconception on your part. It just seems that way at first, but everything will fall into place later.’ And Sandeep said, ‘Say what you will, I am a hundred per cent sure there’s a mystery behind it. Why else should you object so strongly to shave a mere beard? If it had at least been a moustache—a moustache maketh the man.’

  ‘It’s the same with the beard. If you are recognizable by your bushy moustache, you might as well spot me by my beard.’

  The mystery surrounding Mahanam had probably begun with his beard. Sandeep’s use of the word mystery had led to speculation in different circles. Mahanam had never said, ‘I don’t care for the way my chin looks, so I grew a beard to conceal it.’ His laughter was eloque
nt. Mahanam was wont to play with an excess of words, which made it difficult to extract personal statements. Moreover, he laughed often, not always with joy or enjoyment. It was a mystery, therefore.

  There was indeed a mystery about his origins. With no sign of his parents anywhere, he could easily have been called a bastard. At eighteen his Kasturi Mashi had said, ‘Don’t even ask. There’s no end to what people do and how far they can go. You were born without mishap, and the very next night your mother ran away. Her address turned out to be false. After some time in the hospital I brought you home. I didn’t adopt you or give you my name—how could you be Mahanam if you already had a name? For this reason alone I didn’t teach you to address me as Ma. One day there would be that dramatic moment when you’d learn I’m not your mother. Followed by a whole lot of melodrama and the torment of sentimentality and indigestion. Your parents are dead, Mahanam, and that is the truth. You’d better not become Karna or someone like that. Don’t spend the rest of your life like the hero of a novel in search of his mother. You were born on your own strength, not anyone else’s. The world sent you free of preliminary bonds. Such good fortune doesn’t come easily. Don’t ever let yourself be tied down easily. But whoever it was who gave birth to you, they had good genes, you know.’ Kasturi Mashi would laugh.

  Mahanam was a precocious adolescent then. Perhaps it was because of this background, but he felt no relationship with anyone else—nor did he feel the urge to forge one. Whatever he got, he grasped with both hands. And distributed generously whatever he had. Still people called him a miser. Iris certainly had. All his friends used to complain. Beneath a torrent of words, eating and drinking, and joining discussions and arguments, he was a tortoise in its shell. Only those who tried to get very close realized that his heart was wrapped in an iron curtain. All arrows were stopped there—offensive arrows as well as arrows of love.

  Mahanam often felt as though he were visiting this planet on a holiday. Or on work. Just like he had been to Oxford. Just like he had travelled across different European cities. Only the house in Duff Lane gave him the sense of an anchor. Was it because of his extensive travels? Or because he had no one to call his own? Or because of his nature? Chandrashekhar had laughed it off though. But this emptiness, which he experienced after his Mashi’s death, worried the forty-plus Mahanam at times. Even family men who carried the weight of many people, of many problems, were not happy. He had observed the laughable lengths to which people would go to escape from their parents or siblings or wife and children. Was Mahanam really rootless in this world? Should he have had some ties too—if only to experience a distaste for them? Was it not a matter of fortune, then, to secure a double-promotion in the university of life?

  SIX

  The phone buzzed like a cricket. The afternoon vigil had long ended. All the work was done, as were the meals. Digestion was done too. Listening to ghazals with drowsy eyes was done. Aritra was in his office. Pupu, in college. Like they were every day. Exactly like every day, three months ago. The house had returned to its rhythm. The beat had been missing, but now it was back in place. Such peace. Neelam was cutting fabric for a blouse. Scissors, a measuring tape, and a tailor’s chalk lay on the table. The blouse was dark brown. There would be scallops on the back and the arms. The iron was warm and ready. The scallops would not come out well otherwise. The phone was ringing.

  ‘It’s me. From Thane. Why the urgent summons?’

  ‘No particular reason, just spend a couple of days with us,’ said Neelam warily.

  ‘Where? At your house?’

  ‘As if we have space in our humble abode. It’s not like you don’t have your own house here.’

  ‘You needn’t have continued to live in your humble abode, Bhabi. I’ve been telling you for years to leave it to “Super Seal”. I’ll make you a palace. You could have paid at your convenience. You needn’t even have paid. It was only to satisfy Chowdhury Sahib’s ego that . . .’

  ‘Suppose you built us a palace with your own money, what would we tell the income-tax people if they questioned us?’

  ‘Oh Bhabi! Chowdhury Sahib is the P.R.O. of a huge multinational. He could well own plenty of property. Do you keep track? Leave all these little things to Seal. Now tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Can’t I just want to see you and Seema? Ari’s recovered from such a serious accident. We need to celebrate.’

  ‘Is Ari Chowdhury inviting me to celebrate his recovery? News of the year!’

  ‘Please come. I was thinking of a short holiday to Mahabaleshwar or Matheran. Or Goa.’

  ‘If it’s Matheran you want to visit, come over. And madam, your mood doesn’t quite seem to match Matheran or Mahabaleshwar, or Goa! Two of them are in the hills, one by the sea. You seem bewildered.’

  ‘Let my mind wander, I’ll do what my heart tells me to.’

  ‘Right now is it me your heart wants?’ Intensely.

  Neelam said, ‘So be it. I can’t argue with you.’ Neelam sitting behind Bikram, the scooter speeding through the air. You shop for groceries every day Bhabi. Let’s shop for happiness today.

  ‘Why the deadline of twentieth March?’

  ‘One of my old girlfriends is visiting after a very long time. We’ll have lots of fun together, all of us.’

  ‘Is the girlfriend alone in her dark room?’

  ‘So it seems. Bring Seema and come over.’

  ‘If I bring Seema how will your solitary reaper find a partner?’

  ‘She will, she will. You needn’t worry. Just come and . . .’ Neelam was about to say ‘save my life’, but changed it to the more formal ‘rescue me’.

  ‘Let me see if I can.’

  ‘As if you run a huge business empire or something. If you leave the cards with a dummy for a few days will you earn fewer cases of black money?’

  ‘Careful Bhabi, you can’t taunt me about black money.’

  ‘All right, all right, your money is white as driven snow. All right? Bye now.’

  ‘No no. Will the universe collapse if you talk a little longer? Your voice is just the same. Like birdsong. Let me hear it a little longer. I feel a tingle.’

  Neelam put the phone down. Beads of perspiration had appeared on her brow. Your voice is just the same. Even Bikram had told her how much about her had changed. Only the voice hadn’t. The old Neelam did not exist. Nothing left of her. Neither in form, nor in nature. But if that were so, why were Bikram’s hands shaking as he answered the phone? Was it out of fear—the fear of doing something in secret? Still? Or was it romance? Bikram’s voice, seeing him in her mind’s eye, churned the foam in her memory. A powerful, forceful, strong, desirous man, with firm, fleshy lips, extremely garrulous, his song was not music, it was an expression of physical desire.

  Lutf uske badan ka kuchh nah puchho

  Kya jaaniye, jaan hai keh tan hai

  Such indescribable pleasure from his touch, is it of the spirit or is it physical?

  How many women lived within one? Like rabbits from a magician’s hat, or like white pigeons from a fist, they appeared on different cues. Aritra got one Neelam every morning and evening. The Neelam who responded to Bikram on the phone was a completely different one. Which Neelam was Pupu’s mother? Which Neelam had emerged at the possibility of Esha’s arrival? And which Neelam was it whom Mahanam had called out to that night? Besides these there was also Neelam Joshi Chowdhury, president of the Bijoya Dashami reception committee. Mandal, Shah, Iyengar or Khadelkar’s Neelam Bhabi. Neelam rose suddenly, going up to the mirror. All the furniture in this house was multipurpose, there was no such thing as a separate dressing table. There was a tall mirror in Ari’s bedroom. A round one in Pupu’s. Cosmetics for daily use were in a drawer in the desk next to the mirror. The rest were stored in Pupu’s box bed. The mirror was the only object in this house that Neelam did not clean with care. This tall mirror. A lace cover was draped on it. It was Mahanam who used to say: the splitting image of Jane Morris. I’ve never seen such resemblan
ce. Jane Morris was Dante Gabriel’s friend’s wife and, like his own, the model of many of his paintings. Mrs Rossetti died so beautifully in her youth, why couldn’t Neelam have done the same? Dying early keeps a woman an object of love, romance and desire forever. She had hoped to die on the operation table. Her blood count was low. Her blood group was a rare one, she had needed several bottles. Two tables packed with empty bottles of blood and saline. Only Pupu’s face would float before her eyes in her semi-conscious state. What would happen to Pupu then, would a doll always come between every mother and her death wish? Pupu! Pupe! Why did you come? Whom do you belong to? Are you my sin? And yet you are all the forgiveness for all my sins. Who says there can be no forgiveness. Didn’t Aritra like to read the poet who said, ‘And yet there is forgiveness. Only forgiveness. It harbours no regrets.’ Would the godhead not forgive her if she begged with shame, clasping Pupu to her breast? Humans rued being ‘unable to forgive’, but god forgave. Forgive them, my father, for they know not what they do. No, no. Neelam was startled. It was humans who forgave. God did not. The youthful allure with which she had played her game had not been taken away by another human, but by him. He sent people with certain priceless assets. Health, beauty, intelligence, talent. And then he went off on a long vacation instead of waiting to be consulted or to control. He would come back one day to tot up the accounts. What have you done with your assets, Neelam Joshi? Would Neelam be able to stand in front of him with her curly hair at whose roots nature was sprinkling grains of talcum powder, with her rose-smooth skin that had been stretched so tight it seemed close to breaking, with her vital statistics of 40–38–48? Would she be able to tell him, look, my lord, this is what I have done with the assets you gave me. No, it would be better to keep herself in the background and thrust Pupu forward. Just as Yashodhara had thrust Rahul. The fiery girl was dark, wide-eyed, snub-nosed, curious but resolute. Pushing her forward, Neelam would say, this is what I have created. Check for yourself whether what you had given me has multiplied manifold or not. If Pupu stood there with her Sartre and Yeats, her collection of the Upanishads, Gora and Religion of Man, holding a T-square, would the godhead not say, but Neelam, the capital I invested in you has not grown with interest, you are offering me the enhancement of someone else’s assets. Everyone in the world said Pup had not inherited anything from either of her parents. Not her father’s attractive restlessness, nor her mother’s beauty, which lit up the world, nothing. She was different. All Neelam knew fully was the agony of bearing her in her womb for nine months, the pain of giving birth to her.