Moving On
It was far away to a time that was different and maybe then we were different too. It all started with a blithe tentative smile starting at the middle. The quivering uncertain lips undecided whether to carry the smile to the ends of the small mouth. The glance shy through the curtain of her long eyebrows. An oval face with somewhat slanted eyes. A fair complexion. Tall but slightly built. The posture, in the smile, caught in mid-step. The right shoulder hunched a bit under the weight of the cloth bag slung on it. Heavy with what? Books, a tiffin box, what else one wondered? The sari as usual. Cotton, always in pastel colours and the contrasting colour of the broad border looking like a sash running from her right knee to left shoulder. Today the sash was red on a body of beige. The steps small, the gait had that slight shuffle which thrust the cloth bag up ahead of her with each step. Always attractive. Indescribably beautiful. This was the fifteenth darshan – look, over the last one month and always between 12.14PM to 12.17PM. She worked as a teacher at the primary school down the road and was on her way home after the school closed at noon.
*************************
It was the rainy season in Calcutta after the summer of 1966 when I had just passed my engineering. India was going through a bad patch economically and there was a recession on and jobs were difficult to get. We were as it was common then to be branded – the ‘educated unemployed’. It gave us some distinction from the uneducated unemployed and made us feel better that at the least we were called differently.
We were about five of us from the same college. Some from among us had even been through school together. Apart from having nothing to do except appear for some of those itinerant interviews for a job, we subscribed to the traditional adda that Calcutta has been known for.
The adda was a time-honored pastime of shooting the breeze; to make the atmosphere as electric as possible by uttering the most outlandish idea; of talking of things exotic; of exercising your vocal chords to the limit; in fact, no topic was taboo. The more exotic subject you spoke of defined your level as an intellectual, the capacity and ability to blame the establishment, dissecting dialectic materialism with the finesse of a surgeon was more important than having a bath. The location of the adda was wherever there was space to park for a bunch like us. It could be at a neighbourhood ledge called a ‘rock’ which was more for the dadas – local toughs and boys of the locality. We would collect near the traffic signal of a major intersection in south Calcutta perched on a hip-high iron fence to improve our visibility of the passing ‘birds’. The importance of a thoroughfare, the busier the better, was critical for the location of an adda since its longevity at that location was determined by the number, quality and frequency of the ‘birds’that you could see flitting by. Therefore the perch and the emphasis on visibility and traffic flow which aspect was mutual.
*********************
And then she came. More in the morning where our adda would shift to outside on the street in front of one of our friend’s shop just down the road and a little before the school where she taught. The fleeting glances exchanged. The half-smiles continued. The onus was on the male that is me to set the ball rolling in those times. But then I was not prepared for the face to face meeting and then the conversation. The very thought would make me break into a cold sweat. What would I say? What would I do? Where would I meet her? My friends would egg me on to break the ice. Saying that once I cross the threshold, everything would be all right. The words they said would flow from me like a river in spate bursting its dam. But I knew myself and refused to believe that the matter was so simple. There was one amongst us who in juvenile excess one day almost pushed me into her. I stumbled but righted myself in time without crashing into her. But looking up I saw the faint frown of surprise and maybe dismay and then disapproval on her face. Passing by and glancing back she gave that amused mischievous smile that would remain with me for life. It lit up her eyes and my heart all at the same time. I knew then that I had been excused.
After that time passed and set to the routine of giving interviews and being in front of my friend’s shop at just after noon for collecting my daily dose of motivation to survive in this big, bad world where no one was offering me a job. In the meanwhile the school in which she worked was housed in the house of a cousin of one of my friends and from the cousin I got her name. Someone came and told me that she was the sister of one of my seniors in college and that she already had a boyfriend. That was a shock and put me back by a couple of weeks in moving forward.
And then one day I was late and rushing to be at my friend’s shop so that I did not miss her going past. I was just getting off the bus and she was there at the bus-stop waiting to get in, right in front of me. I was in the way and with a bashful- ‘Sorry!’ - I moved out. The apology in that fleeting instance I could see had been accepted again and the smile seemed even more radiant than I could remember. I had spoken to her. The ice had been broken.
The next day I was all ready for the confrontation. Bright and early and being ribbed by my friend at the shop, I waited. When she came alongside, I fell into step with her, saying,
‘Can I walk you to the bus-stop?’
She said nothing. Neither a yes nor a no. I presumed that it meant that I could come with her. We walked down together. I was oblivious of the people around me. And during the walk it was all the meaningless opening conversation. Do you work at the school? Yes. You seem to come out at the same time everyday. That is when the school gives over. She must be thinking this guy is really dumb. How long have you been teaching? I just started this year. The words seemed to be tumbling out of me at a breathless pace. But her replies were measured in that husky voice of hers as if she was sharing a secret with me. And then the bus-stop had come. All too soon, I thought. The bus also came quickly. And you could not really speak at a bus-stop. With so many people standing around as if bending towards us inclined to eavesdrop. The bubble of privacy had burst. That is how it ended, the first meeting.
And that was the pattern for the next two weeks or so. The short walk to the bus-stop. Getting acquainted I guess was pleasurable all the same. She had just finished graduating in English Literature from Presidency College, one of the best in Calcutta. For that I had plenty to share about how I had wanted to quit engineering and take up English as a subject. But then she said that maybe engineering was better for men since it allowed a good career. I had graduated then into the men category! I reminded her that even after doing my engineering, not only me but a whole host of my batch mates were still waiting for jobs. She responded that you need to always wait for a good thing and in any case she was sure that I was doing something useful in the meanwhile. I had to wholeheartedly agree with that. I knew then I was getting nearer. The family details were also exchanged and my senior at the engineering college was after all not her brother. That had been wrong information. Her father used to work for a big private companyand they were two sisters and a younger brother. She was the eldest. Her mother was a housewife and she was more attached to her mother than her father. The father came through as a strict disciplinarian. I had to cross that fence someday. But then I had some time I guess before I would have to be ready for that meeting. The boundaries of our relationship seemed to be very finite from my friend’s shop to the bus-stop, some two hundred yards. I really needed to take the next step.
And then one day I blurted out that a nice movie was in town and if she would like to go. It was My Fair Lady. It was a sell-out movie and all the rage in town then. She demurred saying that there would be a crowd and it would be too far to go. I persuaded her that a student of English should not miss a movie like that. She finally agreed and I got two tickets for the matinee afternoon show on a Saturday, a holiday for her school. We agreed to meet at the theater some fifteen minutes before show time. I was there bright and early a clear half an hour before the show. And then had to put up with someone I faintly knew from our college, a piece of avoidable snot, who was pestering me with – ‘How come I was alone for a movie?’ I had quite a time shrugging him off but it was still fifteen minutes to show time. The minutes seemed to be dragging and no amount of my looking at my watch could make her come in sight. And then I had been pumped in with stories that you could always be stood up for your first date. That was kind of de rigueur for those times then. As the time passed slowly you could not help notice how other guys waiting like me would meet the girl that they had been expecting and arm in arm go into the theater. I guess I still had to graduate in this particular aspect of life. And then there was the shy – ‘Hi!’, from somewhere behind me in that husky unmistakable voice of hers. I turned around and there she was looking like a dream in a pink Bengali cotton sari. She was breathlessly telling me that the bus she caught got stuck in traffic. But I was living my dream and all that fell on deaf ears. We fell in step as usual and went in. The movie was a rip-roaring success and she enjoyed it, laughing at the antics of Rex Harrison and the manner Audrey Hepburn evolved into a lady of class and the touch of romance between the old professor and the Cockney lass. Coming out with stars in my eyes and getting used to the late afternoon light I asked her, how did she manage to get away for the movie. She said that her family was expecting that she was with one of her friends. I said – ‘I owe your friend one’. She laughingly said that I will tell her that. After that I asked if she would like to go and have some tea and the famous kathi rolls at Ameenia’s. A nod of the head taken for assent and we were seated in one of those cubicles in Ameenia’s, not on the same side but on opposite sides of the table. Nizam’s in Calcutta was the best place for rolls but it was rather down-market and surely not on the first date. Ameenia’s was relatively better. She launched through the plate of rolls and tea while recounting the highlights of the movie. We both did not realize how quickly time flew. The conversation was so easy. And then it was time to return home and I offered to drop her. She stayed at Gariahat. We flagged a taxi and chit-chatted until the Gariahat market came.
‘Do you want to be dropped off at home?’
‘Not this time. Drop me here.’
‘We should do this again some time.’
‘Yes.’
With that I floated home in my black and yellow hired carriage driven by a friendly, elderly sardarji who when I paid the fare, gave me his approval by saying –‘Acchi ladki hai. Aap bade khushnaseeb ho!’ (She is a good girl. You are very lucky.) There were a thousand stars blooming in the evening sky that night.
From then on we went back to the boundaries of the walk to the bus-stop. My interview routines. The infrequent walk near the Lakes in South Calcutta on Saturday afternoons. Being caught in the occasional shower. Then the hot glass of tea you cupped in your hands while you sipped at it. The warmth of the ginger flavoured tea soaking through your insides as it went down. Off and on a movie mostly English but also Ray – Ashani Sanket. The movie was quite disappointing but then who cared. After the movie sometimes Trincas on Park Street to catch Usha Iyer crooning her way through love ballads or to have the fish fry at Bijoli Grill. We would now sit on the same side of the table. The relationship was maturing, I thought. Or at other times sitting on a bench overlooking the lake in the rains, munching groundnuts with the fiery chutney of salt, ginger and green chili. The conversation always easy and of the moment. Never about the future or what would happen next. The present was important since it was the only thing we could share between us while the future would see others coming in. Better to postpone it and remain in our cocoon of togetherness. Time passed and it was getting cold at the Lakes in the evening.
And then I got a job. I would have to be away to Hyderabad for a month or two. I told her. She said- ‘OK, when will you be back?’ That was all. It was still a few days before I had to leave and then it happened. We had been to another movie. It was – ‘A Mad, Mad World.’ That was the name of the movie, stupid! Where an oId guy kicks at a bucket in the first scene! I had gone out during the interval to get some popcorn and chips and upon coming back saw her shrinking lower and lower in her seat with her sari drawn tightly around her. I asked her,
‘What happened? Was she cold?’
‘No, No.’ – she said, ‘Just sit down.’ She had never sounded so peremptory or so distressedearlier. I sat down. The lights went off and then she whispered
‘The people three rows back just behind us. Don’t look back now. The family with the two children, they live next door to us. I am finished. My Mom will come to know and then Dad. Let us leave now in the dark when they cannot see us.’
I reasoned with her, no point in doing that. Assuming that they had seen her she would stick out like a sore thumb against the bright screen walking out with me. Even if they had not seen her or knew that she was with me, we would make it pretty obvious by walking out now. The best thing would be to wait until the movie was over and mingle with the crowd keeping our distance from them until we were out of the theater. She agreed to that and after the movie was over, we moved quickly, I shielding her from whoever was behind so that they do not get a clear glimpse. We were out on the road and walking quickly away putting distance between us and the theater. I touched her arm restraining her, with the question,
‘How about some tea?’
She was quite distraught and said – ‘Not today. I need to get home quickly. I will take a bus from here.’
I refused and said I would drop her as usual by taxi. In the cab she was tense looking out of the window. I asked her
‘What is the matter?’
She said, ‘Nothing. I do not know what to do. My parents will be upset if this lady comes and tells them about us.’
‘Why? What is wrong? We are not doing anything wrong. We just went to a movie.’
‘It’s not that. My parents will not like that I did not tell them about it and more so about you.’
I persisted – ‘I do not really see anything wrong. If you really want I will come and meet your parents and explain everything. We can do that even today.’
She then blurted out – ‘You seem to be so cool about it! You do not understand anything! I like you. But you are not a Bengali. That is the first thing I have to explain to them. Then the fact that we have been meeting. It is quite obvious that I would not go to movie with a boy I met the first time. Which means I have kept this hidden from them for quite some time. They will make me feel the guilt. Then they will assume that I hid it from them because you are not a Bengali. Which is not really true? Since that thought never entered my mind. But then you do not know how our old people think? They will put it across as if I have betrayed them. They will bring in the aspect of family values, Bengali culture and all that. It is not at all fair!’
I interrupted her saying – ‘You are making a mountain out of a molehill. You can tell them I speak Bengali like a Bengali. I love your culture, your food and most of all the best thing Bengali and that is you!’
That quietened her a bit and she said – ‘I know that. But I will have to handle this my own way.’
‘Now, look! Those people may not have seen you at all. You are just making up these wild scenarios for nothing.’
‘No, No. I do not like that lady. And for spite she will come and tell Mom first thing in the morning or even tonight. And before that I have to tell Mom!’
‘Fine. Suit yourself. I have no problem and if you want me to come and meet your parents tomorrow I can do that.’
At that she came out with her cooing laugh, one of those rare moments when she let loose and said – ‘Quite the Sir Galahad you are! I wonder where you have left your white steed!’
To which I responded – ‘Times have changed. No more white steed. I have my taxi with the trusted sardarji driver which will take us anywhere you wish.’
I knew her mood had changed and she was less uptight now about the whole incident. She even snuggled up close to me but then we had reached Gariahat Market. While getting off I told her I would meet her the next morning, same place, same time. She gave me a bright but nervous smile and walked away. I knew she would be quaking inside all evening until she unloaded the story to her mother.
Her problem, that is me, was likely to be a lesser ordeal. She was after all the daughter of the house and would draw on those sympathies from her parents, particularly her mother. But for me the test was just about to start. Tomorrow evening would be D-Day. I stopped thinking about it. Tomorrow was another day. It could be better than today.
*********************
It was a broad street. Two storied houses on both sides. Weathered buildings that had seen better times. An occasional flat-bari or an apartment block. The new kid on the block. Rising tall. Painted newly. Looking down upon the other houses on the street. The latest trend from Bombay had reached Calcutta. Old comfortable spacious houses with garden and space around them were getting rapidly demolished mostly in the more respectable neighbourhoods. And this was a good neighbourhood. The advantage as seen by the house owner was that he would get two, three or four flats for the land he gave up. He continued to stay at the same address with the familiar social network that had been supporting him for generations and he was relieved of the headache of maintaining an old house. Things were getting difficult in Calcutta. To get people to come and work for odd jobs was becoming increasingly difficult. The corruption in the government offices was increasing. You had to pay money everywhere even to get a minor thing done. The Naxalite menace had added to the chaos which the government functionaries would use as an excuse for not having done something. Then I reached her place.
It was a cool evening. Winter was setting in. The lights were on in the sedate house that was set off from the street by a small patch of garden. It was an iron gate which screeched when I pushed it open. On the right there was a driveway running up to a garage. An old Austin Prefect was parked in the driveway. On the left was the porch leading up from the garden with a few steps to the main door. I pressed the bell. It was 7.00PM. She opened the door. Breathless, I thought, saying –‘You are on time.’
‘That I always am. Don’t you know by now? And this is important for us.’
She had told me in the morning that the previous evening had been none too pleasant. And all the expected scenarios she had forecasted and some not forecasted had played out. Her mother was distraught. Her father had been stern and forbidding. Not wanting to look at her arguments at all. Why should she choose a Madrassi? Were there no boys amongst Bengalis? Are we as a community so poor not to have a Bengali boy for our girls? There had been a lot of rona-dhona – crying between her and her mother. Even the sister, just two years younger, who for the majority of the time while all this was happening was in the upstairs room that they shared, came down and joined them in crying. The crying among women was like a sympathetic reaction. That had got them going again. What examples are you setting to your sister and brother? If you go outside the community and marry, they may go further! And then what will we do, was the tearful refrain from her mother. To that the sister had assured her mother, that she would never do a thing like this! This had upset the didi – elder sister and she had looked askance at her little sister but then in the interest of overall peace, she had let that comment pass. Things had settled down when she had told her parents that I had promised to come home the next day and meet them. A temporary truce was called and they waited for the ‘abductor’ to arrive the next day. The younger sister when they went back to the room asked her,
‘How is he?’
To which she had replied, ‘You are on Mom’s side and will never do anything like this! So why should I tell you?’
‘No. It is not like that. The least I could do then is get Mom pacified. Tell me, no! How is he really?’
To that she had said, ‘You wait for a day and see for yourself.’
The younger sister was excited all the same, a lot of drama and then again a Madrassi, a new commodity altogether! It was only the brother who was all of fourteen years who had quietly come close to her after all the commotion had died down and asked – ‘Does he play cricket?’ When she hugged him and told him that I was captain of the locality – para cricket team, he was assuaged. She had told me that right now you have one friend in our house and that is my brother. I was not sure how much that would help me in the evening.
The room was spacious and well-ventilated with a sofa set dominating one side and an overstuffed armchair on the other. The centre table had a vase with some flowers in them with assorted magazines and the Statesman newspaper, the staple English paper for the Bengali bhadralok, of the day strewn on it. There were straight-backed elegant wooden chairs around the room which made way along one wall for a radio cum record player which in keeping with the style of the times looked like a truncated almirah. Assorted paintings and artifacts as appropriate to respectable Bengali households of the time were on the walls. On the right there was a passageway which I believe led to the rest of the house. It was curtained off and I sensed the curtain move and caught the glimpse of a face that I thought was of the little sister. She led me to the sofa which I avoided and took my seat on a straight-backed chair nearest to the main door. I whispered to her – ‘For a quick exit!’ She gave a nervous smile and looked at me quizzically. I actually preferred a straight-backed chair for serious conversations rather than slouching on a sofa. She then went in past the curtain into the passageway presumably to tell her parents that I had arrived. I was all alone and very nervous. The room felt like a box where everything was vertical and elongated and I was getting that ominous feeling creeping down my spine. But then I could not show it. There was a sound on my right and I found myself being introduced suddenly to her father.
He was dressed as expected of a Bengali bhadralok – respectable person in a spotless white kurtaand pyjama. Somewhat stockily built of medium height, a square face and clear eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses. He did not shake hands which I made up by saying – ‘Nomoshkar’ - with folded hands. I had stood up when they came in to the room and while he settled into the overstuffed armchair and looked me over from top to toe, I continued standing with her next to me. Finally after what seemed to be an eternity he asked me to sit down and I settled down in the same chair I had been sitting on, which just happened to be opposite the armchair. The perfunctory conversation started with what I have done and what are my plans for the future which I thought I sailed through with full marks because I knew all the answers. The difficult part was yet to come. During all this she had gone and sat on a chair near her father which meant I had them looking at me as if I was at a viva-voce exam. There had been a rustle of the curtain while I had been responding to the father’s questions. I could sense that someone was standing there looking at me but for the sake of politeness I could not look away from the father who was talking to me. And then a voice from near the curtain spoke,
‘Would you care for some tea?’
I turned and saw her mother, draped in a white cotton sari embroidered in red with the palludrawn over her head which framed a kind oval face of very fair complexion, a large red bindi on the forehead leading up to the splash of red sindoor in the parting of her hair disappearing into the pallu. The white shaka and the red lac bangles interspersed with the gold bala on her hands completed the picture of a traditional married Bengali lady. Overall the figure was tall and slim. Like mother like daughter. Upon hearing the voice, I had turned in its direction and said, ‘Nomoshkar.’ She reciprocated the greeting and with a smile said, ‘You did not tell me if you will have tea?’ I said- ‘Yes.’
‘Go, Aruna. Get him some tea.’ With this Aruna sitting from near her father got up and went in. The mother came and sat to the right of the father in the armchair. Seeing that I was continuing to stand, she said – ‘Why are you standing? Please sit down.’ I was now alone with Aruna’s parents. Though the interaction with the mother had eased my tensions a bit, the claustrophobia index went up a couple of notches with Aruna having left the room.
The father opened up the first salvo by saying that they, or at least he, had got completely upset with this whole affair. ‘I cannot say about you but Aruna never told us anything about it all this while. Not one word.’ I thought I was expected to say something and interjected, ‘She is maybe not at fault. Maybe she was waiting for the right time to tell you. And in any case she came and told you yesterday. On my part I offered to come and meet both of you today.’ Saying this I expectantly looked at the mother for support. There was none. ‘And what do you expect us to do? You are from the South, we are from here. Do you know we have never been down South? All that we know about South India is Madras because it was a Presidency under the British. Our customs are different, our values are different. We eat fish and meat. I suspect you are vegetarian like all South Indians.’ Responding I explained, ‘We are from the western coast, a place called Mangalore. It is a small port just below Bombay on the India map. We are like Bengalis. Being Brahmins we eat fish and meat. Moreover I did all my education in Calcutta and West Bengal. I have lived here all my life. I am what you call a naturalized Bengali.’ I did not know whether that helped but it quietened the room somewhat. Aruna was a Mukherjee. I had known that and that is where I bought in the fact that we were also Brahmins. The father continued, ‘We have our own society. Our own way of life. How will Aruna adjust to a new environment? Moreover she is our eldest. How can you expect us to just give her way like this?’ I tried to reason, ‘Like I told you I have lived in Calcutta all along. I like the Bengali way and accept it. Most of my friends are Bengali. Visiting their homes often I am familiar generally with your customs. Though I may have more to learn. As far as Aruna is concerned to adjust in our home she may have to struggle a bit. But then do you not want to challenge your daughter and see whether she is able to cope. Aruna and I have talked about it and she is willing to give it a shot. Moreover I have got a job now in Calcuta and she will be close to you also and visit you regularly.’ I do not know what I said must have touched a raw nerve with the father. He angrily said –‘You seem to have everything worked out. Even discussed it with Aruna! Does she not have parents to talk these things over? And then who are you to talk about challenging Aruna? Are we dead? In any case why should she get into a situation where she has to be challenged unnecessarily? We have enough boys in our community where we can get her married without all these silly compromises or challenges.’ Sensing the temperature in the room rise I backed off. There was no need to spoil things. The mother had sensed this and while the father lost his cool somewhat she had placed her hand on his arm. To restrain him? Hold him in check! She then said to me, ‘Baba, it is not as simple as you and Aruna think. Both of you are young. You may have been attracted to each other. Having the same kind of interests, life right now is so simple. But marriage is a long term commitment. There will be many ups and downs. And in an inter-caste marriage it will be all the more. You should not get into it blindly. Have you thought about the future? Where you will live? You will have children? How will you bring them up? Will they be Bengali or Madrassi? And then you have to look at our position. We have a samaj, a society. How will we be able to show our face there after this? And that too with our eldest…..’ This was said in a low, level voice which the father interrupted, ‘Ki bolcho tumi…..What are you saying? The question of all this does not arise. This will just not happen!’ Hearing this I had stood up since I did not want matters to go beyond a particular point. At that time Aruna came in with the tea. Sensing that all was not right, she put the tea tray down on a side table and stood near the curtain. I was standing near the main door and the mother and father respectively in the chair and overstuffed armchair facing me. Aruna was right in time for my farewell speech, I thought when I started to speak. My face had gone pale and my voice was trembling a bit, seeing which Aruna face became drawn and worried. I started to talk. ‘Look, Mr & Mrs Mukherjee I came here today to ask for the hand of your daughter. I know her well. She knows me well. Over the last few weeks I have realized that I have come to love her. I do not know whether she feels the same way. With that in mind I had offered Aruna yesterday that I would come and meet you both. I will keep her well. That much I can assure you. I have a job now and I am a qualified engineer. I am ambitious and am interested to build a career for myself in service. With Aruna beside me it will only spur me on and make me realize the ambition that much faster. Your daughter will not be wanting in anything. Times are changing. Things will become different. There are new challenges. We are part of this world looking for a new tomorrow. I do not think you should deprive your daughter of these opportunities to explore a new world. I also know that if she marries someone else and a Bengali like you want, she may get all that I said I will do for her. I do not negate that. But I had something to say and I wish to at the least, thank you for giving me this opportunity to speak to you on this matter. I leave the decision to you. But I must tell you that as long as I have known your daughter, Aruna, I have treated her with respect. I have not done anything with her knowingly or unknowingly which may have hurt her or to be ashamed of. I am sure that she will vouch for that if you ask her.’ From the side of my eye, I could see Aruna’s distressed face and could sense that she was almost in tears. I continued, ‘I am going to Hyderabad day after tomorrow. I will be away for three months training when I will come back and join the local office here in Calcutta. This gives you that much time to think about my request to give your Aruna’s hand in marriage to me. This is all that I have to say.’ I then looked at Aruna and through the film of tears in her eyes could see that she was deeply hurt, not for what I had done but for the fact that her parents refused to give us their blessings. The silence that had descended on the room was deep and profound which was broken by the father saying, ‘Fair enough. But I need one assurance and that is for the three months you are away to Hyderabad for this training of yours, you will not get in touch with Aruna. Not by letter. Not by phone. Once you come back you can visit us and then we will see.’ I looked at Aruna and then her mother. Aruna was standing very much upright, hands at her side; her face set grimly, the lips tight. The mother was worriedly looking at her daughter avoiding my eye. I knew I was expected to respond. And I said, ‘Mr Mukherjee that is acceptable to me. I have the confidence in myself and have the same kind of faith and confidence in Aruna that these three months will not change anything. I will get in touch with you when I come back.’ Aruna’s face showed surprise but I nodded to her at whicha smile that started at the corner of her lips ended without getting completed. Her wan face set in stone was what I remembered as my last glimpse of her. The mother was saying, ‘Baba, cha ta khele na, thanda hoye gelo bodhai….. you did not have the tea, it must have got cold.’ I had come to their house the first time. It was not nice not to have something that they had offered me. I reached for the tea-cup and raised it to my lips. The tea had gone tepid. I drank it at one gulp. Saying, ‘Nomoshkar….’ - to the parents and ‘Bye! I will see you when I come back.’ to Aruna, I made my way out of the door into the stillness of the night. There were no stars in the sky. It was also amavasya or the new moon night.
**********************
In three months, I realized things change a lot. I had met Aruna, the next morning after the meeting at her house, just after her school had given up. She was not comfortable with what happened. She was unsure what her parents would do now. They had no discussions after I left their house. That was reason all the more why she was feeling uncertain. And then I was also leaving for Hyderabad. I told her that if there was anything to leave a message with my friend at his shop near the school and I would call her on the phone. But then I reminded her for her parents sake that we should make this arrangement of not getting in touch with each other for three months work. She looked at me and nodded her little head, hugged me and went away. The sari that day was a flaming yellow cotton with a broad banana green border. She looked good enough to eat!
**********************
Over the three months at Hyderabad I got involved with my training. It was a new place. Lots of things to do. Lots of things to see. New friends on the job. A new career beginning. I plunged into it without a thought for Aruna. I was secure and confident that she would wait for me. But then there had been no message through my friend. That was also good in a way in the sense there were no emergencies. The three months passed quickly and I came back to Calcutta where I was posted in the new job. I reached my friend’s shop the day I landed and asked him about Aruna. Had she come there? Had he seen her every day as usual going back from school? My friend said that for quite some time he had not seen her. But then he was probably busy with the shop when she passed. We worked Saturdays at the office also so I could not as usual be there in the morning to see her pass. But I asked my friend to look out for her. A week passed and when I came to my friend’s shop one evening, he still said that he had not seen her. I went then to the cousin of another friend who owned the building where the school was located. He was the one who had got me the information about Aruna first from the school. I asked him to check if she was still there teaching at the school or whether she had left. I could sense that something was wrong. Midweek later I got a call from this friend’s cousin at my office, Aruna had left the school for almost two months now. He gave me a date that she had quit her job. It was just about two weeks after I had left for Hyderabad. My fears that something was wrong were getting more real. The new job kept me busy. It was difficult to get off. But then I decided one day to visit Aruna’s home.
**********************
I walked down the same road. Everything seemed to be the same as the first time. Nothing had changed. It was evening again. I was dropping in on my way back from office. I rang the bell. This time a servant opened the door. I asked for Mr Mukherjee. The servant did not ask me to come in but disappeared behind the curtain leaving the front door ajar. After a while Mr Mukherjee came out. Seeing me, he said – ‘Oh! It’s you. How was your training?’ I said – ‘Fine.’ I asked him about Aruna. He said – ‘You did not know, is it? Aruna got married about six weeks ago. She is now in the States. Her husband is a teacher there at one of the universities.’ The world came crashing down around me. Everything was becoming dark as if the shadows had become suddenly longer. I said - ‘Oh!’ There was a long silence and then I heard Mr Mukherjee asking – ‘Will there be anything else?’ I came back to reality and said – ‘No! No!’ It had started to rain. I turned around and walked away into the rain hearing Mr Mukherjee say as I went – ‘We wish you all the very best.’ There was a sudden clap of thunder and the rain came down in torrents. I looked back at the Mukherjee’s home one last time. A curtain on one of the first floor windows seemed to be pulled back shut quickly and I thought that I saw a small head with a pallu drawn around it.
**********************
Many years passed I became immersed in my career and moved on. From one of our common friends I heard that Aruna had complained that I had left leaving her to face the consequences with her parents on our brief dalliance. But then I smiled thinking that how could I tell her that it was her father who had not kept his end of the deal. I was naïve then, I guess.
THE END
