An Apt Disposal

The Apt Disposal

 ---------------------------

This story is included in my compilation, "The Remix of Orchid," which I'm trying to bring in digital form soon. Hence, it has undergone some revision.

---------------------------

Dr Bhandarkar and Mr Kughato are friends despite no professional affinity, for a scientist has nothing to do with an airline manager. Mr Kughato looks after the commercial affairs of his airline on the tiny little island of Port Blair, and Dr Bhandarkar conducts the scientific survey of a disease called leptospirosis, the Andaman fever. Yet they become fast friends. Both are, incidentally, great dog enthusiasts.

As for the scientist, this love comes to him gradually, more because of the persuasion of his friend than out of any personal interest. Nowadays, whenever he receives a prize for his poodle dog, Master Snow, in a dog show or a word of appreciation from an appreciative cynophile, he never forgets to take the name of his worthy friend Mr Kughato.

The scientist is a friendly talker. If you ask him how he suddenly became a passionate and skilled dog owner, he will tell you this interesting story.

It is a Sunday afternoon when he is just strolling on the seaside road. His mind is occupied with the depressing thought of how all his attempts to get a transfer out of Port Blair have been drawing blank and how almost all his fellow scientists except him have left the sleepy little island. Then he bumps into Mr Kughato. The gentleman looks friendly with body language, which is nothing if not agreeable. He is with his big dog Bruno, who is on a leash, following his master in a leisurely amble. The scientist tries to keep at a safe distance. Why should not he when the dog is Bruno, a ferocious pet with two dark, probing eyes and an open mouth? But Mr Kughato wishes him and comes closer. He is bent on clearing the gentleman’s misunderstanding about the animal. For him, it is like ‘one good act’ that he must do to justify his day.

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. He’s only a dog, no dragon, I say. He won’t do anything to a friend,’ Mr Kughato and his dog come menacingly closer, attempting to assure the panicky scientist. ‘By the way, I’m Kughato from Indian Airlines, and he is Mr Bruno, my most faithful companion.’

‘I’m Abhijit Bhandarkar, a scientist in the regional unit of the Indian Council of Medical Research here, and I’ve been on this island for the past ten years. I live near Middle Point,’ Dr Bhandarkar’s response is lukewarm, and Mr Kughato understands the reason. The fellow has not entirely accepted Mr Bruno as his friend.

Then, the two fellows continue to walk on the seaside road. The scientist squints at the dog, and the dog does the same. Surprisingly, in about five more minutes, they accept each other without fear, and Mr Kughato feels happy noting the rapprochement. Like his dog, he knows who to befriend and who not to. A compassionate tribal fellow at that. Yes, he is a Naga who knows what a dog is capable of, what a dog needs—and even what a dog tastes like!

They stroll a distance and sit on a rock by the roadside somewhere midway to enjoy the evening breeze. They talk for a while, and when it is time to resume their walk, both friends get up and move. But Mr Bruno does not. Mr Kughato proceeds ahead, yet the pet remains immobile. Then, the understanding master realises that the pet is up to something significant. He comes closer.

In the meantime, Dr Bhandarkar discovers that he has left his house key there, and the blessed thing has slid down the slope beside the rock. He is at a loss what to do since the place is almost beyond his reach, and retrieving the object seems impossible.

‘Gosh, it’s lying over there. Maybe it’s fifteen feet down. How do I get there? They’re all jagged rocks…’ The scientist looks at the object helplessly. With a sigh of resignation, he decides, ‘Leave it, it’s gone.’

But Mr Kughato proves he is a friend in need. He orders Mr Bruno, and the obedient pet gets the opportunity to prove himself to his new friend. With a move characterised by canine agility, he gladly climbs down the impossible slope of the craggy shore. Incidentally, it is low tide at that moment, and the object is visible. Mr Bruno holds it between his teeth and returns to Dr Bhandarkar to return it. The pet appears businesslike and mildly self-satisfied. Nevertheless, the incident impresses the scientist tremendously and fills him with deep admiration for the animal. He praises his presence of mind.

‘Wow! What a job! Mr Bruno, you’re terrific, I should say,’ Dr Bhandarkar feels like patting him.

‘Yeah, when he’s Mr Bruno, it’s a different matter altogether,’ Mr Kughato, the proud master of the brainy dog, gives a mischievous smirk.

The story ends there. But the scientist would not disappoint you should you want to listen more. He often relates another anecdote to his eager listeners about how he came so close to the dog. The story goes something like this.

One day, on his way home from his morning constitutional, the scientist drops in on Mr Kughato, who is also returning from the gym. Suddenly, Mr Bruno barks quite excitedly and does not allow even his master to enter his foyer. Nobody is inside to answer, not even Aloto, Mr Kughato’s valet boy. The scientist stands transfixed with fear, witnessing a strange behaviour in the pet. But his friend understands. He is quick to find there is a snake! It is poisonous, and Mr Kughato tackles it in no time. Had it not been for the all-knowing and alert Bruno, one of them, or even both, could have died of snakebite. The grateful master pats his dog, hugs it, and kisses its icy muzzle in a sudden surge of affection. Dr Bhandarkar watches it with tremendous admiration for the brave pet and his requiting master.

The scientist gradually evinces personal interest in Mr Bruno. He will surely not forget the pet whenever he asks about Mr Kughato’s well-being. It is no formality now; the dog is capable of discerning that. He starts playing with his friendly visitor, with all his playfulness gaining new sparkle and all his gambols reaching new heights.

Thus, one day, Dr Abhijit Bhandarkar is initiated into the grand world of cynophiles. His guru is Mr Kughato.

‘Abhijit, would you like to select a pup for yourself? I reckon you had better, now that you know all a dog can do,’ Mr Kughato offers a friendly suggestion. However, he has nothing in particular to recommend as yet.

‘Sometimes I, too, think that way, especially when I see Mr Bruno gambolling around me. But then…you know…’ Dr Bhandarkar stops short of voicing his apprehension.

‘But then what? Do you mean it’s a hassle taking care of the pet? Then you must also consider its benefits and decide, I say,’ Mr Kughato pats Mr Bruno, who is probably listening to a crucial deliberation concerning his species.

As if addressing the attentive pet, Mr Kughato continues his unrestrained praise for the animal. He says that Dr Bhandarkar’s family environment is perfect for a pet to grow up civilised. Family is where the animal learns human qualities like social accommodation, respect for orderliness, compassion and so forth. ‘A scientist’s dog is surely qualitatively different from a butcher’s,’ Mr Kughato chuckles. Further, he adds that a dog never interferes with the harmony of the ambience. Instead, he adds to its flourish. Say like the tinkle of a wind chime. He understands the entire family of the master and its requirements and ensures that one living under its aegis never slips into depression.

Mr Bruno starts pawing his master, his forelegs stretched and his head bowing. For Mr Kughato, this is the dog’s endorsement of his version, and he affectionately pats him on the head.

Then Mr Kughato offers to arrange a beautiful poodle pup for his scientist friend. Mr Kughato’s encouragement has its effect. The scientist makes up his mind, ‘OK, then, a poodle will do.’

Mr Kughato’s airline does not ordinarily encourage the transportation of dogs alongside regular passengers. As such, he entrusts this job to Aloto to bring the pup by sea. Since Aloto has the training from Mr Kughato, he knows how best to approach the job entrusted. He chooses a nine-week-old pup from a reputed breeder at Calcutta and brings that along to Port Blair. It looks as cute as an expert’s choice can deliver. A visibly healthy puppy exudes a playful temperament through its bright, clear eyes, clean skin, and shiny coat. Mrs Bhandarkar does not come up with her ready acceptance, but Sangeeta, her school-going daughter, is thrilled. She has seen one of her friends possessing a poodle and has been wistfully longing for a pet of that kind. Now she gets something she has long been craving for, or even more magnificent than that. She plans to clip its coat in a style that will make her friends green with envy. She waits for the puppy to grow to a year old to enable her to do so.

The poodle, ever so bright with his snow-white coat, is christened Master Snow, grows familiar with everybody’s temperament, and soon becomes the darling of the family. All enjoy his genial disposition. Even Mrs Bhandarkar starts accepting him, for dogs are lowly creatures entitled to their share of compassion from humans…as much as she and her family deserve it from lord Ganapati! The pet gets joyfully enraptured when Dr Bhandarkar returns home after attending his work. Before anybody in the family realises that the master of the house has reached the door and it is time somebody reaches the door to open it and let him in, Master Snow runs there impulsively. And as soon as Dr Bhandarkar is in, he starts gambolling and whining delightfully as if his need for attention is more urgent than anybody else’s or as if his master owes him an explanation for his long absence during the day. Nevertheless, the intelligent animal knows his responsibility. Whenever Sangeeta is busy with her homework or Mrs Bhandarkar with lord Ganapati, he keeps silent without any growl or yelp. He is so sober that he does not even bother a cat that prowls searching for a mouse at night. Obediently, he allows his shampooing or the clipping of his coat and does not raise a yelp after he hears the first reprimand, ‘Bad Dog’. Even the kids from the neighbourhood are not frightened and come to his friendly proximity.

One fine day, Mr Kughato leaves Port Blair along with his companion, Mr Bruno. He is under orders of transfer, and his airline does not even allow him the luxury of choosing his departure date. Everything happens so very unexpectedly. Only Aloto remains.

It is now for Aloto to preserve Mr Kughato’s memory at Port Blair. With Mr Bruno gone, accompanying his master, what else is there now to take charge of and keep alive? It is finally the friendship with Dr Bhandarkars.

Aloto chooses to stay back for no less a reason than his career. He is already employed, and the job is part-time. He believes his present temporary job will be permanent one day, and then he can build a modest career. After all, the Anthropological Survey of India is a government organisation whose job is at a premium. He has the talent to help him in this respect. He shares Mr Kughato’s interest in Western music and has picked up some intricate gospel, pop and rock music tunes from him. His familiarity with the music helps him earn a few more bucks from performances on various occasions. Dr Bhandarkar has known the boy since his association with Mr Kughato and considers him a well-behaved individual with a promising future. Aloto likewise considers Dr Bhandarkar to be his mentor and elder brother. He visits Bhandarkars quite frequently and has earned a ready acceptance there. Most significantly, he is close to Master Snow, the pet he has seen growing into the most fashionable purebred. Under his active help, the clipping of Snow’s coat has been done very artistically—like a tiny lion in a toyshop. Whenever Aloto visits Bhandarkars, the playful pet receives him with a welcome gesture by stretching out his forelegs, bowing, panting, and sometimes pawing at his favourite guest.

With summer arriving on time, the islanders start wearing their vacation moods. They all plan to visit their homes to fire their hearths on the mainland. Dr Abhijit Bhandarkar succeeds in getting two months’ leave this time. The family will avail such a long leave after a gap of two years. Mrs Bhandarkar and daughter Sangeeta start packing up their luggage in deadly earnest while reminding each other that they are soon starting, just in a week’s time. They decide not to brood over their elusive transfer but concentrate on the thing at hand. Their hard-earned leave makes them feel liberated, homeward, relieved, and nostalgic.

Now, a problem bothers the family: who will care for Master Snow, the pampered poodle of the quiet household? This time, Mr Kughato is not there to bail him out. Dr Bhandarkar knows about some boarding kennels run by the Dog Association of the Island. But he is not readily inclined to entrust Master Snow in the care of the Association as he fears his pet might contract a disease from others during his long absence. Master Snow is no longer a pup; he is now Mr Snow, like Mr Bruno—a handsome and healthy male dog, and all would love to have their female dogs mate with him. Still, Dr Bhandarkar has avoided such an environment of wanton promiscuity for his poodle. He knows Port Blair is not where he can get services from specialist vets and get Mr Snow treated should an occasion like this develop, unfortunately. No simple solution strikes him.

‘How about Aloto? Mr Snow will have no problem in his care,’ assures Mrs Bhandarkar.

‘Only if he agrees. Let me ask him.’ Dr Bhandarkar is unsure, given that Aloto is employed these days and has no time to spend on extra activities. Lately, he has not even made regular visits to Bhandarkars.

When Dr Bhandarkar approaches Aloto, he graciously agrees to take responsibility. He reassures Sangeeta that her beloved pet will be well cared for in her absence.

Sangeeta, her tone betraying more worry than authority, gives Aloto specific instructions. ‘Look, you should shampoo his coat every other day,’ she says.

‘Alright, Baby, I’ll do that,’ Aloto responds lightly.

‘And you need to brush him twice daily,’ Sangeeta continues.

‘Sure thing, I’ll do it your way,’ Aloto replies with a playful tone.

‘You must feed Mr Snow at 9 a.m. and 8 p.m. regularly. Is that okay?’ Sangeeta instructs again.

‘Of course, Miss, I’ll follow your orders,’ Aloto replies.

Mrs Bhandarkar gets amused at the dramatisation of the whole thing and decides to chip in. ‘Sangeeta dear! This is Aloto, you know. How can you go so jittery when he is in charge?’

‘I’m happy to receive her sweet instructions, ma’am. Let her tell me everything lest I turn forgetful,’ Aloto reacts, letting out a short, amused laugh.

The day of the voyage arrives. The Bhandarkar family starts with a queer ambivalence writ large on everybody’s face. On the one hand, they feel the excitement of being homeward, and on the other, they are bothered about Mr Snow and his care. Sometimes, they start doubting if Aloto could shoulder the entire drudgery single-handedly and for the whole sixty-day duration.

Mrs Bhandarkar has, however, an additional strange feeling, which she hesitates to share with her husband. Somehow, she feels that lord Ganapati will listen to her prayer very soon. This kind of intuitional optimism has swept her several times in different contexts; empirically, she has seen them all coming true. Are they her auto-suggestions? However, she has always kept the phenomena to herself, even after the events. In other words, she even hesitates to claim retrospectively that such a feeling had once occurred to her much before the happening. Now, adrenalin starts flowing rapidly in her veins, and an upbeat mood makes her display elated expressions. She feels the long spell of waiting for her husband to leave the island will end soon. She even thinks that he will quickly get a transfer to the National Aids Research Institute, Pune. Agog with happiness from within, the spiritual lady cheers everybody. Her joy is too prominent from the sudden lift in her temperament, but Dr Bhandarkar thinks his wife is ecstatic at the prospect of her upcoming reunion with her friends and relatives. So he does not ask her to explain the reason.

As planned, they reach Raigad, their native place, making everybody glad with their cheering presence. Their hectic engagements make them forget Port Blair, their anxious pet, Mr Snow, and the temporarily uncared-for idol of Lord Ganapati.

As if to prove the unsaid call from Mrs Bhandarkar’s sixth sense, Dr Bhandarkar receives an interesting trunk call while he is still at his native place. It informs him that his request for a posting at the National Aids Research Institute, Pune, has been accepted. He is to head a field-intensive research project as the scientist-cum-project leader. For a moment, the scientist, already in a mood of deep-seated despair, cannot believe it. But his wife has no big surprises; she smirks slyly. Of course, she is full of sublime gratitude for her lord Ganapati and goes on praying in total surrender. Dr Bhandarkar starts planning how soon he can join the new post. Internally, he is apprehensive: a delay on his part in joining the new post will be fatal since the offer can be withdrawn on that plea alone. He knows that such eventualities are not uncommon in his organisation. Sangeeta is also happy. Anything new excites her, and now she has so many things at once--a new school, new friends, new books, and new clothes...and the old ones, including Mr Snow, no longer hold the same charm.

Soon, the scientist gets a basketful of uncertainties to grapple with, like joining his new post, winding up his old establishment at Port Blair, securing his daughter’s admission to a school of their choice, and so on. He knows the project he will join is well behind schedule—a virtual non-starter. So, he cannot tell if he will be allowed a leave of absence as soon as he joins.

Dr Bhandarkar prioritises his daughter’s admission. All transfers unsettle the flow of education. He talks to the principal of her school at Port Blair and obtains her transfer certificate by registered post. Then, he instructs Aloto over the phone to find buyers for his household furniture at Port Blair. Finally, he promises to reach there well in a month. Aloto waits for the scientist to arrive and relieve him.

A person with a scientific temper, Dr Bhandarkar joins his new post without any elaborate luck-boosting formalities. The day he joined is a new moon, and any ordinary fellow in his place would have avoided starting his latest stint on that date. His wife is a devout religious woman, yet she can do precious little in this respect. She has always refrained from forcing her husband to go for astrological consultations.

As soon as Dr Bhandarkar signs his joining charge report, he meets the Deputy Director of his new institute on a courtesy call. It is a formality nobody in bureaucracy should ever forsake. The boss receives him well, makes him sit comfortably, and offers him a steaming cup of tea. But at the same time, he gives the scientist an alarming picture of the project he is about to head. He does this purposefully: the newcomer must understand his responsibilities from the word go clearly. Well, a boss is a boss who is entitled to his share of scare tactics! And that, too, everything he does is for the institute’s prestige! Finally, he states his expectations: he wants a report published in three months, and Dr Bhandarkar must accomplish that, at the minimum, come what may.

The newcomer scientist, eager to make an early mark in his new workplace, accepts it as a professional challenge.

With a month and a half gone, guilt scares the scientist of a disagreeable consequence. He gets increasingly convinced that his overdue trip to his old place of posting will be indefinitely postponed. His darling pet must be brought to the mainland and his wife’s revered idol of lord Ganapati. Both Sangeeta and Mrs Bhandarkar have already reminded Dr Bhandarkar about this.

‘Ah, I now understand what your boss is up to,’ Mrs Bhandarkar empathises with her anxious husband. She concludes, ‘Going to Port Blair this month is out of the question’.

‘But then I’ll go. I’ll make it next month,’ the scientist uttered in response. These words were more for self-consolation than resolve.

‘Then why don’t you send Aloto at least a money order? This will be good for his confidence,’ Mrs Bhandarkar persuades. Her tone indicates that she has also started doubting her husband’s sincerity about the trip.

‘Oh yes, I’ll do that today if that’ll help. How about sending two thousand rupees?’ The scientist appears neither generous nor stingy. His wife agrees to it.

Dr Bhandarkar decides that once his family moves to the new station and occupies a residence, he will bring everything there—first of all, Mr Snow, the pet in distress. Mrs Bhandarkar agrees. She cannot make it any earlier, travelling alone to the island. According to her beliefs, women are expected to take care of the home and the hearth, while everything else is the domain of men, and it is in everyone’s best interest that encroachments are not encouraged!

Dr Bhandarkar applies for leave for twenty days and reminds his boss to decide. But all his efforts fall flat. His boss does not budge an inch. He clearly states that there should be no respite unless a paper is published from the project. He reiterates that the flow of funds to the project depends on its progress.

The experienced scientist in him understands what it means. The project was a virtual non-starter before his joining, and now, even if he does his best, it will take him at least three months to develop something publishable. Or maybe four months—who can say that for sure? Nothing can be done earlier than that. Then how is he going to wind up his establishment at Port Blair? Does that not mean his reputation as a gentleman is getting slowly eroded before Aloto? Does that not mean his wife will question his sincerity? Dr Bhandarkar flounders for an idea of how to get out of the imbroglio.

Mrs Bhandarkar remembers her promise before lord Ganapati and feels uncomfortable that events are not shaping as she calculated. Nothing will help her restart her puja as promised to her lord. In the unknown niche of her heart, she fears the worst. That lord will shower curse on her for the slip is her fear. She should restart her worship rituals instantly; a month has passed beyond the spell for which she had taken leave of her god. ‘Lord’s magnanimity cannot be taken for granted,’ she warns herself in silence. ‘Please do something, dear…and do that early. A delay of this magnitude is not to be treated so casually,’ she pleads before her husband regularly as she finds him back from work. She is now clearly nervous, and in her perturbation, she starts doing something she has ever desisted from: she starts nagging her husband daily.

Aloto remains on the distant island with Mr Snow, the pet-in-trouble, struggling to comprehend the enigma called the future. Both are emotionally strained—Mr Snow longs for a reunion with his master’s family, while Aloto is eager to be relieved of the pet’s responsibility, but in an honourable way. Aloto, with his limited resources, cannot afford to provide the dog with wholesome food or meet its other expensive needs. Although he was willing to contribute his labour when he agreed to care for the pet, he never consented to incur expenses on his master’s behalf. Even if Dr Bhandarkar returns at some unspecified future date, Aloto lacks the means to buy high-quality commercial dog food until then. Simple table scraps cannot meet the dog’s nutritional requirements. Whatever money he received from Dr Bhandarkar has already been spent on rent. At a loss, he feeds the dog with table scraps and leftovers.

Mr Snow, the luxury-loving pet, is unhappy with his food and expresses his displeasure with a bitter growl. Aloto, the sensitive caretaker, feels unnecessarily guilty about it. Distressed by the pet’s reaction, Aloto grows increasingly upset. One day, when Mr Snow continues to whine despite repeated reprimands, Aloto loses his temper and delivers a blow to the pet’s muzzle. However, Aloto quickly regrets his actions and tries to make amends the best way he knows: gently patting Mr Snow until the pet pretends to fall asleep.

One day, a stylish woman interested in high-quality mixed-breed dogs visits Aloto. She has a request: she would like to breed her female dog with Mr Snow, for which she is willing to reward him with a handsome tip of five hundred rupees. The lady is incredibly charming and aware that what she’s asking for is a common practice—mating animals with the owners’ consent. From the animals’ initial body language, Aloto can tell they understand the purpose of the negotiation and are eager to proceed with zest. Naturally inclined toward such intimate behaviour, dogs often display it openly, and their actions at the moment are understandable.

However, Aloto, an honest tribal, considers it a sin to betray his master in such a way. He knows that Dr Bhandarkar despises lending his pet for mating. Aloto had previously cared for Mr Bruno, the dog of his former master, Mr Kughato, who believed that using a pet in any manner without the master’s explicit permission and the animal’s willingness was tantamount to an act of direct thieving. With this in mind, Aloto rejects the offer upfront and never regrets his decision. Unable to comprehend his reasoning, the lady frowns deeply at Aloto’s behaviour.

Aloto finds the scientist’s schedule deferred for the second, third, and fourth time in six months. Of course, he gets a regular money order of two thousand rupees per month, but that is paltry—barely sufficient for meeting the house rent liability. Practically nothing is left thereafter for the pet. In the meantime, Mr Snow starts accommodating Aloto—probably the poor pet gauges the extent of poverty its new master is presently undergoing.

Aloto begins to ponder: What should he do with everything in his custody if Dr Bhandarkar does not return? What should he do with his pet dog, Mr Snow?

He hails from a place where dogs are considered a local delicacy. He loves dogs but can also appreciate them as a source of food. The only taboo in his society is that the meat of an animal ceases to be eatable if it dies from disease or injury. Aloto would not have any qualms about eating Mr Snow’s flesh if it comes to that—an affection for the animal may not necessarily be a dissuading factor. To him, Mr Snow could be no different from a garden-fresh melon or a firm-fresh fowl! But the issue before Aloto is that he cannot do the same with Mr Snow without the express permission of its original master. If he were to do so, his conscience would prick, and he would consider himself a thief.

In the ensuing weeks, the promised day of the scientist’s arrival goes by silently. With every passing day, Mr Snow gets dirtier and more lacklustre. Aloto cannot spend on expensive shampoo and willy-nilly manages with cheap detergent soap. He regularly combs the pet’s coat, but without an oil-balanced shampoo, its fur mats with dirt. Sometimes, it becomes challenging to clear its coat off the tangles. The poor pet cries out in pain when Aloto forcibly runs his comb through it. Rapidly shedding its original glow, the dog appears to be heading for an inevitable sickness. There is nothing that Aloto can do to arrest it. Participating in this year’s dog show is simply out of the question. Then what would be the pet’s fate—Aloto has no clue. If Snow dies of sickness, will its carcass go into the trash?

Finally, Dr Bhandarkar contacts Aloto over the telephone and apologises profusely for failing to keep the schedule. He explains that he is still busy with a ticklish project, which is taking much longer than initially thought. Then, he goes on to explain how he cannot convince his boss that his need for a brief spell of leave is really compelling. As a result, it is not possible on his part to tell if he can make a trip to Port Blair in the next three to four months.

The scientist now instructs Aloto a few more things to do. Just a few more things. He should, first of all, return the possession of the house to the landlord immediately so as to save him from unnecessary rental expenses. Then he should realise the entire money due from the buyer of his old furniture, and remit that to him by money order. As a courteous finish, the scientist assures Aloto that as soon as he is free from the initial rush of work, he will make it to Port Blair.

The instructions of Mr Bhandarkar shock Aloto more than they dispel his anxieties. Stunned, he finds it difficult even to seek some genuine clarifications. Agreed, he can dispose of the small utensils and furniture for whatever price they may command, but what should he do about the other two objects—the brass idol of lord Ganapati and the once-pampered-but-now-neglected pet dog Mr Snow? He is a Christian, and will it be okay on his part to handle Mrs Bhandarkar’s object of devotion, lord Ganapati? Aren’t holy objects usually untouchable? Secondly, what should he do with Mr Snow that will please its original master? Should he finally entrust him to the boarding kennel? The Dog Association? To any Tom, Dick, and Harry who offers to adopt? Should he set him free to thrive on licking the leftovers of a hotel or discards of unknown households? Should he earn from the mating service, complying with the requests of interested bitch owners that he has so far spurned? Or should he kill him and save him from further life of neglect and pity?

Aloto garners composure with difficulty just to ask a couple of questions.

‘What about the idol, sir?’

‘Send the parcel by post if you can. Or hold it till I reach,’ instructs Dr Bhandarkar unambiguously.

‘And what about Mr Snow?’ Aloto asks the ultimate question and waits for his mentor’s response.

This time, his response is less clear than the earlier one. The scientist snorts a deep sigh and replies in a roundabout manner.

‘Um, I’m not sure…. Do as you feel. I’m sure you will do the best possible.’

Aloto is more confused than ever. He has seen love of pet at its best; now, he encounters neglect…yes—it is neglect in its most virulent form. He cannot explain how both the opposite feelings can originate from the same source.

He looks at the pet. Responding, Mr Snow looks straight into Aloto’s eyes. Probably, he wants to say something. Perhaps he intends to help Aloto decide what he should do next and how. It is as if he wants to say, ‘My friend, try to understand me. Can’t you see I’m suffering? Can’t you see I’m enduring the pain of existence? Can you do something to end my pain? Please, anything you do is acceptable…honestly, I won’t mind. Try,’ Mr Snow growls, and it grows feebler and feebler.

Aloto understands what they mean. He decides on the easy, permissible course. He prepares himself mentally and reaches for the sharpest one, the one he is sure will give the last pain, the least pain, and a pain capable of transforming a life of suffering into an enduring memory.

------------------------

By

A. N. Nanda

31-8-2024

------------------------ 

The Flight

The Flight

‘Hey, don’t go by his fish story! If he’s Sancheet, I bet it will be a tubful of trash,’ commented Utsav snidely about his old friend Sancheet.               

Anubhav was only too surprised to hear such uncharitable remarks. A friend commenting on another in front of a third one—surely, he needed a different set of words and better intonation!

At the same time, Utsav insisted that he bore Sancheet no ill will. ‘After all, he is my friend, and how can I be so ill-disposed towards him?’ he sounded pretty self-righteous as he posed a rhetorical question. According to him, he had no interest in highlighting his friend’s fondness for bragging. He knew something even more heart-rending about him: the poor thing was passing through a difficult time financially. His so-called spectacular literary success had yet to make any difference to him.

‘Look, what happened the other day,’ resumed Utsav. Now, he was in a mood to supply bone and flesh to his remarks. ‘Sancheet came to me, and he was in an unusual hurry. He invited me to accompany him on a trip to Europe. I was quite happy to listen to his success. After all, he needed a break, a long-delayed one, though. But when I asked him about the purpose, the chap had no convincing account to offer.  He was talking of many things at a time: the mission was a part of cultural sponsorships by various embassies; it was a business trip on the invitation of some obscure association of antique dealers to sign a memorandum of understanding there, and so forth,’ Utsav paused a while. Probably, it was deliberate on his part—before uttering something important, he needed a moment’s silence, a break in the flow of talk, and, of course, a violent sneeze.

Then he continued. ‘I should not say it in so many words, but still…I just gave him a hundred bucks. He was flat broke then, badly needing help for his immediate sustenance. I was surprised how eagerly he snatched that, pocketed it, and left, probably to a roadside eatery! Look, it was my friendly duty…and you tell me, how could I have avoided that?’ he ended his utterance with another rhetorical question.

‘So? Do you mean to say his proposal is a hoax? Filming a simple documentary at the Andamans is a hoax?’ asked Anubhav unbelievingly.

‘Huh! With Sancheet as a collaborator, what else can it be? It’s even more than that; it’s an utter rubbish, my friend,’ ridiculed Utsav.

Utsav was an old friend of Sancheet’s from school, but Anubhav had known Sancheet for only a week. Anubhav’s friendship with Utsav was also relatively new; however, it was not as recent as his connection with Sancheet. To be precise, Anubhav and Utsav had been acquainted for about two years. Their relationship began when Sancheet left Calcutta, while Utsav stayed behind to pursue his job and form new friendships. Utsav’s current trip to Puri was partly intended to reconnect with his old friend. These days, Sancheet was living in that pilgrim town, exploring something creative. Anubhav had accompanied Utsav to Puri. When all three gathered, Sancheet was introduced to his new friend, Anubhav. That was the origin of their new friendship.

Despite his recent acquaintance with Sancheet, Anubhav had difficulty accepting Utsav’s words of caution at face value. All the insinuations he now heard from Utsav sounded like biased overstatements—nay, backbiting. If not for his confidence in his own judgment of people and places, Anubhav might have been easily misled by now. With such confidence on his side, he couldn’t recall ever noticing and ignoring any abnormalities in his new friend Sancheet. On the contrary, Anubhav discovered a fascinating character with a broad and contemporary range of interests. From everything Sancheet discussed, Anubhav didn’t sense any urgency for money or self-indulgence; instead, he perceived his new friend’s genuine love for simplicity and gentlemanly respect for cultural ethos. This temperament had drawn Sancheet closer to various finer facets of culture, such as poetry, classical music, folk arts, the collection of rare artefacts, and so on. Whenever Anubhav introduced a random topic, Sancheet was more than ready to contribute to the discussion and express his honest feelings, as though the topic were dear to his heart. He seemed miles away from commonplace gossip. No wonder all this created a natural liking in Anubhav for Sancheet. No wonder, therefore, a stable foundation of friendship was laid—all within just a week!

Utsav was highly critical of the project that the creative duo had conceived. The plan was to create a historical documentary titled “Japanese Excesses in Wartime Andamans.” The exciting idea occurred to them almost spontaneously during their first meeting. Their mood was to do something novel and creative; their objective was to refresh popular memory about glorious yet forgotten events. Sancheet eagerly offered his help to shape the project. Right then and there, he mentioned the best outdoor locations, reputable videographers, mixing studios, potential distributors, and even the formalities involved in submitting their work to the various film festivals. With everything falling into place, they decided on the spot to embark on the project, scheduling the Muhurat, or commencement ceremony, for the New Year. Anubhav agreed to book the airline tickets for their itinerary. The only other immediate requirement was a quick script, which Sancheet offered to write. In the month leading up to the New Year, they resolved to focus on research and scriptwriting for the project. It was a quick idea by all accounts, but Anubhav knew that all path-breaking ideas often come this way—spontaneously.

However, the painstakingly detailed account Anubhav provided about his film-making commitment failed to impress Utsav. No reason seemed convincing enough. Absurd was the name Utsav gave to all the fantastic projects his friend Sancheet often cooked up. So, Utsav continued reflecting—Sancheet might have produced yet another one to impress Anubhav. He might have somehow learnt that Anubhav had the money and connections to waste on his extraordinary ideas. Utsav gauged the depth of the impression Sancheet had made on his new friend! Anubhav was heading towards fraud, like an unsuspecting person lending money to a loser for his last gamble. As the mutual friend of both dreamers, Utsav felt it was his duty to warn Anubhav, who would have the entire financial stake in the project. He firmly believed in the age-old wisdom that “forewarning is forearming,” so he resolved to do everything possible to express his concerns loudly, come what may.

‘Look, I have only one interest in cautioning you. Things will go wrong, as far as I can foresee. For heaven’s sake, I don’t think you should blame me for my failure to warn you in time. I value our friendship, so I want you not to be led there unwittingly,’ Utsav aired his apprehension animatedly. All that he uttered resonated with pre-emptive defence, abdication, and cynicism.

Yet nothing could deter Anubhav. He would instead prefer careless abandon and suffer for it than wallow in pettiness. Having inherited huge property from his wealthy maternal grandparents, he was assured of the basic comforts of life. In the ordinary course, he would not be required to slog for earning them at any time in his life. As a person, he was restless and could quickly get tired of his leisure. This had always attracted him towards things novel and challenging. But where to find the apt content in life that would hold his interest permanently? He started taking his first lesson in Hindustani classical music only in his late twenties. Yet, much to his surprise, he could find himself comfortable in the field in just three years, so much so he had given thus far a few successful live performances before celebrity audiences. The press had given very cheering reviews of those events all along. He acquired a working knowledge of Esperanto. Now, making a movie promised him the same thrill and freshness, even though it was only a documentary. It was historical, patriotic, and so very challenging!

Anubhav had little interest in reacting to Utsav’s condescending homily. Yet, he thought a last-ditch attempt might remove the latter’s misgivings about the project under contemplation, if not about his old friend.

‘I only wish to say one thing in reply. A creative idea often appears a little hazy in the beginning...what one needs to appreciate at this stage is its freshness and appeal. Don’t you think filming such a novel theme is a good idea?’ Anubhav urged Utsav to recognise the importance of the chosen topic, enhancing the impact of his appeal with a rhetorical question.

‘No, frankly, I don’t. Rather, according to me, it’s going to be all wastage,’ countered Utsav. Intending to emphasise his practical tip, he continued, ‘When one isn’t sure about the finish, where is the big point in starting anything?’

‘Well, you have a point here, but then I’d differ with you on that. I don’t reckon one must necessarily be sure about the finish, even before taking a plunge. Is it possible to know everything when what you want is only a tryst with the unknown? Didn’t Columbus know that he had finished his voyage and reached India? Did he know that he had reached America? After all, it’s the spirit to do something new that propels one into action, not just the allurement of result,’ Anubhav tried to appear forceful with his argument fortified by a historical example.

The argument remained inconclusive. Anubhav stayed back in his hotel at Puri for a few days more while Utsav left for Calcutta to resume his duties with the Daily Times of India.

Utsav, a marketing executive at a newspaper, had minimal interaction with the creative team since his job primarily involved collecting and printing pre-prepared advertisements. He also managed a few small commercial columns that occasionally required some innovation. On such occasions, he would approach the creative team for ideas. His experiences in this regard had always been peculiar. Just the other day, someone suggested he try an idea similar to the ‘party line’ in telecom, but through print media—in the same way one might ‘enjoy’ talking sexy stuff to an unfamiliar girl at the other end of the line. ‘Unprintable stuff for printing, eh!’ Utsav had mumbled in doubt, but since the idea’s originator had the reputation of being a genius, Utsav was overawed. When he presented the idea to the special editor, the latter asked for further details. Unfortunately, Utsav didn’t fully understand this complicated concept of ‘party-line-in-print-media’ innovation, and the so-called genius didn’t come to his rescue. It was a complete disaster! Utsav felt as though all hell had broken loose. His boss, known for his fragile temperament, gave him the scolding of a lifetime. The entire fiasco was due to that crazy chap—the creative fellow. Utsav cursed himself, ‘Shame on you, Utsav. Even a fool could take you for a ride!’

Utsav had experienced this sort of situation many a time. It was because he overestimated the so-called creative geniuses as superior to him. Every time somebody let him down in this manner, he would take a vow: ‘From now on, I shall not give a damn for all those high-sounding nobodies…never in my life’. He did not see his attitude towards creativity as a reflection of his inferiority complex; it was instead a cautious response system that he developed for all the pretentious people in his professional world!

But Sancheet could hardly ever understand Utsav’s less-than-friendly attitude towards him. He often wondered why the latter, professing to be his most caring friend, should carry such an inveterate misconception about him. His ideas were conceptually well-intentioned and logistically workable, even though only a few of them he tried had fizzled out before taking any shape. Once, he tried to identify and record who’s who of all the gods and goddesses that lived in India beyond the archetypical Indian pantheon, for he felt every god or goddess, living in poverty either inside a broken temple or under an ancient tree, had a rich folk tradition behind it. But as he proceeded in his probe, he found the work beyond the ability of a single person to tackle. Before the project moved further, he left it. And he considered, even now, that he had chosen something workable. Now, the filming of a historical theme based on Andamans would not suffer the same fate as his previous projects. Anubhav would be there with him till it took shape.

Utsav harboured a deep mistrust of Sancheet rooted in a complex love-hate relationship dating back to their school days. He envied Sancheet’s ability to excel academically without long study hours. On one occasion, Utsav witnessed Sancheet interceding on behalf of a friend who was being harassed by bullies, even getting injured for his bravery. As a result, Utsav nicknamed him Idealist-Baba, meaning uprightness personified. It was typical for Sancheet to score high marks despite being irregular in class attendance and a rare visitor to the library. His academic prowess, which Utsav could not help but respect, was evident in his distinctive, alliterative writing style, voracious reading habits of books unrelated to the syllabus, and skill in impromptu public speaking. Additionally, his extracurricular activities were equally impressive.

During his post-graduation days, he transformed himself into a leftist, sporting an unkempt goatee and dressing himself in a rumpled kurta-pyjama. He always had a pair of flip-flops afoot and a bidi on his lips—a bidi being a country-made cigarette rolled in Tendu leaf (Diospyros Melanoxylon). As a result, his concentration wavered from his studies. This had irked Utsav, inducing a generous concern for his friend in him. Then, he had long sessions with his friend, trying to impress upon him that he should give up his ‘pseudo-Marxist’ posture and the horrible bidi addiction. But Sancheet would not relent. Finding it difficult to reform his friend through sincere counselling, Utsav again nicknamed him ‘Pseudo’ and the ‘Hypo’, meaning ‘the hypocrite’. Sancheet had taken all these in his stride without reacting in retaliation. This further saddened Utsav, who found himself outsmarted in all his initiatives. He could not prove himself better than his friend in studies, and now he failed to establish himself as a well-wisher! All through his life, he had been a vanquished person before the towering personality and ever-unflappable temperament of his friend Sancheet.

There was yet another reason behind Utsav’s critical attitude towards Sancheet. It was something for which Sancheet could not have made himself responsible. Both friends were in university then, intensely conscious of their youthful right to enjoy themselves. Both had the right physique to appear attractive to the fair sex—tall, smooth-skinned, and lean, yet Sancheet had the charm that Utsav lacked. Discretion and sensitivity made all the difference. Whereas Sancheet was circumspect in matters involving feminine sensitivities, Utsav was ostentatious. In the first meeting with her lady love, the latter would insist on deciding whom she should meet and whom she should not. Then, outside, he would prematurely brag about his extraordinary love affair everywhere. Thus, Utsav’s gestures were far too obvious and often irritating, always forgetting that a girl would welcome only such gestures as were mature, moving, and sincere. Probably, that was why the object of Utsav’s adoration, the bright, bubbly girl named Roma, fell for Sancheet. She had, quite unceremoniously, spurned Utsav’s overtures of love on more occasions than once.

That had hurt the manhood in Utsav, yet, like all jilted lovers, he lingered on. And finally, luck rewarded his graceless tenacity. Utsav got a job, and Roma came forward to mend her fence with him. Like any other girl, the charming girl in Sancheet’s life finally elected the security. She chose to archive her first love story and, with it, its protagonist, the bohemian happy-go-lucky Sancheet, who struck the first chord of passion in her tender heart. It was a victory for Utsav, but it was a hollow one at that. The hassles and ignominy endured on his way to victory remained ever-shocking and continued to tease Utsav as usual.

When Utsav got into an executive job in a reputed newspaper like the Daily Times of India, he looked down upon his friend Sancheet with pity and satisfaction. Satisfied that he had finally caught up in the competition, Utsav now considered himself qualified to commiserate with Sancheet, who was not even a clerk with a small-time business concern. So, a pretence of pity for his bosom friend surfaced from the bottom of his heart.

But Sancheet, the maverick genius, was not to be discarded like that. Since his college days, his attitude of nonchalance had developed in him a sort of aversion to taking the strain, which had kept his talents from blossoming. Whereas it was just a smooth sail for him in undergraduate classes, it was not so in his postgraduate stage. He had his political beliefs to distract him. Treatises on political philosophies written by infallible founding fathers bore more charm for him than those dealing with liberal arts. However, he had finally completed his postgraduate degree and decided to lead a ‘free’ life. He wished to lead a thinker’s life for whatever that epithet meant to him. With both his parents dead long since, his well-wishers and relations could not bring about any change in him. After spending five precious years along the corridors of libraries, museums, archives, and intellectual symposia, one fine day, he suddenly realised that leading an entirely liberated life had earned him the loathsome label of a hapless unemployed. Even the girl who was once willing to do anything for a wink from him chose to move away honourably. So, instead of a ‘free’ life, he became a ‘freelancer’. And then success smiled on him.

He moved from Calcutta and resided in an economy hotel in the pilgrim town of Puri. The sequestered lair allowed him to focus on writing. To his surprise, some hidden inspiration emerged, and he began churning out pages of immensely readable content from his dingy hotel room. He was working on a column that presented contemporary topics lucidly and convincingly. His work gained instant acceptance by a stroke of luck, even with the demanding editorial board of the Daily Times of India. He ran the column daily under the title ‘Rough & Tough,’ and it appeared on the same page as the editorials. Soon, it earned him readers’ accolades—so much so that it exceeded his wildest dreams!

However, before the above turnaround could transpire in Sancheet's life, Utsav had already cashed in on his early success. He had qualified as a perfect groom in the wake of a well-paid job, which did not go unnoticed. Roma, the intimate girl of Sancheet, after waiting a couple of years after her education, decided to marry Utsav, the same mediocre character she used to loathe only the other day heartily. As a gesture of gratitude, she visited Sancheet in his cramped hotel room before her engagement. With her characteristic winsome manners, she explained her decision and all the compulsions leading to it, declared her wish to maintain her friendship in the years ahead, and expressed her gratitude for all the sweet gestures that Sancheet had made towards her. Finally, she crossed the platonic limits, jumping into the willing arms of her worthy lover. She wrote her history, as rich as her passion could chronicle, and then disappeared with a clear conscience and a satisfied heart. She went away from Sanceet’s fold but not from his abiding memory.

Successful and sneering, Utsav often compared his victory with Sancheet’s continued struggle. ‘Ah, how lonely is he now!’ ‘What a gruelling boredom was in store for my dear friend!’ Often, there were flashes of commiseration in the friendly corner of Utsav’s mind. He occasionally invited his unlucky friend to his place, principally to show him his loving, beautiful wife and playful son. In his heart of hearts, he was dying to witness how his friend would go through the grief, being confronted with the reality—his platonic love was now abloom in all colours under somebody else’s intimate care. Utsav calculated that his friend would visit his house and be consumed with envy. And the poor little thing would be punished appropriately for always making him suffer!

But as often as not, Sancheet would avoid going there on some plea. Little did Utsav know that his friend was under a resolve not to do anything that would invite troubles into the marital life of Roma, that he considered his darling Roma a part of his sweet past, something to be wistfully cherished but not ridiculously revived. This attitude of aloofness on the part of his friend would always baffle Utsav; to him, it was a kind of snobbery. He could not reconcile himself to the fact that his achievements bore no significance to his friend. On a few occasions when Sancheet did pay visits, his behaviour had been quite natural, inhibition-free, and bereft of any extra movement of eyebrows or wiggle of fingers. This signified his self-control and his lack of nervousness. At least a few unintentional samples of his friend’s discomfiture would have enabled Utsav to establish his comparative maturity as a married man before Sancheet. But alas, that was not to happen.

As Utsav left for Calcutta, Anubhav had two clear days to work on their idea. Sancheet joined him at his hotel that evening. Both friends decided to stroll to the beach while discussing the project. Upon reaching the beach, they were greeted by the cool breeze blowing carefree from the far corners of the Bay of Bengal. The roar at the shore created an incredible sensation as if trying to assure the two dreamers they were on the right track. They were not to abandon their dream project, taking criticisms to heart.

‘How about shooting a small-length film on the same topic instead of a plain documentary?’ prompted Anubhav.

‘Exactly, I was going to suggest that. It’ll be a better project. The best thing is we can have a plot of our choice,’ agreed Sancheet in an animated voice.

‘Say a Japanese general abducts an islander girl, keeps her as a hostage and asks her father and brother, suspected of being the English informers, to resurface from the underground….  In the meantime, Netaji Subhas Bose visits Port Blair. The girl is prevented from meeting Netaji….’ Anubhav disclosed the highlights of his story, looking at the sea and occasionally kicking the sand. Then he paused and looked at Sancheet to know his reaction.

‘Wonderful! What a terrific plot! I had this morning thought something akin to that,’ Sancheet looked at Anubhav unbelievingly, wondering how both could come to think of the same idea and plot.

‘But, Sancheet, there’s a small problem. Only you can solve that…’ said Anubhav, creating an abrupt curiosity in Sancheet.

‘Problem? Like…,’ Sancheet’s mouth, wide open, had only these two words.

‘It’s nothing impossible, my friend. Don’t worry. I assure you we’ll have the film shot at Port Blair. I was talking about selecting a heroine for our film. Here’s something you alone can help me out,’ Anubhav reiterated his commitment, expressing himself reassuringly.

‘How can I be helpful, Anubhav? I’m as much a bachelor as you are. I’ve got very few contacts with members of fair sex, you know,’ said Sancheet in a tone that accentuated his politeness and self-deprecating humour.

Anubhav did not say a word for a few moments. Then, he began to elaborate on his idea somewhat analytically.

‘You see, going for a market search for girls for the female lead in the play is cumbersome. This is not our cup of tea for both of us, the determined bachelors in our forties. Instead, if we can settle for somebody known...If you don’t mind, I have Roma in mind.’

‘Roma? Do you mean Roma Boudi? Our bosom friend Utsav’s wife?’ asked Sancheet, happily awaiting confirmation from Anubhav.

‘Oh yes...And why not?  We both can take care of her son while the shooting progresses. Even Utsav can join us. Roma is better and more photogenic than a girl in her twenties. I’ve thought a lot before suggesting her name,’ Anubhav confirmed while preemptively justifying his proposal.

‘If that’s your choice, don’t worry, my friend. I’m one hundred per cent in favour. Our Roma Boudi is just made for the role. Come rush, talk to her before it’s 8 o’clock, and Utsav is home. Let’s first know her mind,’ Sancheet virtually pattered all his words in one breath.

Both the friends rushed to the hotel, excited and optimistic. Sancheet dialled the landline. The phone at the other end rang at the first dial, and the voice was distinct. No sooner did Sancheet divulge the idea to Roma than she happily agreed, as if she had been looking for an opportunity like this for ages. Moreover, she suggested that she would surprise Utsav only the night before they would depart for Port Blair, and till that time, neither of the friends should disclose the plan to her husband. The progress was impressive, and Anubhav was beaming with pleasure.

Sancheet took upon himself the responsibility of writing the script. He had no experience penning a drama, but the whole thing was more inspirational than professional. As he started writing, the scenes and sequences became clear by themselves. He made the story centre around the heroine—how she displayed exemplary fortitude in captivity, how dearly she valued her honour and the honour of her motherland, and how she was prepared to endure any misfortune for the sake of the motherland. While developing the plot through the graceful flow of dialogues, Sancheet had the inspiration of the Ramayana to guide him. Did Sita, the central character of the Ramayana, not stick to her hope even when the demon king of Sri Lanka abducted her? Didn’t she turn down unceremoniously all the enticements the demon king piled on her? Why should not Sancheet make an adorable character out of his heroine? After all, he had seen love in all its resplendence. His undying passion for Roma impelled him. Roma was in captivity and needed Lord Ram’s courage to rescue her. Her heroine would emerge unscathed from the captivity of her Japanese abductors; she would appear chaste as ever.

Anubhav liked the script so much that he predicted its great future. When it went to Roma, it touched her innermost soul to kindle many tender feelings; she felt nostalgic for everything she had left behind. Through the lines of the script, she could feel the freshness of Sancheet’s love for her; she could listen to the call of conscience: she had been a miser in reciprocating, granting much less than she should have. Now, she was determined to give her best—this time, she should write an engaging new chapter of her life through her lifelike performance on screen.

With a beautiful script, all other preparatory challenges were visualised and meticulously handled. Air tickets for all of them, viz., both the bachelor entrepreneurs and the artist family of three, and rooms in the Bay Islands, a five-star hotel, were booked in advance. The first batch of cinematographers and technicians left for the island by the MV Nicobar shipping service on Christmas day. On the evening of the 31st of December, both Anubhav and Sancheet reached Utsav’s place by 8.30 sharp, as decided.

Utsav was surprised to see both together. Sarcastically, he wondered if they were finally up to something extraordinary.

‘So, you are all set to shoot the documentary, right?’

‘Well, the latest is something like that,’ said Sancheet.

At that time, Roma came out of the kitchen smilingly. She looked incredibly gorgeous in her floral kitchen apron. The dress made the sensuous contours of her body more traceable than concealed. She had prepared for the thrill that awaited her only a few hours from now. She had bleached her face, trimmed her eyebrows, and done her manicure minutely. Her ringlets hanging down on her blossomed face made her naturalness more prominent than the efforts of her beautician. She looked like a nubile girl in her twenties, going to meet with her fiancé.

While asking them to make themselves comfortable, she gave both visitors a meaningful wink. She tried to determine by eye movement if they had disclosed the scheme to her husband and got the matching signal through eye contact. Then, she broke the topic before her husband.

‘Do you know, Utsav, you’re going to Port Blair tomorrow?’

The abruptness with which the context was brought up mightily confused Utsav. Of course, he knew Port Blair, an exotic island destination, had recently been very popular among tourists—so much so that one needed to book their tickets with the lone airline operating in that sector months in advance. Even then, the absence of planning did not make the news believable.

‘Port Blair? Me? Don’t be silly,’ responded Utsav quite unbelievingly.

‘See, here are the tickets. We’re all going. And can you guess what we are going there for?’ asked Roma in her bid to unfold the surprise packet layer by layer.

‘For what? It’s for the New Year, as simple as that,’ said Utsav very matter-of-factly. Continuing, he explained his inability to accompany, ‘But you see, I can’t go tomorrow because I will remain busy. Besides, I will have my hands full until the 10th of January. Some important visitors are coming to my office during the week.’

‘But then I’ve decided to go. Otherwise, how can they shoot the film?  I’m, after all, the lead female character in this script. I’ve been sweating for the last two weeks to memorise the script,’ said Roma pleadingly.

Utsav was nonplussed. He did not expect his wife to make such a big decision all alone, only to hurl a surprise. He was startled that what Roma was terming a surprise was not just a surprise; it was, in effect, a nasty shock. But now that so much had been done, he could hardly dissuade her from the itinerary. It would be a cool twenty days of outing. She would accompany her three-year-old son, an issue they had got after a lot of medical intervention. Utsav toyed with the idea that Roma could be asked to defer her plan just on the plea of their gamesome son, whom she would find hard to manage there all alone. Then again, he gave it up because he was unsure how it would sound to a lady so obviously determined to go ahead with two bachelors, leaving her husband behind so offhandedly.

Now, to put on a brave face expected of a modern husband, Utsav decided to hide his feelings and talk usually.

‘Then you may go and finish your shooting. I’ll try to join you only after January 20^th,’ permitted Utsav.

With these words, everybody in the team became relaxed. Roma gave the finishing touch to her packing, ensuring she took all her cosmetics, script, and saris. Both Anubhav and Sancheet tried to keep Utsav engaged in discussing topics of national and international importance, scarcely being able to hold his attention.

The flight was scheduled to leave quite early in the morning. They should start at 3 a.m. to reach Dum Dum Air Port for a timely check-in. Besides, they had some extra baggage to book. Utsav stated that he would attend the office early on New Year’s Day to preclude all possibility of getting late for the office during the year. Hence, he begged to be excused from attending the airport to see them off. It was quite a superstition as a pretext, but the inspired team had nothing to do with it. Finally, the creative duo and the artist lady with her drowsy son left for Port Blair—the emerald islands, where the ink of creativity was poised to acquire extra sheen.

Still in bed for those remaining hours of that momentous night, Utsav began assessing his loss in this defeat.

-------------------

By

A. N. Nanda

---------------------

The Emancipated

 ------------

This one is from my book of short stories, "The Remix of Orchids." I hope it will interest my readers.

-------------

The Emancipated

The MV Sentinel finally reached the shoal off Campbell Bay. As it neared the harbour, it blasted its siren aloud. ‘Hurrah, it’s time to disembark,’ shouted the jubilant passengers. They gathered on deck for a grandstand view of the shore, beckoning them with all its earthly charm and excitement. Then, another blast indicated the ship was about to touch the jetty. The weary islanders were happy, too, to see the boat reaching them after a fortnight. It brought a quick turnaround in their moods, ending their wait and encouraging them to think positively. ‘After all, ours is not a hopelessly inaccessible place on the earth,’ they began to reassure themselves.

The dockers set themselves to work wholeheartedly, unloading the bagfuls of consignments. Today, they didn’t mind sweating a few extra hours to earn more money. They knew they were working to help themselves because unloading the cargo would eventually provide them food and comfort. Once a sleepy place, the jetty quickly transformed into a bustling hub of activity with the arrival of passengers and their anxious relatives, filling the space with laughter, conversation, and other purposeful activities.

For Manglu, the day broke with promise. Today, he would rush to the jetty to find someone returning from his hometown who might have the information he longed for and then to the post office to inquire about the letter that had mysteriously stopped arriving. He had a feeling that by sunset when the post office had sorted through the jumbled heap of letters, he would receive a card or an envelope. It should bring an end to the ongoing drought in his communication.

Manglu dwelt in a nameless hamlet deep within the island’s interior, approximately forty-six kilometres from Zero Point. The locals called it Forty-six Kilometres Point due to their unique naming convention. There, he shared a labourers’ barrack with six other wage earners, which appeared more like an abandoned structure than a shelter of comfort. It was a large, bare hall with a high asbestos roof riddled with countless openings. Although it had several windows, none had panels, allowing unrestricted airflow and wayward insects to enter as they pleased. The fetidness wafting from the rampant wild mustard and ipomoea outside, the trickles of raindrops dripping through the damaged roof and pooling on the damp and damaged floor—all contributed to the gloomy ambience of the interior. Manglu’s possessions were minimal; they included a camp bed, a kerosene stove, a small collection of aluminium utensils, and a few items of clothing. He also had a long clothesline stretched taut across the hall, where he awkwardly stored his entire wardrobe.

Nowadays, Manglu was laid off since the project of the Border Road Organisation had been suspended for the last three months. But he was a past master at the game of survival. He knew how to carry on and endure, yet never say die.

Today, he was drawn to the jetty in the hope of finding some relief from his anxiety. He hoped to encounter some convivial company with whom he could talk and make his life more bearable. Never mind if the conversation wandered into the nonsense he dreamt up over the past fortnight or how passionately his wife used to love him back when he was in his village! Indeed, the ship days were wonderfully lively and full of entertainment!

Manglu’s plan included stopping by the post office to check for his long-awaited letter and attending his business appointments to earn some income. His job involved mixing bakhar, a herbal fermenting agent, in pots of rice beer (handi), for which he would earn four rupees per pot. Of course, it was meagre, like a slice of cake, which could not substitute for a regular meal. Nonetheless, it supplemented his funds during his spell of joblessness, and Manglu was content with that. By any reckoning, it was a small-scale commercial activity, earning Manglu the prestige he would not have otherwise got on the island. Indeed, his bakhar was the indispensable ingredient of the beverage, and Manglu knew he was holding a trade secret.

Manglu’s destination was the Forty-one Kilometre Point, from where he would take a bus for the jetty. Like the hamlet where he lived, the bus stop was also a nameless spot in his route. His was an incredible speed at the age of fifty-plus. As he walked, he cared little about the brambles along the game trail or the boulders that lay strewn on his way. Result: it took him slightly more than half an hour to cover six kilometres and reach the place, despite wading across the Galathia River.

Finally, Manglu could catch a bus within the next two hours. The conductor happened to be a connoisseur of his brand of handi fortified with delectable bakhar. He warmly greeted Manglu with his amiable smile and gave him a free ride to his destination.

The bus reached its last stop near the post office in one hour. Manglu got off there and proceeded to the counter to inquire about his letter. The postman greeted him.

‘Manglu Bhai, here’s a letter for you.’

‘A letter for me at last? Is that from Sukra’s mother?’ Manglu mumbled impatiently.

The postman handed him an inland letter card. The address on it was written in such ugly handwriting that it would have easily found its way to the return mailbag had the postman not read it intelligently. The addressee’s name was written as ‘ma’ ‘lu’ in a bilingual fashion. The first letter of his name, ‘Ma’, was written in block capitals, whereas the letter ‘lu’ was in Hindi. The omission of the intervening letters had been conveniently indicated by an ellipsis. Moreover, the address 46 kilometres was written not in Roman numerals but in Devnagri. Despite everything, the letter reached Manglu.

He took hold of it for its close examination. There was some difference between the letters he used to receive in the past and the one he just received, but he was not quite sure what that exactly suggested. He tore it rather hurriedly. As such, the inland letter card was torn on the wrong side and detached along the middle of the written portion. He tried to correct his mistake but again tore the letter haphazardly. Now, it took the shape of a virtual jigsaw. For a signiterate like Manglu, who knew no more than the letters his name contained, deciphering sense out of those shreds of crumpled paper was quite a task!

With the letter in his pocket, Manglu went to the jetty, expecting somebody there to help him read it. While trudging past the stony road, he remembered his family. Fifteen long years ago, a desperate job-hunting forced him out of his home. It appeared as though everything happened only yesterday! His thatched house in disrepair, his charmingly lugubrious wife, his playful but ever-hungry son and daughter, and his queerly contended pet dog—Manglu remembered how he had to leave them behind. Before departing Brambay on that sombre afternoon, he had assured his wife he would send a money order every month. Yes, that was the minimum which could have made any sense in a year of drought. Manglu was a young Mundari tribesman in his late thirties. A long spell of unemployment was unbearable for a landless agricultural labourer like him who just lived on wage earning. Plucking lac from those palāsh trees (flame of the forest) or collecting fuel wood from the fast-depleting forest of the Chotnagpur plateau did not give him enough. It was highly agonising for him to see the faces of the half-fed kids at home. The desperate, innocent souls frequently nagged for food and cried their plaintive cries when hunger pricked their stomachs. At last, before the incompetent father in him had to decide on the extreme, Manglu had chanced upon an address of a labour contractor in Calcutta, who was recruiting people to send them to places of labour scarcity. Manglu had decided to explore. He was not alone; four others from his neighbouring villages had joined him, too.

On reaching Calcutta, Manglu and his friends contacted the labour contractor. They were simultaneously apprehensive about and ready for the inconvenience. Despite their ambivalence, they were not entirely averse to trying the unknown.

‘Job for you people? Well, you all have the right physique, but are you ready to sail for the Andaman and Nicobar Islands? There, you have jobs aplenty—your type,’ the contractor had looked the job seekers in their eyes as though he was demanding a quick response. But then, Manglu and his friends had no quick responses to submit.

Under normal circumstances, Manglu would have stepped aside, but there was no way out this time. His friends were eager, yet none knew about the islands. All they had was a faint notion of its notorious reputation during the British Raj when the name Kalapani struck fear in everyone’s hearts. Kalapani, literally meaning “black waters,” referred to the murky waters leading to an infamous penal settlement—a hell of solitude, torture, and morbidity for those condemned by the harsh tides of fate.

Manglu, however, wasn’t concerned with the past. His only hope was that the promised employment would allow him to send money orders to his wife each month, enough to provide his little son and daughter a square meal a day.

Finding the job-hunters silent and wavering, the contractor started to explain his package, and the needy souls listened to him attentively. The job would yield them a wage of fifteen rupees per day, payable on the weekends, and its perks would include free on-site accommodation and complimentary tea and snacks during working hours. So far, so good. The most lucrative bait was yet to come from his mouth, an assurance that concerned their home travel once a year. Yes, the migrants would be rewarded with a generous package of annual travel from port to port, and everything would be at the contractor’s cost. The assurance made the job seekers happy, as they found they would secure more than expected!

Soon, the day of sailing arrived. Manglu and his friends nervously boarded the ship, chose their respective places on the deck, and spread their spare loincloths to rest.

It was an arduous voyage, not of the kind right for a first-timer at sea. Manglu went sick and vomited profusely during the initial two days. However, the subsequent two days became pleasant, thanks to the sudden improvement in the weather that considerably lessened the rolling and pitching of the ship. Then a welcome rest came at Port Blair as he had to wait four more days to catch a boat to Campbell Bay. The favourable weather continued. Manglu and his friends had no further seasickness.

At long last, the terrifying voyage had come to an end. The tumultuous Ten-Degree Channel, the Sombrero Channel, and all the known and unknown spots on that maritime circuit were finally behind him. Then Manglu arrived in Campbell Bay, the promised land of bread and honey, where every drop of his sweat would bring him money and life.

Upon his arrival, Manglu immediately started his job, receiving orders to cut down trees for road construction. It wasn’t long before he encountered his first challenge: the leeches. They rained from the widespread branches of the lofty ancient trees like tears from a distressed tree god. His more experienced fellow workers advised him to apply tobacco to the exposed parts of his body to keep the leeches at bay. Manglu carefully used khaini (tobacco) powder as instructed, yet the leeches often clung to his body undeterred. He even recalled how, on a couple of occasions, they didn’t spare his privates! Then came another shock— the water he sipped tasted horribly toxic; it was so unhealthy that it felt as though he were drinking concentrated limewater from a stagnant pool in a primordial limestone cavern or the sap of poisonous cacti drawn from an abandoned well that had collected the noxious liquid for ages. It was only after a painful month of acclimatisation that Manglu began to slowly tolerate the taste.

He soon realised that he severely lacked the skills to make life livable in a new land. He did not know how to handle a kerosene stove, so he made a challah by putting three hollow blocks in a triangle. The experiment was not foolproof since the rain on the island hardly spared anything dry and combustible. On many occasions, cooking was suspended when every plank of fuel wood would go damp and every stick of match sodden. Then, he would remain without food. By and by, he learnt how to use a kerosene stove and bought one second-hand stove from the labour supervisor, bartering his wages for four days.

Scarcity prevailed everywhere, but Manglu managed it with remarkable adaptability. Nevertheless, he missed something terribly at the end of the day. It was his handi, the aqua vitae that was ancestral and life-giving! One day, he started fermenting it on his own, bestowing all the tenderness it demanded, and when the delicate drink was ready and fortified, he invited his new friends for a drinking session. The smell of the beverage was so horribly stale that some of the invitees were initially hesitant. However, something ineluctable about the offer made them test the tribal beverage. Once introduced, they slowly started adapting to the taste. It proved perfect for the kick it gave in exchange for paltry sums. It also relieved them of the fatigue of the strenuous work and the tension of their solitude. Thus, in less than a year, Manglu established himself not only as an acclimatised member of the labour force on that remote island but also as an opportunistic businessperson!

Meanwhile, the contractor-employer began to reveal his true colours. In fact, he was not the same contractor who recruited them with all the promising offers of perquisites. The present one turned out to be a sub-contractor driven by the desire to get rich quickly at the expense of the workers. He merrily withdrew the perquisites item by item in just a few months. The first to disappear was the service of tea and snacks during working hours. Aggrieved by this, Manglu and his colleagues protested, not as a united labour front but as a group of irate rustics. The employer knew how to handle the unrest.

‘Yes, I agree there was a condition like that. But now the situation has changed. Why don’t you try to understand? You have so many snack vendors and tea huts around the site. Why don’t you take from them? Why do you burden a poor fellow like me?’ The new contractor-employer was relaxed in his response.

‘Then who’ll pay for that?’ Manglu had asked the contractor curtly.

The latter had smiled; it was his style before he had harsh words to utter.

‘Listen, you people are workers, no freeloaders, I say. If you insist, I’ll contribute something towards that, say fifty paise a day. Will that do?’

Manglu and his fellow workers at the site were no hardcore bargainmongers. At best, they were out to show their anger. Now that they had ventilated and extracted a concession from the mulish contractor, they decided to leave the matter there.

‘That’s okay, but be warned: we don’t like how you took us for granted. Henceforth, you’d do better to honour the commitment.’ Manglu had uttered this as if he were serving his employer an ultimatum.

So, their relationship was to come to a bitter end by the end of the year when the contractor refused to incur any amount for their passage. Instead, he offered to deduct a portion of their wages to accumulate the funds necessary for the tickets. It was a contractual breach on the employer’s part—Manglu and the company had no patience to tolerate it. All of them decided to stop working.

The timing coincided with a recruitment drive by the Forest Department. Manglu and his friends tried their luck at the forest office. It proved a fortunate move for all of them—except poor old Manglu. In time, he learned what had disqualified him: his illiteracy in that there was no “signiterate” category in the government’s classification. Manglu’s mind revolted. He couldn’t understand how knowing the alphabet would help him perform a labourer’s work in the forest. Were the forest officials expecting him to teach the Andaman and Nicobar Islands wild animals the alphabet? The job needed pure physical strength and some degree of familiarity with the Andaman rainforest. Manglu possessed both in full measure. He was hale and hearty—even the wayward boulders from blasting sites could not stop him—and, by that time, had already gained extensive knowledge of the trees that grew on the island. Garjan, Padauk, Papaya, Ban Mahua—name any tree in the forest, and Manglu would identify that in the blink of an eye. He had first-hand experience with flora and fauna. Not for nothing, he had endured the stings of fleas in the forest; not for nothing, he had braved the aerial attack of leeches! But neither his knowledge nor his physical prowess could secure him a job. Manglu was left alone on the island to endure his luck. Never again did he encounter any of his four friends. Not even an all-knowing crow ever cawed on his rooftop after that.

Months flitted by, as they should, between Manglu’s ever-regular money orders. At the end of the year, homesickness tormented him. But he was helpless. Whatever wages he had earned throughout the year had found their way to the post office for booking money orders. Now, he remained pauper as usual. Where would he get the amount to pay for the ticket? Not even his savings from his handi business could help.

Manglu remembered his little daughter Sumia. When he left home, she was only a four-year-old girl. He recalled her thin ponytail, loose and tousled; her lips, cute, moist, and inquisitive; her hands, ever busy, tiny, and playful. The image of her grappling with the guava tree in front of their house, which branched low on its trunk, was still vivid in his memory, as was the memory of her helping him plant jackfruit saplings in the backyard with her tiny hands. As his child grew, many changes would have occurred—discovering them would be quite an experience. But then, what could he do now? He could not even borrow money for the voyage because the idea was simply dreadful; he did not want to turn himself into a hapless debtor, no matter what. He knew that loans grow when the borrower falters. His empty pockets were incapable of accommodating his large fatherly emotions. In his heart of hearts, Manglu continued to nurture his affection from afar; he remembered her as the same cherubic four-year-old, ready to reciprocate his every gesture with her wonderfully expressive eyes and playful giggles.

Since then, Manglu worked under quite a few contractors. Projects had come, and projects had concluded, but he remained stuck around Campbell Bay. Levelling of knolls, constructing roads and jetties, cleaning forests, and erecting concrete structures—each had the essential component of Manglu’s sweat built into it.

Once, while shifting a giant boulder, he stumbled and got severely injured. Fortunately for him, he did not break his bones. Yet the injury took him to the hospital for fifteen days. On recovery, he resumed work at the old site, but there was no compensation or monetary reward for his suffering. His employer believed in the age-old adage: Accidents are the fallout of carelessness. Manglu had no one to speak up for him, as he was enduring only a migrant labourer’s destiny!

Despite occasional work interruptions and decreased earnings, Manglu never neglected his family. In any case, there were constant reminders from his wife—the epistles were self-explanatory, even self-extracting. Unpaid tuition fees for her two school-going children, the urgency of the annual thatching of her dwelling hut, special must-have expenses for festive occasions, etc., regularly featured in the monthly demand list from his wife. Manglu had no difficulty in visualising the situation at home. Amounts must reach the family on time to keep them out of privation. He continued to send one money order every month, almost mechanically, nay religiously.

Thus, Manglu continued to provide for his family while remaining rooted in Campbell Bay, as if choosing a self-imposed exile to keep them happy and united. Driven by a strange motivation called hope, he simply carried on.

It was not that he had helplessly resigned himself to his fate—in fact, on a couple of occasions, he had managed to save the money needed for a trip home. But just as he was about to buy a ticket, a letter from Sukra’s mother arrived, filled with urgent requests for funds. How could Manglu ignore such an impassioned plea? He carefully weighed his options. If he went home, he might find comfort in being with his family, but Manglu knew he would also face the harsh reality of their ongoing struggles. Instead of a warm welcome, he would be met with a grumble of despair. He was certain that his family would be just as impoverished as when he had left them years before. So, Manglu decided to act responsibly like a true patriarch. Instead of buying a ship ticket to travel to his home, he diverted the amount to meet his family’s needs. As such, his attempts at returning home met their unfulfilling ends.

Before the flashback could take Manglu to the furthest accessible end of his memory lane, he had already reached the jetty. Lo, there was a blast from the past—Manglu was greeted by a friend with whom he had come to this island in search of employment a decade and a half ago. Everything associated with that momentous voyage and the valiant struggle for living that followed it was refreshed. They were fresh and retrievable as the activities of the previous fortnight! The gap of fourteen years had not robbed it of its essential fervour.

With his nostalgia and pent-up emotion driving him delirious, Manglu rushed to his old friend and took him into the fold of his arms in a big hug. It was an occasion to refresh, relive, and celebrate, for the two friends were reunited under dictates of strange predestination. Manglu’s voice was marked by an overtone of self-deprecation, and his enquiries were more poignant than inquisitive.

The slow release of information that followed the exchange of pleasantries made it clear to Manglu that his friend was on transfer to the island. He just returned from Brambay after spending his leave for a month. On hearing this, Manglu was thrilled. He grabbed the thread and asked his friend whether he could contact his family. While his friend replied in the affirmative, Manglu sensed a certain hesitancy in his voice.

‘What did you see there, old boy? Did you see them all fine? Did you meet Sukra’s mother?’ enquired Manglu in one breath, fixing his expectant gaze on his friend.

Manglu’s friend was taken aback.  He did not expect Manglu to shoot an idiotic question like that. But then, he instantly realised that his friend was not an idiot; he was only blithely unaware of the misfortune that had overtaken him. Fifteen years was a long time—one could literally call it donkey’s years!  Only two years after Manglu left Brambay, his wife came closer to one Oraon young man, who happened to be the son of the Pahan of the nearby village Kitki. Before everybody’s eyes, their relationship advanced to the point of no return. Obviously, everything was inadmissible about the bond—it was going to be an inter-tribal marriage if that was how the relationship was to grow; the lady was a spent bloom who had all the responsibilities and little of her youthfulness; the wedding was to have no social sanction but bring all the tensions; and so on. With their knowledge about the incompatibility of the match and the unattractiveness of their would-be daughter-in-law, the boy’s parents did not approve of it either. As the Pahan of the village himself, his father was a community leader who had no clue how to endorse the deviant behaviour of his own son. Before long, this was to degenerate into a family strife, creating a permanent rift between the father and son. Finally, the latter left home for good.

He came to stay with Manglu’s lady at Brambay, cared for the family, and proved a fine person that the family needed. However, the villagers could not approve of the relationship. They considered it unacceptable and pressured the Oraon young man to restore the lady and the family to Manglu. But where was Manglu to claim his wife back? On the other hand, the young man became more determined with every hurdle raised on the path of his romance. His relationship with his fellow villagers at Brambay deteriorated, and the matter only exploded during the Karama festival. On that day, while all were dead drunk, somebody commented that a blind lover had strayed into the village; he should be shooed out like a migrant dog for the welfare of the community. This was no time to see humour out of a plain insinuation; its tone was enough to give rise to an altercation that would soon degenerate into a fierce fight. The young man in love was beaten nastily. He bled profusely, and by the time he left the duel, he had already lost a tooth.

The lady was hurt at such inhuman treatment as meted out to her lover. She was helpless, but by now, she had been literally pushed to the wall. It was time she bounced back. She went straight to the Pahan of her village to register a protest, but as expected, the elderly gentleman turned out to be an utterly unsympathetic fellow. What was more, he was satirical and scornful! Now, she could not help but lose her temper and challenge him in her own way—why couldn’t she choose a second husband, and that too when she needed him for her family’s security? The matter worsened, and she was asked to leave the village. She considered leaving the village safer than lingering there amidst the hostile neighbours. Since then, none had seen the couple.

After inquiring about his family’s welfare, Manglu awaited his friend’s response. But, instead of answering his query, his friend was curiously lost in thought. Now, Manglu began to fear the worst. He could no longer hide his anxiety.

‘How are all getting on at Brambay? Are they fine?’ asked Manglu in one breath.

‘Oh yes, all at Brambay are fine. But ….’ His friend held back what he was about to utter, wondering if it was appropriate on his part to disclose the truth so bluntly.

Manglu’s curiosity shot up, and a sense of foreboding seized him. He began to apprehend that something ghastly unpleasant had befallen his family during his absence. Yet he tried to put on a brave face and encouraged his friend to tell him the truth.

‘Why do you hesitate to reply to my question? What’s there to hide? Are you not my friend? True, we haven’t met for the last fourteen years. But does that mean you’ll act so formal? And punish me for that? For the sake of our friendship, won’t you tell me what you saw at Brambay? Are all in my family happy and safe?’ Now Manglu was quite impatient, his voice raised, quivering with the fear of the unknown.

Finally, Manglu’s friend decided. With a deep sigh, he proceeded to speak out.

‘Sorry to inform you, my friend, even this time, I couldn’t locate them. Your family is no longer living in your village, Brambay…and I last saw them there long twelve years ago.’

Manglu could not understand the head or tail of what his friend was trying to drive home.

‘Why? Are the children living with their grandfather at Kitki?’ asked Manglu.

‘No, they aren’t at Kitki, either. In fact, I saw them last at your village some twelve years ago, and since then, their whereabouts are unknown to me. Your wife has taken an Oraon young man, the son of Pahan of Kitki. Our village Pahan asked him to refrain from developing the unseemly relationship, but by then, your wife seemed to have developed a deep fascination for that young man. After a few months of hostility with the villagers, they married. Since then, your children and their mother and stepfather had left Brambay,’ Manglu’s friend thus refrained from giving a blow-by-blow account of the developments.

Now Manglu could not believe his friend. To him, it appeared as if his friend were hurling a rude joke at him. Manglu received one letter from his wife every month for the last fifteen years. She was illiterate like him; moreover, she had been habitually sending a monthly letter except for the previous few months. It was just an ordinary slip that Manglu thought would automatically be solved as all his letters would soon come together in a bunch. Despite being illiterate, his wife had no dearth of literate people around to help her. She might have taken the help of her children. His son Sukra was in a residential missionary school. He had so far been doing well in all his examinations and receiving a scholarship worth twenty-five rupees a month. Manglu had already sent an extra five hundred rupees to Sukra to cover the expenses of his matriculation examination. Sumia was in her ninth class. In almost all the letters, she remembered her father and asked him to keep her posted about when he would return to Brambay. Sumia was growing up as a beautiful girl. Only last March did he remit an extra money order of five hundred rupees for a pair of earrings for her. What more was there for Manglu to learn about his family?

Finding Manglu lost in his thoughts, his friend tried to be apologetic.

‘Oh, how terribly sorry I’m! Manglu Bhai. It’s quite irresponsible of me to assume that you knew everything. But believe me, I’ve constantly enquired about you—every time I’ve been to the mainland, I’ve enquired about you but to no avail. I should have come to this island in search of you…at least once during the last twelve years, Manglu Bhai.’

Every word his repentant-looking friend uttered to explain his avoidable lapse sounded more unbelievable than informative. Manglu felt his patience was being taken for granted, like a boy undergoing a distress parade before a school bully. It was difficult to withstand such a cruel joke anymore.

‘Aren’t you fooling me, my friend? How is that possible? Every month, I get a letter from Sukra’s mother narrating in minute detail about herself, her daughter, and her son.  Even today, I received a letter. The money orders I send every month get paid, and I get back their acknowledgements by return post. Are you sure of things you’re blurting out?’ Manglu tried to force his feelings of disbelief on his friend.

‘Do you remember if your wife ever knows how to write?’ enquired Manglu’s friend probingly.

‘Sure, I know she’s more illiterate than me. But then she can get the letters written by others. Sukra is going to appear in his matriculation examination, and Sumia is in her ninth class. Can they not write a simple letter on behalf of their mother? How do I, an illiterate, fill in the money order form month after month for the last fifteen years?’ Manglu argued.

Perturbed and pitying, Manglu’s friend now tried to insist on the veracity of the information. He thought it was too late for his friend to mend his foolishness. Yet, it was not so to know the fact.

‘Well, I don’t know how and with what contents you receive your letters. But then you’ve to believe, my friend, I’m not narrating any hearsay. They’re true to their last syllable—touch wood! This is what I’ve seen with my own eyes when visiting Brambay. I should tell you that I might have visited Brambay seven to eight times during the last twelve years. Every time I go there, I get the same report that you’ve never visited the place. And do you know what I thought? I thought since your family deserted you, you’ve had no business to be there. But, my friend, I don’t know anything about the money orders. With your wife missing from the village, who could have received them? Um...hold it, is it a fraud? I think you should report the matter to the postal authorities—quicker the better,’ insisted Manglu’s friend in his bid to persuade Manglu.

Now, Manglu had no rational basis for his doubts. His friend’s animated and persuasive tone abated the listener’s disbelief.

And then followed the tremors of shock in Manglu’s psychic realm. He sensed a vacuum expanding endlessly within him, sucking away the very purpose of his life. He felt as if he were on the fringe of insanity, stepping involuntarily into a different world of distress.

With his mental strength dissipating rapidly, Manglu was frightened to witness the ravages of his hope. His entire fifteen-year-long struggle to secure a tolerable living for his family, his belief in the ultimate beneficence of the unseen, and his unbroken dedication—all had ended in a great fiasco. His agony twisting his innards, he lost all his strength from his feet. There were spasms and shooting pains in his ulcerous stomach. He was about to collapse on the concrete pavement of the jetty, and his friend was quick to extend a resting hand.

‘Manglu, my friend, it’s the cruellest information for a friend to disclose. But I wasn’t aware that you were entirely in the dark about it. Or else… I’d have….’

‘No, no, my old friend, please don’t… it’s my tragedy,’ grieved Manglu and a mood of self-collected silence prevailed.

While Manglu began to cast a vacant look on the ground, his friend took his hands in his and pressed them for comfort. Placing his consoling hand on Manglu’s shoulder, he took him out of the jetty, and they proceeded slowly towards the market. He uttered his choicest invectives against the unknown mischief-makers he thought were responsible for his friend’s plight. ‘Oh, if only I had met Manglu earlier!’ ‘Oh, if only I could inform him about the developments’—he thought aloud, believing that Manglu would listen to them for whatever they were worth.

But Manglu kept mum all through. He had no desire to respond or reciprocate, no one to blame, and no desire to investigate. While walking with his head down, he reached the handi shop. He was scheduled to visit here for mixing baker.

‘Manglu Bhai, ten pots are ready. Can you mix them now?’ the shopkeeper asked.

‘No, that can wait. Now give us two mugs and serve some handi. Here’s my bosom friend, who advised me like nobody ever. He opened my eyes. I want to treat him,’ said Manglu in a broken voice.

Now, both the friends started boozing. But Manglu went on guzzling mug after mug in quick succession. It appeared he was thirsty like a homeless mongrel on a summer day! The shopkeeper marked the unusual speed at which Manglu was slurping his handi. But he did not point out that since he knew Manglu’s capacity to withstand the kick of the beverage. After all, he was the master-brewer of the potion! His friend kept looking at Manglu. During the drinking session, the friend tried to raise the topic, but Manglu gestured to stop him. Inebriated, he laughed and laughed and uttered incoherent lines of instant verse:

No money to send and no letter to receive.

Now I’ll have so much money to drink.

You made me rich, my friend!

Shalln’t you give your company again?

With these words, he lost consciousness while the letter he had received a few hours back slipped from his pocket.

 ------------------

By

A N Nanda

--------------------