My Kind of Girl (2 page)

A faint smile appeared on the smooth face of the bureaucrat. “I see. Honeymoon. In love. Well, tonight at least, they won't be happy.”

“Not at all,” the reader of books replied carelessly. “They will find a cozy, private spot for themselves, they will enjoy it. They don't want anything else, they just want privacy.”

“Theirs is really that special time of life!” The bureaucrat looked grave as he finished his proclamation. He seemed to be thinking of something else as he opened a tin of cigarettes.

The contractor sighed. “How cold it is!” After a moment, he told the tenuous man in the corner, “Privacy or not, won't they be cold? We could have asked them to come in.”

“They wouldn't have even if we had.”

The doctor smiled and said, “Then perhaps in the newlyweds' honor we could . . .”

“Leave the waiting room to them?” The slim book lover stood up. Slight and wiry while also firm and workmanlike, darting about like a bird with shy but restless eyes, he didn't seem to look directly at other people. Without another word he walked up to the door, then returned and sat down on the nearest available chair.

“I think we're worrying too much about the newlyweds,” observed the Delhi man, offering his tin of cigarettes to the others.

“No, thanks,” said the doctor.

The other three lit up, and for a while, were sheathed in smoke. They started at the sound of the door opening again. A uniformed bearer entered to ask if the gentlemen wanted anything; the refreshment room was closing.

With nods from the rest, the bureaucrat said, “Coffee.”

Silence once more. All this while there had been sounds outside, people walking around, calling out. It hadn't been evident earlier, but as soon as the noise subsided everything seemed a little too quiet, unnaturally quiet for such a large station. Now the passengers had probably settled down for the night somewhere, wherever they could, however they could – those two had found a place for sure, they wouldn't be visiting the waiting room again. The line was closed, no more trains would be arriving that night, no bells would ring. Whether it was the porters, the hawkers or the cigarette vendors, the bustle was over for now. And it was so very cold. In the dim light of their waiting room, these four people who didn't even know one another, the subtle blue smoke of their cigarettes their only companions, felt as though the world outside had been obliterated, and that they had found shelter on an unwelcoming, comfortless island. They no longer seemed unfamiliar to each other; in fact, there was even a feeling that all four of them were probably thinking the same thing. That couple, who had only given them a glimpse of themselves at the door before disappearing, had left something behind; it was as though the bird of youth had shed a few feathers as it flew by: some sign, some warmth, some pleasure, sorrow or tremor that refused to dissipate, something
with which these four individuals – even if they did not speak, even if they only thought about it silently – would be able to survive this terrible night.

Suddenly the doctor said, “Perhaps it was rude of us.”

“Still thinking of them?” The Delhi man laughed, but it was obvious from his manner that he hadn't forgotten them either.

“I was thinking – thinking of something else. I was wondering how long such days last for them.”

Now the Delhi man laughed out loud. “Is that anything to wonder about? Don't we all know the answer?”

“Afterwards, all of us know it,” spoke the lean-faced book lover, “but at the time none of us does. For instance, can those two even imagine how short-lived it all is? Can they imagine that they will not continue much longer exactly this way? That is the most amazing part of this amazing illusion.”

“Amazing illusion! Well put!” the contractor nodded his agreement.

The coffee arrived.

“Is everything an illusion then?” A shadow of concern seemed to descend upon the contractor's enormous face.

“At least this coffee is no illusion. The smoke is palpable. Sugar for you?” The elegant doctor busied himself, pouring out the coffee.

The contractor's keen curiosity appeared to have overcome any languor; he abandoned his easy chair, and pulling a chair close to the other two, putting his hand on the chilled table, he leaned forward
and said to the book lover, “Is everything an illusion then? Nothing remains? You're the writer – why don't you tell us?”

The man seemed embarrassed at this, having the title of writer bestowed upon him, but did not delay in his response.

“The memory remains. Ultimately only the memory remains, nothing else.”

“What's the value of the memory?”

“None!” the Delhi man announced cheerfully. “Eats into work, wastes time, makes you sad. Come, let's have our coffee.”

Still the contractor persisted: “Is the memory of happiness that has passed happy or sad?”

A mocking smile emerged on the lips of the man from Delhi. “No point thinking about that, but if you'd tell us a story, the time would be well spent.”

“Story! Story of what?”

“I mean – we're all old men here, there are no ladies, so speaking openly will not be indecent, will it?”

“What are you getting at?” The fat contractor seemed apprehensive.

“He's saying,” the doctor explained, “we had our days too, like the ones that couple has now . . .”

“I didn't,” the contractor protested, and immediately his stubbled cheek reddened in unseemly mortification.

“You too,” said the writer. “There's no one who has never liked someone. What happened afterwards is not the point, the liking is
what counts. Maybe it's memory, too, that counts. Some kind of memory . . .”

“I haven't any,” the contractor protested loudly, waving his hand. “I'll listen to your stories instead.”

“Fine, we'll tell our stories too,” the doctor said solemnly, looking at his large, discomfited co-passenger. “But so must you. There's no hope of sleep tonight, let's listen to stories through the night. Let's start.”

“Are you talking to me?” About to lift his coffee cup up to his lips, the contractor paused. “I'm a businessman, I don't understand anything but business, things like that . . .”

“Yes, you, too, have your story,” the writer spoke confidently.

The contractor was silent, his head bowed, for a while. Then he said, “I don't have a story, but I know someone else's – a friend's . . .”

“Fine, let's hear his story.”

The contractor took a sip of coffee and began.

.          .          .

M
AKHANLAL'S
S
AD
T
ALE

Let's call him Makhanlal. As the name suggests, he was an ordinary, average kind of fellow, but he was held in high esteem at home. For he was the first college graduate in his family. His grandfather had had seven sons, those seven sons had borne another thirty-two, and who knew how many more those thirty-two had produced – it hadn't quite ended yet. But not one of these tall and able specimens of masculinity had gotten past that barrier of school yet; some had tried and tripped. There was no end to Hiranmayee's – Makhanlal's mother's – unhappiness about this; she needled her plump husband Raghab so much about it, at every opportunity, that the man couldn't say a word in retaliation. Both of her elder brothers had B.A. degrees, she herself had read up to class nine at the Nilfamari Girls' High School. So the
day her first child – and first son – Makhanlal was born, she vowed to ensure that he earned a B.A.

Fulfilling her pledge hadn't been easy. The atmosphere at home was imbued with the somnolence of the orthodox landowning classes. For generations it had not occurred to anyone that they might have to work for a living, so no one was too concerned with drinking from the fount of learning. And while their affluence had certainly diminished, the attitude had prevailed; the menfolk still lazed their way through the day, bathing at two in the afternoon, luxuriously eating their luncheon off plates surrounded by several bowls of delicacies, and then happily, serenely, embracing their bolsters in readiness for their naps. This siesta was a family tradition, and they had not abandoned it despite their having become paupers. The dearth of money certainly hurt, but the pain of earning it was even more intense.

Hiranmayee's Raghab spent his days in this way, and would have continued to do so, had Hiranmayee not vowed that her son would earn a college degree. Languishing at the family residence in the country wouldn't do, it just wouldn't. So as soon as Makhanlal passed his school examinations at the village school, she goaded her husband into moving to Calcutta. As agreeing was the easiest option, Raghab acquiesced; in the process, he gradually had to give up his aristocratic habit of indolence. Soon after arriving in Calcutta, he liquidated some capital to set up a small shop in Bhabanipur. Needless to say, this too was at his wife's advice. Hiranmayee had finally convinced him that they wouldn't be able to keep body and soul together much longer if they kept reliving the memories of their landowning days. Investing
her brains and her jewelry – which was of course her husband's capital – she provided him with a business to run.

It soon became a thriving carpentry shop; Raghab was interested in woodwork, and had even built some furniture with his own hands. So although he started reluctantly, gradually his work became his passion. The one thing he couldn't give up was his siesta, but barring those two or three hours, the rest of his day was spent at the shop. The goddess of wealth looked upon him favorably because of this diligence, and her favor made him even more hardworking. Within a couple of years, a new establishment was born: the South Calcutta Furnishing House.

Raghab had wanted Makhanlal to get involved with the running of the shop from the beginning: to immerse himself, learn the ways of the trade, become familiar with the smell, the touch, the colors of wood. As the workload increased with the growth of his business, he was increasingly eager for his eldest son to begin helping him. Wasn't the intermediate degree enough – why go further? What good would a college degree do? The business star was in ascendance; if this good fortune wasn't made use of right now, what if it gave them the slip? Wasted logic! Even if everything was lost, Makhanlal had to get his degree.

The day they received news of Makhanlal's having passed that hallowed B.A. examination, you can imagine Hiranmayee's joy. Her dream of twenty-one years had finally come true. So pleased was she that her happiness gave birth to an impulsive proposal: she said, “I want to get him married.”

Strange, isn't it? Does anyone believe, today, that a B.A. is the only qualification required for marriage? A mere college graduate, Makhanlal was no more than a boy. How could he get married!

But there was nothing strange about it as far as Hiranmayee was concerned. First, this was a family tradition – not one of her uncles or her father had crossed eighteen without marrying. Even if you were modern when it came to education, you remained traditional where marriage was concerned. Theirs was an affluent household, and a bride would only make their cup of joy brim over. And the boy wasn't one of those typical, bespectacled midgets – just see how handsome he was.

Yes, he was indeed handsome – there was no denying this. I know – knew – Makhanlal very well; at twenty-one he was a burly, powerful giant who looked thirty-two. Large and ungainly, he had prominent teeth, a manly, hair-covered chest, enormous shoes that caused great consternation when they were sighted lying around. Seeing as he could easily pass for a father of three, it didn't seem suitable for him not to be married.

Moreover, the bride was already at hand: Subhadra-babu was their next-door neighbor, and Hiranmayee had picked his daughter out a while ago. Was the reason her beauty or her father's wealth, you ask? Neither. Subhadra-babu was a semi-impoverished college professor, and the girl – I heard the details from Makhanlal – was not exactly what you would call beautiful. But the learning! The father was a scholar and Malati – the girl's name was Malati – was no less of one herself. Having earned three stars in her final school examinations,
she was now in college, apparently glued to a book even during her meals. And what an assortment of books all over their house, my God, had anyone ever seen the likes of it? It could be said without the slightest exaggeration that Hiranmayee had never seen so many books with anyone in her own family, that was for certain. Her husband's ancestral home contained the smallest library in the entire village; no reading habit had taken root. Her Makhanlal followed in this mold; whether he had a college degree or not, he had not cracked a single book. Their family was truly peculiar.

Perhaps the idea of choosing a bride on the basis of her collection of books sounds unusual, but as you've probably realized this was where Hiranmayee's weakness lay. If the family disposition was to change, a bride from a scholarly family was essential – this was Hiranmayee's reasoning. In other words, just as she had attracted the goddess of wealth through the bait of wood, now she wanted to use the lure of a bookish daughter-in-law to attract the goddess of learning. Their backgrounds were beautifully compatible – why not get it over with in July, she decided, November was still a long way off.