Stories      
A Flat Atop the New Market
by Dipankar Dasgupta

Kuntal had an appointment with an insurance agent in Connaught Place in Delhi, but just as he was about to walk into the well-appointed office, he noticed Mr. Sharma's name on a plain wooden door adjacent to the glass paneled office entrance. And, to leave nothing to doubt, the word 'Residence' stood out in bold letters on the door, defining clearly the boundary between agent Sharma's private and public life. Neither Mr. Sharma nor the door will have any role in this story however. They were catalysts at best in the chemical laboratory of our hero’s life history. Especially the door. Had Kuntal missed it, the story we are about to hear would have remained untold.

Kuntal was impressed. An apartment in CP he thought belonged to the same category as a dwelling in Times Square in New York or Oxford Street in London. Or, for that matter, a flat he had often been to on top of the New Market, in the Calcutta of yore.

Memories invaded like space ships in search of lost galaxies. Kuntal stood transfixed on the pavement in front of the agent’s office as his mind flew back to his youth. He found himself sitting one evening thirty springs ago in the company of Manasi and her older sister, Smita.

He had not gone to visit Manasi, however, because it was Smita whom he knew. Smita lived with her parents in an apartment located above the New Market.

They were talking aimlessly on the balcony, above a dazzling New Market in the pre-power cut days, when Manasi arrived out of nowhere as it were and pulled up a chair to join the conversation, quite uninvited.

Kuntal was unaware of Manasi's existence, but the moment she showed up, he knew she was an attractive young woman, whose eyes sparkled like freshly poured champagne in a crystal wine glass. She spoke without inhibitions, though pleasantly so, and her beautifully chiseled, yet soft featured face reflected the colors of the sky set aglow by the setting sun. Her sister appeared somewhat plain by comparison. Kuntal's whole being experienced a wondrous thirst that he had never known before.

It had taken her less than a half hour to tell Kuntal, ‘You have a lovely voice you know. Do you sing?’

And then she persisted, ‘Come on, you’ve got to sing for us!’

Kuntal was pleasantly embarrassed. He was not a trained singer, but did manage to pick up songs played on record players. He was dying to oblige and sang at the strangest of venues, a patio located above the New Market! And he received accolades far out of proportion to the quality of his rendition.

He felt bolder.

‘Manasi, you have a wonderful voice too. Won't you sing one for me?’ Kuntal asked, carefully avoiding the word ‘us’.

Manasi wasn’t shy. She came out with a full-throated performance of a Tagore piece. Kuntal still remembered what she sang: ‘monē holo jyano periey elem ontobihin poth aashitey tomar dwaarey ...’ (It seems to me that I have travelled an endlessly long way to reach you ...) She had obviously gone through schooling and her vocal performance, like the rest of her, was nothing less than exquisite.

The lyric was loaded and his defences against her magnetic attraction were weak. Was it conceivable that he, a temporary lecturer in a Calcutta college, had charmed this fascinating woman? A wave of emotions crossed through his mind as they sat quietly after Manasi had finished. Her recital was so moving that silence was the only tribute one could offer.

‘Is this love at first sight?’ he asked himself. ‘But no, that’s foolish thought.’ Kuntal was struggling, when Manasi broke the silence with a bomb shell.

‘You will be a great teacher someday, a most popular teacher, I am sure!’ she announced glowing with confidence.

Smita was unimpressed by Manasi's prophecies and reacted in a tone full of rebuke. ‘What's wrong with you today Manasi? Gone gaga, have you?’ Manasi made her feel awkward, Kuntal saw.

Manasi received a jolt. She stopped to scrutinize alternately the expressions on the two faces she faced, trying probably to judge if she was the celebrated third person who transforms company to crowd. The charm was broken. She slowly got up and disappeared into the apartment, under the lame excuse that she had pending work.

She left Kuntal burning with desire, but he was too shy to ask the elder sister if he might see Manasi before he left.

He spent an uneasy night, for he felt there had been love in the air, however incongruous, and he visited the apartment week after week to correct Manasi's misconception about the nature of his relationship with Smita. Only, she never showed up again. The weeks ran into months and the months to years. Three long years went by, during which life took irreversible twists and turns and Manasi disappeared slowly into the depth of the subconscious.

~*~

Kuntal had a hobby, stage acting. And amongst his friends was the family physician, not much older than him. To his surprise, the doctor revealed to him one day his own weakness for the stage. There was a Doctors’ Club that held an annual stage show. The performance this year, Shakespeare's Macbeth, was only a week away. But the doctor playing Banquo had disappeared without warning, though invitation cards were already distributed!

‘This is short notice I know, but it is a short role too and you can surely fill in,’ the doctor pleaded. Kuntal could not refuse his friend, upon which the physician gave him directions to the rehearsal room.

Kuntal's heart thumped as he realized he did not need to be shown the way. It led to the dream apartment. Till that day, he had no idea what the sisters’ parents did for a living. He discovered now that they were both medical practitioners!

He arrived on time and located the parents, but there was no sign of either sister. When called upon to deliver, he got up and began in a theatrical quiver:

‘ ... If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me ...’

He had to stop midway, for the witches he faced, along with the rest of the room’s occupants, were smiling gaily at the door behind him. The rehearsal had obviously been interrupted. He turned around to identify the cause of the break and barely managed to sustain a breakdown himself. Manasi stood at the door, smiling elegantly in a black silk sari with a bright gold border, a matching blouse, a thin gold necklace and a pair of small, but glittering gold ear rings. Her social status had changed as the red mark on the parting of her hair indicated.

‘What a surprise!’ someone said. ‘When did you arrive? Your mom never mentioned you would be coming over. Come in, won’t you. Watching a rehearsal could be more fun than watching the play itself you know.’

‘I was passing by and thought of dropping in to say hello. Are you sure you don’t mind me butting in?’

‘Of course not, you are still one of us. And bring in your hubby too, where’s he hiding?’

‘He’s gone to examine a patient. I came alone,’ she smiled. Her eyes still lit up a thousand Arabian Nights.

‘Ok, let’s get on with the rehearsal,’ said the director and Kuntal resumed, limping back from the ruins of destiny:

‘If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear ...’

The rehearsal proceeded, but he found it inane to linger on after Banquo's murder scene. As he was leaving, he looked back at Manasi. Her luminous eyes met his and bewitched him once again, though, unlike Shakespeare’s witches, she had no need to resort to witchcraft.

He forced himself to smile at her, but couldn't figure out if she smiled back. Did she remember that she had once treated him to her view into the seeds of time?

~*~

Like a patient coming out of a coma, Kuntal heard the Connaught Place traffic begin to hum and the signal went down for Time train to resume its forward journey from Station Past.
He walked into Mr. Sharma’s office to sign the documents, wondering if there were insurance policies that covered the scars of memory. His lips stretched into a barely perceptible smile.         

June 22, 2008

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