C’est la Vie - Such is Life E-Book

Pradip Chanda

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

C’est La Vie is a fascinating  memoir of two people who set off on a journey through life lived beyond the narrow confines of prevalent norms. They  defy  all odds and give meaning to the Bard’s words “Age cannot wither, nor custom stale”.

C’est La Vie will entertain you  with its heady cocktail of corporate stories, travelogues and family tales spanning across six decades and four continents.
C’est La Vie may also persuade you that life can be fun if you let it. 

Pradip Chanda is a well-known business transformation management expert.This is his first novel. His earlier books on Turnaround Management have received international acclaim. He continues to live and write as a citizen of the world, travelling frequently and spending time with his family and grandchildren between Singapore, the Netherlands and the US.

Leseprobe

Pradip Chanda

C’est la Vie

Such is Life

© 2024Europe Books | London

www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 9791220148658

First edition: March 2024

Copyright © Pradip Chanda, 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or any means or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information or retrieval system without permission of the Author or the Publisher of this edition in writing. First published as The Final Cut by Notion Press, India ISBN 979-8-88849-631-2

The Author and the Publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from oversight, negligence, accident, or any other cause.

C’est la Vie

Such is Life

For our children

Pramit, Malini, Pratik & Faith

&

our grandchildren

Tara, Maile Kavya and Palmer Kai.

Thank you, family,

for being there with help and inspiration

when I needed it most.

Tara for pushing me to finish what I began

when she was barely three or four.

Pramit and Pratik for providing notes and technical expertise throughout

the development of this book.

Thanks, too, go to our dear friends Shankar and Sheela, whose unfailing

support and feedback have been invaluable.

And to Preeti, without whom

there would be no wonderful story to tell.

Foreword

My memories with my grandmother are recreated stories through the medium of pictures. Her passing away when I was not even one, led to me not being able to know her, understand her and remember her. This book has brought my grandmother to life for me. Someone who was stubborn, loved everyone with every particle in her body and someone with such a gorgeous soul that even now, 17 years after her passing, her laughter and wafts of her delicious food still hang around the house.

Her stubbornness, passed down to me, has led us to where we are right now, this book. Her insistence for my grandfather to write this, and my insistence for him to pick it up after more than a decade later, led to this chronicled work of recollection and memories.

Pushing him to continue this book, led to me becoming editor and editing the first couple of chapters whenever he produced them. The most trying, but in the end rewarding part of my day, used to be these moments that I spent with him over the book. I was not nice with it, I promise you. I told him when it became too much about his work, or deviated from the emotion and adventure of his life, the things we all have come to read.

My persistence with him to continue writing the book, evolved from my reading of the first chapter. A simple spring cleaning, revealed this buried gem. It moved me to tears, understanding the pain my grandmother and my family went through. It left me longing for the happier, more joyful moments of their life together, and how it shaped them to be the people I know and love now.

I hope this book manages to capture and transport you to my happy home, and what has made it what it is today. However, most of all, I hope you get to love my grandmother through the loving and fond retelling of her by my grandfather, because I sure did.

Enjoy.

Tara Chanda

Prologue

You promised to haunt me every day and night.

I said, ‘No way. I am going first, and I am the one who needs to hone up haunting skills.’

You said, “Only good people die young. I am good. Ergo, I go first.”

I protested, ‘Statistics are in my favour. Women live longer than men everywhere. There are more widows than widowers.’

You said, “Statistics be damned.”

‘What will I do when you are gone? I can’t think of a day, forget a life, without you.’ I said.

“Go, philander as you used to before I turned you into a responsible husband and father.”

This was before Tara came into our lives, otherwise, you would have taken the credit for making me a doting grandpa too!

“You men always find a dried-up beanpole to make asses of yourselves.”

I said, ‘No, those days are gone, at least for me. There are the kids and their sensibilities to think about.’

“Write another book,” you said.

One more rehash of business theories and strategies? I have become too honest to do that.

“Then write a novel,” you said. “You read enough and should be able to write an unrequited love story that will bring tears to the eyes of your readers.”

My ego bristled. Me and unrequited love?

“Remember that guide in Lisbon you drooled over for months? What about that young French girl you can’t stop pawing whenever you meet her?”

I was horrified.

“Then write about requited love. Write about me.”

Your eyes softened. “No, write about us.”

‘What shall I call it? Remembering the Chubby One?’

“As good a title as any other,” you said.

Now that you have left me no option, I shall.

The Nineteen Sixties

1

It all began in Skyscrapper, Tower One.

“Remember Preeti?” Arun asked when I picked up the phone.

I didn’t.

“I introduced her to you in Delhi. Remember that evening at the Tavern?”

‘Ah, yes,’ I said as the penny dropped after a bit of head-scratching. ‘Wasn’t that almost four years ago? And weren’t there two of them? One was a chubby one, and the other one stayed at the Y.’

“Both lived at the Y. Preeti was my date.”

‘Ok. Why ask after so long? You are now a much-married man. Shouldn’t you stop thinking about old flames?’

“Come off it. She was a good friend and still is. She is moving to Bombay and rang me up to ask whether I can help her find a place to live in. So, I called you.”

‘I don’t deal in real estate, my friend. I still sell toothpaste for a living.’

“I know that, you idiot. Since you have a spare bedroom, I thought you may let her stay for a few days while she finds a place of her own.”

‘I don’t need to take paying guests, thank you!’

“I am not talking about you taking a lodger in. Just a favour for a young lady, new to Bombay and needing a place to park herself till she gets her bearings and finds a place to stay. Her office is in Chembur, and she needs to live near there. Otherwise, the commute would leave her penniless,” Arun at his persuasive best.

‘Let me give it a thought. A quick question, is she good-looking?’

“Very. Could do with a diet and some exercise, otherwise, consider yourself a lucky man.”

‘You match-making?’ I was incredulous.

“Hadn’t crossed my mind, but now that you ask…”

I put the phone down.

As I stared at the phone, I said to myself this, my friend, is Bombay. In Cal, no one would even think about suggesting that a young lady shares an apartment with a young unmarried man unless chaperoned.

I dial Arun’s number and ask, ‘is she by herself?’ Arun said “no, there is a brother too, working with an airline.”

I said, ‘Forget it. I am not running a shelter for the homeless.’ Immediately regretting the harshness of my words.

“Place yourself in my shoes. An old friend asks for help, and I can’t ask her to arrive in Bombay and have nowhere to go to.”

‘This girl is a Punjabi, right?’

“Ya.”

‘Arun,’ I say reasonably, ‘Punjabis have relatives everywhere; she must have a brother or a cousin tucked away in whichever part of Bombay she wants to live in. So why me? I bet she doesn’t even remember meeting me.’

“Your betting expertise she can’t forget! She does have a couple of other brothers living in Bombay, but she doesn’t want to stay with either of them. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know. So, if you don’t let her stay with you, what do you want her to do?”

‘I met my Gold Croft landlady last night. She has a room to let for PGs to share. Let me give you her number.’

“That’s expensive. Must be 800 per person? That would be almost her whole salary!”

‘I tell you what, I will pay 300 per month. You pay three, and she pays 200. The brother can pay for himself.’

“You sure?”

‘What’s 300 for a dear friend of yours, Arun? Take down the number of the landlady. The name is Mrs. Marfatia. The number is 3634291.’

“Let me tell Preeti that. That would be the best solution.” And Arun rang off.

2

Was it late winter in 66 or early in 67?

It was actually a tad more than three years.

A motley group of us, trainees, direct recruits, and junior managers, were camping at the Janpath hotel, helping the company carry on its business while the regular staff were agitating against a proposed re-organization.

My assigned task was to print invoices on an Adrema machine, one of those Jurassic-day gadgets that died with stencils, hand-operated desktop calculators, and many other technical marvels of that time. Enthused as I was being a capitalist tool, my life’s sole mission was to outdo the next guy, and I took out my passion on the machine with a vengeance. I remember one day churning out six hundred invoices, three times more than the regular Adrema operator! Senior managers loved it. It was the kind of ammunition they needed to confront the Union leaders and accuse them of forcing its members to underperform willfully.

One of the locals, Arun, spent his time at the warehouse shipping stuff to the wholesalers and stopped by at the hotel most evenings for a quick drink before he went off on a date or two. We talked about the day’s work, dispatches made, invoices printed, the many howlers all of us made, the weather, cricket, and horses. Arun and I were the only ones having some experience in punting on horses earlier.

Remember the story I told you ad infinitum about a tenner, my last by then, placed on a hirsute mare aptly called Troglodyte in Calcutta? The odds at around 1000 to 1 were too tempting! Nobody believed me when I said that this noble animal trotted past the gate well after the stewards had finished distributing prizes, with a lone tenner pinned on its tail. And you said I am making it up to bolster my claim that I always championed lost causes and fought for the honour of the underdogs! And you always laughed indulgently at my fibbing expertise.

One of the stories you insisted I made-up was the tea party we had with Hiro’s Swedish girlfriend Inga. I think it was a Tuesday. Hiro formally invited five of us to his room for tea with him and his girl at 5 in the evening. We were all very intrigued but duly dressed up in our Tuesday best and showed up a few minutes ahead of time. A room service bearer was setting up seven cups, a teapot, and some cookies. Hiro took out some doilies and placed them between the cups and the saucers.

‘Hiro, how come you haven’t gone to the airport to receive her? Don’t tell us that she sneaked in last night.’ He gave us an enigmatic smile, and I may have imagined it, but his ugly face actually lit up for a second or two.

Exactly on the dot of 5 Hiro poured the tea. We looked at each other a little dumbfounded but sipped our tea at Hiro’s urging.

I dropped the cookie I had reached out for when Hiro said, “Inga says Hello to all of you and thanks you for coming.”

We all sat up, and someone said, “But where is she?”

“She is in her home in Malmo and making tea for herself in her kitchen at this very moment.” He carefully folded the doilies from all our cups, some with Darjeeling rings on them, and said that he was going to post these to Inga as a memento of their first tea with friends.

I blurted out, ‘What do you mean by the first tea with friends?’ Hiro replied that they had tea with each other every Tuesday at the same hour and exchanged doilies, perhaps embellished with sweet nothings in English, Swedish, or even Sindhi, Hiro’s mother tongue.

We were too stunned to laugh, but as we filed out of the room, some of us burst out laughing.

“You laughed too,” you said accusingly, “but it’s a nice story even though the romantic Bengali in you made it up from beginning to end. I bet this Hiro never existed.”

I promise to you it was no figment of my imagination. Ashish will bear me out as he was there too.

You scoffed and said, “Trust a Bengali to vouch for another.”

It was such a relief when Arun asked whether I would be interested in a double date. In those days, I still wore my Calcutta-bred middle-class upbringing on my sleeve. I had gone on a couple of dates in good old Cal, just about walking hand in hand on the maidan, eating Jhal Muri, Cal’s version of Bhelpuri, and sneaking a kiss or two when we thought we were well hidden from the probing eyes of dirty old men.

Talking about voyeurs in Calcutta Maidan, did I ever tell you about my first full-page article in a local daily, Hindustan Standard, since defunct, on the Calcutta Maidan? Embellished with photographs commissioned by an enthusiastic Assistant Editor, the article invited quite a few enraged letters to the editor. My observations on the ageing clerks and junior officers crowding around the basketball courts opposite the ICI building on Chowringhee Road must have touched many a raw nerve. All I had written was that the viewers’ primary interest was in looking up the short skirts of the secretaries!

Coming back to Arun’s invite, I had no clue about what a double date could be, given that I had no girlfriend to bring to the party.

It turned out that Arun really meant a blind date for me. His girlfriend, who lived in the YWCA, would bring along a friend, and the four of us would go out for dinner.

I was hovering around the Imperial Hotel lobby, dressed in my Hiro tea party trousers and a freshly laundered shirt, and looking at my watch.

The Imperial in those days was not half as grand as it is today. But even then, its colonial heritage was awesome despite carpets with frayed edges, waiters in starched mid-Victorian uniforms slightly worse for wear, and chandeliers a little dim as some of the bulbs had given up, probably after many evenings of frantic flickering. The walls were adorned with many lithographs and sketches from the days of the early British Raj, and I had enough time to meet the Daniel Brothers through their sketches of Lucknow, Cawnpore, and Calcutta for the first time.

The Tavern, though, was a happening place, with Pam Crain at the mike belting out songs of the decade, now known as the sixties, the dance floor full of smart couples doing the fox and other trots. I decided to wait at the Tavern door, not having enough moolah to go in and ask for a table.

I don’t think the trumpets were hooting a “Tan-ta ra- tan-tan.”Neither was the town crier doing a special number. It was just Arun tapping me on the shoulder.

“This is Preeti, a very good friend of mine,” said Arun, somewhat dramatically, “and this is Harjeet, a good friend of Preeti’s.”

Your chubby cheeks and your bright eyes registered, just about, but I was keen on sassing out Harjeet. After all, she was my date for the evening.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a haze. We must have danced, even though then or later you never acknowledged that I could dance. I did manage to eventually learn not to step on my partner’s toes, but you said that was because the partner spent all her time concentrating on avoiding being trodden upon. We must have had a beer and some dinner as well. Later, I took Harjeet back to the Y in a cab as Arun and you planned to go to a party with some friends.

‘Remember that evening?’ Every time I have asked since you were embarrassed. Obviously, it was not love at first sight for you. Neither was it for me. Why, then, do I remember that evening so well?

We met again a couple of days later at the Delhi Gymkhana races. To a veteran of the races from the tracks of Calcutta, the Delhi racecourse was right out of a Wodehouse novel. When we trooped up to the paddocks before the first race, a thousand metres for three-year-olds who had never raced before, there were more colts, syces, and owners than jockeys. One black colt with a white sock and a matching streak on its temple caught my fancy, and I decided to put a flutter on it. But I changed my mind quickly as I saw the owner, not finding a jockey, take off his jacket and tie, don the jockey cap and sash, mount the unsuspecting animal, and vainly try to steer him to the starting stalls.

The rest of the afternoon, I wandered around avidly reading the form books, swallowing dust, losing the occasional flutter, and feeling quite lonely. Harjeet hadn’t shown up; my recall refuses to accept that it had anything to do with the impression I made the other evening. It must have been a headache, or a principle issue about races or gambling, or sheer laziness. I don’t know what. And by the time the horses reached the paddock for the last race, it had stopped bothering me. The queue at the tote window was long, and as I patiently waited for my turn to place a bet on a Quinella, you came up to me breathlessly and asked me to put a tenner for Win on Maratha Warrior or some such unworthy stallion.

‘Where’s Arun?’

“Busy with some friends putting big money on MW with the bookies,” you said.

‘Ha,’ I snorted, the sound not too dissimilar to the ones I have been hearing near the paddocks, ‘He has money to burn, does he?’

“Obviously, you aren’t betting on MW,” you said, “Where’s your money going?”

‘Midnight Cinderella,’ I said gravely, gently shaking the form book. ‘If it doesn’t win by a mile, I don’t know a horse from a donkey.’ I went on babbling about its bloodline, how it wasn’t as heavily handicapped as in the earlier races plus the attractive odds.

“You know what you are talking about?” you asked, unwilling to forget Arun’s tip.

‘I am putting my money where my mouth is,’ I said slightly peeved.

“Ok, put mine also on your choice, and then let’s go see the race from the railings.”

Off we went, and the only reason you didn’t shout “Move your blooming Ass!” I suspect, is because MC’s ass was nowhere to be seen as the other horses rode past us with MW an impossible-to-catch-up four lengths ahead. You turned and left without saying as much as a bye, and I didn’t see you for the next three years.

3

My secretary gave me the list of calls waiting to be returned when I got back to the office.

One was from Arun.

‘Hey, Arun, what’s up? I got back this morning, reached the office half an hour earlier and got your message.’

“You home this evening? Somebody wants to meet you.”

‘Who?’

“Wait till the evening.”

‘Ok. Any time after seven.’

As luck would have it, I came home a little late. Must have been eight when Jabbar opened the door.

“Ah, finally you show up,” said Arun, “We have been waiting for an hour.”

‘We?’ I asked, looking around.

“Yeah, Preeti has just gone to the loo. Out in a minute.”

And then you come out.

“You have met Preeti before,” said Arun.

‘Ah! The Chubby One. Hi! again,’ said I, ‘when did you hit town?’

“Don’t be rude,”said Arun, “Twiggy days are long gone.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, “I will eventually get used to the Bengali sense of humour” and smiled.

A lovely open smile, between your chubby cheeks and twinkling eyes, but did I imagine it, or was there a touch of sadness there somewhere?

‘Cup of coffee?’ I asked.

“You are out of coffee,” you said, “milk and sugar as well.”

‘Jabbar,’ I yelled.

“Not his fault,” you said, “you haven’t given him any shopping money since you left for London. Anyway, tell us about London.”

I was fuming not at you but at Jabbar and his shameless letting out of home secrets to you. But I put up a bold face and started talking about my trip to London. Your face really lit up when I mentioned attending a Sergio Mendez concert, Brasil 70.

“I wish I were there.”

‘He will perform in London again next year. So, you have a year to save up,’ I said.

“Are all Bengalis dreamers? Come, Arun, let’s go. It’s time to head home.” You said.

‘Home? Where are you staying?’ I should have asked earlier.

“Gold Croft. Wasn’t that your suggestion? And thanks for offering to pay part of the rent. But no thanks. We can manage well enough on our own.”

I think I hid my relief well and said, ‘That’s great; we are virtually neighbours. Do pop in whenever you feel like it. If I am not home, Jabbar will make you a cup of coffee. And I promise to keep the larder stocked.’

“I may take you up on that,” and you left.

Was it three weeks or more? I had come back from a tour of the South and came back home early to grab a quick snooze and get ready for my evening date. As I entered the bedroom, I saw a message scrawled on the mirror in red lipstick. It said ‘Don’t work so hard. So says the Chubby One.’ And there was a heart drawn around the message.

I yelled at Jabbar, ‘Who wrote this?’ knowing well as to who. ‘How did you allow anyone to enter my bedroom?’

Jabbar explained that you had dropped in, and while he was making a cup of coffee, you must have written the message.

I sat on the bed for a little while looking at the scrawl and wondering how you were commuting between Chowpatty and Chembur, and how life was treating you. I had no way to call you and figured I would see you when you decided to stop by again. And life carried on. At least for the next three days.

4

It was a Friday.

I came back home at the usual time, had some tea, and was reading a book when Jabbar asked what I wanted for dinner. Another meal with Chapati, dal, and a Jabbar special Sukha Aloo was too much to contemplate with the weekend coming up. I will eat out, I said, pondering the options. I knew that Veena, my regular date, was tied up; we had spoken on the phone from the office earlier. There was always Ashish, Bittu, Arun, or Ravi to share potluck with, depending on who was at home. I figured I would go to Ashish’s first and find out whether there was any Bengali food to be had. If not, I’ll figure something out.

At eight-thirty or so, I was almost ready when the bell rang.

Jabbar knocked on the door and said that you had come.

I was a little annoyed but said, ‘Ask her to sit; I will be out in a few minutes.’

You were sitting on the cane settee leafing through last week’s Sportsweek. I stood there for a little while looking at your profile and decided you are quite pretty despite the chubby cheeks, so different from the ultra-slim girls that I knew and went out with.

‘Hi,’ I said, ‘you didn’t go to the office all dressed up, did you?’

“No,” you said, “I went home, changed, and came.”

‘What if I wasn’t at home, would you have left another message on the mirror?’

You blushed, and again I thought about how pretty you are. “Maybe, maybe not,” you said, “going out on a date?”

‘No such luck today. I was planning to go scrounge for some dinner with some friends. You seem to be engrossed in the sports magazine. Don’t tell me that you were the school tennis champion.’

“There was no tennis in school, but yes, I was the champion javelin thrower and won the shot put every year.”

‘You certainly have the figure for it,’ I said and ducked as the magazine came flying at me.

“You are pretty nimble yourself too,” you giggled and said, “What games did you play in school?”

‘Which school did you go to?’

“Christchurch in Jabalpur.”

‘Jabalpur? Why? I thought you were a Delhi girl.’

“No, I was born in Bombay.”

‘I didn’t know that.’

“There is a lot you don’t know about me.”

‘That’s true, you going to tell me now?’

“I thought you were going out.”

‘I was planning to. But now that you are here, why don’t we pop across to the sizzler place, and have something to eat while you tell me all about yourself.’

“One dinner, and you want to know everything about me? All twenty-one years of my life?”

‘We can make a start and come back here and carry on with a cup of coffee.’

“It may take all night.”

‘I am ok with that. I can catch up with sleep on the morrow,’ I said, getting up, ‘let’s go.’

“I need to quickly freshen up. Which bathroom can I use?” I pointed to the guest room. While you were in there, I quickly counted the money in my pocket to make sure I had enough to cover dinner.

Fortunately, I did.

We walked down the one flight of stairs, came out of the gate, and crossed the street. I offered to hold your hand. You did and didn’t let go for a while even after we had reached the opposite sidewalk, and we walked hand in hand to our first dinner together.

We were lucky to have got a table right away. While we waited for our order, we talked, mostly about how Bombay was different from Delhi. You did most of the talking, as my knowledge of Delhi was very limited. You talked about life at the Y, about the other girls living there, about going across to the Gurdwara next-door for Sunday lunch, about Parathawala Galli in Old Delhi, the Halwa dripping with ghee served on enormous Parathas, so piping hot on, cold winter evenings.

Both of us were hungry, you more than me; I guess you had no lunch, and we ate the sizzling steaks with all the concentration we could muster, till the last drop of gravy was mopped up with an extra order of bread rolls. We came out and bought an ice cream cone that you wanted. We crossed the street, this time not holding hands, the traffic had thinned out.

As I opened the door of the flat, there was no sign of Jabbar. He must have gone out to play cards or do whatever helpers do after working hours.

“How come you have no curtains in any of the rooms?” you asked. “Everyone from the flats across can look in”.

‘Not much to look in on,’ I said, ‘and most days by the time I am back, all those peeping toms are in bed’.

“That’s what you think. We must get the curtains organised. I know a place in Gamdevi that has a wide choice.”

You said it so naturally and so spontaneously that the proprietary tone in your comment didn’t raise any hackles.

‘Ok. Next payday, we can go shopping. Who makes the coffee?’

“I will,” you said. “I know where everything is kept. Meanwhile, let’s not put on the lights in the room. Enough light is coming in from the outside.”

‘Ok, ma’am. As you like.’

“Don’t ever call me ma’am. I don’t like it. You have given me a name. Call me that.”

You were already in the kitchen lighting the stove.

‘What name have I given you?’

“Chubby One!” you said and gave me a warm smile. “there’s only one clean cup. Either you wash another, or we drink from the same cup.”

‘I am not going to wash dishes at this hour. Let’s sip from the same cup.’ I said, moving back to the living room and plonking myself on the settee.

You came in with a cup of coffee and sat down next to me. “It will be easier to sip from the same cup if I sat here.”

‘You are so practical. Tell me, were you the chubbiest even when you started going to school?’

“I don’t remember. I was five when I went to board in Christchurch.”

‘In a boarding school at five?’ I was horrified, ‘Your parents are a tough bunch.’

“It was immediately after I lost my mother.”

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ I said, reaching out for your hand, ‘Who looked after you then?’

“Uncle Krishan, my mother’s brother took charge of us, my brother and me.”

‘And immediately packed you off to a boarding school? Must have been a heartless bounder.’

You pulled your hand away, and your eyes blazed in the dark. “Don’t you dare say anything rude about Uncle Krishan. He is a lovely man, so good-looking, so gentle, and so good to us.”

‘Hey, look, I am sorry. When I meet him, I will tell him how much you love him.’

“Most people are shocked to know that I went to a boarding school so young. You don’t have to do that. He knows. And you don’t have to be sorry.”

‘Well, I would hate to send any of my kids to a boarding school, let alone at age five.’

“We will see about that,” you said and patted my hand.

‘We? How do you mean?’ I asked, a little taken aback.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to let Jabbar see us holding hands sitting in the dark?” You were always good at changing topics.

‘You think we should put up a better show?’ I asked, leaning over and kissing you on the cheek.

“Exhibitionist,” you said, snuggling up to me.

And then I kissed you. Did the world stand still? Not quite, but it felt good, and I kissed you again.

“Do you always have your eyes open when you kiss a girl?” you teased, “I thought Bengalis are more romantic than that.”

‘A good Bengali would like to make sure that he has got the right girl in his arms,’ said I, putting my arms around you and hugging you tight.

“What are you doing?” you said, moving in closer.

‘Just checking whether my arms are long enough. Ouch! That hurts.’

“It’s meant to,” you said gently, rubbing the spot on my back that you had pinched, “don’t crush the saree though.”

‘The only way to make sure of that is to take it off,’ I said.

“And let Jabbar see me like that! You may be an exhibitionist, but I certainly am not,” you said, holding me tighter, humming a tune.

I pulled you up and waltzed you towards the bedroom in what I believe was a decidedly debonair manner. ‘The best way to keep Jabbar’s ghost out is to put another door between him and us,’ closing the bedroom door.

“And what pray will we do in here?” you asked.

‘Wasn’t that a lullaby you were humming?’ I asked innocently and ouched again.

Next morning the sun streamed in through the open curtainless window. A gentle breeze was playing with the aroma of the perfume you wore last night. Was it White Linen even then? No. I think it was a heavier one. Heady, full of promise, but elusive. It must have been a Chanel No. 9.

Getting out of bed, I knocked on the bathroom door and said ‘Good morning’ in my best imitation of Bing Crosby. There was no reply. I tried the door handle. You were not in there. You were not in the living room either. The only time I have known you to be an early bird. No messages on any mirrors. Nothing scrawled across the morning paper, no note pinned on anything.

5

I dragged my feet before setting out to play some bridge with Abu.

No matter how much I wanted to stay back just in case you turned up, standing up a bridge foursome is not done, certainly not on a Saturday evening, and not when Abu’s father made up the fourth.

I have never claimed to be a good bridge player. But that evening, I was particularly bad. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on counting the cards and tricks, my mind kept going back to last evening. Abu’s father was against playing with stakes, the only saving grace so far during the day.

I walked back from Abu’s. Cabs were available and willing. But I prefer to walk. I need to work out while my mind keeps wandering back to you, when I should really be thinking about the presentation, I need to get ready for the visiting VIPs coming in from the head office on Monday and the week-long trip planned with them, visiting upcountry markets as the Brits called them.

I let myself into the flat. No sign of Jabbar; off to a valet meet somewhere, I guess. Lights were off. I walk into the bedroom hoping to catch your perfume in the air and wake you up in case you have fallen asleep waiting for me. But the air smells of stale tobacco, and the bed is cold and empty. I put on the lights hoping to find a scrawl on the mirror. Nothing.

Next morning, I wake up late, not having slept too well, trying to keep my mind focused on Baldwin’s “Giovanni’s Room,” with limited success. The rest of the day is spent listlessly, some reading, some snoozing, a shower, and off to Willingdon Club for late tea with Veena. Lately, our relationship seems to have cooled a little, and I was a little surprised when she insisted that we spend some quality time together. Quality time on the lawns of Willingdon? I wanted to ask but held my peace.

Veena is unusually chirpy, filling me up on the latest goings-on in her worlds, her job, her boss, the theatre, a rare Western classical concert, and an art exhibition by some Hussain apparently creating big-time waves. Between bites of Akuri on toast, Veena suddenly notices that my mind is somewhere else. She is upset and refuses to calm down even when I tell her about the busy week ahead and the preparations I need to make. Fortunately, that’s the cue to call it an evening and head back home for another Jabbar special meal and turning Baldwin pages.

A surprise awaits. You had come in and left some pastries that you had brought to have with me over tea. Jabbar says you waited for quite a while, and as he wasn’t certain that I would be back for dinner, you left.

I debated whether I should hop into a cab and go looking for you in Gold Croft or cross over to Café Galleries and phone Gold Croft from there. Café Galleries had its shutters down by the time I made it there, and I trundled back, somehow fully focused on the coming week and the meetings, with the outline of my presentation finally taking shape in my mind, waiting to be jotted down on the pad that I had left on the dining table for such flashes of inspiration.

I walked into the flat and told Jabbar to start making rotis, and hearing no acknowledged growl, I peeped into the kitchen. And you were there, looking totally at home in my pajamas and the Kashmir silk nightgown, my proud possession.

“Ten minutes,” you said and continued to stir something brewing on the fire. There goes my presentation, I thought, anxious but not too unhappy.

“I have given Jabbar the evening off,” you said, “Why don’t you change, and then we can sit down to eat?” Just like that, as if it was another routine Sunday evening.

‘I have to leave early for the office,’ I said lamely, ‘we have all these VIPs landing on us.’

“Tell me over dinner,” you said, “go change, and then help me lay the table. So, who are these VIPs?” you asked as you put some food on my plate.

‘Ernie, John, and James and two other guys from the head office,’ I said, ‘the new bigwigs on their first ever trip to India, vetting our strategies and plans. And I hear they have been quite ruthless with the guys they replaced’

“Is your presentation ready?” as you heaped some more food on my plate.

‘How do you know about my presentation?’ I asked, looking at the blank pad now moved to a side table.

“Sam spends days preparing his presentations whenever we have foreign visitors,” you said, “Sam’s my boss at Metal Box.” You were quick in reading the questions in my mind.

I admit that I was planning to get down to writing my presentation after dinner and fidget.

“You do that. I will make you a cup of coffee and then leave you alone.”

‘Where will you go?’ I asked, pointing at your pajamas.

“To sleep,” you said and got up to clear the table. “And don’t wake me up when you come in.”

To sleep? Hey, wait, I am a Calcutta man, I can’t handle such liberties with social norms that easily. I have the family’s reactions to think about. It wasn’t that long ago when Gopa and Shyamal came back from England, and I asked Ashish whether they can spend a few days in their flat before they take their train to Calcutta. I thought Gopa and Shyamal would share a room; after all, they are formally engaged and live in London and would expect us Dehatis to understand that living together is the norm. What a baleful glare and a mouthful I got from Gopa; I had to bring Shyamal to share my paying guest room! Wouldn’t all of Cal react the same way? Would Ma understand? And Didi?

True, when I was staying at Kalyanidi’s, I only met people who were living with other people’s wives, and I had gotten over ogling at them as if they were from Mars. They will probably applaud. But the other friends? And Veena, will she speak to me again when she finds out?

To top it all, we barely know each other. Granted, I have been thinking about you quite a bit since that evening when you barged into my quiet, regulated, and totally conventional life. I now knew what has been bugging me since then. I have been trying to put the good Hindu middle-class genie in me back in the bottle.

And now you are sleeping on my single bed, in my pajamas, expecting me to work on a Strategy presentation and sneak into my own bedroom later on tiptoes and lie awake in a corner of the bed to make sure that my snoring doesn’t wake you up!

No way. I pushed the chair back, took a resolute step towards the bedroom to wake you up, tell you to put on your clothes and hotfoot it back to Gold Croft.

‘Come back Friday evening when I am back from my trip, and we can have coffee together,’ I would say.

Instead, I found myself tiptoeing in, one faltering step after the other, standing at the foot of the bed, looking at you in the moonlight coming in through the window.

You looked so vulnerable, lying on your back with the covers partially thrown, with a hint of a frown on your face. And then you smiled, one of those half-smiles that tug at my heartstrings every time I see it.

‘Chubby One,’ I called out softly, not really meaning to wake you up. But then I didn’t mean to do a lot of things we did later either.

6

Mercifully, the sun streaming in through the window woke me up the next morning.

I dashed about getting ready to get to the Taj, to have breakfast with the visiting firemen.

‘Time to rise and shine, my Chubby One,’ I said while brushing my hair, ‘See you over the weekend.’

That woke you up fast. Why over the weekend, you wanted to know. Today is only Monday. I explained that I will have dinner with the visitors, come back late, pack, catch a short snooze, and head out to the airport at 5 am sharpish. How many days? Four. Back late on Friday. ‘Ciao.’

But you wanted me to give you a kiss, and another, and I almost didn’t make it to the Taj on time.

The week went in a whirl. By the time we finished working the market, there was barely enough time to grab a shower before heading down to the bar. Dinner was early but post-dinner beers tended to drag a bit, as James and a couple of the younger visitors stayed up after Ernie and John called it a day.

When I boarded the flight to Bombay late Friday evening, all I was good for was a long lie-in, which started as soon as the plane took off and would have carried on till Sunday afternoon, except for the reminder waiting for me about the movie date with Veena Saturday evening.

When I opened the door to the flat, as usual, Jabbar wasn’t around. I switched on the lights to have a quick look at the mail and was pleasantly surprised to see them assorted in neat little piles. I spotted a couple of suitcases lined up in the guest room. Wondering who showed up unannounced, I strode into the bedroom. And there you were reading a magazine under a new bedside lamp.

I gaped. You had my Kashmiri silk dressing gown with the paisley design on it wrapped around you. Your eyes sparkled, and a naughty smile played on your lips.

“Cat got your tongue?” A new huskiness in your voice caressed my tiredness away.

I searched for something smart to say. ‘Is that all you have on?’ I finally stammered.

“Want to find out?” you asked, laying the magazine aside.

I did, and I did.

‘Is there enough room in the cupboard for your things?’ I asked the next morning over a cup of tea that we shared.

“Since you have only two and a half things to hang up, I guess the answer is yes, for the time being,” you said, your eyes twinkling. “In any case, I can keep my other stuff in Gold Croft.”

‘Why do you want to keep paying rent for that dump?’ I asked, ever the pragmatist.

“Are you asking me to move in with you, P Chanda? What will people say?”

‘People will be jealous,’ I still don’t know where you found the bread roll to hit me with.

“You mean it?”

‘I don’t normally put on a polite act on a Saturday morning. Jabbar will help you bring the rest of your stuff.’

“Veena?” Your eyebrows went up a notch or two. “What will you tell her this evening?”

I groaned; you must have seen my diary entry, but I was quick to recover. ‘She will have to learn to share, I guess…’

More bread rolls rained on me, but you did take Jabbar with you to help you pack.

7

I was wrong. People were not jealous at all. They were just envious.

Friends, when they met you by and by, thought I was plain darn lucky. No eyebrows were raised, and nobody invoked fire and brimstone to rain on our parade, except your brothers, of course. Fortunately, I wouldn’t meet them until much later.

You were right. Veena was most upset. Especially when I stood her up that evening for the movie show, only to sit with you in the row in front of hers. She had persuaded Trimona, a cousin of hers, to come along in my place. I would have forgiven both of them if they had tapped me on the head hard with their heels. But then we lived in civilizedtimes.

My life changed. No longer was I looking forward to going on long trips to the Northeast and Nepal or the backwaters of Kerala. And when in town, neither was I itching to go out and scrounge a meal off friends or hang around Bombelli’s drinking coffee in the evenings. Instead, I was looking forward to coming home after work and spending the rest of the evening with you.

Remember the Fiesta record player that you had brought along? How you taught me to listen to music from your album collection – the 45s and 33s belting out Nat King Cole, Pat Boone, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, Peggy Lee, and Ella. And Elvis Presley, your all-time favourite. And how I played out the debates I listened to in the college coffeehouse on who was better - Pat or Elvis. You knew off the bat that I was tone-deaf but were too kind to let on and played along.

And when you taught me how to dance? I mean move on the floor with some grace and at times in sync with the music, going around the flat until your toes were too sore from being stepped on, and we collapsed in a heap on the bed.

You never could get me to learn the waltz. Even now I forget what happens after one—two and three! Further ambitions to become nimble-toed evaporated when my entire crockery collection, comprising a few plates, side plates, and two serving dishes, laid out by Jabbar for dinner came crashing down as I insisted on learning the tango.

Often when the record played out and we were in a far corner of the flat, you would sing as you guided me back toward the player. You sounded so good that I often wondered why we needed a record. And you thought I was pulling your leg!

Remember that Sunday morning? We went down to Talk of the Town to have brunch and listen to Usha singing her hip hop pop songs. As Usha sang her version of Guantanamo, we joined in the chorus of her localised lyrics Chaar Anna Tera Aat Anna Mera. She then came by our table to say hello to Arun, who knew her husband. I got up to say Hi, pleased to meet you, and Usha said what a voice, I can now tell everyone that Harry Belafonte came to my show! And when we got up to leave, she waved from the stage and said, ‘Bye Harry B, come back next Sunday.’

You tried your best to pull me down from Cloud Nine, but I was adamant that you would teach me to sing; after all, one can’t waste a Harry Belafonte voice! With a bit of training, you and I could make the new Ike & Tina, or at the very least a P&P that would have the record companies drooling to have us on board. I did make it to a record company board eventually, but more about that later.

To make the point, I sang all the way back, ‘Down the way where the nights are gay and the sun shines daily on the mountain top,’ much to your merriment and the cabby’s chagrin, and I wouldn’t stop even when you kept saying shhh, people are listening, as we climbed the Skyscrapper steps. ‘Of course, they are,’ I couldn’t stop bragging. After all, it’s not every day that a pro recognises another pro.

And every morning, our singing lessons brought shattering reactions from various quarters.

The very first morning, Suresh, our new butler, replacement for Jabbar, who couldn’t handle a lady in the house taking over and was deaf at most times, dropped the one and only tea set with a clatter that drowned out my voice trying out the high notes. This only spurred me on. If I could penetrate deaf eardrums, nothing was going to stop me from becoming a pop icon!

The next morning, I was suddenly struck by the stillness in the air. All the drivers had stopped the noisy car-washing drill, no doubt to listen intently to the new voice floating down from the open first-floor window. But the quiet was short-lived, as a cacophony of horns and stifled laughter soon drowned out the voice. You were at your diplomatic best, telling me that all is not lost if I can’t become a singing superstar overnight or ever. I can still be good at something else. ‘Like what?’ I sulked, only to have you put the broken pieces of my vanity together with the tenderness that only you could muster.

You must admit I never quite gave up. Anytime I had a captive audience, like when you, the kids, and the nannies were packed in an Amby heading out of town on our vacations, I would do my Harry numbers. You did your best to stop the kids from laughing out loud, singing with me in a vain attempt to get me to sing at least a bar or two in the right key or note. But I’m still trying to figure out one from the other.

8

Then you decided to brush up my other rough edges.

Apparently, the way I spoke English was all wrong; my Bengali Babu accent was too pronounced, you said. You were always in splits when I said “arsepect,” telling me it was “aspect,” and that people go to a “disco” and not a “discaughteck” to dance. They also eat “hors d’oeuvres” and not “Horse de Voors.” It was “My Fair Lady,” my favourite movie revisited, and I had to read out the newspaper aloud to you every evening as you did a serious impersonation of Rex Harrison as the ever-perfectionist Professor Higgins.

Next came my wardrobe. Out went the shiny suit I had bought when I came from Calcutta. And the drainpipe trousers, tailored in a style very popular among the Anglo-Indians in Calcutta but woefully out of place in the executive world of Bombay. In came new trousers and striped shirts, elegant ties, and matching socks. The makeover was subtle but noticeable, especially when you borrowed my razor to shave off my carefully nurtured long sideburns. You even tried to perm my hair straight, but for once I stood firm, with more than a fair share of natural support.

Fortunately, you could live with my table manners. But you wouldn’t rest on your laurels. The bare look of the flat, you said, was an eyesore. Curtains are what we need, you said, to change it from a railway station feel to a lived in flat. I didn’t argue much; frankly, I was a little tired of the roving eyes of neighbourhood voyeurs. Brightly I suggested that we put up Bengali-style curtains on the windows, plasticky stuff with floral patterns stretched out on two pieces of springy metal cord, one a foot below the top sill and the other a foot above the lower sill. And enthusiastically I started taking measurements.

You looked at me as if I had walked out of a UFO that very minute. “Curtains,” you said icily, “hang from pelmets above the window and come down to the floor. They make a statement about the people who live in the flat.”

‘Talking curtains?’ I was curious, ‘and what on earth are pelmets?’

I pleaded that such extravagance would leave me bankrupt. You agreed to make a small concession. “We shall have gathered curtains and do away with pelmets.”

I sighed with some relief but wanted to know how you were a resident expert on curtains. It turned out that for a while, you had worked for Fab India, an ethnic boutique in Delhi intent on making guys like me broke. Fortunately, there was no Fab India in Bombay, but there were many wannabes.

Many afternoons were spent in such wannabes in Dhobi Talao and Girgaum, shopping for material that would live up to your exacting standards. We looked at patterns, stripes, checks in every hue and kind, raw silk, raw cotton, et al., till my nerve ends were raw. Finally, you said the guest room will be blue and grey, our bedroom will be brown and red, the living room will have self-striped off-white curtains to give it space. And raw cotton is what we will have for now.

You were busy the next few days. Many tailors were interviewed, linings and gathers discussed ad infinitum, stitching charges negotiated, and one evening I came back to a fully draped home!

I grudgingly acknowledged that it indeed looked good. “But,” you said.

I knew. The rented furniture must be replaced, and that would only be the beginning.

Every evening I would come back and wonder where you were getting the time, energy, and money for all the cute little bric-a-brac that you brought home to sit on various tabletops, sideboards, and makeshift shelves made from a few bricks standing on each other with a stray slab of marble or granite on top.

The result was the first of the lovely homes you created wherever we lived. It was a joy to come home, take in the ambiance, and sit and admire your handiwork.

9

When you said it was time to call a few friends over to repay all those weeks and months of scrounging, I was delighted.

But you didn’t know how to cook. Neither did I. And our man Friday could make a chicken roast but nothing else.

Ever the optimist, you said, let’s begin by calling a couple of guys for breakfast. So, we asked Dilip and Asha to come over on a Sunday. I went across to Café Galleries and bought everything from the shopping list you gave: sausages, ham, baked beans, corn beef, butter, cornflakes, the works.

When Sunday rolled along, we got up to the insistent ring of the doorbell. The guests had arrived! While you rushed to get ready, I, still in my pyjamas, asked what they would like for breakfast. Sunny side-up eggs, toasts with hams and sausages. I went into the kitchen to get the stuff ready but couldn’t find any bread or eggs. Oops, these were not on your shopping list.

Off went Dilip to get some bread and eggs. By the time he was back, you were ready, but not willing, not quite knowing how to make sunny-side-up eggs. I said, no sweat, I shall do them. Dilip and Asha crowded the kitchen to see the chef in action. I put the skillet on the stove, patted a dollop of butter on it, picked up an egg, cracked it on the rim of the skillet, and with a flourish opened it on top of the skillet. The egg plopped, as it’s meant to, but instead of landing on the middle of the by now sizzling skillet, it landed on my left foot! I never lived that down.

The lunches and dinners that we graduated to were greater successes as a menu of Dal, Rice, Gobi, and Chicken curry was easier to make from the recipes given in the many cookery books that you acquired, and we still have. In fact, a cabinet full.

Remember how I often hummed ‘Those were the days,’ a song I heard Mary Poppins, the one and only, sing on stage in Dick Whittington, one of the early plays I saw in London West End. Dicky boy was a little out-of-towner who made it to London with his worldly possessions tied up in a bundle hanging from a staff that he carried in a manner jaunty enough to make people think he was not only one of them but a cockney to boot. He carried his cockney impersonation to its logical end, oiling himself into the office of the Lord Mayor, and looking the part complete with wig, baton, and clothes, showy enough to have won him a prize in a fancy-dress ball. What a lark life turned out to be for our Dick, receiving bows and bouquets and whispered invitations to illicit liaisons.

And so it was for me. It has barely been three full years since the day I boarded the Bombay Mail in Calcutta to head out to join the bluest of the blue-chip MNCs. One of those serendipitous accidents that has befallen me all my life.

I wasn’t quite the young Dick that set out to seek fortune and fame. But it wasn’t too far off either. I had two suitcases, not the monstrous ones that you always packed for each of us whenever we travelled abroad later. These were two medium-sized stuffed cardboard ones bought after much haggling in New Market.

I must have had half a dozen shirts, a couple of pairs of trousers, two suits, including the shiny one that you so unceremoniously discarded, some ties, undies, socks, and two hardcovers - a book on the French Revolution and Churchill’s “Gathering Storm Volume I”- both farewell gifts from my colleagues at BUCO. The books were my choice, very much in line with my off-and-on flirtations with history. A weakness I still have, as you found out the hard way, visiting monuments wherever we went. I must admit you were a good sport and tagged along manfully through N number of museums, palaces, and art galleries, ignoring aching ankles and heels as we trundled through these in biting cold or scorching heat depending on when and where we found ourselves.