‘Who calls her back in the evening!’

Do you remember Geetu, those sessions of our Reading Circle? Ashoktaru with his eyes down, singing ‘O amar Golapbala!’ Nowadays Ashoktaru sings in a different style. …And your uncle’s speech? That session on dreams, where I asked the meaning of my water dream? He wouldn’t explain, I too wouldn’t let go… Now I know the meaning, remembering that day makes me laugh. Truly, I put your uncle in such an awkward position that day…But really Geetu, how do you guys live in Gadadharpur! You don’t have any reading circles there, where would you find speakers, or singers? Don’t know why they placed the college so far out of civilization. There is no life there. No theaters, no good movies or plays, let alone exhibitions or concerts. Not even a decent restaurant or shopping mall. How do you live there? What do you do in your spare time?... I bet no love affairs happen in such suburbs. Everybody is always glaring at everyone. Living in a girls’ hostel with a bunch of female teachers! Be careful. Don’t turn the whole town into Lesbos. This is like living in a jail. No freedom. What do you guys do on holidays? Or in the evenings? Don’t you get bored with the same old riverbanks? Are there any decent towns nearby that you could drive to? No car? Why, take the staff car from the college. Not even that? Strange! Both the town and the college are equally strange! Why on earth do you have to live in that hole? How can you even live there in that village after being used to living at the busy five roads crossing in Shyambazar? Aren’t you bored? You show no sign of getting married either. Shall I start matchmaking? One of my elder brothers-in-law has returned from abroad, and wants a mature, educated bride. He was in academia for many years. He will suit you very well. No, Ma’am. Nothing to smile at. You have crossed thirty-two, when the hell will you marry? Or do you just plan to spend your life educating those rural asses into cattle? No reasonable person can live in Gadadharpur. You call it a life, Geetu?

Just think how our lives have changed. We shared so many dreams and plans when we studied together—then I got married, and you left for Gadadharpur Women’s College. What happened to those dreams of writing? Where is your dream group theater? On one level, you are not doing too bad. Free bird, no responsibilities. And me? Does this mean I am doing well? All muddled up for the last ten years with household chores, children, and family responsibilities. I’ve turned into a total idiot! Nobody would guess that I was a debating champion once upon a time. Now all my debating is with the cook. Husband? Hmm When do I even see him let alone debate? He is either in the factory or office or out on a tour or meeting party X at lunch in the Grand hotel, or meeting party Y at dinner at the club on Saturday—this is all he’s been doing, nonstop, for the last ten years. He has no time to sit and debate with his wife, my dear. He is always running, day and night. Whatever little time for rest he spends in the club. After all, nobody can get ahead in life if you are tied to your wife’s apron strings. Get it? Why, I have maids, driver, gardener, cook, a whole regiment of servants. Wouldn’t it be too much if on top I want a husband too? This is my freedom. I can go wherever I want, whenever I want, buy whatever I wish. I have no in-laws looking over my shoulder. Everyone is on his own. I have all kinds of amenities, connections in high society, invitations and parties galore. How can I complain about anything? You tell me. The problem is—remember reading in our childhood—got the inkpot but no ink! My household is exactly like that. You are laughing? You would be in heaven with a household like mine? Sure! You can say that because you have no idea. It is the same old story—where the wife usually has an affair with the driver or a nephew or runs away with a lover. At least that’s what happens in romantic novels. Those who can’t do that can opt for wearing four inch wide blouse, picking up the hems of their French chiffon sarees, delicately placing a perfumed kerchief on their noses to visit a leper colony or flood relief camp once a week and later hold fundraisers for the same causes in Park hotel; or go to the clubs in the afternoon to drink gin and play cards with other bored wives; or dig up their old friends and kill time chatting with them on the phone. Currently there is a fad of opening boutiques. It helps pass the time as well as bring in some extra income.

But the time barely passes. All three kids are in a school in Darjeeling. There is no decent school here. Every place is on strike or ‘bandh’ everyday. At least away in Darjeeling, they will not be disturbed. Besides, he says living in a hostel makes one independent, and self-reliant. In the meantime, what do I do with my time? Music? Yes, I’ve started taking classes. No, I quit piano. I never really liked it. It was mostly for show. How many students really love learning piano? Your sitar is different. It is your life. Even that wouldn’t have survived if you married and got busy with kids and in-laws. You have kept it up only because you are alone in the wilderness and there is nothing else for you to do there. Thank God you still have some radio programs. At least that forces you to come to Kolkata, otherwise who would go to Gadadharpur to keep in touch with you? Such a godforsaken place! Radio? Don’t be absurd. Me singing? Like my songs are for public performance. I merely hum a little to pass time. You can’t compare it with your sitar. Besides, I never could sing like Arindam.

Speaking of whom, do you remember Arindam, Geetu? Really, what a voice he had! He doesn’t sing on the radio anymore. Now he works at a high position in I.T.C., has become a total bureaucrat, big boss. Like my husband. Yet, look at Umadi, she was a mere B-class to Arindam’s A. But, by sheer practice, she has succeeded in getting out her L.P.s.

Arindam quit music after scoring so well in the junior executive exam. Now he is a senior executive. That high salary job caused him a huge harm in my opinion. You are laughing? A good job is not harmful to some people? Of course it is. Nobody outside can realize how much was lost. It is as harmful as unemployment. None of us know or think about the downside of a job. I’m sure if Arindam didn’t get that job, he would have been a great singer today. Which one could have been for the greater good? Just think.

Geetu, do you remember that Rabindrajayanti? Umadi and Arindam sang ‘I want that golden deer’. It was awesome, no?

You don’t remember Arindam’s ‘Chirasakha’ (Friends forever)? I think Umadi had a weakness for Arindam. I’ll never forget her song –‘Friend, stay, stay with me’. Remember us walking back, picking up Arindam from Science College in the evenings, after the rehearsals in the reading circle? How did we walk so much? Remember Geetu? How did we walk so much? Then we would walk to Chowringhee and get the tram to Shyambazar. Now I can’t walk like that at all. Can you? You are still slim, that’s why. Just think, we both loved Arindam’s singing, but we were never jealous of each other. Remember that evening by the Ganges, after we got our results? Remember Arindam singing ‘This is my road’ and you and I were crying? Remember how you got mad at me when I said ‘No’ to Arindam? Why did you get so angry? We three had become friends, poor Umadi felt left out and jealous of us. …Oh! That same old question? I’ve answered it almost two hundred times why I said ‘no’. If you were so keen, why didn’t you marry him yourself? We were the perfect three? Right! It was one of your fixations. And you are still at it after ten years. Why did I not marry him? Why else? My lawyer dad would have never accepted an ordinary clerk’s music-loving son, our families were poles apart. We were raised in totally different ways. At that time he hadn’t sat for that exam. How could I guess that his status would change so drastically within two years? By the time he got his job, I was already married… But Arindam too married, only last year. In Delhi. His wife is a Punjabi. I’ve heard she is very pretty. Have you seen them? Nope, I haven’t either. Not even Arindam alone. That visit on the night of my wedding was the last. He never came to our house again. Never even met my husband. It would have been nice if they had met, they would have had a lot of fun. The thing is, if he left music, what would have been the point of marrying him? It would have been exactly the same as it is now. I’m sure now Arindam is just like my hubby—office, factory, lunch, dinner, tour program, club, cocktail—I would have had the exact same life. Except it would have hurt more, remembering the music that once was, and is not now anymore. The difference between two bureaucrats is the same as the difference between two custom made Mercedes cars, nil, zero.

Nonsense. Why wouldn’t I respect him? Of course I do. After all, he is my own husband. But you know, the way they shape their careers—with all their life blood—I can’t like that. Their lives are as fashionable and comfortable as the chairs and tables in their air-conditioned offices. The people too are all the same type.

You see one and you know them all. I do go to the club. They all look alike, cookie cutter. Arindam’s job is of the same type, that’s why I can guess he too has become the same, like my hubby. Don’t hear him singing anywhere. In ten years his wife’s life too will become like yours truly. She too will have to search around for old friends. You are right. If they even last ten years. This has become a fad now. Especially in these social circles. Just think how Runu’s life has turned upside down. It is so sad. Jayanti is married again. Now she is a Mehra. Don’t think Runu can do that. Heard she is studying B.A.

Say Geetu, do you have any vacancy in Philosophy in your place? I’m a bit interested. The kids are in Darjeeling. Now to me Gadadharpur is the same as Alipur. Life here is either too hectic or too boring. Perhaps your place will be more refreshing. You know my C.V. Could you please ask around? I’m serious. What? You are laughing again? Oh, don’t worry about my hubby. He will have all the servants, cooks, drivers. I’m just a freebie. He will not even remember whether his wife is in Kolkata or Gadadharpur—except while hosting a party. Anyway, forget that. Have some more coffee. This is a new percolator. Makes good coffee, no? Some guy from France brought it for my hubby. Listen, I’m serious. Can’t you find me a job in Philosophy in your Gadadharpur Womens’ College? What? Too many mosquitoes? I won’t survive?—You are teasing me again, Geetu!

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I would like to thank the author of the story, Nabaneeta Dev Sen, for her comments on an early draft of this translation.