The Fifth Man (3 page)

Would Ari confess then: ‘I didn’t mean it.’

Or was the Aritra who had a relationship with Esha actually another Aritra within himself, whom he was only half familiar with? He could not understand this Aritra. Ari stood up, his face drawn, and went into the house, dragging his foot a little. Neelam was sitting on a divan in the drawing room, a coconut tree and the bright sea of Anjuna near her head. A jagged coastline. A few hippies were visible indistinctly in the poster running the width of the room. Beneath the ecstatic Anjuna beach Neelam’s misery was absolutely flesh-and-blood, real. Corporeal.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Aritra.

Neelam didn’t answer.

When she saw Aritra standing the same way much later, his face stricken, she said, ‘When did you ask her to come? Was it as soon as you regained consciousness after the operation? Did you dictate the letter to Mandal? Your personal assistant.’

Aritra was stunned. ‘Why should I have asked her to come?’

‘It’s natural to think of your loved ones when you think of death.’

Aritra said gravely, ‘I didn’t ask Esha to come, Neelam. I did write casually once or twice asking her to visit. But not in the recent past. I write to her from time to time. You can read the letters if you like. I don’t know why she wants to come. If it bothers you very much, I’d better telegram her expressing our inability.’

‘No need,’ Neelam answered briefly and left the room.

Mahanam could have stayed at the Film Institute if he had wanted to. As a guest. Arrangements had been made. But Chandrashekhar had said, ‘You have such a busy programme, Dr Roy. It won’t be convenient to stay there. Are you afraid because I have a bachelor establishment? Just try my cooking. A few days with you would also dispel my loneliness temporarily.’

When Chandrashekhar went to Calcutta he usually accepted Mahanam’s hospitality. One library, two readers. With Yagneshwar looking after both of them. Not that there was anyone like Yagneshwar here, which Chandrashekhar had no problem with. He had spent several years abroad. Cooking for himself had become a habit. Every morning he made Mahanam two large sandwiches, served with sauce, a banana and an enormous glass of coffee with milk. Lunch was at Max Mueller Bhavan for the first few days. The lecture course ended on Tuesday—after a day’s gap on Wednesday, the film institute seminar would start on Thursday.

Mahanam enjoyed such packed schedules. He wouldn’t even have minded had there been no hyphen on Wednesday. He had incredible strength—of body, of mind, of intelligence—which he had not had the opportunity to make good use of. His entire life seemed to have passed in play. Playing with dust and earth. There must have been a playful personality within him, propelling him all the time. When he tried to estimate his real achievements, this role-play became clear. That apart, Mahanam was happy. The fewer occasions he had to brood, the more he enjoyed things. On Thursday Chandrashekhar took him for a kulfi after returning from the university. It was a favourite of Mahanam’s. As he ate he said, ‘You know, Chandrashekhar, when I observe my own excessive gratification from food, I sometimes feel I am still at what you call the oral sucking stage. Oral sucking, oral biting—don’t you have all these bizarre things?’

Chandrashekhar said with a smile, ‘You would not have been so independent in that case. But you are, aren’t you?’

‘Not at all. I depend entirely on Yagneshwar in Calcutta. Here too, see how easily I accepted your invitation. If I’d stayed elsewhere I’d have had to take my own responsibility to some extent at least.’

‘You’re doing it here too. You’re washing your own underclothes. Doing the breakfast dishes. Making tea for me in the evening.’

‘But see how casual I am. Never took anything in life seriously. Que sera, sera. This isn’t the sign of a mature person.’

Chandrashekhar said, ‘You never thought about yourself so much before, what’s happened?’

‘Must be post-forty depression. Been going on for quite some time.’ Mahanam helped himself to another pistachio kulfi. The taste of condensed milk, green with pistachios. It looked lovely too. Turning it round and round in his hand like a Japanese cup and looking closely at it, Mahanam put his plate down. ‘What you eat must also look gorgeous, Shekhar. Look at this kulfi—as pretty as a costumed dancer.’

‘Just that she has barely got on stage when her act ends,’ said Chandrashekhar.

‘My entire life has passed in such brief enjoyment, Shekhar.’

‘Somehow you are caught up in the indulgence of nothing-achieved-in-my-life today.’

‘If Tagore himself could say even after all his poetry, novels, short stories, plays, songs, folk art, university and cultural tours, even an agricultural bank, how little I have achieved, what are people like us supposed to say?’

‘Look at it from another perspective. Those who get this feeling are on a quest for perfection that is higher than anyone else’s. Isn’t that so?’

‘Rubbish. Do you get this feeling too?’

‘Not at all. Every evening I pat myself on the back, oh, you’ve done so much work today. I’m leaving a mark on this earth.’

Chandrashekhar began to laugh loudly. ‘I even demand extra praise from society and the world because I cook for myself.’

‘You can certainly do that, Shekhar. You’re a top-class chef.’

‘My sandwiches tell you what a good cook I am?’

‘Back where I live they say those who can make tea and paan well are inevitably good cooks. Since you wield the sandwich like paan, therefore . . .’

‘What did you say? I wield the sandwich like paan?’

‘Of course. Whenever we meet you hand me a sandwich, you’re forever chewing on one, and you make me do the same. I am sure your culinary skills produce a gourmet repast at night, but by then I have no appetite left.’

Chandrashekhar burst out laughing.

‘If only you’d told me earlier. After all those years abroad I’ve become so used to sandwiches and hot dogs and hamburgers that . . . Why didn’t you tell me this food doesn’t suit you?’

‘I would have if it didn’t.’ Mahanam smiled. ‘You’ve taken me back to my student days—in other words, to my first youth—through food alone. How can it not suit me? Have you noticed that every memory has a smell attached to it? There’s a sauce you add to your ham sandwich, Worcester sauce, possibly, I don’t taste it so much as I immerse myself in it, and around me there are seven- or eight-hundred-year-old red brick houses—fireplaces, chimneys, professors with white manes, dapper dons, rose gardens with the scent of English grass. Lanes overflowing with tradition. Trinity College, Christ Church, Magdalene, Pembroke, Queen’s.’

‘Is the most delicious time of life necessarily in the past? I can’t accept that.’

‘Only in the past? I won’t say that. But just like the Gujaratis who start their meal with a sweet dish, we start life the same away. Bitter, pungent, spicy, hot, dry—all these flavours come later. It’s a bit like starting with rasgullas, going on to biryani, and ending with neembegun—bitter vegetables.’

‘What on earth is neem-begun?’

‘You’ve had it at my house, you’ve forgotten entirely. Neem leaves—margosa. Crisply fried and served with small aubergine fritters.’

‘Oh my god it was incredibly bitter.’

‘That’s because you haven’t acquired the taste. Coffee, cheese—these things have a pungent flavour too, many people don’t like them at first, but they swear by them afterwards. Our Bengali margosa with aubergine is the same. Besides, it has many qualities. It’s an excellent appetizer.’

‘In that case why finish the meal with the appetizer?’

‘What do you mean “why”. Meals always begin with appetizers, but in the case of life, the bitter part comes at the end, when it tastes good, excellent, in fact. If you’ve ever observed old men you’ll know what I mean. Everything tastes bitter, they claim. Followed by: is that phuchka you’re having, let me taste a couple.’

‘You mean the taste of life has been concentrated on the lips and tongue. The oral sucking stage.’

‘The oral sucking stage. Yes. The daughter-in-law’s a mother by then, the daughter too, but if they pay attention to anyone else you start pouting.’

‘How did you learn all this? At home it’s just been Yagneshwar and you.’

‘You think my stock of second-hand experiences is meagre? Nothing escapes my eye, Shekhar.’

They were very late getting back home. Mahanam had scoured Pune Camp in his auto-taxi. Dazzling lights at the garden by the dam, which Shekhar had suggested he take a look at. ‘No gardens or arbours now,’ said Mahanam. ‘I’m only trying to sense the city, Shekhar. But despite several hundred years of history your Pune hasn’t really developed a personality or a character. The Peshwas’ Poona and the modern industrial Poona have not blended. This city is probably the greatest example of the fact that wide roads, shopping complexes, homes, colleges, universities and parks alone do not a vibrant city make.’

‘Those who live here feel very cramped in other cities though. So much space.’

‘You’re right. Space. Only space. Without support. Maybe this is my Calcutta sensibility. But even if you put aside big cities like Bombay and Delhi and Madras, even places like Bangalore or Ahmedabad or Chandigarh seem to have clear identities. I’m told our famous romantic writer Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay used to live here. Do you know of him?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Chandrashekhar.

Chandrashekhar lived in a single-storey building with a beautiful personal lawn. Besides a garden shared with the other flats. Two bedrooms, one of which he had turned into a study. Mahanam had picked this room. The smell of books was good for sleep. When it was past eleven at night Chandrashekhar put a sheet over Mahanam, who was sitting in silence in the lawn. Conversation, then more conversation, after which they lapsed into silence. Much later Mahanam said, ‘The past has been preserved as a museum in your Pune, the present doesn’t seem to exist either, only the future. But there’s something that’s very beautiful.’

‘What?’

‘Blue nights. Bluish mornings. Your Pimpri has shown me exactly what poets mean by such phrases.’

‘Explain.’

‘All the houses in this satellite town of yours are new. Planned suburbs. Well spread out. Nothing coming in the way of the eye. Wherever you look, a unified blue sky. At night, even when these sights all around us are sunk in darkness, it feels as though we’re sitting inside a covered blue tent. Quite literally a blue night. And then the same thing in the morning, though a little different. There’s still no mist, and even if there is, the sky has lowered itself to surround us on all sides in a way that makes the elevation of these houses and trees quite insignificant.’

Chandrashekhar said, ‘So when poets talk of violet moons or maroon lights, we have to consider all of them true?’

‘True? Of course. Completely real, concrete, corporeal. When the moon rises on the night of Holi in Shantiniketan, it is glittering white. We’re used to a red moon. We cannot even imagine the full moon being white. Actually the less dust there is in the atmosphere, the cleaner the moon looks. The violet moon is also thanks to the play of those dust particles, the maroon light too. It all depends on the angle at which the rays of the sun fall. Of course, that doesn’t mean poets don’t resort to rhetoric or imagination. I’m just trying to remind you that much of the experiences of poets is real.’

‘So when the poet writes, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table, that’s a concrete affair too?’

‘What do you mean? This is just a metaphor. Which is being used to convey the usual mood of the scene and its effect on the viewer. This is quite different.’

Abashed, Chandrashekhar said, ‘Actually you recite poetry so well, Dr Roy, that my interest grows. We are used to seeing any work of art as a sublimation of the id, or some kind of explosion of a knowledge-less state, or some sort of defence mechanism. We are not trained to appreciate the beauty of poetry objectively. Something strange happens to me when you read. I no longer remember having studied psychology.’

‘Not just psychology, Chandrashekhar, you should not remember having studied anything at all. A pleasurable experience only uses the edge of our perception. At that point we become beings of sensation and solitude. Later we return to being our educated, cultured, restrained, social selves, where memory acts as a vital controller. Actually it is you psychologists who should tell us exactly what takes place when we enjoy art. I am trespassing.’

‘Not at all. As someone who enjoys art you can see the direct aspect of the experience. And as a theorist you are analysing the reasons behind it. None of this is trespassing.’

Suddenly Mahanam said, ‘By the way Chandrashekhar, do you know Aritra Chowdhury? Used to live in old Pune earlier. These days I think . . .’

Chandrashekhar said, ‘Aritra Chowdhury, chief public relations officer of JPJ Industries? Is there anyone who doesn’t know him? He’s the pillar of the Bengali community. Puja celebrations, concerts, poetry conferences. He’s very enthusiastic about all this. So is his wife. It’s thanks to them we’ve got to know all of Tagore’s dance drama productions thoroughly. You never told me you knew him.’

‘No, I didn’t. But some old scores . . . wer . . . weren’t you saying I should see everything here minutely in order to strengthen the cultural unity between Maharashtra and West Bengal? To do that, the first item on my list should be Aritra Chowdhury.’

‘Why, exactly? Is it because he publicizes Bengali culture in Maharashtra? Did you know that?’

‘No no,’ Mahanam laughed. ‘He has a very interesting history.’

‘What is it? Is he some sort of exhibit?’

‘Certainly an exhibit. Poet-turned-executive, Bohemian-turned-householder, a rebel tamed by silver.’

Chandrashekhar said in astonishment, ‘I smell something mysterious. Is he an old friend of yours? He seems a little younger.’

‘After a certain age young and old, master and pupil, father and son—they’re all one Shekhar; you don’t seem to have reached that age yet.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shekhar, ‘I have the mind of an Indian, after all. There’s always a fear of losing respect. Ever since I met you for the first time at Cornell, a conviction that you’re an elder statesman has taken root in me.’

‘This is not a compliment at all, Shekhar. I have never been in favour of considering myself younger or older than anyone else. It makes communication difficult. Besides, you mustn’t revere time so much, it takes advantage of you. I prefer to be eternally thirty-nine. If I turn forty I fear I’ll become a scoundrel like Shaw.’

Chandrashekhar was laughing. Mahanam said, ‘Your friend who picked me up from the station knows Aritra Chowdhury’s house. I dropped by on the day I came here. Went out of my way. Can you telephone your friend and see if he’s available?’

‘No need,’ said Chandrashekhar. ‘My car was sent for servicing, it’ll be back tomorrow. Either Khar or west Priyalkarnagar. I can take it out.’

‘No,’ said Mahanam.

‘But why? It’s no problem.’

‘Not for you maybe, but it is for me.’ Mahanam smiled mysteriously. ‘I’m going alone.’

Mahanam was stuffing his pipe with tobacco absentmindedly. He was now in the veranda with the black-andwhite marble pattern in his Duff Street home, talking to the young research scholar from the university who had come with a letter of introduction from Dr Sadhu. It was his third visit. This time he was accompanied by a girl. There was an areca palm in an enormous brass pot on Mahanam’s right. On the left a stone figure of a boy was engaged in playing with a heavy ball. This scene, this meeting, and the subsequent conversation would be repeated many times. The young man was restless, intelligent and stubborn. Mahanam could not make out what the young woman with him was like.