The Fifth Man (7 page)

Dissuading the young man, she entered Bankim Chatterjee Street. She didn’t know why. People never went to the Coffee House by themselves. Nor was this a suitable road to walk around on. She could pass the University Institute, go around the Mahabodhi Society, and enter Colootola Street through the other end of College Square. At least she would circle College Square like a temple. It was a part of her alma mater, after all. Like a piece of iron drawn to a magnet, her eyes suddenly flew towards the showcase of her once-favourite bookshop. A slim book, of double-demy size. The indecipherable face of a woman on the cover, a cross between Picasso and Jamini Roy. The book was titled ‘For Presha’. Esha entered the shop like a robot, buying the book for eleven and a half rupees. It was quite expensive, considering it was barely thirty-two pages. The quality of the paper was excellent. The poems were accompanied by indistinct images drawn with a mixture of thin and thick strokes.

Esha returned to the car with the book. Quickly. For some reason she felt it was unsafe to wander around here. It was a jungle. Ancient, violent, infested with wild animals. Bloodthirsty, feral carnivores. So the Preshas were still alive? Could they be alive? But where would she go? Was it yet possible anywhere in the world for a woman to sit by herself in undisturbed solitude? She had to ponder. Finally she told Gobindo, ‘Can you take me to Victoria for a bit?’

In the rear-view mirror she saw his furrowed brow.

‘Victoria? Alone, Boudi?’

‘You could stay nearby. I really want to.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to go with Dada?’

‘The evening will have ended by then Gobindo. Please take me.’

Gobindo must have concluded that his employer had married an eccentric woman. But he turned out to have been right. Esha could not spend any time at all at Victoria Memorial. For one thing, it was incredibly crowded and dirty. For another, the inquisitiveness. Practically every single man surveyed the woman with the book as he passed. Many of them made comments. Some of them based on deep research into her relationship with Gobindo. She couldn’t remain there. Gobindo drove her home grimly.

Having announced her arrival, Esha turned her back to a pair of frowns, entered her room and shut the door. A deep veranda ran along its side. She drew a chair to it and sat down. The tenth floor of a multistorey building. It seemed to be leaning against the sky. It was nearly six, but there was still daylight. By that light she read the name of the poet. Trilokesh Gaurav. She was right. This Presha was the same Presha. A sharp thrust of the sword on the dedication page—for Presha, ‘For Presha, For Presha.’ Suddenly Esha felt as though the pointed edge of the sword had penetrated her heart and buried itself to the hilt. Only the glittering handle was visible. Blood was gushing out. In spurts. Had there been so much blood in Esha’s body, then? Had there been such an ache in her heart? Was it still there? Could it still be there? Could these drops of undigested emotion infiltrate the bloodstream like cholesterol? She lay with her face buried in the pillow for a long time, raising her head slowly from the river of blood. Closing her hand around the handle of the sword, she tried with all her strength to pull it out, like uprooting a gigantic, demonic thorn, and to fling it away as far as possible in exhaustion. Far away. The letters floated like dust smotes in the fading light:

‘You come from another age, awakening from magic sleep in the heart of a woman’s consciousness . . .’ The late afternoon light had turned drowsy. There seemed to be a layer of bright crystal around Esha, both separating her from and uniting her with the world. She could see everything, but it all seemed like a reflection in the water. Tossing in a pebble could make it all disappear in an instant. She felt as though she was dressed in an astronaut’s vacuum suit. Weightless. Floating. The menacing sky was filled with millions of stars. The ecliptic. Unwanted, dangerous ultraviolet rays from the sun were constantly striking and exploding. But still, what was this madness in the blood? Why this drowsiness when the environment was so threatening, so dangerous?

Esha closed the book in extreme exhaustion. This idiom was familiar to her, this Morse Code. Esha knew this meaningful frivolousness, she was conversant with the electric signals beneath the drollery. All this eloquence made her nauseous now. With its love from the past.

With a sigh Esha looked at Aritra. The uncontrollable hair, once like the mane of a lion, was disciplined now. It had taken on the colour of faded rust that precedes grey hair. The bright, emotional eyes were hidden behind glasses. The framework of the lean cheeks had swollen. Aritra no longer seemed as tall, he had shrunk. Smiling, Esha said, ‘Whom am I looking at? The poet Trilokesh Gaurav, or the executive Aritra Chowdhury?’

Aritra could not speak. He couldn’t say out loud what he was saying in his head. All he could say softly was, ‘Poets never die entirely. So you’ve finally come, Esha? To me?’

Raising her eyes, Esha said, ‘I have. But not just to you. How is Neelam? How old is your daughter?’ Esha observed in surprise how easily she could utter Neelam’s name now. And as soon as she could a load was lifted off her, and Esha walked faster. She said, ‘I made you come all this way. But why are you limping?’

Aritra said, ‘I had an accident. Almost recovered now. It’s nothing.’ He didn’t say that he had been close to death, who knew whether it would make any difference to Esha if the life that belonged to Neelam was lost.

Esha slowed down, not asking any more questions. Aritra said, ‘We’ve missed the earlier train. Geetanjali was very late today. We have to take the last train. It’ll reach at midnight. Wait here while I go get the tickets.’

It was very crowded. Siddheshwar Express was overflowing. This was the last train to Kohlapur today. Having found Esha a place to sit, Aritra stood wedged in near the door. The train was speeding along, Esha could hear Aritra chatting with a fellow passenger. ‘Oh no. She is not my wife. But a great friend. I could easily lay down my life for her . . . Yes . . . that’s right. We are meeting after eighteen years. Can you imagine?’ The Maharashtrian man looked at Esha out of the corner of his eyes. Was Aritra drunk, wondered Esha.

The train climbed the hills slowly in the darkness. The air cooled, became purer. A necklace of lights ran alongside.

Patil took the suitcase from Aritra, his eyes questioning. Aritra said, ‘Geetanjali was incredibly late. And now it’s very late at night, you’d better go home.’ Patil was very keen on going home. But he wasn’t sure if it was all right to abandon his boss. ‘Come, I’ll drop you home,’ said Aritra.

Aritra’s car moved along Pune’s cold blue night. He was driving after a long time. He felt as though it was not a car that he was steering but a boat. Let this journey never end. What a wonderfully magical, tremulous, fragrant night! Not earthly. Nor heavenly. This was somewhere in between. Where the demigods lived—the kinnars, or yakshas, or gandharvas. Mingling with the wind, they were wandering about on this mysterious midnight. They might well be visible suddenly in the headlights of the car. The poetry he had lost many years ago seemed to be enveloping him now, entrancing him. Its majestic glory was infinite. Even now, even now. Even in the middle of this tired night.

Esha thought about the number of times they had sat next to each other like this in trams and buses and taxis, tuning the rhythms of their bodies to the rhythm of the moving vehicle. Knots that did not bind. The sea at low tide with a ruinous breeze, a random wind. A salty tang on the skin. The salt from the water on the brow, the cheeks, between the fingers, the elation of speed in both hands. Beyond the crest and trough of the breakers, the deep, transparent blue water, the covert currents pulling her from the shore into the depths, the cape like Kali’s protruding, pointed tongue, an undiscovered virgin forest on a deserted island. An eruption from the crater of one live volcano to another.

Tales of such daredevilry reached the Khan family at the appointed time. The matriarch fainted with loathing. Rebuke, confinement. Grapes were wrapped in cotton wool, possibly for protection. But no one considered the fact that cocooning people this way was likely to lower their immunity. Even if the windows were closed, the storm always raged when it had to. Lifting the slats, it had roared its way into the ears. A storm of these dimensions usually dislodged the boulders lying along the path of routine and left only after changing the direction of life.

Her friends were saying, ‘Be careful, Esha. You’re not Aritra Chowdhury’s only goddess. There were others earlier, there will be more later. From undergraduate to postgraduate, from postgraduate to research scholar, the history of Aritra Chowdhury aka. Trilokesh Gaurav has remained unchanged.’

Aritra was striding along, his hair flying in the wind, the corners of his eyes had narrowed, he was saying, ‘What lovely curls this Neelam girl has. What a wondrous curve to her lips. I’ve never seen anything like this. Have you, Esha?’

Esha was saying, ‘When are you marrying me, Ari?’

‘Suddenly? Out of the blue?’

‘You weren’t expecting this, were you?’

‘The things you say, Esha! Don’t you know you are my heart?’

‘I know, Ari. I am your lungs, digestive system, spleen, liver, and perhaps your intestines, small and large, at the moment.’

‘What a horrible thing to say, Esha. Haven’t you seen how I live? Haven’t you known it for the past four years? Uncles and their families everywhere, I have to pass my days in the room beneath the stairs, haven’t you seen all this? I’ll die if I have to get a job.’

‘Very well, continue with your writing. I’ll work till you’re established.’

‘You’ll work? Nine to five? White sari? Black bag? Small umbrella?’ Gaurav the poet gazed in fear at his goddess.

Esha said, ‘What kind of poet are you? You are afraid of the truth, you hate reality. You’re an escapist. Poetry cannot come from escape.’

‘I’m not an escapist Esha. I’m a poet with a mission. The age we live in does not have the power to reject me. Poetry is a sort of psychiatry. To penetrate the mind of the age, to mesmerize it with the power of words, to transport all its guilt and its suffering for piety from an unconscious state to a conscious one—the poet has many responsibilities. It is impossible to dress smartly and go to office in such cases.’

‘Tell the truth, Aritra. Why are you lying? The truth is that your objective has changed.’

‘Are you talking of Neelam Joshi? Oh Esha, I can never make you understand that you are my sacred leaf, moist with the first morning dew on a holy copper plate. Totally unpolluted.’ The poet’s voice was soaked in passion. ‘Entangled in your hair is the moss from a thousand secret oceans that will never see the sun, like the heart of a pearl-bearing shell you are untouched by the sun, unsullied by sin. While Neelam is the fragrant lime in the child widow’s garden. The piety of her body and heart is the stuff of her passion.’

‘And so you sullied me?’ Her eyes blazed fire. Trilokesh’s eyes were clouded, his voice like thunder. ‘You have not been sullied, Esha, I did not touch you, my poetry did, I did not want you consciously, my poetry did. And nothing can be purer than poetry.’

‘How many women do you need for poetry, Ari?’ Scraping her chair back, Esha rose. Like a flash of lightning she passed through the corridor, like a taan from a raga she leapt up the stairs in a swift rhythm. She was gone. Gone forever.

That was Esha’s first coronary thrombosis. A private explosion through a silent scream emerging from a cave. Flames, raging flames. Each of her nerves was a cauldron of fire. Burning, everything was burning.

Her brother advertised in the papers. She chose the groom herself from the responses. Seventeen years, three months and five and a half days older than her, down to the day. Full of gravitas. Responsible. Stable.

Aritra said, ‘So you did see the book.’

Esha said, ‘Book? Not books?’

‘The first. And the last.’

‘Then your prediction didn’t come true? The age did not accept you after all, Aritra? And you did take up a job? Nine to five. Ration bags, dusting the cobwebs, baby-food?’

Looking into the distance miserably, Aritra said, ‘Poets never die entirely, Esha. They merely go underground, like seeds in winter. Why did you have to go away, Esha? At once? Why were you in such a hurry? If you hadn’t, you’d have realized that poets are human too. And all humans make mistakes. The book had possessed me, Esha. I looked for you like a madman to give it to you. And you not only went away, you went all the way to Bahrain.’

There was no sindoor in Esha’s hair now. To skirt the issue of Bahrain, Aritra said quickly, ‘Still, you did get the book. Weren’t you pleased? Esha-Presha. The book was for you.’

In her head Esha said, ‘Oh Aritra, don’t you know? That book was never meant for me. It was I who was meant for it. The giant bacteria had fed on all the blood in my corridors and windows, my oxygen passages, the entire slippery discharge from my pituitary, my thyroid, my adrenal, the movement of the mysterious entity named intelligence in every cell of my brain, each of the reflexes in my nerves. I ripped up its pages and flung the pieces away. I twisted the covers out of shape and tore into them with my teeth. With a knife I sliced the colourful Picasso face so that the fiery syntax of the words were wiped out completely and forever.’

Insects of the night buzzed in the green light on the avenues. Priyalkarnagar was sunk in slumber. Many significant events take place at night, while the world sleeps. Serious illnesses, deaths, births, lovemaking, all of these take place. Hidden away from the sleeping people, an important event was taking place in Aritra Chowdhury’s life. Block B. Shambhaji had swung open the illuminated gate. The curtains on Pupu’s window parted at the sound. The sound of a door being opened. The frosted bulb in the ceiling of the portico was circular, its light pouring a stream of milk over Pupu’s well-formed head. There was a halo of light around her head, like a saint’s.