The Fifth Man (10 page)

Aritra said angrily, ‘You’re so full of yourself that you know nothing about yourself. Do you know how everyone in our circle referred to you? As a womanizer. You hear me? A dirty womanizer. You seduced women serially with your hoax of knowledge and wisdom and learning. No matter how much pleasure you may have derived from considering yourself a Don Juan, the licentiousness of Oxford was not acceptable in the Calcutta of the seventies. If I had revealed the details of the Neelam episode you would have been murdered by Naxalites.’

Mahanam listened calmly. When Aritra was done he said, ‘Incredible! Despite the presence of a talented lover of women like yourself, the members of your circle identified me as the womanizer? Most peculiar. That was why you delivered several long lectures on the subject of this aspect of my character, didn’t you? Now the knots are being unravelled. But as far as I know Esha wanted you, why did you discard her just to deprive me? And even after this, when Esha came to my door in ignominy and condemnation after getting no sympathy from her supremely conservative family, you didn’t forget to fire your secret arrow on that occasion either. You used Neelam to pluck Esha out, then used Esha to . . . No, Aritra, it isn’t clear to me just how you used them. Your chemistry is most unusual.’

Neelam had slipped out through the back door to get lemons. Now she put the lemon tea down on the table and left. She realized that Mahanam and Aritra were having a showdown, which was necessary. It had been pending for a long time.

Aritra noticed with surprise that he was not as angry as he should have been. He had been throwing his darts accurately. The goddess of victory was on his side. Suddenly breaking into a laugh, he said, ‘You’ve hurled all these obscene accusations at me. But it is still in MY kitchen that Neelam is cooking for you, and Esha welcomed you to MY house before going shopping for you.’

Mahanam laughed loudly. ‘Good! Finally you’ve become an adult, Aritra. This is what I always told you. You need maturity—in intelligence, as in emotion. If you can place your heart and your head in a vertical line, your knowledge will be liberated and your liberation will be knowledgeable.
Sa Vidya Ya Vimuktaye
. Knowledge liberates. Good. I’m not the least bit angry with you.’

Esha and Pupu returned at this moment. Their faces were red from the sun. Aritra said peremptorily, ‘How many times have I told you to use a cap, Pupu? Esha, you could have covered your head. The sun is very strong. I have no idea how you will go to Aurangabad in this weather. Ellora is a hard journey in any case. What do you think, Mahanam-da?’

‘For now I think nothing. Let’s get there first. I HAVE to go.’

Esha sat down. ‘Go where? To Ellora? Are you going, Mahanam-da? Come with us then. We’re . . . at least, I’m definitely going. Why do you say you HAVE to go?’

‘For something I’m writing,’ said Mahanam. ‘But unless I know what your plans are . . .’

Coming into the room, Neelam said, ‘Whatever the plans might be, you’re definitely going with them.’

‘Are you going to write on art, Dr Roy?’ asked Pupu.

Mahanam turned to her. ‘What would you like me to write on?’

‘Art and religion,’ answered Pupu.

‘All right,’ said Mahanam, ‘that’s what I’ll write on. Can you read Bangla?’

‘Not very well,’ said Pupu, sounding embarrassed.

‘This isn’t right, Neelam. Bangla is not only her mother tongue but also a beautiful language in its own right. You’re wrong not to have taught her. Non-Bengalis who live in West Bengal can all read and write their mother tongues.’

Pupu said, ‘The fault is mine. I did learn it, but I’ve forgotten out of lack of use. I’ll make up for it. Will you write in Bangla?’

Mahanam did not tell her that this was part of a book he was planning. Commissioned by a foreign publisher. All he said absently was, ‘Since you’re saying you’ll brush up your Bangla, Samidhha, I’ll write it in Bangla and send it to you. But why are you so concerned with the relationship between art and religion?’

‘I was wondering whether art could be interpreted as a kind of religion,’ said Pupu. ‘My mother has a religion, Dr Roy, she puts flowers in front of idols in that room, incense, water from the river—she uses these and prays to those images. My mother often has altercations with my father. He says, why do you keep talking about sinning? Sin is a mental illness, and piety is mental health. The most effective way to preserve mental health is catharsis, which means doing whatever you want to, within limits. And if you want to attain peace through concentration, then read, paint, sculpt, write poetry. Now what I want to know is the relationship between my mother’s rituals and my father’s. I feel it is of vital importance to me.’

Aritra looked at Neelam. They had indeed argued over these things now and then, but they hadn’t imagined even in their dreams that Pupu had listened eagerly and that she could convey the essence of their debate so succinctly and in such a composed manner to everyone.

Mahanam was astonished. For some reason his eyes glowed with joy. He said, ‘What do you think of religion? Do you have one, Pupu?’

‘I do, Dr Roy. Let’s say I concentrate on books, or on my drawing. I have some rituals too, which I use to recover my mental health—exercising, listening to music, going to art exhibitions and galleries. I make it a point to give something to someone every day, Dr Roy. I cannot tell you how it makes me feel deep inside, it must be a ritual.’

Pupu’s parents were amazed. What she was saying today was about her inner life. She had never talked about it before. Never discussed it. Nor had she asked questions. Aritra felt hurt. Neelam was happy, she didn’t know why. Esha wanted to give Pupu a big kiss, she didn’t know why either. Love tried to flow towards the 18-year-old girl in a thousand different streams.

Mahanam smiled. ‘Five hundred years before Christ was born, at the time of Pericles in Athens, imagine an evening symposium being held at the farmhouse of a gentleman named Phaedo or Xenophone. Several young men of your age are present, Samiddha, though there isn’t a single young woman. Let’s take you to the gathering as the only lady in attendance.’

‘Socrates would be there, wouldn’t he?’ said Pupu. ‘And Plato? Whose role will you play there, Dr Roy? Will it be Plato’s?’

Mahanam said, ‘Absolutely not. I am a curious young man, I could have any name, Euripides, for instance.’

Suddenly Neelam interjected, ‘What’s all this Dr Roy business, Pupu? Is this any way to address such a great man? I don’t get the culture of your generation.’

‘What should I call him then?’ Pupu accepted her mother’s reprimand like a little girl. ‘Should I call him “uncle”?’

Mahanam burst into laughter. ‘Let her not call me by any name at all, Neelam, instead of “uncle”. What’s wrong with “Dr Roy”?’

Like a giant swan, the milky white car glided around the corner in Priyalkarnagar, the light bouncing off its body. Its slow, silent movement was regal. But seeing it sent shivers down the spine. The car was unfamiliar, but Neelam had not the slightest of doubt that it was Bikram’s. He never kept a car very long, and two of them were always available for the husband’s and the wife’s independent use. Bikram changed his own car frequently. The Standard Herald that Seema used had probably been with her for the past ten years. It was Bikram’s first car. This one must be his latest acquisition. Looked like a Contessa. Who knew whether Seema was inside or not. Neelam opened the door and went out into the portico. Her wet hair had dried now, and was fixed in place with a clip. Since Esha’s arrival Neelam had been dressing in saris all day long, slipping on an apron while cooking. A pale pink Tangail sari today—Neelam had dressed modestly.

Seema’s face was visible in the window. ‘Hel . . . lo!’ She jumped out of the car. ‘Do you recognize my dress, Neelam-di?’

‘Should I?’ asked Neelam.

‘Of course. You gave it to me six or seven years ago as a Puja gift.’

An olive green satin weave cascading diagonally downwards in pleats from the left shoulder against magenta silk fabric, with gold embroidery on it. The leggings were two-toned too.

Neelam remembered getting an identical outfit for Pupu, but in black and white. Pupu used to love it, wearing it so often that it had frayed. Astonished, she said, ‘Seven years, I think. How well you’ve preserved it.’

Seema said, ‘The dresses from the year before, the year before that, and even the year before that are all as good as new. Why would they be spoilt if I took good care of them? It’s so lovely. I used to wear it to parties, now I use it for long journeys.’ Seema sounded very pleased with herself. ‘You look terrific, Neelam-di. Where’s this sari from—is it from Rajkot?’

‘Uh-huh. Tangail.’

‘Tangail? Really? I just couldn’t tell. So fine. Where did you get it?’

‘My friend who’s visiting us got it for me,’ said Neelam.

Bikram was flaunting a wide tie. His naturally fair complexion was accentuated, his cheeks so red that they seemed about to bleed. ‘What’s going on, Seal sahib?’ said Neelam. ‘You do seem to be turning into an Englishman.’

Wiping her face with a handkerchief, Seema said, ‘Nonsense, that’s the colour of alcohol. Gives you a sheen at first, then, as soon as the liver’s affected, turns you into an African.’

Bikram had stopped the car. Now, reversing it to park, he said in his deep voice, ‘I’m warning you, don’t bring up the liver. But Bhabi, your house is supposed to be spilling over with guests, how come you’re standing here alone like the bride after the wedding night?’

Bikram got out of the car, slapping the dust off his hands.

Neelam said, ‘Spilling over? When did I say that? Just the one guest.’

‘But that one guest is as good as twenty more. Bikram Seal is capable of reading as much between the lines. You wouldn’t have summoned your servant if it had only been some meek and purring kitten, would you? This one must be a tigress.’ Leaping on to the portico, Bikram adopted a tigress pose with his arms spread out.

Looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, Seema said, ‘I don’t know whether Neelam-di’s friend is a tigress, but I have no doubt that you’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing.’

Bikram walked up to Neelam in pretended rage, saying, ‘Tell your friend or sister or whatever she is to withdraw that statement, Bhabi, else there will be a terrible fight, wolves are very low creatures.’

Smothering her laughter, Neelam said, ‘Whom will you fight with—Seema or me?’

‘Fight with you?’ His face suffused with a smile, Bikram said, ‘Oh Bhabi, those are just lovers’ tiffs.
Manbhanjan, Jaidev, Geetgovindam
. Am I going to be so lucky?’

It was a lovely day. The sun had not yet become scorching. There was a thin layer of clouds. The sunlight was bright but benign.

Rounding the corner, Aritra’s scooter came to a stop. ‘Get off, Esha,’ said Aritra, ‘you don’t have to take the bags. I’ll be back in a minute from the shop round the corner.’

‘Cigarettes?’

Aritra nodded, smiling. Then he turned around and disappeared. Bikram said, ‘Did Chowdhury-da beat a retreat at my sight, Bhabi?’

Esha had got off the scooter. She went to the market with Pupu every morning. This morning Ari had demanded that she should go with him to buy chicken. A grown-up throwing a tantrum. It seemed Esha only chatted with Neelam, with Pupu. Didn’t Ari exist? Was he just a hanger-on?

Neelam had said, ‘My god! Just the other night you drove nine or ten miles with her alone from the station to Priyalkarnagar, you even got rid of the party-pooper Patil, and you still have things to tell her in private?’

Everyone had laughed. Pupu too.

‘I’ll never run out of things to tell her,’ Ari had glowered.

‘Mashi, look at him, he’s pouting,’ Pupu had said. ‘He’s changing colour. Absolutely green now with jealousy. Do something, Mashi. It’s too pathetic a sight to bear.’

Esha said, ‘All right. But I won’t have anything to do with the chicken. I must be kept at a safe distance.’

Esha didn’t eat meat at all. But she loved cooking. She had promised to cook something special on Sunday. Esha threw a glance at Neelam. ‘We’ll be back as soon as possible, Neelam, don’t worry.’

‘No, not that way.’ Ari was still upset.

‘Now what?’

‘She has to dress up. A golden silk sari. Fancy hair-do. All the cosmetics you people use.’

‘You’re not making it easy. My golden silk sari is in a mess. Not ironed, I’d worn it on the train.’ Esha left.

She emerged exactly ten minutes later, in an off-white sari without a border, a black bindi on her forehead and a loose bun on her head. Transparent pearl earrings. Light lipstick.

Bikram saw her in the same garb. A juicy cream roll. Sweet filling inside, mouth-watering aroma. Baked lightly by the sun, with great expertise. A perfect salad with Thousand Island dressing. Crisp chin. A nose like a cheese straw, lips like tiny Nagpur oranges. Oysters in the earlobes, cream puff cookies on her cheeks. And, all told, a long strip of succulent golden bacon soft-fried in butter.

‘Let me introduce you,’ said Neelam. ‘This is Bikram Seal. The No. 1 building and road contractor in Bombay. And this is his fortunate wife Seema. As both of you know, this is our friend Esha Khan.’

‘Both of yours?’ asked Seema with wide eyes. Neelam smiled uncomfortably. Aritra had appeared behind Seema, saying, ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.’ Looking suspiciously at Bikram, he added, ‘When did you get here?’

Smiling widely, Bikram said, ‘Don’t worry, Dada, we’ve only just arrived. I haven’t had the chance for any mischief yet.’ Turning to Esha, he said, ‘You see, Esha-ji, wherever Bikram goes, his reputation precedes him. And once Bikram arrives, all the other gentlemen recede to the background.’ Thrusting his chest out, he continued, ‘Which is why all these dainty men don’t like me at all.’ Throwing his arms skywards he sang: “The bandits have been sent, like a roaring torrent.”’

‘What a lovely voice,’ exclaimed Esha spontaneously.

Tilting his head, Bikram looked at Aritra and laughed. ‘Did you see Dada, did you see Bhabi, how I won the first round so easily? I come, I see, I conquer.’

Ignoring him completely, Aritra asked Seema, ‘How are you, Seemachalam?’

‘Me!’ said Seema. ‘How do you think? I’m in the grips of this evil planet for life. I have no news of my own.’ Turning to Bikram, she said, ‘We should get our things in order first, shouldn’t we?’

Bikram waved her away. ‘That’s your job, you can do it. I’m going to hold court now with Neelam Bhabi on one side and Esha-ji on the other, while Chowdhury-da stares greedily.’

Everyone except Ari produced a laugh at this. Bikram had started his business enterprise in Pune, where he had arrived with a little capital and some experience. Aritra had helped him a lot to secure orders. His pleasant, sociable nature endeared him to everyone. At that time Bikram and Seema were part of Aritra’s shopping expeditions, Neelam’s meetings and events, going to the cinema, short holidays, everything. Bikram had practically brought Pupu up. But Aritra felt, in fact he was convinced, that Bikram had not honoured the faith they had reposed in him. Trying to gauge Neelam’s involvement in this made him knit his brows. The passage between his heart and lungs felt constricted, so he preferred not to think about it. If Neelam hadn’t shielded Bikram, Aritra had considered publicly humiliating him and severing all connections. But he couldn’t. One big reason was Pupu. Seema too was a sweet, innocent woman, anyone would think twice before hurting her. Bikram’s business had expanded so much that his main office had moved to the suburbs of Bombay. He had a palatial house in Thane. But he hadn’t sold his flat in Pune, where he had bought the land at the same time as Aritra. He had a flat in D1, just a few blocks away, with a caretaker in place. He stayed there when he came to Poona, which was quite often.

Seema had picked up a suitcase, with the keys in the other hand, and slung a heavy bag over her shoulder. Aritra said, ‘Let me walk you to your flat, Seemachal.’

Looking at him gratefully, Seema said, ‘There’s no need, Ari-da, really.’

‘That’s impossible, Seema. I’m told Burma and China have a tradition of women carrying loads, but we have different practices.’ Assuming he had delivered a palpable blow, Aritra snatched the suitcase from Seema’s hand.

Bikram burst into laughter. ‘Abuse me as much as you like, Dada, but Bikram Seal is not budging. I earn millions for her, drove her all the way here. Carry her load too? Can’t do so much.’

‘Come, Seema,’ said Ari, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Seema was slim, petite, nondescript features, a little puffy. She dressed flawlessly, having apparently mastered every secret of looking attractive from the top beauty parlours of Bombay and Pune. She was articulate, without any inhibitions. Only, Aritra thought of her as a colourful bubble which could burst any moment. So fragile, inflated with so much emptiness. He had never felt the urge to get to know Seema well enough to understand whether the emptiness was in her nature or her experiences. Ari put his hand on her shoulder with great affection. A slender shoulder, which might break under the slightest pressure. How could Bikram let her go off with the suitcase? He was a beast. How could he make her suffer so much? Not a beast, he was a monster.

‘What are you thinking about with such concentration, Ari-da?’ asked Seema.

‘Nothing in particular. Have you informed the caretaker?’

‘We don’t have a separate caretaker these days. Mohan, the common guard of D1, has a set of keys. We phoned him yesterday, he will have cleaned the flat by now. Your flat’s small, you could send Esha-di to ours if you like. There’s an entire spare bedroom.’

‘Of course not,’ said Aritra in panic. Then, calming down a bit, he said, ‘Esha is visiting us. What will she think if we pack her off to your flat? There’s no need. And I’ve contacted the MTDC—we’re planning to leave tomorrow or the day after.’

‘Where are you going? Who’s going?’

They had reached Seema and Bikram’s flat. Climbing to the first floor and unlocking the door, Seema grew quite cheerful. ‘Give me a minute Ari-da, I need to talk to Mohan.’

Seema returned soon. Aritra saw a shadow on her face. ‘Did you know Bikram has been here recently, Ari-da?’ she asked.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Aritra said. ‘He didn’t visit us. I didn’t see him anywhere either.’

‘Mohan says he was here.’

Aritra could sense Seema’s throat was dry. She walked across the hall quickly, opening the bedroom door. She was standing with her back to Ari, looking like a very fragile and helpless young girl. What was she looking for? Would Bikram have left any evidence? What if he had? Could Seema do anything about it?

‘What are you doing, Seemachal?’ asked Aritra. ‘Are you going to unpack now? I can help you.’

With her back still turned to him, Seema said, ‘No, I’ll do it myself. Everything’s all right. Let me check the kitchen.’

Seema took a tour of the kitchen. She was restless. ‘You’d better go back Ari-da,’ she said, ‘your friend’s here. I’ll do whatever little needs to be done here.’

Aritra felt a wave of sympathy. ‘I’m in no hurry,’ he told her. ‘We’ll go back together. You can’t have much to do here, finish it off quickly and have a cup of tea with Neelam. You must be thirsty.’

Opening the wardrobe, Seema arranged the clothes. Mohan had packed the fridge with liquor. Tinned food too. Seema made some coffee quickly, surprising Ari with a steaming cup. Putting it down in front of him, she said, ‘Actually it’s you who’s thirsty, Ari-da.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Very. This coffee won’t quench my thirst, Ari-da,’ Seema said in a strange voice.

‘Oh, I forgot.’ She went back into the kitchen and emerged with a plate of biscuits.

‘Have some biscuits with your coffee, Ari-da, it’s not right to drink coffee without any food. Now tell me who’s going on this trip, and where you’re going.’

‘We’re probably taking the night bus to Aurangabad tomorrow. Early in the morning we’ll take the tourism board bus there. Two days. The first at Ajanta, the second at Ellora. That’s the plan right now. Esha and I are going, so is an old professor of ours, Dr Roy, who’s also in Pune right now.’

‘Isn’t Neelam-di going? Pupu?’

‘No. Neelam isn’t going because of Pupu’s exams. She has her semester exams.’

‘If you’re off tomorrow, why did you send for us?’ complained Seema.

‘I’m not sure what Neelam had in mind. But we’ll be back in two days. You and Bikram could come along too.’

‘But how will we get tickets? Let’s go back and tell him at once, then.’

Aritra felt himself on the horns of a dilemma. He did not have the slightest desire to take Bikram along. But nor was it possible to leave his home and household in Bikram’s hands again.

Aritra began to fidget. Suppressing the feeling as much as possible, he said, ‘If it’s going to take you some time more, Seema, I’ll go now.’ Getting to his feet, he added, ‘Come quickly.’