AUTUM SONATA
The sun was about to set. The liquid rays of
golden sunlight shimmered as they crossed paths with the trembling young leaves
of the jacaranda. Though there was still a light nip in the air, winter had
paved the way for spring. Irabati sat down with her cup of Darjeeling first
flush tea - light and aromatic. It had been a long day.
A lot of things have changed since the time Irabati
had moved to this quiet little town of Chandanpur about three years back, when
she had set up her organic farm here with the help of Kaushik. Kaushik, her
friend from the days of yore, was a genius in balancing the commerce of
business with the art of life. When Irabati decided to quit her job at the IT
industry, she joined hands with Kaushik to start this initiative along with
him. Irabati was tired of technology. She was also tired of human beings.
But times are changing. Chandanpur is no more
the sleepy little town that it used to be three years back. Apart from the two
colleges that were already there, a Girls’ poly-technic has started last year.
Though Irabati wanted to move far away from the world of automation and
competition, she had accepted membership of the governing body. Try as much as
she would, it was difficult for her to remain immune to the society around her.
A degree or diploma would be of no value unless the girls learnt to be
self-reliant and independent in their minds. Little by little, almost unaware
of it, she has been drawn to the task of mentoring the girls. The teachers, the
girls, the parents depended on her to guide them and she could not refuse.
The college was celebrating International
Women’s day today. Irabati was the chief-guest and a speaker. She had also
arranged for a few of her erstwhile colleagues and friends to come down and
address the girls. The college was ecstatic. But Irabati is exhausted. Close to
fifty-five, she now looked forward to spending a quiet life talking to her
plants.
The day would soon come to an end. The jacaranda
was coming alive with the chatter of home-bound birds returning to their nests
in every nook and cranny of its expansive trunk. The erstwhile grey branches
were covered with a bright green sheath of tiny young leaves. Soon bright blue
petals would be flying all around the garden covering the chair, table and the
flower-beds with a purple-blue carpet. Her knees creaked as Irabati finished
her tea and got up to take a stroll in the garden. The day seems incomplete
unless she calls on each herb, shrub or bud in her garden at least once a day
to exchange pleasantries with them.
The rose buds take an eternity to bloom. But like
the fair maiden of sweet sixteen, these buds are as pristinely beautiful as the
roses they are to become. The tube-roses and the night queens were still
asleep. They wake up at the dark of the night to bathe her dreams with their
fragrance. The dahlias were in full bloom. Next to them, the partially dry chrysanthemums
were trying to hold on to their forte boldly and resist Rajen, the gardener
from weeding them out. Irabati quickened her pace towards the vegetables. Multi-colored
hibiscus adorning the path that led to the vegetable beds were pregnant with
half-closed buds ready to burst into a riot of colors as soon as the sun rises
tomorrow.
The vegetables were the true sons of the soil.
Earthy and healthy, the plump brinjals waited to be plucked. She made a mental
note of talking about it to her manager Jogesh tomorrow morning. Neat rows of
cauliflowers and cabbages were ready for the harvest. The bell-peppers added
color to the otherwise demure setting in this part of the garden. But Irabati’s
favorites were the tubers which hid their treasures underground, challenging Irabati
to infer about their booties without revealing their secret to her. Irabati
enjoyed playing the guessing game with them. It was just like growing a child
within yourself – knowing it intimately and loving it hopelessly much before
you have set your eyes on it.
Irabati’s reverie was broken by the jingle of a
bell. A cycle-rickshaw had come and stopped in front of her house. The
passenger’s back was turned towards her, as he was busy in counting change to
pay to the rickshaw puller. Irabati was surprised. She rarely entertained
guests. Almost never ever at night. Kaushik and his wife Nilanjana sometimes
drove over from Kolkata. The only other person who came to visit her was Neel,
her only son, who works in Chicago.
As the visitor turned to open the gate, Irabati
froze on her tracks. The last rays of the setting sun on his charcoal-grey hair,
the unmistakable glint in his light brown eyes, the lean, strong, yet slightly
stooping frame – why has he come to visit her? Why?
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Arhan Balikai was not in Irabati’s team. But his
comments during cross-team meetings had sparked Irabati’s interest in him.
Theirs was a comparatively small department in charge of Product Design within
a large IT firm. They worked closely with the Research and Development division
of the organization. Their task was to conceptualize and design innovative
products jointly with the R&D division. The senior managers went for lunch
together. Arhan was a misfit in their group. But being a mid-level manager, he
was an even greater misfit in the junior team. So Irabati tactfully drew him into
their lunch circle, gently coaxing him to share his views on plans and
strategies that Chandran, Rahul and she would be discussing informally over
lunch. She found his ideas very useful though trying to include him in formal
meetings would have ruffled many feathers.
As it is Irabati Sen was not quite a candy to
deal with. Her colleagues tolerated her simply because they did not know what
else to do with her. She did not care much for rules and conventions. Armed
with a degree from Amherst, Irabati was technically sound, but not very adept
in marketing. Irabati knew that unless the organization woke up to the
technology-driven new world, they would be pushed into oblivion. But it was
difficult to drive this point home, especially with colleagues who only dreamt
of retirement benefits, a constipation-free morning and grand children. Irabati
argued with all and sundry, as if she was God’s trusted agent to infuse logic
and reason in this unreasonable world. In the bargain, though there was some love
and adulation from juniors, there was enough contempt from her contemporaries
to keep her grounded.
Arhan had come like a breath of fresh air. Armed
with a management degree from Harvard Business School along with a design
degree from a reputed college of India, he had the right pedigree to be heard.
Together, she thought, they could have changed this organization, which God
knows needed a change. Arhan was not an overtly expressive guy. He put forth
his views in a quiet yet determined manner. He preferred to sail his way
through without creating too many ripples.
At times Irabati thought perhaps Arhan was not
very ambitious. But so long as he fitted into her scheme of things she need not
bother. As it is Chandran was not very happy about Irabati’s preference for
Arhan. If he did not protest, it was simply because he knew perfectly well how
to use the situation to his favor, since he was Arhan’s boss on paper. Irabati
could not care less.
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Irabati felt lost in a time warp. What is Arhan
doing here? She had not left her new address for him. Irabati was hurt by the
fact that Arhan had left without informing her. Time heals. But she had hoped
that she would not meet him ever again. Though she had a few friends in the
organization, none of them were close enough to ask for her future address.
Arhan had opened the gate and was walking along
the graveled path towards her. Irabati stood there frozen in time – her peppery-silver
mane blazing in the setting sun. Confusion writ all over on her face. Has she
aged a lot in the last few years? Were the wrinkles visible on her tired face? Irabati,
one who never cared for rules and conventions, was thinking that Chandanpur was
a small place. People talk. But why should she care?
Arhan never cared. As Arhan walked towards her,
Irabati suddenly felt exposed. Was she really the liberated woman that she
portrayed herself to be? Was she lying at the convention today when she urged
the girls to think about what they wanted first and then think about the rest
of the world? Or was she baring the truth about herself? Is Irabati selfish and
self-centered?
“May I come in?”
………………………………………………………………………………………………….
“May I come in?”
It was late in the evening. The sky was
overcast. Yet Irabati felt no urge to pack up for the day. She hated going back
to the empty house. Irabati was a home-maker. She loved cooking, partying,
singing, decorating her house. She loved life. It was difficult for her to go
back to the life-less house since Sugata had left her.
Irabati was staring at the desk calendar on
which the date-marker showed 12th August. Long gone are the days
when the 12th of August would come drenched in a heady concoction of
Rajanigandha, Charlie perfume and
Old-Spice fragrance. The notes of shehnai
had ceased to tug at the heart long before Sugata had left her. Yet, 12th
of August shone like a star in the dark-blue night sky – sending her the rays
from a day, long past, across thousands of light-years.
“May I come in?”
This time it was accompanied by a light knock.
Irabati woke up as if from a trance. Her eyes
were covered in mist. She could not see through it. But she recognized the
voice.
“Come in Arhan.”
“I am sorry. I saw your lights were on – so ... Is
something wrong?”
“No! Nothing! Please have a seat.”
Irabati fished out a hanky from her hand-bag and
wiped the tear-drops slowly and carefully, first from her eyes and then from her
glasses.
An uneasy silence hung between them.
“Care for a cappuccino?”
“Okay. You carry on. I will join you at the food
court.” Irabati forced a smile.
The food court was almost empty now, other than
a few youngsters who probably worked in the evening shift. The coffee shop was
about to close. Irabati went and sat at a table by the huge glass windows. Arhan
came with two cups of cappuccino – one with an extra shot of espresso for
Irabati, just the way she liked it.
The moving lights on the national highway that connects
Delhi and Gurgaon looked enchanting from up here. The glittering specks of
lights were carrying people back to their homes. Irabati was still staring out
of the window. The thunder growled. A shimmering mist hung low over the city.
It would start pouring soon. Were the cars speeding against time? Would they
reach home before a swirl of dusty storm gobbled them up? Irabati and Arhan
sipped their coffees, unhurried, sitting on the edge of this speeding life,
waiting for eternity. Lightning tore through the tar-black sky. The wind seared
the cloud cover and the rains gushed out, lashing and hitting the world below. The
glass panes shuddered as thick blobs of quick-silver rain hit the windows.
Unable to bear the fury, the electricity went out. Irabati sat still in the
darkness, as Arhan drew her hands into his palms. Her palms were soft, clammy,
smelling of Chanel, coffee beans and liquid soap. As another flash of lightning
whiplashed its way through the darkness, Arhan caught it for a brief moment in the
pearl-drops hanging perilously from Irabati’s kohl-lined lashes. He drew out a handkerchief
that smelt of Cologne and tobacco. Slowly yet steadily Arhan wiped off the pearl
drops from Irabati’s eyes, tracing the deluge over her cheeks, drying it before
it could inundate the world.
……………………………………………………………………………..
“Hi!” The honey brown eyes were smiling. Has
Arhan grown more handsome over the years? Age has lent a distinct maturity to
his angular features. A waft of the familiar cologne swamped her senses as
Arhan stood right in front of Irabati, the setting sun like a halo around his
head. Irabati missed the familiar smell of cigarettes. Did he still smoke?
Arhan stood smiling in front of her.
Irabati stood mesmerized. Was she hallucinating?
Arhan stood in front of her like a shimmering
flame, melting away into the golden deluge as his hair caught fire from the
halo around his head.
“Hi!” Irabati could at last find her voice.
“How are you?”
“I am fine. Why have you come here?”
Arhan gazed at Irabati’s eyes. The black
kohl-rimmed eyes raged with fire. Arhan saw his aquiline face caught in the
fire, his features breaking into a thousand splinters and dissolving into the
eternity of those dark black eyes.
“Won’t you call me inside?”
……………………………………………………………………………….
The evening coffee had become a ritual. Irabati
found herself waiting eagerly for it. Sometimes they went out to nearby places
for coffee. At times they went out for dinner. They discussed projects. They
discussed politics, art and cinema. Arhan did not speak much. Almost never did
he speak about himself.Irabati often spoke a dime a dozen. At times she too was
silent. Perhaps none of them were too sure about what to say to each other. They
never went to each other’s house. Arhan seemed to be in no hurry to go home. Irabati
had never asked Arhan about his family. She was surprised that she did not even
feel curious to know. Perhaps she did not want to know. She enjoyed all the
attention that Arhan showered on her. It was ages since she had felt cared for.
She could not remember when anyone had given her the last gift. The world knew
her as a strong woman. Perhaps they forgot that she too had a heart – a heart
that cried in pain, a heart that bled.
She knew that the whole office gossiped behind
their backs. She chose to ignore. In reality, she was scared to delve deeper
into this. She was scared to look at her own reflection in the mirror. She saw
a woman in her autumn - skin sagging, eyes tired, hairs greying. What could
she, a woman of fifty offer to a man perhaps fifteen years her junior? How old
was Arhan? May be a few years senior to Neel? Sometimes she woke up at night,
clammy with sweat, gasping for breath. Why did Neel and Arhan appear together
in her dreams? She felt guilty for merging them in the same frame. They were
two different poles in her life, which should never touch each other. What did
Arhan want from her? Arhan surely was not opportunistic. He did not need her
for his material gains. If at all, he could lose everything because of her. Yet
she chose to keep quiet, lest the only bright streak of light in her life
disappears leaving her in the dark pall once again.
Was he exploiting her? There were only questions
and no answers. But then some things are best left unanswered.
……………………………………………………………………
Their shadows, long and dark merged in the
twilight.
“Won’t you call me inside?” Arhan repeated.
Irabati woke up from her trance.
“Why did you leave without telling me?” she
charged Arhan. It felt strange. They had never really ever asked for anything
from each other. They had never accused each other with any said or unsaid
word. They had never sought any explanation from each other. There were no
promises to keep.
“I did not leave. I went to Belgaon. I took
leave for a few months.”
“You are playing with words. Why didn’t you tell
me before you left?”
“I needed to sort out a few things myself. By
the time I came back you had resigned from the job and left Delhi.”
“I could not bear the muted gossips. Can you
even imagine the smirk with which Chandran informed me that you had gone to
Belgaon to take care of your ailing wife? As if I was responsible for her
illness! The whole office silently accused me for your wife’s illness. Goddamn
– I did not even know you had a wife! Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You never asked!”
“Did Chandran ask you?”
Arhan smiled.
“Well! No! But he was my boss. I had to tell
him. By the way he did not tell you the truth. My wife, who stayed with her
parents at Belgaon, was not sick. I went to sign the divorce papers.”
“But I did not ask you to get a divorce either!”
“No. You didn’t. And I did not get it for you. I
got it for myself.”
“I see!”
Irabati
was suddenly at a loss of words.
She invited Arhan inside the house.
It was a small house, minimally spruced up. Kaushik,
an architect himself, had designed it for her. The drawing room was done up in
various shades of beige. Three walls of the room were stark other than a few hand-crafted
wooden masks offering patches of bright relief.
The fourth wall served as a panel for tribal art, hand-painted with white
Madhubani motifs on a dark shade of beige. The white patterns depicting epic
scenes and artifacts from tribal life came alive with a few bright patches of
pink, orange and green here and there. A few light-weight chairs and small
tables made of a mix of cane and wrought iron were all that was there in the
room. At one end of it was an open kitchen equipped with all the modern gadgets.
Irabati loved to cook. She often taught the girls how to make salads, cakes,
sweets and sandwiches. A pair of hand-painted earthenware vases held large
floral arrangements made of dry twigs, bright red wild berries and long stalks
of wild savannah grass. There was a bed-room and another guest room in the
house.
Irabati, unable to carry on further
conversation, concentrated on making coffee.
Arhan was standing in front of the wall and
admiring the paintings, his back turned towards her.
Time ticked. Arhan had not yet said why he had
come.
Irabati handed him a cup of coffee and finally asked,
“Where did you get my address?”
“From Neel.”
Irabati choked on her coffee. The cup fell from
her hands and smashed to pieces.
“Neel? How do you know him?”
“He is my Facebook friend. We came across each
other at a common group of music-lovers. One day I saw your photograph on his
wall. I asked him for your address.”
“And he just gave it to you?”
“Well no. Not really. He did not want to. I had
to coax him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I loved you.”
“Why didn’t you send a mail to me Arhan?”
“I did not want your carefully drafted
pretentious answers. I wanted to come and see the truth in your eyes.”
“What did you see?”
“Myself.”
……..
[LIPIKA DEY]
0 Comments
