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Literary Review
White lies
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Exclusive extracts from Amit Chaudhuri's first story collection, Real Time, published recently.
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MR. CHATTERJEE'S office had a huge rosewood table; now, on the third anniversary of his being made Chief Executive of this company, a basket of roses arrived; after a couple of files were cleared away, it was placed on a table before him, and a photograph taken by a professional photographer arranged by Patwardhan, the Personnel Manager. "Okay, that's enough; back to work," he said brusquely, after the camera's shutter had clicked a few times. Once the photograph was developed and laminated, its black-and-white colours emphasised, rather than diminished, the roses.
The guru loved this photograph. "Chatterjee saheb looks wonderful in it — just as he should," he said, admiring it. "He must have a wonderful office." He ruminated for a little while, and said, "Brite detergent — he owns it, doesn't he, behanji?" "He doesn't own it," said Mrs. Chatterjee, tolerant but short. "He runs it." The guru nodded, not entirely convinced of the distinction.
He continued to give her new songs, by the blind poet Surdas, and by Meera, who would accept no other Lord but Krishna. During these lessons, he came to know, between songs, in snatches of conversation, that Mr. Chatterjee had got his two-year extension at the helm of the company. He took this news home with him and related it proudly to his wife.
Two days later, he brought a box of ladoos. "These aren't from a shop— " he pointed out importunately. "My wife made them!" Mrs. Chatterjee looked at them as if they'd fallen from outer space. There they sat, eight orbs inside a box, the wife's handiwork.
"Is there a festival?" asked Mrs. Chatterjee. In the background, John, the old servant, dusted, as he did at this time of the day, the curios in the drawing room.
"No, no," said the guru, smiling at her naiveté and shaking his head. "She made them for you — just eat them and see." She wasn't sure if she wanted to touch them; they looked quite rich.
"I'll have one in the evening," she consoled him. "When Chatterjee saheb comes. He'll like them with his tea." But in the evening, Mr. Chatterjee demurred.
"This'll give me indigestion," he said; but he was distracted as well. No sooner had he been given his extension than a bickering had started among a section of the directors about it; not in his presence, of course, but he was aware of it. At such times, he couldn't quite focus on his wife's music lessons, or on the guru; the guru was like a figure who'd just obtruded upon Mr. Chatterjee's line of vision, but whom he just missed seeing. "You know sweets like these don't agree with me." The sweets were an irrelevance; if the two directors — one of whom, indeed, he'd appointed himself — succeeded in fanning a trivial resentment, it would be a nuisance, his position might even be in slight danger; he must be clear about that. You worked hard, with care and foresight, but a little lack of foresight — which was what appointing Sengupta to the Board had turned out to be — could go against you. Sometimes, he knew from experience and from observing others, what you did to cement your position was precisely what led to undoing it.
Mrs. Chatterjee felt a twinge of pity for Mohanji. As if in recompense, she ate half a ladoo herself. Then, unable to have any more, she asked John to distribute them among the cook, the maidservant, and himself. "They're very good," she told them. She could see her husband was preoccupied, and whispered her instructions.<1line_space>
* * *
<1line_space>SENSING a tension for the next couple of weeks, which was unexpected since it came at the time of the extension being summoned, a time, surely, for personal celebration, she herself grew unmindful, and withdrew into conversations with a couple of friends she felt she could trust. Once or twice, the guru asked her, full of enthusiasm, what she'd thought of the ladoos, but never got a proper answer. "Oh those were nice," she said absently, leaving him hungry for praise. A slight doubt had been cast upon the extension, although it was trivial and this was most probably an ephemeral crisis; still, she felt a little cheated that it should happen now. It also made her occasionally maudlin with the guru, less interested in the lesson than in putting unanswerable questions to him.
"Mohan bhai, what's the good of my singing and doing all this hard work? Who will listen?" How quickly their moods change, he thought. There you are, he thought, with your readymade audience of colleagues and colleagues' wives; what more do you want? The questions she'd asked chafed him, but he skirted them, like a person avoiding something unpleasant in his path. One day, however, he was feeling quite tired (because of a bad night he'd had) and lacked his usual patience; he said:
"One mustn't try to be what one can't, behanji. You have everything. You should be happy you can sing a little, and keep your husband and your friends happy. You can't be a professional singer, behanji, and you shouldn't try to be one." Mrs. Chatterjee was silenced briefly by his audacity and wondered what had made him say it. For the first time in days, she saw him through the haze of her personal anxieties; for a few moments she said nothing. Then she said:
"Perhaps you're right." Her eyes, though, had tears in them.
When Mr. Chatterjee heard of this exchange, he was very angry. In spite of all they had, he'd never felt he'd given his wife enough. And because she sang, and sometimes sang before him, it was as if she gave him back something extra in their life together, and always had. It wasn't as if she had the presence or the personality or the charm that some of the wives in her position had; it wasn't as if she was an asset to the society they moved about in. Her singing was her weakness, and it was that weakness that made him love her more than he otherwise would have.
"How dare he say such a thing?" he said, genuinely outraged. He was angry enough to forget, temporarily, the little factions that had come into being in the company. "I will speak to him. As if he can get away just like that, disclaiming all responsibility." Without really meaning it, he added, "You can always get another teacher, you know."
Two days later, he delayed setting out for his office, and deliberately waited for the guru to arrive. Barely had the music lesson begun, and the recognisable sounds of voice and harmonium emerged from the room, than Mr. Chatterjee looked in, fully suited, and ready to go. The guru, seeing him, this vision of executive energy, bowed his head quickly in mid-song, privileged that the Managing Director should have stopped to listen to him for a few moments. Mr. Chatterjee was impatient today, and wasn't taking in the Surdas bhajan; he had a meeting with the Board.
"Ji saheb", said the guru, stopping.
"Guruji", said Mr. Chatterjee, "please don't say things that will upset by wife. That is not your job. You are here to give her songs and improve her singing. If you can't do that properly... "
"What did I say, Chatterjee saheb?" asked the guru, interrupting him, and noticeably concerned. "Saheb, she has ten new songs now... "
"Don't evade the issue," snapped Mr. Chatterjee. "You told her, didn't you, that she could never be a real singer. What is your responsibility, then? Do you take a hundred rupees a turn just to sit here and listen to her?"
The guru's hands had grown clammy. "I won't listen to such nonsense again," said Mr. Chatterjee, shutting the door behind him. "Please switch off the air conditioner, behanji," the guru said after Mr. Chatterjee had gone. "I'm feeing cold."
Real Time: Stories and a Reminiscence, Amit Chaudhuri, Picador India, 2002, hardback, p.184, Rs. 395.By permission of Picador India.
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