I laugh when I think about it now, but my heart beat with nervousness on the morning of my wedding day. I’d seen Bina in so many different situations for so long, spoken to her in public, and later in private, so many times, but every time I realized she was about to become my wife, that she would live in my house, sleep in my own bed, that her authority over my life would be greater than mine — and that all this would continue not for a month or two, not even for a year or two, but all my life; every time this realization hit home, I had no choice but to run and get myself a drink of water, or pace up and down my room.
Yes, I was very nervous that day. But I shouldn’t be putting the cart before the horse. It’s best to begin at the beginning.
I remember the first time I saw Bina. There I was, sitting in my patientless chamber, dressed for the day, when my friend Ramen telephoned. “Can you come over right away?”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s this girl who’s cut her foot — it’s all swollen up — she’s in a lot of pain. .”
I laughed and replied, “What do you want a personal visit from the doctor for? Put a boric compress on it, it’ll heal.”
“No, it’s just that — she needs to recover very soon, or else we can’t get on with our rehearsals.”
“Rehearsals? For what?”
“You didn’t know? We’re putting on a play, The New Nest.”
I’d read a novel called The New Nest recently by Shailesh Dutta, who was quite a famous novelist back then. Was it being made into a play? The answer was yes. Dutta had written the play himself, and he was directing it himself too; the girl who had injured herself was his sister-in-law. She was playing the main role, but the poor girl could barely stand because of the pain, so I had to go over and cure her promptly. I was to go to Dutta’s home. Ramen gave me an address on Lake Road; the lake was a new addition to Calcutta and Lake Road had been built very recently.
“What are you doing there?” I asked Ramen.
“I’m with them too.”
“Since when have you started hobnobbing with writers?”
“One has to keep in touch with everyone. Don’t forget,” said Ramen and disconnected.
Ramen was a great friend of mine those days. He was a strange character; the first two years in medical college had convinced him he wasn’t going to get through examinations, so he dropped out and opened an oculist’s store on Free School Street. The shop soon moved to Chowringhee and an ophthalmologist with a foreign degree was installed, as was an Anglo-Indian girl at the counter. None of us had expected his business to thrive so much. We were a little surprised, to be honest; he didn’t have much by way of concrete capital. But he did have one divine form of capital — his appearance. You seldom found such a handsome Bengali; six feet tall, as fit as the center forward of a football team, with a fair, ruddy complexion and a head full of curly black hair. It was his appearance, I felt, that was the key to his success.
These same good looks meant that the Anglo-Indian he’d hired as an assistant became so brazen that she didn’t relent till she had married him. Friends like us tried our utmost to prevent it, but Ramen whistled his way to the registrar’s office. Within a year the marriage was over, but Ramen couldn’t have cared less. He ran his shop with the same enthusiasm as he had earlier and promptly hired another Anglo-Indian girl to run the counter.
Arriving at the Lake Road address, I found Ramen waiting for me on the pavement, pacing up and down. Getting out of the car, I said, “At least we were able to meet. We hardly see you these days.”
Ramen smiled in embarrassment, making the obligatory excuse. “Been very busy. Come upstairs.”
Mr. Dutta and his wife Gayatri both welcomed me with smiles. His book had charmed me earlier: I was even more charmed upon meeting him. Both of them seemed to be fine people.
After the greetings and formalities, I asked, “Where’s the patient?”
“Please come this way,” said Mrs. Dutta, leading me into the next room. As all of you would have realized by now, the girl who was lying in that room was the one I eventually married.
She sat up apprehensively as we entered. I was amazed — could a mere cut on the foot cause a person to look as wretched as this? An ashen face, lips as dry as those of someone with high fever, reddened eyes, hair disheveled and all over her face. A single glance told me the illness was a severe one.
And yet I could discover nothing, even after a prolonged examination. While I was bent over, checking on her foot, the patient sat still, chin on her knees; I straightened and asked, “Is it hurting a lot?”
She didn’t answer.
I asked again, “Does it hurt a lot?”
Ramen said from my side, “Answer him, Bina.”
The girl answered without looking at anyone, “Yes, a lot.”
I wrote out an ordinary prescription, left the room and told the Duttas, “It’s hardly anything, and yet she seems to be in bad shape.”
Mr. Dutta said gravely, “Yes, in very bad shape.”
I spoke reassuringly, “There’s nothing to worry about. She’ll be fine very soon.”
Ramen said, “Small things sometimes flare up into complications, you see. That’s why I called for you. I hope the play doesn’t have to be called off.”
“No, no, there’s no fear of that. She’ll be fine,” I repeated, calming him down.
Whether it was because I was a doctor or for some other reason, both Mr. Dutta and his wife seemed to have taken a liking to me. They invited me to attend the upcoming rehearsals; rehearsals were held three times a week at their place. There was a rehearsal the very next day, so if I could make the time. .
“I’ll try my best,” I said, and took my leave for the moment. Ramen walked downstairs with me and said, “I think you should come to the rehearsal tomorrow, you’ll enjoy it.”
Now I usually spent my evenings in the company of friends — all of them doctors. Doctors never make friends with anyone but doctors. They don’t like becoming friends with others, lest the number of free patients increases. But the same stories and jokes about the medical profession become boring after a while, and as I have mentioned I never participated in the exciting events young doctors organized to dispel that same boredom. So I couldn’t dismiss this exciting new invitation. It was bound to be a different gathering there, definitely a novel experience. The next evening, amidst the bustle of Dharmatala, as I wondered whether to go or not, Ramen marched in and instructed, “Come along.”
“Where?”
“Aren’t you going to the rehearsal?”
“Are you?”
“I go every day.”
“Should I — really?”
“What do you mean, should you really? Of course! They’ll be very happy.”
After dressing for civilized company, I got into Ramen’s cream Morris. A little later, we entered Mr. Dutta’s drawing room. The concert of voices welcoming Ramen became restrained upon seeing me. Many of them looked at me with an expression that said, and who on earth is this? Mr. Dutta took charge of introductions immediately, announcing my name first and then, one by one, those of the others — no small labor, for at least twenty people were scattered around the room in small groups, some of whom it was rather difficult even to attract the attention of.
I hadn’t guessed wrong. The taste of this gathering was completely different, I had not yet experienced anything in my life that I could compare it to. When had I ever seen such an assortment of so many beautiful, well-dressed young people in a well-lit room? Their laughter, conversation, bearing, brief glances around, even the slightest movement of their hands, all signaled that they were citizens of a brave, bright new world, one whose existence was not even suspected in the precincts of a medical college. At least that was my impression that day, though, as I got to know them better afterwards, I realized many of them were as ordinary as the rest of us. It was just that the polish on their casing gleamed more.