I had lost track of Ramen within a minute of entering. Everyone around us sought him out: sometimes with this group, sometimes with that, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, sometimes half-inclined, he was laughing with his eyes, smiling with his mouth, speaking with both his mouth and his eyes. Ramen was fluid by nature, he had no inhibitions; anything he did seemed to suit him because of his fine appearance. I had always seen him become the toast of the party wherever he went, and here too he was the center of attraction. Everyone seemed to have something to say to him in private, even Mrs. Dutta spoke to him in a low voice by the window for nearly ten minutes.
It appeared that Mr. Dutta had been trying to get the rehearsal started for quite a while, but the conversation just didn’t seem to cease. Meanwhile, cups of tea arrived, accompanied by elegant snacks. There wasn’t enough for everyone the first time, though as I was a guest, I got some immediately. The second round didn’t arrive till eight. Finally Mr. Dutta stood up and said, “Let’s start now. We haven’t done Anupam and Lalita’s scene in quite some time, we’ll start with that one. Anupam! Lalita!”
Ramen stood up and assumed a serious expression.
“Lalita! Bina! Come on!”
The patient of the previous day had all this while been sitting quietly in one corner, leaning against the wall. I had noticed that she had not spoken to a single person in the crowd, not even looked up once. She had a book open on her lap, though her face made it clear she wasn’t reading. Her face was as ashen as the day before. She had done her hair for the evening, changed her clothes, even applied a little makeup — but there seemed to be not a drop of spirit in her whole body. I had asked after her as soon as I entered, and Mrs. Dutta had said she was better today. But I could see no sign of recovery. I admitted to a twinge of worry. A blood test might be needed, seeing how thin she was; even an X-ray was not a bad idea.
Mr. Dutta called her again, “Bina!”
Bina limped up on her bandaged foot. Mr. Dutta said, “Your lines, Ramen.”
I had not realized all this while that Ramen was acting too. And not any old role either — the role of the young lover. I had enjoyed the romance between Anupam and Lalita the most, in the book. I settled down to watch closely.
Ramen was asking, “Don’t you recognize me?”
Bina said something unintelligible, softly. “Speak up,” the author urged her from the back.
Now a faint voice could be heard, “Anupam-babu, isn’t it?”
“Look at him as you speak.”
Bina raised her eyes with great difficulty and repeated her dialogue.
“Smile, smile as you speak.”
She smiled wanly. But there was no connection between the smile and her words, both seemed empty. I was wondering why they had chosen her for the role.
Mr. Dutta stood up and began to lecture the girl. “Bina, do you want all our hard work to go to waste just because of you? If you behave this way no one will be interested. Your role’s the biggest, you have lines with everyone.”
Bina sighed and said, “Leave me out.”
“What childishness is this,” Ramen smacked her lightly on the head. “Stand up straight, say your lines properly.”
She seemed to tremble on hearing this, her eyes widened, blood rushed to her face. She didn’t play her role half badly after that. And yet the lines of pain just didn’t seem to leave her face; it was as though she didn’t really want to say her lines, didn’t even want to think them; she was just being forced to.
A little later Mr. Dutta said, “All right, let’s do act one now. Sarbeshwar, Basanti, Lily, Priyanath. .”
Four or five people stood up to occupy the floor as he spoke.
The rehearsal went on till ten thirty at night. Many more friends, helpers and fans arrived: the room was full. The chairs had been pushed back against the wall and an enormous sheet spread out on the floor. I was seated on it in one corner, drinking it all in, watching, wondering, and constantly being astonished. The people seated around me all looked talented or proficient in some way. One of them was indefatigably sketching the women present with a fountain pen; some were immersed, with their pencils, in calculating accounts, some were reading proofs. Occasionally three or four people repaired to the veranda, usually for private discussions; although their conversation didn’t disturb the rehearsal, some of it reached my ears, as I was seated near the door. I felt a misfit in this bizarre dance, and yet I cannot claim not to have enjoyed it, for though I sat by myself I had no idea how time flew so quickly.
Around ten-thirty, someone said, “Let’s call it a day.”
Mr. Dutta said, “Anupam and Lalita’s last scene. .”
Bina exclaimed, “No, no, not that one.” I was surprised at the sudden vehemence in her voice.
Ramen said, “Of course. Come, Bina, it’s getting late.”
Bina rose slowly. She looked as though she wouldn’t be able to utter a word, but how beautifully she played that last scene. When Anupam said, “I’d better go, Lalita,” her eyes filled with tears as she said, “No, don’t go — don’t leave me.” I was full of admiration for her performance.
Ramen was the last to take his leave, I had to wait for him. Mrs. Dutta said, “Do come sometimes, won’t you?”
I nodded courteously, and Ramen quipped, “Why sometimes? He’ll come every day. He has no practice, you see, that chamber’s just for appearances.”
Mrs. Dutta smiled and said, “Fine, why not set up your practice right here then? You are appointed medical officer of The New Nest.”
I said, “That’s wonderful, but I don’t seem to have made much headway in my first case.”
“Bina? There’s nothing wrong with her — she’ll be fine soon.”
Ramen spent the night at my place. I used to work as well as live in my chamber, at that time. I ordered some fried rice and cutlets from the restaurant nearby, and we sat down to chat over coffee afterwards. “Bina acts quite well,” I remarked.
Ramen smiled without responding.
“But she doesn’t seem to be in good health.”
“Her health is fine, it’s just been poorly of late.”
“It seemed to me her foot injury is nothing — there seems to be something else seriously wrong with her.”
“You’re right there.”
Encouraged, I said, “She’s extraordinarily pale, I think it’s anemia. I could arrange for a thorough examination if you like. Perhaps Major Ghosh. .”
“Do you really think a doctor can cure her illness?”
“What do you mean? Why not? You’re half a doctor yourself — you shouldn’t be saying such things.”
“But I know what’s wrong with her.”
“You do?”
“Her illness is love.”
“What?”
“Love. What people refer to as falling in love. She’s fallen in love.”
His words seemed to plunge me into water, from my safe refuge on land. I managed to compose myself in a minute and said, a suitably doctorlike expression on my face, “I see. Then there’s nothing that a doctor can do.”
“Not other doctors, perhaps, but you can,” said Ramen, bending his tall frame a little and lying down. “Ah, this couch of yours is wonderful.” Rubbing one foot against the other, he continued, “The thing is, the object of this girl’s illness is me.”