“That boy is always causing trouble,” said Mejda, somewhat tolerantly.
“Best thing to get him out of Khurda and bring him to Calcutta,” said Bishu.
They concurred. Then Mejda asked, “Bishu, are you hungry?” “Why, haven’t you eaten, Mejda?” “Work finished at three — I had no time to eat.” “Yes, I’m hungry,” said Bishu, as if merely deciding he was would make him so.
They had come to Dacre’s Lane, and they pushed past people coming from the opposite direction, and past fruit sellers sitting on the side. In kodai after kodai, aubergines in batter were being fried, men were fanning the smoke, in some stalls mutton and chicken rolls were being made on a tavaa. Mejda wanted to eat at the Chinese stall, where they served chili chicken and noodles — although, in spite of the fact that he worked in the Bengal Club, he had only a vague idea this food was Chinese. A man in a dhoti and vest served them the food, and they sat and ate on the benches on one side.
Afterwards, full, and with beedis in their hands, they reemerged from Dacre’s Lane and walked towards Red Road. They sat down beneath the statue of the Unknown Soldier, a British Tommy. People passed by, families, children making strange noises that now denoted pleasure, now curiosity, now anger. At one point, Bishu said: “Mejda — babu was saying, Is there a man to do some work in the garden and help the mali and, you know, do odd jobs?” Mejda looked thoughtful and then said: “I’ll see, Bishu. There is a man from our district, Jagan, he seems trustworthy. I used to know him in the village, and he’s related to my wife’s maternal uncle. I know he’s here in Calcutta and out of a job. I’ll see if I can send him to you.” A balloon seller went past, and Bishu called out “Ei” to him, and the balloon seller came back to him rubbing a balloon, and said, “Yes, dada?” “I’ll buy one for Priti,” said Bishu to Mejda, a little ashamed. “Priti — my little Priti?” Mejda sounded offended. “I will buy it,” he said. He chose one that was a composite of two balloons, shaped like a bird, with a beak and paper eyes stuck to its head. “Yes — how much is this?” he asked. The balloon seller rubbed the bird and said, “Eight annas.” “Eight annas — son of a bitch — for that thing?” said Mejda, taking out a coin from his pocket. He spat on the ground. The balloon seller smiled with betel-stained teeth as he untied the balloon. Bishu took it home.
* * *
“DADABABU,” whispered Bishu.
Mr. Banerjee was sitting on a sofa with a magazine in his hand. He was smoking a pipe. When Bishu repeated the call, he looked up.
“Dadababu,” said Bishu, and grinned shyly, as if he had won a prize, “I brings a man — you tells me — to help mali.”
Mr. Banerjee looked absently at him for a few seconds. He had been reading of a takeover bid in Bombay and of obstruction to future investment in Calcutta. His father had been a well-known businessman in the days of successful Bengali business, but he himself had done a modest though not unimportant job in a company.
“Oh, you’ve brought a man,” he said at last.
“Yes, dadababu,” said Bishu, happy that Mr. Banerjee’s attention had focused upon him. He glanced behind him.
A man who had so far been in the background stepped forward — a thin man with a lined face, his hair combed backward; he was not more than forty years old. He bowed briefly to Mr. Banerjee. “Namashkar, shaheb,” he said. Mr. Banerjee, pipe in one hand, said to Bishu:
“You know this man?”
“Oh yes!” said Bishu, smiling broadly again. “He is from Khurda district — our district, dadababu!”
“What is your name?” asked Mr. Banerjee.
“Jagan, dadababu,” said the man, bending a little.
He was wearing a yellow cotton shirt and a dhoti.
“You have some experience?” said Mr. Banerjee. He glanced at his wristwatch, because he had to go out.
“I am working for two years at house in Ballygunge Circular Road as watchman,” said the man.
“Then why did you leave?” asked Mr. Banerjee. Glancing at him, one could see he had been out of work for some time.
“Dadababu, children went to America and babu sold house to company,” said the man.
“What is his name?” said Mr. Banerjee.
“Bhattacharya,” said Jagan.
“Bhattacharya … Where is he now?”
“He moved to flat in Landsdowne Road,” said the man.
Mr. Banerjee sighed and said:
“I will put you to work as mali’s helper on three hundred rupees. If you work, you will get a raise in salary. When can you start?”
“I will start right now,” said the man. “Only, babu, three hundred rupees is too little, I have two daughters in the village…”
Mr. Banerjee waved him away.
“Start now, and we will see.”
When they came out of the house, Bishu walked across the lawn and Jagan followed him. The lawn was green and bright. They came to the outhouse, and Bishu took him inside to a room on the right that was adjacent to the stairway to the first storey. It was a small bare room with sunlight coming through the barred window, and it had a narrow bed. “You’ll stay here,” he said. Jagan put the silver-coloured trunk he was carrying on the ground.
“Where can I have a bath?” he asked Bishu.
“There is a bathroom and toilet near the garage,” said Bishu. “I’ll show you. Do you want to bathe now?”
The man nodded and smiled.
“I’ve travelled a long way and I want to get the dust off my body.”
“Then come with me,” said Bishu.
He shoved the trunk carefully beneath the bed, and walked back with Bishu across the lawn towards the back of the white house. Sunlight was in the air.
“Did Mejda send any message?” asked Bishu.
“He was only asking me tell you that he is well,” replied the man.
“Where were you staying before this?”
“Near Shyambazaar. Very far,” said Jagan, smiling.
When they came to the bathroom near the garage, Jagan shrugged off his shirt and went in.
* * *
“NEW MAN IS COME TODAY,” said Bishu to his wife.
He was sitting on his haunches on the floor, with his back to the bed. Uma was stirring something on the stove, and its smell had filled the room.
“Where is he staying?” she asked.
“He is downstairs,” he said. He got up from the floor. “Let me see if he is there. He might want eating some daal.” And swiftly he had gone down the stairs, and he came back slowly after a couple of minutes. “He’s not there.”
The child was sleeping on the bed with her thumb in her mouth. Bishu squatted on the floor again and said:
“I thinks about bringing my brother Amal from the village. I was speaking to Mejda about it.” He looked at her defensively, expecting an outburst. But she went on stirring the pan; in the cup of one palm she collected some onion peelings and threw them out of a window on the right.
“Where will he stay?”
She had never seen any of Bishu’s family except Mejda. She and Bishu had married two years ago, in secret, after a brief courtship in this lane. She had been working in the big multi-storeyed building opposite, on the seventh floor. She had left the job one day and got married without telling didimoni, although didimoni had always been kind to her. But now she was back on good terms with her and visited her from time to time. She had been married once before, but her husband had already had a wife, and so she left the village and came to Calcutta. At the time of her marriage to Bishu, she was already pregnant, and she had had Priti a few months later.