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Love Story
After thirty years, everybody suddenly remembered Kusum.
This was unexpected. The people who watched theatre these days, who set up
clubs in every little lane of every locality, did not know her. Unless a
name crops up frequently for some reason or the other, people have
difficulty in remembering even great heroes, let alone Kusum.
Nevertheless, they were made to think of her.
There was, of course, a particular reason—it was in the context of staging
an opera. Perhaps the playwright had not been talented enough, or perhaps he
had not been able to foresee what the future held in store. Either way, he
had written a sum-total of just four or five plays and then stopped. Why he
stopped writing, why he chose instead to eke out a miserable living by
taking up odd jobs here and there, why for the last four years he had not
been seen, as was his wont, walking the lanes of Ballygunge after ten at
night—no one had bothered to find out all this while he was alive. Though
his closest friend did say, Oh, it was an old habit of his. He loved to take
long walks at night. With a wave of his hand, he continued, Yes, my friend
was addicted to walking late at night. And he wiped his glasses and looked
through them. He could have avoided the word ‘addicted’. Particularly in
relation to his friend who had just recently passed away, a friend who
everybody knew got addicted to everything he did, became easily attached to
everything. This had proved to be fatal for him. Gravely, his best friend
said, He was a man who loved life. He found joy in the most insignificant of
things.
He spoke at length after that. They had known each other very long, they
were childhood friends. Fired with romantic imagination, engrossed in
conversation, they would walk from Potoldanga to Deshbandhu Park and back.
One of them would fail to notice that they had walked past the boarding
house where he lived, the other would forget that he lived in his uncle’s
house, and the front gates of that house were locked at nine o’clock sharp.
He spoke about many things, but never once did he mention why, after he was
well-established, he had failed to think of his friend these past ten years.
Some time ago his friend had come to him. Can you do something about my
plays? the playwright had asked. It wasn’t that there was a lack of
inclination on his part. But things did not materialize, they never do. To
forget is the norm. And he had told the playwright not so long ago, Look,
you never did have any practical sense, did you? You don’t need to do much,
things are so much easier these days. Just present your case to the right
person. . . your record isn’t bad at all.
He had said as much to the playwright’s son-in-law. And it struck him then
that there were actually many advantages to growing old. Elderly people who
had tried to achieve something in their youth had, in one way or the other,
come in contact with the powers that be, as a result of which they were
indispensable in this day and age. The playwright had known all this, and
yet he had taken no steps to secure his own future. At a time when there had
been no hope of any immediate reward or recognition, he had single-handedly
taken on so much. He ran a press, he wrote plays, he published books—all of
which was highly acclaimed at that time. But when the time came for him to
accept honours long overdue, he gradually receded into the background.
Can you tell me why? he asked the playwright’s son-in-law.
With a frown, the son-in-law replied, Please don’t ask me anything. I got
married only because people entreated me to. I live with my wife and son.
But I’ve never talked about my father-in-law anywhere. Even at home, it’s
forbidden. No one talks about him.
After which, of course, he put forth his own request. He said, Leela told me
to come to you. She said you would definitely see me if I mentioned her
father’s name.
The playwright’s friend helped out as asked. This obvious contradiction in
human nature amused him. The son-in-law had no qualms in approaching his
father-in-law’s friend for a favour, but was too ashamed to even mention the
man’s name.
But hadn’t he, too, experienced some hesitation in this regard? Hadn’t he
always made excuses to evade this topic while his friend was alive? It was
all because of Kusum.
Their final meeting was not something he liked to remember. Wrapped in a
shawl, his friend had come to him one night asking for help. Without a word,
he had given the playwright some money. Then, with folded hands, he had
apologized and said that he could do no more.
His friend had not picked up the few notes offered to him. He stared into
space for a while and then asked softly, I hear that Leela’s husband came to
you.
—Don’t you know how much Leela wants you to stay with her?
I know why, his voice grew softer still—it was barely audible. He shifted
his tender and humble gaze towards the window, reminding one of the soft
leaves of the deodar tree.
And then the misty grey haze was replaced for a moment by the person he
remembered from long ago—Why? They took all I had. I’m not giving them this
house, too.
—Come on, why are you angry with your daughter? She was just a child then.
Angry! The playwright laughed, a strange laugh that made his friend feel
distinctly uncomfortable, a laugh he could not quite comprehend. The
playwright said, I’m not angry. But you do know that they’ve never asked
after me. My daughter got married but her mother never thought it necessary
to inform me. And now both my daughter and son-in-law are too ashamed to
even refer to me.
The man looked directly at his friend, silently, and then said, Tell them,
as long as Kusum is alive, that house belongs to her. I’ve taken so much
from her, and never been able to give anything in return.
The playwright rose, and his friend, relieved, asked, How’s Kusum?
She’s fine. She talks about you. She was so happy when she heard I was
coming to see you. ‘You can be sure he won’t turn you away,’ she said again
and again. Actually she doesn’t understand that times have changed. She
thinks you are still the person you used to be. The two of us used to visit
her so often, remember?
Without another word, the playwright had walked out. Recalling the incident
made his friend feel rather discomfited. They had not only visited Kusum
regularly in the past, they had taken money from her, had meals at her
house, spent innumerable nights in her living room. All because of his
friend, the playwright. How else would he have had such frequent access to
Kusum? The playwright had been well-known then, while he had hardly any
identity of his own.
Conveniently forgetting all this, he had turned the playwright away that
night. He had not even tried to arrange a government pension for Kusum. But
now he felt he would be able to do something for her.
—Why don’t you perform one of his plays? They were very popular at one time.
But this was where the problem lay. The people who had come to him were not
to be ignored. They wanted to present a play in memory of the playwright.
They were ready to spend a lot of money, and whatever funds they raised
would go towards preserving the memory of the playwright. But where were the
plays? He had written only four or five in all, which are staged everywhere.
A round-faced youth with cropped hair, sporting a colourful shirt and
tight-fitting trousers, had so long been silently blowing smoke rings into
the air. From his appearance and manner of speech, it was quite natural to
assume that he was a rogue of the first order, perhaps a thief or a
professional wrestler. But strangely enough, his knotted and cracked fingers
had an intimate connection with the fine arts. He said in a deep rasping
voice, We’ll do his opera.
—Who’ll sing?
As soon as he heard this question, the playwright’s friend seemed to
suddenly brighten up. Why don’t you go to Shefali?
—Shefali?
—Kusum. I’m sure you’ve heard of Kusum.
They all looked at one another. An elderly gentleman with a shawl thrown
over his shoulder looked extremely dissatisfied with the suggestion.
Knitting his brows together, he asked, Would she agree? And would it be
right to approach her at a time like this?
—Oh, I’ll come along with you to meet her if necessary. And even if I don’t,
I’ll give you a letter of introduction. She will definitely agree. She was
the one who used to sing in that opera. Gradually people identified her as
Kusum and not by her real name. She even cut a few records in that name.
The young man said, That wouldn’t be a bad idea at all. At least we’ll get a
lot of publicity. If she sings for a play in his memory. . . she can still
sing, can’t she?
—Of course! She doesn’t get invited to programmes, and she has her pride.
She won’t go around asking anybody. But take it from me, one doesn’t get to
hear a voice like her’s these days.
He wrote out the letter for them. When they left, he accompanied them right
up to the gate of his house. Full of enthusiasm, he said, I’ll come too.
—Yes, of course. You’re the president after all.
A big grin on his face, with folded hands, the master of the house stood at
the gate and watched them leave.
Kusum was quite surprised at first.
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the playwright’s photograph.
See, they’ve come, she said soundlessly. They haven’t forgotten you, and
they’ve remembered me, too.
She told the maid, Sit them down and offer them some tea.
Then she twirled her matted hair between her fingers distractedly as she
wondered which sari to wear, whether to put on slippers or not. Eleven days
of mourning, eleven days since she was struck dumb with sorrow—she had no
tears to shed, all her tears had been wrung dry. Confounded with grief the
day the playwright died, she had arranged flowers around his body and poured
essence onto it. Let him stay a little longer. Let me look at him for some
more time, she had begged. Suddenly she heard someone say, We’ll have to
hurry up. His daughter is waiting at the cremation ground. Kusum felt as if
someone had slapped her. His daughter! Waiting at the cremation ground! But
she had never once come to visit her father in these thirty years! Only
Kusum knew how they had survived the last four years. Where were all these
well-wishers then? Today, his friends were arriving in droves with large
garlands and wreaths. All so expensive. The money spent on one of them would
have paid for a day’s medication for him. He had been ailing for the last
four years. Only Kusum and her maid knew how they had lived through those
times.
She ran her eyes over the room. It had been a room tastefully decorated with
furniture acquired over many years—large almirahs, a dressing table and a
gramophone cabinet. They had to dispose of all of them, one by one. The
other part of the house had been let out, otherwise they would never have
been able to manage. And finally, her benarasi saris, her jewellery—she
had been able to keep nothing. But no one bothered to find out how they had
survived. They carried him out for the funeral as she watched silently,
burning in anguish. The maid had asked, Ma, won’t you go with them? She had
said, No. She tried to convince herself that it was only a lifeless body, a
discarded garment. After all, for thirty years she had had the real person
all to herself. Where were all these devoted friends, his daughter and
son-in-law, at that time? If, without a moment’s thought, they could take
the body away, dismissing all her claims, she would accept it stoically.
She chided herself for having shown her grief so openly. She did not want to
invite further ridicule by going to the cremation ground. Suppose the
daughter decided to insult her?
But she could swear that she had never thought of her as an outsider. They
would always find out about her from mutual acquaintances, she would ask how
Leela was, how big she had grown, what her marriage had been like. She had
often comforted Kusum’s father by saying, You’ve tried all you can. When she
refuses to acknowledge that, what’s the point of brooding over it? He had
laughed and replied, I’m not the one who’s brooding.
She had not gone to the cremation ground. And people had had so much to say
about it—that she was unfeeling, that she was heartless, who would imagine
that they had shared such a long relationship. The news that Leela was
delivering great speeches about her father also reached Kusum. She suffered
silently. Who could she turn to, to put right this injustice? Everybody else
seemed entitled to speak about the playwright except her. People began
remembering him at great length now-someone who had studied with him in
college, someone else who had once accompanied him to Benares, and even his
daughter who hadn’t seen her father since she was a child, spoke eloquently
at a memorial meeting.
All this added insult to injury. Kusum knew she had been observing all the
rules to be followed by a Hindu widow. There wasn’t a single one that she
had overlooked. But she had no tears to shed. The maid said her tears had
been scorched dry in burning anguish. Perhaps they had.
But these people had come to meet her, after all.
She wore a white dhakai sari and adjusted the end of the sari to
cover the frayed portion. She had no cotton slippers that would suit the
occasion; leather ones were forbidden. Kusum drew the sari over her head and
went downstairs.
The very fact that they had come to meet her regarding the playwright moved
her deeply. Her eyes began to smart as she read his friend’s letter. Waves
of contradictory feelings dashed against her heart, making Kusum quite
unaware that they were all observing her with great curiosity. She said,
These days no one stages this opera.
She was reminded of a soft, gentle and tired voice. So often, at odd times
in the day, he would say to her, Nobody comes to see me anymore. They must
have forgotten all about me. And she would reply, That’s not true! They’ll
come, they’ll all come. She would have to console him thus ever so often.
Whenever he read the newspaper he would come across this one, that one, so
many familiar names. Immediately he would cover his face with his hand and
sit quietly. She was choked with emotion as she recalled that posture of
his. Kusum had ultimately stopped subscribing to any paper. Her eyes filled
with tears, she bit her lip to control herself and then lifted her eyes to
meet theirs. What wonderful people they were, with such sensitive minds. But
where had they been all this time? If, in his lifetime, he had got just a
bit of the attention that people were now showering on him, the playwright
would have known that he was not forgotten and forsaken. He would have been
able to spend his last days in peace.
The youth asked, You will sing for the opera, won’t you?
Kusum nodded affirmatively.
Her eyes lit up. How was Kusum to make them understand that she hadn’t
forgotten a single song, how many lonely mornings and evenings she had spent
singing those songs for him. They had first met through this opera. Kusum
had been a much-sought-after actress at that time. Any song she sang would
be an instant hit; she had even had saris named after her. Kusum had gone
against the wishes of the theatre owner to take part in the opera.
But not as the heroine—she was the supporting actress. She would make her
entry singing, and then take leave of the hero and heroine to appear again
only in the final scene. After her exit, the audience would be reluctant to
watch the rest of the show. She would receive a number of bouquets from
well-known personalities, all singing her praises. One evening, the
playwright himself had come to the green room. She used to have a dressing
room of her own, and he had come to meet her along with the theatre owner.
There was something in the way he looked at her.
Singing those songs had made her famous as Kusum. How could she forget them?
Yes, I will sing, she said.
The youth continued, You’ll also be asked to say a few words.
—That’s what I’m waiting for.
She did not realize how cheap and contrived she sounded to them. As they
departed, Kusum stood at the door. Things had begun to look up at last. She
went through the newspapers on the table. She had been keeping a record of
all the pieces published about the playwright over the past few days. So
many people had said so many things, but nobody had once mentioned Kusum. As
if she had never existed in his life! But there was no reason to think of
all that now. People would again get to see his opera, hear the songs
composed by him. Kusum would find her voice again in front of so many
people. This was no small consolation.
She closed the door and went upstairs. It did not strike her even for a
moment how urgently she needed money, that there was now nothing worth
selling in the house. He had been ill for four years and his room was
littered with empty medicine bottles, cotton wool, his bed clothes, and all
the other paraphernalia of sickness. It was astonishing how, as soon as the
person in question had passed away, all intentions to clean out his room had
also vanished. Besides, there were so many other things to be done. All the
rooms had to be cleared out and the furniture arranged in a single room.
Every other room would have to be rented out, otherwise she would just not
be able to manage. None of this occurred to her now.
She opened the chest of drawers and felt about in it. Yes, it was all there.
Kusum had never used costumes hired by the theatre company. She had always
carried her own. She pulled out a sari from the cardboard box, draped it
around herself and looked in the mirror. She had retained her complexion and
figure, she still had long hair. But her face was now furrowed with age, and
there were dark circles beneath her eyes.
Kusum sighed deeply. Her appearance had undergone this drastic change
looking after the very person who had always been so eager to see her happy.
But it didn’t matter. If she applied thick make-up, none of this would be
noticeable on stage. She took out her silk-bound notebook of songs from a
casing suffused with the scent of naphthalene and camphor. The maid stood at
the door and stared at her in amazement. She said, What are you settling
down to now, Ma? This is the only time of the day when you eat a little,
you’ve completely stopped having a meal at night. If you don’t eat
regularly, how do you expect your body to cope?
These few words of concern were enough for Kusum. She picked a clean sari
off the clotheshorse to change into.
What’s the point of brooding so much, Ma? You’ll have to accept this now.
Since you’ve lost your husband, there’s nothing to look forward to but
sorrow.
Kusum was overcome with emotion when she heard this. She changed her clothes
and examined the dhakai sari carefully. She would have to darn the
frayed portion. Otherwise, what else could she wear on the day of the show?
She felt somewhat proud that she had never let the playwright know how bad
things were. Kusum had always appeared before him in sparklingly clean
saris, she had somehow managed to buy flowers to brighten up his room. A
number of times she had gone without meals, had paan instead and was
forced to glibly tell lies as she sat beside him. It was good that he died
when he did. It would have become very difficult to keep the truth from him
for much longer, and it would have been impossible to save themselves from
total destitution.
Do come and eat, Ma! the maid sounded tired.
Coming! As she left the room, Kusum glanced at the playwright’s photograph.
She drew her sari over her head as a matter of habit. As she stepped out,
she decided to buy a large wreath for him on the day of the programme.
Perhaps the organizers would give her some flowers. He had a fondness for
beautiful things. Flowers on the window sill, incense sticks in the incense
holder, new books on the table, her fresh and clean saris—everything had to
be just right, absolutely perfect. And he himself loved to wear freshly
starched and ironed clothes.
She dusted the photograph with the end of her sari and left the room.
Nine at night.
In the dressing room, Kusum was vigorously scrubbing her face and neck with
a towel. Her arms, weighed down by the garland, felt as if they would slip
off her body. In her childhood, she had once bought a clay fish and a
silver coloured sheep from a fair and hung them in her room. Within a few
days, the clay fish had softened and slipped off on it’s own.
She was burning with rage at having trusted them. Everyone had come to the
programme, all his friends. Everyone spoke at length about their association
with the playwright. Not once did they mention Kusum, even though she had
been sitting right there. Nobody brought up the fact that, even before they
had met each other, the playwright had written all his plays in the hope
that Kusum would act in them. And the opera! That had been for her too, just
for her. She still had all his letters. And that special friend of his!
Kusum’s lips twitched as she remembered him, all the while brushing her hair
vigorously. At one time that man used to spend all his time in their sitting
room. He had written long paeans after watching her performances.
How that man spoke about his relationship with the playwright! Relationship!
Not one of them had kept in touch with him. Not one of them had bothered to
find out how he was, while he was alive. He had had a genuine relationship
with only one person. But they didn’t have the courage to say so in public!
Nobody had requested her to say a single word about the playwright. She sang
beautifully and there was a thunderous applause in response. That was it.
Had Kusum come all the way just to hear that applause?
She came out of the dressing room. There were flowers everywhere...lotuses,
roses, tuberoses. . . she had a vacant look in her eyes. No one was waiting
to meet her. They had all left. Unknowingly, she sighed deeply. Kusum felt
very tired and old. The fact that she had ignored all societal norms to be
with him all these years did not count—she was being treated with utter
disregard, given to understand that everybody had the right to talk about
the playwright but her.
The young organizer was waiting downstairs along with a few others. He was
saying something to them, looking highly amused.
—No, no. No question of grief. She jumped at the chance as soon as we
broached the subject. It felt odd even then. But look at his daughter, she
refused to come at any cost. Actually, these relationships hardly last.
After all, she’s. . .
Every word reached her ears, even as he stopped short on seeing Kusum.
Quickly, one of the others said, Your programme went quite well. I heard
you’ve managed to collect three thousand rupees.
Flashing a toothpaste advertisement smile, the young lad replied, Yes, the
publicity was rather good. He looked at Kusum with eyes full of contempt. He
harboured a grave distrust and dislike for anything that represented a
bygone era. He and many others of his generation believed that Kusum and the
playwright belonged to an era of impulsive, passionate hedonism. He would
not credit the strong bond that the playwright and Kusum had shared. His
gaze now mocked her, as if to say, I was the only one who was able to know
you for what you are. And there was something else in that gaze that upset
her, that made her want to look away. Kusum realized that the entire
programme had been nothing more than a publicity stunt, and that she had
been merely used.
She got into the big car.
It was a station wagon. There were the three of them and her. They began a
conversation excluding her completely: The hall rent has gone up
ridiculously, it isn’t possible to organize such shows any more. And the way
Kalyan behaved was shocking. Not only was he irresponsible, he was petty to
boot. Really!
Kusum became a bit restless. She felt really tired. In the morning she had
done her habishya, and she was hardly eating a meal in the evening
these days. She didn’t want to think of going home, with its room full of
empty medicine bottles and piles of things dumped here and there. The
streetlights flashed before her eyes as the car sped ahead. As the night
advanced, the next morning seemed nearer. Another day meant attending to the
pending medical bills, the fruitseller’s dues, returning the oxygen cylinder
which was on hire. . . There was no end to her liabilities. She felt
inundated with debts.
A splitting headache tortured her. The others were still talking, and their
words seemed to slam into her like a sledgehammer. She clapped her hands
over her ears as the car blew its horn.
Actually, everything seemed meaningless. It was all false. She felt a kind
of rage welling up against the playwright, a hatred. While alive, he had
driven Kusum to destitution, now that he was dead, he was being loaded with
garlands and applause. And what was Kusum left with? Nothing, nothing at
all.
These people had deceived her, too, Her house was drawing near. Throwing all
caution to the winds, she suddenly said, Excuse me, please.
Perhaps she would have said something indiscreet, but at that moment the car
screeched to a halt. The young man got off and held the door open. Kusum
alighted from the car without so much as a glance at the others.
You must be very tired. . . he mumbled something else and thrust a stiff
piece of paper into her hands. A cheque. Had they assumed that since they
had not shown her due recognition, she was about to brazenly ask for money?
Kusum felt terribly ashamed thinking about it. But that was not what was on
her mind! She wasn’t asking for money. If they had shown her a little
commiseration, a little respect, would she have thought of money at all?
But, on the other hand, how was she supposed to make ends meet without
money? She looked at the cheque. Held it up for a closer look. A mere
two-digit amount! Even though they had ostensibly collected so much money!
Could there be any greater insult?
She slumped on the steps of her house. In that dark lane, in the dusty light
of a lone lamp-post, she pressed the end of her sari to her mouth and tried
to stifle a sob. Only an old dog heard her. She cried for herself because it
had only just dawned on her that she was now alone, absolutely alone. She
realized that perhaps her love of thirty years wasn’t as honest as she had
believed. That ultimately we love ourselves more than anyone else. She would
have to live alone now, and she knew how merciless that experience would be.
So Kusum wept for herself. This was the first time that she had cried since
the playwright’s death. Not once did Kusum think of him. Her tears were too
precious to be wasted.
Notes :
1. habishya: food cooked without oil or spices, prepared by the
mourners for consumption during a bereavement in the family, before the
shraddha or memorial service is held.
—Translated from
the Bangla by Vikram Iyengar
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