She Wouldn't Reveal

             She Won’t Reveal                                                                                                                            

                                         Nidhu Bhusan Das

                This is where she lives and will die. Born and brought up in Kolkata, Anasuya Chatterjee has made this Himalayan hamlet her home. She is almost a recluse, away from parents and near and dear ones.

“I like the place and the people here.”

“How come, you have chosen this forest village?”

“For its pristine character.” She was candid.

“Looks, it’s haunted”, I said and felt so in a winter afternoon.

She smiled and her triangular face shone as she asserted,” This is the place for me.”

               She lives alone in a hamlet in the Assam Himalayas, far from her hometown Kolkata. She likes the tranquility of the shady haunt where she owns a sprawling bungalow, once a residence of a British national. Anu, short for Anusuya, is now an LIC officer, somewhere in the North-east. She drives to office in the town from the village she has made her own for it is under green cover and secluded. When asked she says: “I like seclusion, and simple people here. See, how beautiful the few people around. They have values which I have come to like. They are different from city people, and have love and devotion.” I understand she appreciates the pristine glory of the Assam Himalayas and its aborigines. An alumna of a central university in the national capital, Anu has, obviously, turned stoic and developed tremendous fortitude at this age. Last 10th September she turned 27.

                Anu is lonely, always. In childhood she would spend hours alone in a corner of her own room, play with herself, draw pictures and look out to observe and count the ivy leaves on the wall across the street. Sometimes, she would go to her grandma’s room to listen to folktales.Thammi (grandma) would never say ‘no’ to the request for a tale or story of her days with grandpa. In fact, thammi was the only friend and companion of Anu in the house. She could scarcely have the company of her doctor parents who were damn busy in profession. Only once did her papa take her to Babughat, Kolkata to show her the immersion of the idols of Devi Durga, which is a great event in Bengal enjoyed by millions of people.

“Don’t you visit your home town and parents from time to time?”

“No, and will never”, she said with accents on the negatives, over the cup of black coffee she arranged for me.

“Why”, I wanted to know, quite foolishly.

“Let the world know I will never go back to the plains”, she snapped, determined.

“Don’t you feel nostalgic”, I enquired to pacify her, as I understood she was disturbed at the mention of the hometown.

“I have forgotten my past, and would like to keep it buried”, she said as her face stooped a bit and the eyes glistening with tears she tried to hold back.

            I decided I should revert to the topic of places of tourist interest in her area and beyond. I went to the area as a tourist and one late afternoon I stopped in front of her bungalow as I was told there resides a young Bengali officer of the LIC from Kolkata, also my hometown. I could not but have a desire to interact with someone in my mother tongue. Though unknown, I sent a message through the gardener. Within minutes she emerged from the bungalow smiling, and reached the gate to welcome me.

          “ I’m Amal Bose from Kolkata, a tourist,” I introduced myself with a namaskar.  Greeting me,she said, “ I’m Anusuya Chatterjee.”

           She took me to the drawing room, furnished and well maintained. A Picasso spread on the front wall, two Da Vincis on side walls almost look like frescos, and suggests she is a connoisseur of art. A mandolin and a guitar are kept with care leaning against the back wall. The floor is covered with Kashmiri carpet rich with flower and folk motif.

           Clad in casuals, she politely took leave of me and went inside. She reemerged, and her domestic help followed with snacks and coffee. She herself served the delicacies. I politely said it was not necessary. She said it was time for her to have coffee, and I must be exhausted after the trek. Her humility was inspiring. I said,” It appears your favourite pastime relates to involvement in cultural activities.” She smiled and said,” How do you know?” I pointed to the paintings on the walls and the two musical instruments. She said,” No, I have no taste for them now.” And her smile receded for a moment.” Once you might have the taste,” I said, hesitant. “How do you like the place?” she asked to divert. I told her of my experience in the hills and the lure of the idyllic beauty of her area. She was pleased and satisfied, perhaps, thinking that she had chosen the right place to live. Should I say she is romantic in her decision to return to Nature from urban civilization? Or she is just willing to live a quiet life in the tranquility that prevails here. I spent about an hour with her that afternoon. I found she was reticent and quite thoughtful. I understood her smile masks something which she could not share. I departed at sundown. She invited me to lunch the next Sunday and said we would have breakfast together at 9 in the morning.

            As I mounted the rented car, she waved to me. The car rolled on and her words” No, I have no taste for them now” rang in my ears. What went wrong that she could no longer enjoy painting and music, I thought. I remembered the story of Sudha Chandran who came back to the stage through sheer determination with a Jaipur foot after her leg was amputated following an accident. Why then is this girl so apathetic to painting and music? She evaded my query regarding her taste for the arts. I began to ratiocinate.

“Does she lack determination?”

“No, that can’t be. She has enough determination not to go back to the plains.”

“What could be the cause?”

“This must also be a determination.”

“Was she rebuffed somehow, somewhere?”

“If so, she wouldn’t, possibly, demonstrate her liking in the drawing room.”

“One rebuff couldn’t be the cause of her losing interest in the two arts.”

“Well, why is she determined not to go back to the plains?”

“The answer may be there”, I decided.

               Sometimes it happens, failed love leads to such kind of renunciation of sorts. A revolt against parental neglect also prompts decision to remain outside and away from family life. So, she may feel the sylvan glory of the place far away from Kolkata is her attraction. She finds the abode an ideal place for her to hide from the world she is fed up with.

             At home, when abed, resting, Anu,I am told, listens to gazals. During my weeklong stay in the nearby town, I often interacted with her in the evening and found she was stoically nostalgic. She confided to me that she often listens to this gazal by Mohammed Rafi:

Yeh Na Thi Hamari Quismat,Ke Wisaal-e-yaar Hota,

Agar Aur Jeete Rehete,Yahi Intazaar  Hota,

Tere Waade Par Jiye Ham,Tho Yeh Jaan  Jhoot Jana,

Ke Kushi Se Mar Na Jaate,Agar Aithbaar Hota,

Yeh Na Thi Hamaari Quismat…

Koi Mer Dil Se,Puche,Tere Teer-e-niim Kashko,

Voh Khalish Kahan Se Hoti,Jo Jigar Ke Paar Hota,

Yeh Na Thi Hamaari Quismat…

 (            It was not my destiny, to unite with my beloved,

Had I been still alive, this was what I would have waited for.

Your vow kept me alive, and you reckoned  it was a lie,

Wouldn’t have I died of happiness, if you had trusted me;

It was not my destiny ……..

Had any one asked my heart, about the arrows emanating from the bows of your half closed eyes,

Where from would that sting come, which had pierced across my heart?

It was not my destiny ……..)

Gazal, she says, is one of her favourite genres of song. But Why?  She wouldn’t reveal. A Gazal, you know, is a poetic expression of the pain of loss or separation, and the beauty of love despite the pain. It deals with an illicit or unattainable love. This love may be directed to a man or a woman. It may or may not have an explicit element of sexual desire expressed through it. Is she lovelorn?  It is not known, can only be guessed at this moment. (continued on 1 January 2014)