She Won’t
Reveal (2)
Nidhu Bhusan Das
On Sunday I reached the bungalow on time. Anu was in her beautiful front garden,
sitting on a chair, her friend Nilu beside on another chair. There were three
chairs and an oval table usually used for breakfast and refreshments in the
garden of a posh bungalow. It’s December 15. People put on colourful warm clothes
on such a day. Under the clear sky the garden looked charming. The lush green
grass was freshly mowed. Light blue cornflowers, also known as bachelor’s button,
red button daisies and brownish orchid flowers adorned the garden rich with
insectivorous pitcher plants and lemon plants. The sun is yet to be bright and
the rays were soft. Professionals in the area see the morning late on holidays in
winter.
Anu introduced me to Nilu saying,” This is my friend Nilu,I mean Nilima Sanyal.
She is born and brought up here, did her M.A. in English and a PhD on Oedipus
complex in the novels of D.H. Laurence from Guwahati University. She teaches in the local college. She is junior to me by 3 years.” We exchanged greetings and namaskar. Nilu offered me to sit on the blank chair, face to face with them. She has an anglicized accent, and began the conversation. She proved to be a to my reticent host whom you have to understand mostly reading body language.
Nidhu Bhusan Das
On Sunday I reached the bungalow on time. Anu was in her beautiful front garden,
sitting on a chair, her friend Nilu beside on another chair. There were three
chairs and an oval table usually used for breakfast and refreshments in the
garden of a posh bungalow. It’s December 15. People put on colourful warm clothes
on such a day. Under the clear sky the garden looked charming. The lush green
grass was freshly mowed. Light blue cornflowers, also known as bachelor’s button,
red button daisies and brownish orchid flowers adorned the garden rich with
insectivorous pitcher plants and lemon plants. The sun is yet to be bright and
the rays were soft. Professionals in the area see the morning late on holidays in
winter.
Anu introduced me to Nilu saying,” This is my friend Nilu,I mean Nilima Sanyal.
She is born and brought up here, did her M.A. in English and a PhD on Oedipus
complex in the novels of D.H. Laurence from Guwahati University. She teaches in the local college. She is junior to me by 3 years.” We exchanged greetings and namaskar. Nilu offered me to sit on the blank chair, face to face with them. She has an anglicized accent, and began the conversation. She proved to be a to my reticent host whom you have to understand mostly reading body language.
“How do you like our place?” Nilu asked. “It’s fantastic,
and the bungalow with
the garden is a dream world.” I noticed a cheerfulness hovering over the face of
my host and a smile lingering on her lips. She said,” The credit goes to the
gardener, the amiable Prafullada. I told him of my dream and he laid out the
garden. It’s he who takes care of it.” At this I looked at her, astonished at her
humility when Nilu with all spontaneity clarified,” She is like that. She doesn’t
fail to acknowledge the contribution and good work of anybody.” As the
conversation progressed, I became aware of the Thlumuwi waterfall the sound of which synced well with the buzz of insects and chirp of birds in and around the Toast, omelet and coffee came soon amid the conversation. The domestic help Lila came smiling with the tray. There is a cheerful atmosphere in the bungalow, and I enjoyed it. If there is any gloom, it remains buried in the presence of guests as the cloud is lit bright in the resplendent presence of the sun. I said,” The toast, omelet and even the coffee taste different here…” “How?” Nilu interrupted. “You see, even the taste of food differs in different atmospheres, I mean the human environment.” My host nodded, smiling while Nilu agreed verbally. This is like Anu. She verbalizes less, uses facial expressions more.” Why don’t you have roses in your garden?” I asked my host.
“It was roses, roses, all the way,” she began and said, “I hope you have read the
poem.”
“Yes, by Robert Browning,” I said.
“Roses are for celebrations, and every celebration culminates into oblivion,” she
averred.
“It’s also for love,” I suggested.
“Love is fiction while the fact is rose has thorns,” she clarified.
“In gazals rose stands for love and longing, and you like gazals,” I countered.
“Yes, I like but it’s for their lyric and melancholy,” she was candid.
Then she hastened to ask, “Well, what about your Kolkata, these days?” Is it she
is interested or just to leave the present topic of our conversation? I was
puzzled.
“It’s getting faster, bigger and vaster every day,” I said.
“And less and less humane,” she added.
“Do you believe so?” I asked, really to know her mind.
“You should be proud of your City of Joy. Ain’t the slums increasing and
expanding, and the number of pavement dwellers?” she enquired, meaningfully.
“Asian cities- even the US ones- have these features,” I asserted.
“But none of them is a City of Joy for Dominique Lapierre,” she countered with a
kind of sarcasm.
“Is it you’re bitter about your hometown?” I dared to ask.
“Why should I?” came the apt reply. She was visibly perturbed.
I forgot I shouldn’t put a journalistic question to my host who is not a public
figure and won’t like to be one. Bound within this Lakshman Rekha, how I could
know her mind, I thought, seriously. But I couldn’t go beyond the limit of
courtesy that exists between a host and a guest.
“I understand you shouldn’t. Maybe, I was overcurious,” I said apologetically.
“That’s alright, no problem. Curiosity is not unwelcome,” she assured me,
smiling.
Nilu pointed out it’s already 11 a.m. My host decided we should now be indoors
for a round of tea to be followed by lunch at 12. Anu religiously follows routine. On holidays, she has her lunch at 12 noon and dinner by 8 p.m. No break of the rule. She is strict in this. As desired by the host, we left the garden for the drawing room. Seated on the sofa, I looked at the Picasso and the Da Vices, and a silence set in.Nilu called my attention to tea. I felt a shake, awakened, as it were, from a stance. I felt disturbed as the stance was preferable to the tea. But I wouldn’t like them to understand .I took up the cup filled with fuming tea .Even the flavour of Darjeeling could not transport me to the reality of their presence from the world of dream and thought that the paintings brought me to. I felt the slip between the cup and the lip when they tried to hide their laughter at my queer behaviour as I looked on with the cup near the lip without having a sip to read the meaning contained in the paintings.
Guernica, intriguingly, is on the front wall, and the left is occupied by the
Last Supper and on the right wall is Mona Lisa. The weeping woman in the Picasso is in all her harsh ugliness. Why my host has chosen the piece to decorate the front wall is the question which dominates my thought. Is it that she has a strong bitterness in her experience which she finds expressed through the weeping woman? Against what could be the strong sentiment of hers? If it’s so,
why has she chosen the other two paintings? What do the women in the other twosymbolize for her? Mary Magdalene, consort of Jesus and present in the
Last Supper, is courageous, strong willed and compassionate. Does the choice
suggest she appreciates the qualities and shares them? But why Mona Lisa with her mysterious smile is her choice? My host always wears a smile. She is tough once she takes a decision. I understand she has determination and courage to decide boldly. But what is the cause? The weeping woman in Guernica has a cause against
the Spanish Civil War, Magdalene was with the Christ in critical situations like
the crucifixion, and she was the first to perceive the resurrection of the Son of
God. May we think she embodies anger, compassion and determination? What could be the cause of anger which leads to her determination and her compassion which one
understands from her acts of a Good Samaritan with the local people who have come to look upon her as DIDI (Sister)?
Nilu again awakened me to tell that it’s time for lunch. She has arrogated unto
herself the role of the host while Anu cudgels her brains in her presence. Nilu
is definitely her alter ego.
the garden is a dream world.” I noticed a cheerfulness hovering over the face of
my host and a smile lingering on her lips. She said,” The credit goes to the
gardener, the amiable Prafullada. I told him of my dream and he laid out the
garden. It’s he who takes care of it.” At this I looked at her, astonished at her
humility when Nilu with all spontaneity clarified,” She is like that. She doesn’t
fail to acknowledge the contribution and good work of anybody.” As the
conversation progressed, I became aware of the Thlumuwi waterfall the sound of which synced well with the buzz of insects and chirp of birds in and around the Toast, omelet and coffee came soon amid the conversation. The domestic help Lila came smiling with the tray. There is a cheerful atmosphere in the bungalow, and I enjoyed it. If there is any gloom, it remains buried in the presence of guests as the cloud is lit bright in the resplendent presence of the sun. I said,” The toast, omelet and even the coffee taste different here…” “How?” Nilu interrupted. “You see, even the taste of food differs in different atmospheres, I mean the human environment.” My host nodded, smiling while Nilu agreed verbally. This is like Anu. She verbalizes less, uses facial expressions more.” Why don’t you have roses in your garden?” I asked my host.
“It was roses, roses, all the way,” she began and said, “I hope you have read the
poem.”
“Yes, by Robert Browning,” I said.
“Roses are for celebrations, and every celebration culminates into oblivion,” she
averred.
“It’s also for love,” I suggested.
“Love is fiction while the fact is rose has thorns,” she clarified.
“In gazals rose stands for love and longing, and you like gazals,” I countered.
“Yes, I like but it’s for their lyric and melancholy,” she was candid.
Then she hastened to ask, “Well, what about your Kolkata, these days?” Is it she
is interested or just to leave the present topic of our conversation? I was
puzzled.
“It’s getting faster, bigger and vaster every day,” I said.
“And less and less humane,” she added.
“Do you believe so?” I asked, really to know her mind.
“You should be proud of your City of Joy. Ain’t the slums increasing and
expanding, and the number of pavement dwellers?” she enquired, meaningfully.
“Asian cities- even the US ones- have these features,” I asserted.
“But none of them is a City of Joy for Dominique Lapierre,” she countered with a
kind of sarcasm.
“Is it you’re bitter about your hometown?” I dared to ask.
“Why should I?” came the apt reply. She was visibly perturbed.
I forgot I shouldn’t put a journalistic question to my host who is not a public
figure and won’t like to be one. Bound within this Lakshman Rekha, how I could
know her mind, I thought, seriously. But I couldn’t go beyond the limit of
courtesy that exists between a host and a guest.
“I understand you shouldn’t. Maybe, I was overcurious,” I said apologetically.
“That’s alright, no problem. Curiosity is not unwelcome,” she assured me,
smiling.
Nilu pointed out it’s already 11 a.m. My host decided we should now be indoors
for a round of tea to be followed by lunch at 12. Anu religiously follows routine. On holidays, she has her lunch at 12 noon and dinner by 8 p.m. No break of the rule. She is strict in this. As desired by the host, we left the garden for the drawing room. Seated on the sofa, I looked at the Picasso and the Da Vices, and a silence set in.Nilu called my attention to tea. I felt a shake, awakened, as it were, from a stance. I felt disturbed as the stance was preferable to the tea. But I wouldn’t like them to understand .I took up the cup filled with fuming tea .Even the flavour of Darjeeling could not transport me to the reality of their presence from the world of dream and thought that the paintings brought me to. I felt the slip between the cup and the lip when they tried to hide their laughter at my queer behaviour as I looked on with the cup near the lip without having a sip to read the meaning contained in the paintings.
Guernica, intriguingly, is on the front wall, and the left is occupied by the
Last Supper and on the right wall is Mona Lisa. The weeping woman in the Picasso is in all her harsh ugliness. Why my host has chosen the piece to decorate the front wall is the question which dominates my thought. Is it that she has a strong bitterness in her experience which she finds expressed through the weeping woman? Against what could be the strong sentiment of hers? If it’s so,
why has she chosen the other two paintings? What do the women in the other twosymbolize for her? Mary Magdalene, consort of Jesus and present in the
Last Supper, is courageous, strong willed and compassionate. Does the choice
suggest she appreciates the qualities and shares them? But why Mona Lisa with her mysterious smile is her choice? My host always wears a smile. She is tough once she takes a decision. I understand she has determination and courage to decide boldly. But what is the cause? The weeping woman in Guernica has a cause against
the Spanish Civil War, Magdalene was with the Christ in critical situations like
the crucifixion, and she was the first to perceive the resurrection of the Son of
God. May we think she embodies anger, compassion and determination? What could be the cause of anger which leads to her determination and her compassion which one
understands from her acts of a Good Samaritan with the local people who have come to look upon her as DIDI (Sister)?
Nilu again awakened me to tell that it’s time for lunch. She has arrogated unto
herself the role of the host while Anu cudgels her brains in her presence. Nilu
is definitely her alter ego.
We were now at the dining table with four chairs. The
kitchen keeper had kept the food
items on the table. Plates were laid before us three. Dehradun rice gave out enchanting flavour, chicken curry,
pineapple-ilish, mung dal , fresh
Italian ice-cream were in the menu.Delicious, indeed. My host politely said,
“Let’s start, Mr. Bose.” The lunch began. Fish was the first choice to begin
with. As we were on the pineapple-ilish , Anu said,” I like ilish. It’s my
favourite fish. How do you like the fish, Mr. Bose?’ I said,” Like every East
Bengali, I also like ilish.” She appeared to have become happy.
“Mr. Bose midway through our conversation at the drawing room you suddenly turned melancholic, I mean thoughtful. Your eyes were travelling from one painting to another,” said my host with curiosity.
“Is it?” I asked, innocently.
“And you stopped talking.”
“Well, I was trying to understand,” I said, perplexed.
“Trying to understand what, the meaning of the paintings?” she asked.
“I don’t know, exactly.”
She smiled meaningfully.
“Are you homesick? Kolkata pulls you back?” she was inquisitive.
“No, not that. I remain away from home for months together. I have none to anchor
me. I’m a tramp, you can say,” I explained.
“Maybe, we are not the right persons to be in entertaining conversation,” she
felt.
“The paintings are thought provoking and puzzling,” said to mollify her.
“That’s true,” she said, assured.
“I tried to relate them to your taste,” I pointed out, cautious.
“My taste, you relate to!” she exclaimed, as it were, singed at the suggestion.
“The choice is yours,” I asserted, boldly.
“The choice is meaningless. I’m not after meaning, you know,” She shot back.
“Every choice has meaning,” I said involuntarily.
At this Anu’s smile receded. Put out, she asked me about the taste of the food,
evidently to bury an uncomfortable topic. ( continued on 15 January 2014)
Italian ice-cream were in the menu.Delicious, indeed. My host politely said,
“Let’s start, Mr. Bose.” The lunch began. Fish was the first choice to begin
with. As we were on the pineapple-ilish , Anu said,” I like ilish. It’s my
favourite fish. How do you like the fish, Mr. Bose?’ I said,” Like every East
Bengali, I also like ilish.” She appeared to have become happy.
“Mr. Bose midway through our conversation at the drawing room you suddenly turned melancholic, I mean thoughtful. Your eyes were travelling from one painting to another,” said my host with curiosity.
“Is it?” I asked, innocently.
“And you stopped talking.”
“Well, I was trying to understand,” I said, perplexed.
“Trying to understand what, the meaning of the paintings?” she asked.
“I don’t know, exactly.”
She smiled meaningfully.
“Are you homesick? Kolkata pulls you back?” she was inquisitive.
“No, not that. I remain away from home for months together. I have none to anchor
me. I’m a tramp, you can say,” I explained.
“Maybe, we are not the right persons to be in entertaining conversation,” she
felt.
“The paintings are thought provoking and puzzling,” said to mollify her.
“That’s true,” she said, assured.
“I tried to relate them to your taste,” I pointed out, cautious.
“My taste, you relate to!” she exclaimed, as it were, singed at the suggestion.
“The choice is yours,” I asserted, boldly.
“The choice is meaningless. I’m not after meaning, you know,” She shot back.
“Every choice has meaning,” I said involuntarily.
At this Anu’s smile receded. Put out, she asked me about the taste of the food,
evidently to bury an uncomfortable topic. ( continued on 15 January 2014)
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