the window and watch the people in the street below.
On a Friday Kishan took Nila to Sunil’s house for dinner. Sunil lived on Rue de Rivoli, which was named after the village in Italy where Napoleon defeated the Austrians in 1797. There was a station, a street and a bridge in this city, which were named after Austerlitz in Czechoslovakia because there too Napoleon had defeated the Russianand Austrian armies in 1805. There was also a street named Friedland because that was the Russian town where Napoleon had defeated the Russians in 1807. The war fields where Napoleon was victorious were the only ones that were honoured in Paris. Nila hadn’t found anything named after Waterloo when she’d searched the map of Paris. The Hôtel de Ville was on the left and the Louvre on the right. Its roof was clearly visible from the window. Nila stood at the window and gazed at this vision of loveliness as she said, ‘Kishan, can’t you live in such a pretty place?’
There was a crude smile on his crude lips, ‘If I got a big fat dowry from your father, I could have done that right now.’
Nila turned around, ‘Why, has Sunil bought this house with money from his dowry?’
‘Don’t compare Sunil with me—he’s a doctor and he mints money. I am just a hardworking businessman and my business is almost bankrupt.’
Nila didn’t feel like a visitor in Sunil’s house. It felt more like her own house or at least a close friend’s. She noticed that she was more at home here than at Kishan’s. There were pictures of Rabindranath Tagore, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and Vivekananda on the walls: the three famous Bengalis. Nila was a little sceptical about Vivekananda—he was in favour of child-marriage for girls and had opposed widow remarriage, hadn’t he? When Nila asked, Sunil said he didn’t know. Chaitali knew and she was busy cooking. She wouldn’t be interested in discussing the moral fibre of Vivekananda. The bookshelves were full of Bengali books and a Bengali song was playing on tape. Nila bent down to look at the books as she hummed the song that played; the smell of hilsa fish cooked in mustard sauce wafted from the kitchen. She picked up three Bengali novels and a book on the French artistic sensibilities in the nineteenth century. As she glanced at Sunil for permission to borrow them, she found him already nodding and waving away the question of permission. And two cassettes of Rabindrasangeet by Kanika? That too.
Delighted, Nila crossed her legs and tapped her feet, a book by George Pereq in her hands. Her tapping feet went up on the sofa as she slowly reclined on the sofa and her legs stretched out to onecorner of the seat. In her home in Calcutta Nila used to forget about the world thus, lost in her books, stretched out on the sofa, the bed, on the porch or the floor.
‘What’s the matter—did you come here to read?’ Kishan’s comment brought her upright. There were two men conversing in the drawing room and it didn’t look proper for Nila to stretch out thus on the sofa, reading. She should go to the kitchen and try to help Chaitali.
But she didn’t go to the kitchen and instead asked Sunil to form a sentence without an a or an i.
For a while Sunil stared at the ceiling and muttered but he couldn’t do it.
George Pereq had written that massive book without a single ‘i’ in it. Amazing! Nila was still lost in her book. ‘What a talent.’
Sunil showed some interest momentarily and then went back to discussing the restaurant business with Kishan. Nila put the book on top of the pile she was borrowing and slowly crept across the wooden floor towards Tumpa. ‘Tumpa-rani, can I play with you?’ The child was lost in her own world and didn’t respond.
‘Tumpa-rani, will you give me that talking doll?’
Tumpa didn’t speak. Sunil said, ‘She doesn’t know Bengali.’ Nila was surprised—a Bengali child who didn’t know Bengali but only French? She spoke French at home and in school.
On a Friday Kishan took Nila to Sunil’s house for dinner. Sunil lived on Rue de Rivoli, which was named after the village in Italy where Napoleon defeated the Austrians in 1797. There was a station, a street and a bridge in this city, which were named after Austerlitz in Czechoslovakia because there too Napoleon had defeated the Russianand Austrian armies in 1805. There was also a street named Friedland because that was the Russian town where Napoleon had defeated the Russians in 1807. The war fields where Napoleon was victorious were the only ones that were honoured in Paris. Nila hadn’t found anything named after Waterloo when she’d searched the map of Paris. The Hôtel de Ville was on the left and the Louvre on the right. Its roof was clearly visible from the window. Nila stood at the window and gazed at this vision of loveliness as she said, ‘Kishan, can’t you live in such a pretty place?’
There was a crude smile on his crude lips, ‘If I got a big fat dowry from your father, I could have done that right now.’
Nila turned around, ‘Why, has Sunil bought this house with money from his dowry?’
‘Don’t compare Sunil with me—he’s a doctor and he mints money. I am just a hardworking businessman and my business is almost bankrupt.’
Nila didn’t feel like a visitor in Sunil’s house. It felt more like her own house or at least a close friend’s. She noticed that she was more at home here than at Kishan’s. There were pictures of Rabindranath Tagore, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and Vivekananda on the walls: the three famous Bengalis. Nila was a little sceptical about Vivekananda—he was in favour of child-marriage for girls and had opposed widow remarriage, hadn’t he? When Nila asked, Sunil said he didn’t know. Chaitali knew and she was busy cooking. She wouldn’t be interested in discussing the moral fibre of Vivekananda. The bookshelves were full of Bengali books and a Bengali song was playing on tape. Nila bent down to look at the books as she hummed the song that played; the smell of hilsa fish cooked in mustard sauce wafted from the kitchen. She picked up three Bengali novels and a book on the French artistic sensibilities in the nineteenth century. As she glanced at Sunil for permission to borrow them, she found him already nodding and waving away the question of permission. And two cassettes of Rabindrasangeet by Kanika? That too.
Delighted, Nila crossed her legs and tapped her feet, a book by George Pereq in her hands. Her tapping feet went up on the sofa as she slowly reclined on the sofa and her legs stretched out to onecorner of the seat. In her home in Calcutta Nila used to forget about the world thus, lost in her books, stretched out on the sofa, the bed, on the porch or the floor.
‘What’s the matter—did you come here to read?’ Kishan’s comment brought her upright. There were two men conversing in the drawing room and it didn’t look proper for Nila to stretch out thus on the sofa, reading. She should go to the kitchen and try to help Chaitali.
But she didn’t go to the kitchen and instead asked Sunil to form a sentence without an a or an i.
For a while Sunil stared at the ceiling and muttered but he couldn’t do it.
George Pereq had written that massive book without a single ‘i’ in it. Amazing! Nila was still lost in her book. ‘What a talent.’
Sunil showed some interest momentarily and then went back to discussing the restaurant business with Kishan. Nila put the book on top of the pile she was borrowing and slowly crept across the wooden floor towards Tumpa. ‘Tumpa-rani, can I play with you?’ The child was lost in her own world and didn’t respond.
‘Tumpa-rani, will you give me that talking doll?’
Tumpa didn’t speak. Sunil said, ‘She doesn’t know Bengali.’ Nila was surprised—a Bengali child who didn’t know Bengali but only French? She spoke French at home and in school.
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