Rajmahal (12 page)

That night he had the first of his laughing dreams, speaking incoherently yet jovially in a deep nocturnal voice while Mohini watched in amazement. She shook him angrily and was more amazed when he turned to her and made love as never before after a gap of six months. While lying under him, she caste her eyes up to the mirror above to watch their middle-aged bodies at this ritual which had started such a long time ago. Something brushed her lightly and a pink flash told her the ghost of Inderjeet Kaur was smiling down on them, and showering them with a benison of silver
gota
.

With Proshanto's complete sexual revival he had already reached the end of his desperate search. He and Mohini spent a lively swan song, punctuated sweetly by those idyllic laughing dreams. Their only sadness, which they philosophically quelled, was their lack of offspring. Then Mohini's ill health overwhelmed her and she took to her bed with palpitations, migraines, everything weakening—digestion, limbs, and organs, the inexplicably swift onset of premature aging. And its grand culmination.

“Maybe we shouldn't have had such enjoyment at this age,” her ghost sometimes thought. But she convinced herself her reasoning was faulty. No overseeing power could grudge them the compensation of good sex when they were denied its natural outcome.

The Mojumdars had seriously thought of adoption as an alternative, and family circumstances made the choice for them. When Proshanto's brother, Shudhangshu, was deserted by his wife, he had a nervous breakdown, leaving his young son Rudrangshu a virtual orphan. It was natural for Proshanto and Mohini to take him into their care. Their affection for Rudrangshu, a handsome, gentle youth, grew over his long stays with them between returning to his father's care. He became their legal heir. But Proshanto's desperate search of the earlier years interfered with his
attention, leaving room only for affection rather than intense concern. The intensity was his brother Shudhangshu's parental preserve. Shudhangshu, jobless, heartbroken at losing his wife, squandered his inheritance on alcohol and travel, and was left with little but this intense concern. After his initial neglect, his son became his obsession.

Now, he was bent on wresting Rudrangshu's inheritance from Proshanto, to set him up in business, buy him a job, make him a landlord, anything. Rudrangshu was indifferent, inclined to indolence and a complete lack of ambition. Unfortunately, his loyal and loving uncle's memory had stalled permanently into a running mark time, a stuck record, dating back to Rudrangshu's school days, when he had done well in his exams. All recollection of his miserable performance in university, his joblessness and fecklessness, had evaporated with the onset of senile forgetfulness. “Ah, that boy will make us all proud one day,” he would say repeatedly to his impatient younger brother, ignoring all hints at Rudrangshu's need for a fiscal injection.

Rudrangshu continued living in the Rajmahal after Mohini's death. His father visited frequently between disappearances to the decrepit family home on the edge of their former estates. One morning, when Proshanto came out of his bedroom, he heard Shudhangshu's voice.

“Hello
Dada
!” it said.

“Shudo!” Proshanto looked at his younger brother's face with the bulging eyes and shaggy mustache.

“Don't be surprised
Dada
! I came in late last night.”

“Ah, you must have met Rudro.”

“Last night. When I came in.”

“Where is the dear boy. Rudro, Rudro!”

“He's still asleep.”

“Ah yes. Young people! They indeed need great quantities of sleep. And where is Bonzo? Bonzo, Bonzo!” he called feverishly.

“If you mean your dog,
Dada
, his name is Rover!”

“Eh? Where are the servants? Bearer, bearer!”

“They're out. One fellow 's taken Rover for a walk and the other's gone to get some sausages and bacon. You know how I love sausages and bacon! I'm planning to stay with you a while,
Dada
. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. You are most welcome. Tell me. Is your wife all right. Er . . . ” He had forgotten her name altogether. He had also forgotten that she and Shudhangshu were divorced. “Body odor,” the wife had snapped succinctly when pressed for her reasons.

“I . . . what wife? Have you forgotten? Ruby left me years ago!”

“Ruby. A gem, yes, a real gem. Er . . . how is she by the way?”

“Divorced, we are divorced!” Shudhangshu shouted.

Proshanto nodded and went back to his bedroom to dress. When he came out, he found Shudhangshu sitting comfortably at the dining table wolfing sausage, bacon and eggs with relish. “Come on,
Dada
,” he said magnanimously. “Make yourself at home!” He laughed obnoxiously. Everything about Shudhangshu was obnoxious, including the clinging body odor. “Hope you don't mind, I've started breakfast. Very hungry, especially after the late night . . . ” He stopped abruptly and bit his tongue. Why remind
Dada
that he had come in drunk and helped himself to giant pegs of whiskey till Proshanto had fallen asleep in his chair.

“What, last night . . . ?”

“Found you fast asleep on your chair in the drawing room, and dreaming. Something funny. You were laughing away most loudly. Gave me quite a fright, by Jove. There you were, mumbling in your sleep and laughing. Couldn't make out a word you were saying. I had to carry you to bed. You need looking after
Dada
. . . ” Shudhangshu, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Ah! That was delicious! Try some,
Dada
!”

One of the servants arrived with a plate of fried eggs on toast and put it down in front of Proshanto. He ate neatly with a fork and knife and with a concentrated frown. When he looked up again his eyes encountered Shudhangshu and he gave a start. “What are you doing here, Shudo?” he said. “Are you planning to stay?”

“I just told you,” said Shudhangshu irritably. “Of course I'm planning to stay. I need your advice about Rudro . . . ”

Proshanto Mojumdar's infinite reserves of courtesy came into known territory again with a grateful leap. “Oh but of course, of course. You must stay. And as long as you wish. Where is the dear boy? And where is Bonzo?”

“
Dada,
” said Shudhangshu with extreme circumspection. “You know Rudro is still asleep. And, it's not Bonzo, it's Rover, Rover!” He found himself shouting and lowered his voice with an effort. “Bonzo was your last dog, the bulldog, remember? He died at least twenty years ago.
This one's a Doberman. His name is Rover, Rover!” This was a mistake, because Rover had returned from his walk and answered the call. He came bounding in, a monster clothed in a sleek brown body, bristling and growling at the presence of this intruder. Shudhangshu cried out and sprang up, another mistake. The dog leaped at him ignoring Proshanto's calls and clamped his jaws on his arm. A servant, already on course with a jug of water, threw it instinctively at the dog. The water cascaded on to both dog and Shudhangshu and the temporarily shocked Rover was held back by the servant. “Damn monster!” growled Shudhangshu at the confined dog, chained and being pulled out of the room. Proshanto looked on with dropped jaw. “I cannot understand it,” he said. “What is the matter with the dog? Where is he? Bonzo, Bonzo!” he called. The dog bayed from the next room.

“Oh god,
Dada
! You're the limit!” Shudhangshu's arm dripped with blood and water.

He called to the servants, “Where have you tied him? You should have tied him up earlier. You know he bites. Be sure he's kept out of my way!” Fuming, he left to have himself treated. Inoculations, bandages, and pain didn't encourage a feeling of kindliness toward the dog.

Soon, Shudhangshu was settled into the Rajmahal, constantly aware of the dog's menace, and trying to work out ploys to relieve Proshanto of his money. But controlling his irritability was a hard task, especially with Proshanto's insistence on calling out to “Bonzo” at regular intervals. The dog's baying response resounded in reply. “It's too much!” fumed Shudhangshu. “
Dada
's gone off his rocker!” And he held his head and shook it morosely. “I have to stop shouting at him! Come on!” he exhorted himself. “Control yourself !”

“
Dada
,” he said. “You must allow me to pay you for my board here. As it is, you are being so kind to Rudro.”

The clever move wiped out Proshanto's confusion. “Pay? Of course not! Have you forgotten you are my younger brother, and Rudro is like my son! Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Far from it,
Dada
. I'm in close contact with my senses I can assure you,” and Shudhangshu laughed his uproarious laugh. “But . . . I'm having some problems with my health . . . My heart . . . ” he added vaguely, refusing to divulge anything further in spite of repeated pressing. This additional nuance further pulled his elder brother to him through dutiful anxiety, and in time Shudhangshu's health became an obsession with Proshanto.
Shudhangshu's feeling of power grew. “It's so easy to manipulate him,” he thought. “Why can't I get the old skinflint to part with his money?” And again he held his head and shook it, his frustration bursting out in a growl to match the dog's.

He stayed away from alcohol to help his self-control, yet at the back of his mind, he knew his addiction would return, which it did in just one day. “A noble drink indeed,” he said, happily draining plentiful draughts of superior malt whiskey again. He ordered it by the crateful on his rich brother's account, after convincing him it was essential for his heart. He also took the cunning course of encouraging his brother in his campaign for an elevator.

Proshanto Mojumdar's memory contained a scattering of clear points in the fog of forgetting. Among these was the matter of the elevator. Whenever he mentioned it, which was often, Shudhangshu enthusiastically supported him. “It is time to prepare for old age before the stairs create an insurmountable barrier to the world outside,” said Proshanto. Repeatedly. The other tenants supported him, including Surjeet Shona, in spite of her apartment being on the ground floor. They banded together and tormented Junior Mallik, the landlord's son, who had charge of the building. Loud arguments could be heard from the Mallik apartment, dominated by Junior's harangues. “Can't you understand climbing the stairs will give you exercise! Don't you see it's a must...!”

Bravely, brushing aside Junior, his father Ali Mallik acquired a prized antique elevator. “What do you think?” he said to Proshanto Mojumdar, when it was unloaded outside the lobby. “It's a copy of the Government House elevator. If it's good enough for Government House, it should be good enough for us, don't you think?”

“What! That ‘birdcage'?” roared Junior, arriving magically.

“A brilliant move!” enthused Proshanto Mojumdar.

The Rajmahal could hardly contain its excitement. When had such a technological revolution been promised in its interiors? What, how, when, was it going to, to enjoy this stunning, electrically worked contraption of such delicate proportions, a veritable fairy goddess with its curvaceous roof and wrought metal filigree, its trellised designs of rings, curlicues and flower bouquets? For the Rajmahal had fallen in love with the little creature. “I want you!” it sang, silently and frustratedly to itself. “I want you!” It almost had an orgasm, stopping itself just in time when a beam nearly snapped out of position.

Junior was outraged, but could do nothing when his father stood firm. “Very good,” he said, clapping mockingly. “Congratulations dear father on your enterprise. I only hope it works!”

His words, uttered with such bad grace, sounded the death knell of the enterprise, and the elevator would never be installed. It was discovered there simply wasn't space enough in the stairwell. Small as it was the birdcage was too wide by almost a foot. And attaching it to one side of the lobby raised grave problems of symmetry. The Rajmahal found its desire to embrace the flighty little creature dissipating. Any suggestion of creating a lopsided aberration, pretty though the cause may be, was too upsetting to the confirmed bachelor returning to his senses.