Every time I am in Russell Street, I hear my heart breaking. It’s a particular address. It was called Meghalaya House. It was part of RCTC property, it was an old, dilapidated bungalow, so ill-maintained that it only seemed to hang together through will-power. Now it is a building under construction, a criss-cross of concrete slabs and iron spikes poking into heaven, bearing the urban legend that the property is being developed into a commercial-cum-residential complex.

But it used to be an enchanted place. And the ghost of the old house is not dead. It rakes up my past. I had a relationship with the house. I spent wonderful evenings there. One particular evening leaps out from my memory and demands that I confess. It was the night I danced.

Cut to New Year’s eve 10 years ago. Slow, flashback music playing in the background. The lights come on. It’s about 11pm. A taxi driving down Russell Street is approaching the camera. It stops at the high iron gates of Meghalaya House. I, 10 years younger, in office clothes, but my lips painted a bright red hastily, step out. I am elated that I could convince my boss that it was okay to party on the 31st. I am ready.

I enter the building to the beats of It’s My Life calling me up the wide, wooden, crumbling staircase that twists and lands at the first floor and drops me right into the heart of the noise. It is unbearable, and it makes me happy. I head straight for the bar, which is set up in the spacious balcony with its creaking wooden floor, looking out into Russell Street through charming, arched louvres. The balcony was like frozen music, but not the kind playing.

In those days we were all quite poor. At the onset of the party, the organisers, my sister, some beloved cousins and a few close friends and their close friends, had realised that there was not enough money. So every one had pooled in and the result was an assortment of many bottles of different brands of alcohol in different quantities. All had been poured into a giant plastic vat, copious quantities of orange squash added and someone with an eye for aesthetics had added rough slices of pears and apples as garnish, which were still afloat. All you had to do was dip a plastic glass and drain it. I filled my glass again and sat down on a sofa, flanked by a beloved cousin and a dear friend. I felt blessed. In fact, that’s all I really remember. The rest are survivor’s accounts.
Apparently I seemed quite content with life till midnight, till everyone rushed to everyone. The spirit of the house must have entered me then.

I was soon seen marching into the middle of the dance floor, right in front of my sister and future brother-in-law, who were announcing their “couplehood” officially that evening and had long planned the first slow number of the evening, which was just about to begin. But I came in between and asked my brother-in-law if I could have the dance. When my sister was about to object violently, I reportedly looked ready to burst into tears. I had the dance.

And I danced and danced. A lot more happened. A friend of a friend had gatecrashed the party. He was proposing to every girl. He had proposed to me too, and apparently I was about to accept him, when another friend dragged me to safety. Another gatecrasher was about to be thrown out because he wouldn’t dance, but only chase girls, literally, across the room. But what the boys really objected to was the noise that would accompany the action, “Hrrr”, he went, “hrrr, hrrr”.

And I was still dancing. Till a point was reached that whenever I appeared on the horizon, the crowd would scream “there she is” and part like the Red Sea. I grabbed anybody and anything that came my way. I killed a lot of furniture. I was carried home in an unconscious state, slightly injured. But I could have danced all night. The house had done it.

When the new building comes up, will there be such a party? I doubt it. For new buildings, with their low ceilings, tight bedrooms and measured balconies, are too efficient, too wise, have too many sharp edges. They would not tolerate anything excessive, anything silly, anything out of tune. I would hurt myself badly.
But I miss myself dancing. And I miss the old house in Russell Street.

chandrima@abpmail.com
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