Recap: Bobby Bansal, who maintains some order in Ronny Banerjee’s life, is convinced that #Sumonagate is the best thing to have happened to his magnum opus. The news of casting Pragya has gone viral and Shaarani Sen’s stamp of approval has lifted Ronny’s profile a few notches further. But now Bobby must get him to the award ceremony — on time — where he shall be felicitated. 

The newspapers were full of Ronny’s ‘Young Bengali Gem’ award, the first floor of Ghosh Mansion was teeming with Manjulika’s students (who either had bad mohawks or bad taste in clothes or both), and the Family WhatsApp Group was abuzz with Marwari-Bengali wedding jokes. Lata’s head was ready to explode. Even Kakimoni’s part of the house, her refuge once upon a time, was no longer a peaceable place.

Just so no one could accuse her of being a churlish divorcee, Lata would drag herself there every morning and ask if she could help with something wedding-y. But apparently there was nothing specific for her to do — Molly was executing everything online — except admire Kakimoni’s daily shopping, which included bizarre items like matching His’n’Her umbrellas from Mohendralal Dutt & Sons, several beautiful peach-coloured mosquito nets, and pressure cookers and tiffin carriers in multiple sizes. Every time Lata tried to intervene — Molly would be leaving for Berlin exactly a week after the wedding and the tiffin carriers or the peach mosquito net, while stunning, would never be used — Kakimoni shushed her.
Eventually, after Kakimoni put away the precious trousseau, Lata would shuffle back to her room, climb into bed again and read one of her battered childhood books. Nimki served her meals on the bed. The day would drift away in dribs and drabs. A cup of tea now, a glass of orange juice then, a head massage sometimes, until a half-hour before Manjulika’s return from school. Then, a sudden burst of energy would invigorate them both. Lata would shower and get dressed, Nimki would turn the TV off. A respectable face would be cobbled together. In the evening, Manjulika would ask her, “So what are your plans, Munni?”

“I am not sure, Ma,” Lata would reply, “I’ve told the office my cousin is getting married. I might need to extend my break.”

Later, Lata would stay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, where a few luminous stars stuck in sappier times still attempted feebly to throw their dwindling gleam upon the room and its familiar corners. Lata did not feel sad, no. The feeling that suffused her at night was a sort of emptiness that felt bluish-grey and dense. But it wasn’t sadness, not at all.

By 11.30, the rickshaw-wallahs who slept in the courtyard at night — and moved into the covered verandahs mid-winter — would get busy pitching their communal mosquito nets and discussing the events of the day. The rolling sounds of their Bhojpuri would provide a soothing hum. And Lata would finally fall asleep.

Ten days of this. Just this. Contrary to the elaborate plans hatched during dull hours at work, Lata and Aaduri had barely scratched the surface of their long list of things to do. They hadn’t gone to College Street, New Market, Calcutta Club — where Aaduri had just become a member — or, even, Rajarhat, which Lata had a tourist’s curiosity about. Aaduri’s website was like a colicky new-born that needed constant attention.

Ten days! Lata said to herself, pausing by Dayanara, on the way to her room from Kakimoni’s. And since it was Saturday, Manjulika’s students were lurking every which way. She couldn’t bear the thought of chatting pleasantly with them.

Flurys at 12. You’d better turn up.

Lata sent the words into space — before lassitude consumed her again — and hurried up the stairs.

***
Lata had just managed to secure a table by the window, when she spotted Aaduri at the entrance. Aaduri was trailed by a handsome-ish man. Mid-thirties? “Helen-of-Troy,” she said, dumping her bag on the extra chair, “This is my colleague, Hem. He’s just leaving.”

“Hello, Hem,” Lata said, “I imagine you have to deal with her rudeness day-in-day-out. Do sit.”

“No, no,” mumbled Hem, continuing to stand at attention (good posture, Lata noted). “I was going to Oxford Bookstore. Since Aaduriji was coming here, I offered to drop her.”

“You may as well have a cup of tea. It’s a tad early for lunch,” Lata said, glaring at Aaduri.

With bad grace, Aaduri relented, removed her bag and motioned for Hem to sit.

The corners of Hem’s eyes crinkled rather cutely as he smiled. “How’s your vacation been thus far?” Hem asked. That slight accent of formality in his English was almost charming.

“Thanks to my friend’s new world-conquering job, quite dull. Where are you from originally, Hem?”

“Gorakhpur,” he replied. “But then I studied in Allahabad, mostly.”

“Ah,” said Lata. “I believe there are many Bengalis in Allahabad?”

“Yes. Some of my close friends, in fact. That’s why I understand Bangla. When I visited them at home, they would speak to me in chaste Hindi and to their parents in a horrible Bengali. The first Hindi literary magazine, Saraswati, was published by a Bengali. Chintamani Ghosh. My grandfather wrote for Saraswati.”

Aaduri now said, sounding irritated, “You never told me you understand Bangla or that your grandfather was a writer.”

Hem neither rolled his eyes nor said “You-never-asked.” He simply smiled.

Lata, meanwhile, turned to face the waiter who had mysteriously surfaced at her elbow. “Coffee Sprungli for madam. Hem, what will you have?”

“Darjeeling tea, if that’s what you’re having?”

“Fine, one coffee Sprungli, a pot of Darjeeling tea, three mutton patties? Hem?”

“I’m not vegetarian,” Hem clarified.

“Don’t worry, dada,” Lata told the waiter, “I know the rules. We’ll order lunch in a bit. This is just an appetiser. Onek din pawre elaam toh...” 

“When Aaduri and I used to come here, Hem,” Lata turned to him again. “The mutton patty was 14 rupees.”

“Humph,” said Aaduri, “You’re getting it all mixed up. You rarely came with me in college. It was invariably with Ronny.”
Lata smiled, “That’s true.”

“Is that why you dislike Mr Banerjee so much?” Hem asked, his face a picture of cherubic innocence. “Because Lataji would come here with him and not you?”

Lata chuckled. 

“Don’t get too clever with me, Hem Shankar Tiwari. Just because you have finally managed to answer a chao question or two doesn’t mean you’ll start getting ideas or asking me why I dislike X or Y. I have my reasons.”

Lata said, “You know, I finally watched both his films. On Netflix. Have you seen them, Hem?”

His face lit up. “Of course. I loved both.”

Mutton patties arrived.

Lata said, “So, Hem, I hear you are now a master of the chao?”

“Not master,” Hem said modestly, “But I am trying. Took me days to guess that Bangalore answer. Aaduriji was very strict. Did not tell me even when I begged for the answer. I kept awake at night, googled names of cities randomly at work, Sir was quite disappointed in me for two days. But then I got it. In which Indian city are many things forbidden? Ban. Galore. So elegant.”

“Okay,” said Lata, biting into her patty, “since you are Ronny’s fan, let me ask you a chao question he’d invented on our second date. It was, in fact, here in Flurys. Over one mutton patty, halved. At the time Flurys had plain white walls with pictures of old Calcutta on them.”

Aaduri rolled her eyes. NRIs.

“Which Indian city should you visit if things are not going your way?”

Hem closed his eyes in concentration.

Aaduri got up. “I’ll come from the restroom in a minute. Do. Not. Touch. My. Coffee. Sprungli.”

“What is this mystifying Sprungli?” Hem opened his eyes.

“You’ll see,” Lata smiled. “And Hem, don’t go by the bluster. Aaduri and Ronny go back a long time. Their mothers were best friends. Both only children, they grew up like siblings. And even now Ronny never forgets to call her on her birthday...”

“When is her birthday?” Hem asked.

“It’s actually next week, 1st December.”

“Hmm, Sagittarius,” Hem murmured. 

“When is your birthday?” Lata asked.

“1st April,” he replied. Lata tried to compose her features into an appropriate well-what-can-one-do expression. Then she caught sight of Hem’s eyes, the corners crinkled, and she threw back her head in laughter.

“Much bonding, I see,” Aaduri commented drily, sitting down.

The tall glass of chilled Coffee Sprungli arrived, its 50-shades-of-brown bringing a smile to Aaduri’s lips.

“You needn’t stare,” Aaduri told Hem, kindly, “Here,” she extended the glass, “Have a sip.”

Hem Shankar Tiwari blushed to a shade of deep beetroot.

To be continued

This is Chapter 9 of The Romantics of College Street, a serial novel by Devapriya Roy for t2oS. Find her on Instagram @roydevapriya or email her at theromanticsofcollegestreet@gmail.com