Recap: In her new home in Behala, Pixie finds the grown-ups other than her Dadu acting rather strangely. Then, one evening, Vikramjit Uncle and Tilottama Aunty from ‘Jampot’ pay a visit along with their son Josh. But any hope of him becoming her friend is shattered in minutes. If only Pixie could have Lata Ghosh as her BFF...
Privately, Bobby Bansal was convinced that Ronnyda’s interview to Sumona Munshi, cinema editor of the most popular film supplement published in eastern India, was a fine piece of publicity for their project. The interview was signature Ronny — warm, funny, modest, full of praise for the work of his contemporaries, full of hope about the future, and full of jokes about casting Shaarani Sen’s daughter — the same Shaarani Sen he had worshipped for decades as a student of Indian cinema. It had gone viral. There were thousands of comments on the website from Bongs around the world. Even now, a week or so later, stories appeared daily — all speculative, of course, since the entire team had been instructed to maintain a studied silence.
If fans were thrilled, the producers were elated. Orchids had been sent to Ronny’s house; an arrangement of pink roses for Pragya had followed; and then, in a thoughtful gesture — the youngest scion of the producers was nothing if not solicitous — lilies for Ronny’s mother and Shaarani Sen. Pragya was pleased. (Her annoying American cousin could no longer phuss phuss in her ear that Bobby didn’t care to organise publicity for her. It was really Ronny who’d wanted Pragya to remain outside the limelight until the film had been shot, so that the audiences first saw her as Mondira, a heroine of almost Tagorean complexity, and the idea had Pragya’s full support. But Mimi-the-cousin was being an asshole.) And the Tollywood grapevine was now buzzing round-the-clock. Ronny Banerjee: no longer an outsider. Shaarani Sen was cinema royalty, after all. She could have launched her daughter in Bombay — she still had old friends and contacts. But, no, she had trusted Ronny.
As for the Friday Favourite Scoop debacle — for which Bobby had to ring Sumona in Ronny’s presence and say things, which, 10 minutes later, she furiously retracted from the bathroom —Bobby did understand why Ronnyda was so mad. The day of the interview, Sumona had come to chat with him about his favourite books for crying out loud! They were running a series on book-loving celebrities in the literary pages, and all of Calcutta knew what a great bibliophile Ronny was. He spent hours browsing in College Street, he ordered books on eBay, Amazon had even delivered Granta magazines to their studio.
That morning, Ronnyda had thrown open his library to Sumona and her photographer. He’d shown her the well-thumbed Agatha Christies and read-so-often-that-the-pages-were-crumbling-at-touch Saradindu Omnibus; he’d taken out the rare first editions of Jibanananda Das he had bought with the (meagre) money he had made from his first film (before the awards, that is); he’d authorised the photographer to rummage through dusty bookshelves and stage startlingly beautiful shots; and, finally, he’d allowed them into his bedroom where his books on cinema were stacked in staggering piles.
Bobby had gently interrupted the conversation several times once Sumona’s time was up — she’d been generously given a two-hour-slot, from 10.30am to 12.30pm. Before Ronnyda’s nose, Bobby had checked her watch again and again, faked urgent phone calls, and, then, finally given up and cancelled whatever else had been scheduled that day. It was a lazy Sunday, after all. Ronnyda sounded so relaxed and happy. Tea had kept coming, too, with the different kinds of baklava Ronny had brought. And around 2, luchi and mangsho had appeared from Mashima’s kitchen. (Luchi and chhanar dalna for Bobby.)
Ronny had just returned, baklava-laden, from jury duty at the Sharjah film festival, and he’d been in high spirits after spending a whole week of fantastic cinema. “You know,” he’d told Sumona, during lunch, “I’d read somewhere that Tolstoy used to say — now don’t quote me on this, it might well be an apocryphal story —when he read great books, the tips of his fingers began to itch. He would want to write immediately. After this intense week, my fingers are itching too. All I want to do is start shooting! Like, tomorrow, if I could.” Sumona had steered the conversation to what it was that he was going to shoot next. And Ronny had finally opened up about Shomoy, an idea that had been with him for nearly a decade, vaguely based on the story of his grandparents. He also let out that Pragya was going to be Mondira.
Much later, after she’d finally wound up the recording and Instagrammed pictures of the “unforgettable adda”, Sumona had said she would transcribe the Shomoy part of the conversation and keep it ready. They’d run it when he was ready to announce the film. “Any day now,” Ronny had said, still buoyant from his travels, still sanguine about the story.
Bobby’s phone buzzed. It was Ronnyda. Five minutes. Urgent call. Sorry! You want to come up and get a cuppa? I’ve got some nice Darjeeling tea.
No time no time! Bobby typed rapidly, her fingers like lightning on the keypad. Rush hour! Taratari esho. Taj Bengal = far away.
For the last 10 minutes, Bobby had been sitting snugly inside her red Nano, parked under the Krishnachuda tree that reached right up to Ronny’s balcony two floors up, answering her emails, sorting out Ronny’s calendar and generally reflecting on things. Her own home was a madhouse these days. Not a moment of peace. Only delicious besan-ki-chakkis thrown at her along with the ubiquitous: “When will you settle down, beta?”
Ah, yes.
Give Ronnyda his card, she quickly typed a reminder to herself.
There was literally nothing left for her to do. Even WhatsApp messages from her eager intern, Hindol, had been replied to. Bobby stepped out of the car without the phone and stretched her arms luxuriously. It was November weather in Calcutta: the air, almost velvet with longing. Darkness fell in a swift swoop these days. Dusk had contracted to a half-hour. By the time she’d got here to Salt Lake, to Ronny’s quiet block, the windows were lit up in every house.
#SumonaGate, as Bobby had taken to calling the interview — let the record reflect they had not consented! — caught Ronnyda in a dark phase. He was consumed with doubt about the story. The idea was too dear to him for anything less than perfection. He retreated into a cave, glowered in his bedroom, read old Asterix comics and did not answer the phone. Finally, Bobby recommended he decamp to the hills with his backpack and sort the damn mess out in his head. She had booked his favourite little guest house, run by one of her cousins who loved his films and ensured that not a soul disturbed him there, printed out the rough script — the one Pragya had read from and everyone else seemed to love — and got it bound so pages didn’t go missing. “Whatever you need to fix, Ronnyda,” she’d said, handing him the bound script and a printout of his ticket, outside the station. “Fix, please. Not that it needs any fixing. Also, I am going to need you back in exactly a week. I promised you’ll accept the award from the chief minister in person.”
And here we are, thought Bobby, now walking up and down the footpath outside Ronny’s house, nine days later.
“Should I requisition the Merc?” Bobby had messaged Ronny, when she’d called to remind him about the award. (In the hills, she’d only badgered him that once. Well, maybe twice.) On occasions, she’d borrow her brother’s chauffeur-driven car. “Of course not,” Ronny had replied promptly. “RK is our mascot.”
Ronny had christened the red Nano Raktakarabi after she’d driven him to Judhajit’s house in it with that first script — she was then an unpaid intern. Judhajit had loved the idea so much that he’d signed up to be a part of their as-yet-unfunded-project on the spot. The rest, as they say, was history.
And herstory?
Bobby now spotted her boss at the doorway of his house, speaking on the phone, smiling at her, managing a mass of papers in his hand that were threatening to fly out, and as she ran to RK, jumped in and turned the ignition, Bobby smartly quipped to the imaginary interviewers in her head: “Her story was that a summer internship consumed her life.”
To be continued
This is Chapter 8 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
