Short Story
Utsav --- The Party
Anwar Ali is supposed to be in one of his best moods at the moment. Only a couple of hours back, he was in the midst of a roaring party. He was invited to a boubhat (post wedding lunch or dinner given in honour of the bride). The host happened to be a rich friend celebrating his nuptials at his plush, well-appointed Dhanmandi residence. As usual, Anwar enjoyed the occasion, feasting his eyes on a good number of glitzy maids. Also, he had managed to make the acquaintance of a few of those rare starry-eyed starlets. The sweetly fragrant memories of the party should be soothing Anwar's otherwise vulnerable existence for at least a week now. But as the saying goes, man proposes and God disposes. Anwar turned sore at once and sorry too, as he approached the entry to their alleyway. His annoyance seemed genuine; several factors combined to militate against the effusive mood he had attained that evening: heavy, condensed yellowish drain water reflected the dull light oozing down from the leaning lamp-post; clods of dog shit and vivid coils of human faeces lay entwined, lining the gutters on either side; and.... and.... these vermin .... the residents of this locale also did bug him quite a bit. The young Don Juans seemed tensely expectant over the prospect of watching the dames who should be returning home from the neighbouring cinema hall in about half an hour, when the second show will be over at midnight. On his left, the regular, compulsive gamblers were busy encroaching on the sidewalk. The mikes of Ahmadia Hotel and Restaurant (actually a run-of-the-mill eatery-cum-tea shop) continue to blare and entertain the community, playing half a century old Hindi film songs again and again.... without respite. It's eleven fifteen only, which means that the hollering will not cease before a couple of hours more have gone by. In Anwar's mind, this locality as well as its dingy environment juxtaposes itself with the posh, festive and illuminated Dhanmandi house and irritates him hopelessly. The comparisons are multi-faceted. The Dhanmandi roads look clean, give you a sense of crisp freshness; the wide streets are given smooth coats of tar on a regular basis. At night, they relax and bathe in the milky light shed by the graceful fluorescent lamps. Gazing at the endless space above, perhaps they feel and gauge the miseries of eternity…From inside those palatial residences, exotic and streamlined limousines glide out gently, noiselessly…beautiful women of native and foreign origins adorn the lush and perfumed upholstery within. Whither goest thou, beautiful? Quo vadis? …must be floating towards another 'house of pleasure' effortlessly, habitually….one conjectures. All those star-studded sprawling mansions seem standing at ease, hands shoved in their pockets, keeping respectable distances from one another. One should be able to surmise that amply secured and overly escorted within the impenetrable walls of those cosy havens, impeccable paragons of beauty in the dozens lounge around, creating conversations in quaint lingos….one of them may be stringing the sitaar and at ease recreating the raga Malkosh…. Another elfin being might fancy leafing through the pages of a chic and debonair monthly, in the most unhurried and cultured manner…. maybe she awaits the arrival of a Muntassir, or an Ahrar, or Ishtiaque…And lo, the Don Juan is there! In the same languid manner, the young lady now prepares the necessary setting for receiving her paramour….the kinnari voice of Kanika Banerjee evokes the memories of a moonlit night….And the graceful pair discusses 'socialism' in articulated, subdued tones. And….isn't it wonderful that despite their quite tight schedules, these fairyland creatures must find themselves a suitable slot again, to be alone for some moments intermittently and suffer the sweet estrangement due, most stoically? The pining loner then finds no better alternative than shutting herself in a deep, dark chamber….wherein the gleaming pedestal fans circulate in spite of the room-coolers….and the fair lady listens to the soothing Duke Ellington for at least two hours without a break….and gradually regains her composure. That's formula, mind it! And….what would you find here? It's about midnight now….look at those eight or nine dogs running about the length of this narrow lane! Please don't conclude that none of the Dhanmandi streets could possibly boast so many pariahs at a time. Well, they too have dogs ….no one is doubting that. But did you notice the difference? Why, a distinguished sample of the species was visible in a corner of Anwar's friend's house through this evening, drawing unmixed admiration from everyone present there. Aha, how he poised himself! Proud of his unequivocal and long pedigree, the excellent, solemn dog was gravely wagging his tail, reminding Anwar of a scene from a Bangla film, where an old-timer aristocratic zemindar sat on a deck-chair on the first-floor balcony of his country house, swinging his folded upper leg leisurely and steeping his senses in the luxurious grandeur of the setting sun. Merely witnessing such spectacles does evoke a sense of deep reverence in a depraved soul, Anwar realized. Now look at these sons (and daughters) of bitches here! All tykes and curs of the locality have crowded togethertheir trunks totally devoid of hair and laden with ulcers. Unable to bark aloud, they feebly express their suppressed groans of distress and depravity caused by hunger, cold and pain perhaps….a few of them having bloated like anything, as a result of feeding on any rubbish thrown around (there being no dearth of waste matter scattered everywhere), keep on staring blankly at nothing and syringe out squirts of foul smelling urine, wetting the stems of all the dilapidated lamp-posts they come across. Anwar's own place, which seems to be a veritable bye-lane of the suffocating lane outside, feels equally dull, dampening, muggy and clammy. In the pale light of the forty-watt naked bulb, Anwar can see white and yellowish teeth impudently peeking out from the frame of the slightly opened thick lips of Saleha Begum, his wife; saliva still glistening in the corner of her mouth and rusticity….sheer rusticity is engraved across her visage. 'Hey, mother of Polly, where is my lungi?' Anwar calls out. Polly is their daughter and today is the 5th of October. During the initial days of every calendar month, Anwar addresses his wife by her name, Saleha, which he changes to Shelly when they go for a rickshaw ride together. But sheer remorse and annoyance compel him to breach the ritual today. Only to avoid seeing the still sleepy and smiling face of Saleha, he turns about and changes into a lungi. Deeply aggrieved, Anwar says to himself, this stupid woman was a college-goer for sometime and….she even did indulge in a little romantic affair before their marriage. Then how can she be so slovenly and insensible, after all? Clad in a sari, which shows nothing of her bosom or hips, she moves about doing her chores, looking like a side-pillow or a regular sack. 'It's quite late already, isn't it? What's the time like, eh?' Saleha enquired casually and sauntered out into the yard. Placing her not-too-dainty feet on two whole bricks placed apart, she will now squat in the bathroom and urinate profusely, discharging pints of waste water. Anwar hates the idea that women should be defecating and urinating so frequently, or spitting out lumps of spittle all around….But what is there to do, after all? He shrugs off the distasteful thought of correcting such ugly and unbecoming attributes of women. Let her be….let Saleha pee as much as she wants….Let me revive the sweet memories of the evening….Resting a hand on his trousers laid on the clothes rack, and holding the yellow-stained underwear with the other, standing in the jostled space of his scanty room, the indulgent Anwar Ali once again concentrated his faculties in reliving the pleasant experience. But no whole image or association related to those bou-bhat festivities can he recreatenot to speak of those luscious dames he's been pining for since. The wedding celebrations look like a distant, hazy picture….and then, the brightly illuminated ensemble of images breaks into pieces and wink at him sheepishly. Maybe he would be better off if he hadn't attended the party at all, Anwar reflects wearily. Has he ever been that chummy with Qayyum? No….never. He would never have known about Qayyum's marriage, if they had not met perchance near the stadium the other day. The two had studied together in the same college for a couple of years and belonged to the same students' organization. In those days, they had worked together in organizing a students' strike and so happened to interact a bit closely. And that's that. Qayyum was a rich father's socialist son and a brilliant student too. It was only natural that all his classmates would love to rub shoulders with him. No one would miss Anwar if he had chosen not to join the celebrating crowd this evening. Of course, he met some of his college pals there. After ten long years, he met Hafeez at the party. They used to vie with one another to be more intimate with Qayyum, he remembers. And wasn't it strange that the dormant green-eyed monster started hissing as he sighted Hafeez after a decade? Hafeez had been a little too unaffected in his manners and speech when he first came to their college. As a student, he was enthusiastic about raising subscriptions and publishing souvenirs commemorating the 21st February language martyrs. Now he teaches Bangla in a local college. As before, he has been fulfilling his obligation towards the martyrs…. But he talks too much….a perennial prattler….Anwar recalls. At the party, made-up faces of lovely women were popping up before him, only to be drifting away a moment later in another direction. But Hafeez chattered on and on and on…. 'I usually avoid frequenting such gaudy, glitzy places and parties, you know, Anwar. I'm a professor. Most of my leisure hours are spent in studies. I can't stand frivolities. Do you get my point? I left politics as soon as my studentship ended. I've almost stopped writing also; but the media folks, you know, will never let you rest in peace. So I still have to compose lyrics for them, only lyrics for your edification, mind it.' One of Anwar Ali's hands was still lying on his trousers and the other was seizing the soft, damp underwear in its paw….Lata Mungeshkar's recorded voice overflowed from the direction of Ahmadia Restaurant and another record kept on playing the autobiography of the lyricist-professor Hafeezur Rahman incessantly. Anwar looks on his left, on his right….where are the enchanting dames gone to? He must make good use of his time here….so many glamour queens don't fool around everywhere or, everyday….hurry, hurry….Anwar chases himself. He had found himself the most strategic nook for the purpose….that is, the green grass-carpeted sprawling lawn, beset with deck chairs. Many had settled there; some were lounging around. The policemen hired specially for the occasion were facilitating parking of vehicles outside; guests were pouring in…. Qayyum and his father stood at the reception, welcoming the perfumed women and men giggling about anything and everything….a few of the women were seen crossing the lawn and approaching the inner left wing of the house. Anwar could see everything clearly from his vantage-point. In a corner, under the illuminated krishnachurha, a handful of distinguished men and women were busily dissecting the Bangalee cultural practices and socialism. Anwar, too, wanted to join their discussion; the females of that exclusive species of the Sunday communists managed to carry themselves so elegantly everywhere….They dressed so simply but effectively, ….spoke so sweetly and driving the point home…. Their voice and manner of speech were perfectly imitated by other clever females of various age ranges, starting from 14-15 to 39-40 years, to suit different occasions, as required. Anwar felt so anxious and eager to go near that group and listen to the original stuff being delivered by the genuine people. But despite his being so fidgety, Anwar didn't venture to do so, because he couldn't spot anyone familiar in the milieu there. (To be continued next week)
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