It was a drought-like situation. The earth was parched; the fields were thirsting for water. Even the wells had gone dry. Death and illness stalked each home. During this time, in a nearby temple, a holy man had begun a fast unto death to appease the rain god. The news had spread far and wide and people in large numbers thronged the temple to get a glimpse of the sadhu. Among the crowd was the famous dancer and actress Waheeda Rahman. Parking her car at a distance, she mingled with the crowd and walked towards the temple. As she trudged along under the blazing sun, she took off her ornaments one by one, wiping away the sweat from her forehead with her handkerchief. She had only one thought in mind, to reach the temple and meet the sadhu. The sun was getting unbearable but she did not stop. Meanwhile, a member of a foreign television crew was recording an interview with the sadhu. As the interview was about to end, she asked the sadhu her last question, “Swamiji, have you ever fallen in love?”
At this moment Waheeda came in and, missing a step on the stairs, fell at the holy man’s feet. The holy man was actually a cheat who had worked as a guide many years ago and had fallen in love with Waheeda, who was at the time married to a client of the guide. She deserted her family and home for him, but he had cheated her. The sadhu finally realised that the lady prostrating before him was none other than the one whom he had once loved. The other lady from the television network repeated her question, “Swamiji, have you ever fallen in love?”
Gautam Bhuyan’s nephews were watching a Hindi oldie, Guide, on television the other day. He had watched the film earlier. After seeing it again yesterday, the incidents came flashing back to his mind once more.
Gautam Bhuyan was a teacher. He was a bachelor and remained involved in his studies, his college and his students. He had retired recently. If someone was to ask him the same question, how would he react? Would he be stunned? Or perhaps remain speechless?
Some time ago he had met Mandira at a wedding. Bhuyan had gone to the bride’s house with the groom’s entourage and there he had met Mandira. After dinner, when most of the guests had departed, Mandira came up to Bhuyan and said, “Do you recognise me?”
Turning around, Bhuyan saw that it was Mandira.
She was still beautiful, only some of her hair had greyed. She was dressed in white and her forehead was bare. He remembered someone telling him of Subodh’s death. She called her two daughters and introduced them. The elder daughter was a doctor and the younger one was doing her MSc. Her son was involved in some kind of research.
After the daughters left, Mandira and Bhuyan chatted for some time. They talked about old times, about Subodh, Mandira and Bhuyan growing up together as friends, and their days in college. Subodh was a smart guy who married Mandira after getting a job. Bhuyan, on the other hand, remained a bachelor. Somewhere deep down in his heart there remained a yearning for Mandira which was never to be fulfilled, although he did not talk about it to anyone. Not even Mandira.
Once before her marriage, while they were chatting, Mandira had said to Bhuyan, “Gautam, if only you had a sharp nose, you would have looked so much better.” Bhuyan was so dejected that he even contemplated suicide that day.
One day while relaxing on the verandah of his house, Bhuyan saw a girl on the street. She was carrying a shopping bag. Following her was a teenage boy. Bhuyan understood that the boy was trying to attract her attention. Irritated, he got up and decided to teach him a lesson. However, on reaching the street, he was surprised. The girl turned around and stood facing the boy. Her face showed no sign of anger or displeasure. In fact, she was smiling. After a while, they walked together past Bhuyan, laughing and talking cheerfully.
Bhuyan slowly walked back home. Sitting down with the newspaper, he called out to his domestic help and asked for a cup of tea. As he glanced at the headlines, he saw the news of the death of a militant. He had taken shelter at a house in a village. After dinner, they had just assembled on the verandah when police surrounded the house. The militant rushed inside. He was asked to come out but he refused and after an exchange of bullets, the house was set ablaze. When the fire was brought under control, a charred body was recovered from the remains. It was the body of the militant. Putting aside the newspaper, Bhuyan began thinking about the militant.
Why did he have to suffer such a tragic death? Did he ever love anyone?
“Here’s your tea, sir.” The boy was standing beside him with a cup of tea. He had joined just a few days ago. Bhuyan’s nephew, a police officer, had sent him to Bhuyan’s house with a constable from Goalpara.
The boy’s father had killed his mother one night in a state of drunkenness. Perhaps their abject poverty led him to commit such a crime. He wanted to kill his son too but the boy somehow escaped. Next, he had tried to kill himself but was prevented from doing so by his neighbours. He was taken to jail and the son was sent to Bhuyan’s place. From the way he relished his meals here, it was evident that he had not eaten a good meal during his days at his father’s place. Perhaps boys from such families turn into militants when they grow up, feeling the need to revolt against the system. Had this boy’s father loved his wife? Most certainly he had. Unable to bear to see her suffer in poverty, he had relieved her of misery by killing her.
Once, on a visit to Delhi, Bhuyan was a guest at Mandira and Subodh’s place. One evening at the dinner table, Mandira had narrated a story she had read of two brothers living together. The elder brother brought home a good-looking girl as a maid one day. From then on, there were regular fights between the brothers. The girl was finally sent away. She went on to become a well-known call girl in the city. Then later the elder brother came to know that, like himself, the younger brother also visited this girl in her brothel without his knowledge.
Mandira had read this story in a book that was partly torn and the last pages were unfortunately missing. She did not know the end of the story nor who the writer was. She told Bhuyan, “You read a lot. If you ever come across this story, do let me know the end. The incident, as told, occurred in South America sometime in the middle of the last century.”
That evening Subodh offered Bhuyan a drink but he turned it down, saying, “You carry on, please excuse me.”
Mandira called out in an angry voice, “Do you have to drink now?”
Not paying any heed to Mandira, Subodh said again, “Don’t you drink? Have you not tried it even once?”
Bhuyan replied, “I tried it once. The home-made variety in a Mising village, while working on my research. Not too bad a taste. Makes you feel a little drowsy. That’s all.”
Subodh remarked, “Then you have tasted the real thing. Try this today.”
Mandira called out again, “Don’t force him to drink when he does not want to.”
That day, after downing two or three pegs of whisky, Subodh asked a startling question in Mandira’s absence. “Gautam, were you ever in love with Mandira?”
Taken aback, he replied, “Are you crazy? What makes you think so?” Subodh answered, “Well, what I mean is, we were all so close to each other in school, in college, always together. Just like I had a fondness for Mandira and told her about my feelings, you too must at some stage have felt the same.”
Gautam tried to brush aside the question. “What is the matter with you? If I had fallen in love with Mandira, do you think I would have let you marry her so easily? Could I maintain an easy relationship with you?” he asked, laughing.
After a pause Subodh said, “Sometimes I wonder. I did marry Mandira but I do not know if I have succeeded in making her mine. Really. Even after so many years, I am not sure whether I have truly succeeded. You are lucky. You didn’t even marry.”
After returning from Delhi, Bhuyan found the story that Mandira had narrated that day in Delhi. He found it in his library in a collection of old stories. It was a well-known story by Jorge Luis Borges.
At the end of the story, he read that one of the brothers calls the girl from her brothel to an isolated field and murders her. He then informs his brother and both of them bury the girl in the field itself. He did this to free himself and his brother from their feelings towards the girl. Bhuyan thought that when he met Mandira again, he would tell her the end of the story.
He opened his eyes. Bhuyan realised that he was not in his room, but somewhere else. But where? He felt a mask on his face. There was a tube too. He could not move his neck. Was he in a hospital? A girl in a white dress was sitting nearby. She came near him and said, “Uncle, are you awake?”
“Where am I? And who are you?”
“You are in the ICU. I am Ruby, Mandira’s daughter. I am a doctor here.”
“Am I sick? Why am I here? Does Mandira know?”
“Yes, she does. You should rest. Your nephew is outside. I’ll call him in. Ma will come in the evening.”
Bhuyan did not want to talk to anybody. He wished Mandira was there. When would she come? Time was running out. He had to tell her the end of the story.
Finally, Mandira arrived. Bhuyan beckoned her to his side. Gasping for breath, he told Mandira, “Many days ago you had told me a story, a story of love. This is what happened at the end of the story.”
At that moment, his memory failed. “The end of the story… and was it? Someone loved… but who loved… and whom?”
Mandira clasped his hands and kissed his forehead. Ruby understood that Uncle had died. But Mandira, perhaps, was not aware. She looked at him and said, “You don’t have to tell me, Gautam. I know who loved, and whom.”
Excerpted with permission from ‘A Story of Love’ in One More Story About Climbing a Hill: Stories from Assam, Devabrata Das, translated from the Assamese by Mitra Phukan, Speaking Tiger Books.
