French Lover Read Free Page A

the tears and spoken.
    Just those two weeks—within that time Kishan arranged for the passport, visa, tickets and then came back to Paris via Delhi.
    Nila was supposed to fly after finishing her university exams. Her father, Anirban, insisted on her wearing her wedding sari and jewellery on the flight—perhaps men knew best what would appeal to other men. Kishan was her closest friend, he was her husband and she’d have to spend her life making him happy. Yet, there weren’t any sweet glances or words exchanged between them except for a few questions like why they were driving on the wrong side of the road and some answers in monosyllables. The outburst of conversation was all in Bangla and addressed to the rear seat of the car.
    ‘Tell me, the people at the airport—don’t they know English very well?’
    Chaitali’s smooth voice was heavy as she said, ‘Of course they know English; but they won’t speak it. You’ve just come here—wait a while and see how racist these people are.’
    Sunil tapped Kishan’s head and said, ‘What’s the matter—why are you so quiet?’
    Kishan twirled his black moustache between his fingers and said, ‘Oh, I’m letting the poor Bengalis have their say first.’
    ‘Ha, ha.’
    Once the car entered the city of Paris, Nila’s hunger and thirst vanished. All the ill-will that she bore towards the blue-uniformed men, Chewing-gum, Bucktooth disappeared. As the car passed Hôtel de Ville, Palais Royale, the Louvre and ambled along the Seine over the Boulevard Saint Michelle and headed for the Pont-Neuf, Nila asked herself, ‘Is this heaven?’ Then she answered herself, ‘Yes, it is.’

The Visiting Bride
    Nila felt like a guest in Kishanlal’s home. It was a huge flat with French windows, heavy curtains and a balcony with flowerpots. The carpet was sky blue; Nila sank into the soft cushions on the sofa. In front of her there were bottles of wine, a female statuette and instead of fans, chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The metal box pasted on the wall was spreading heat into the whole room. Chaitali rushed her into taking a look at the whole house—this was the living room and this was the bedroom; that room over there was of no use except to tuck in excess baggage or people. The kitchen was here and the bathroom and the shower were there. Chaitali told her that the place was all set, really. There were machines to dust, wash, dry and even to beat the eggs, whip it, boil it and then to cut into pieces! Nila had once dreamt of a simple household with Sushanta, first it would be a small home and then a better place—it would always be a struggle to make ends meet; they’d love each other in the dim light of the lamp in the room and laugh at the materialistic world outside. The day Sushanta’s persistence yielded fruit and he got a job in the suburban school, they would light the room with a thousand lamps and have a festival of music all night long! Oh no, not a thousand lamps, they were going to have the festival by moonlight, outdoors.
    Nila had her share of dreams about the hard life sustained only on love. Perhaps every Bengali was born with that desire. But at twenty-seven her life was topsy-turvy, the tree of her dreams lay uprooted, the thousand lamps were blown out, a ghostly pall had come down on the music festival and the moonlight was covered by a chunk of clouds—Nila was flown on this destructive wind into a shining household with everything she could need.
    Nila asked, ‘Are there no maids?’
    Kishan and Sunil had already opened the bottles. Chaitali slippedinto that group and said, ‘Hello there, Kishan’s wife is asking about maids!’
    Sunil guffawed and a smile played about Kishan’s moustached lips too.
    They told her, in this foreign country there were no maids to do the household chores; there were no poor people here who would do those things. If she called in someone to clean the place, they’d charge her at least fifty francs for an hour’s