The Fifth Man

The Fifth Man Read Free Page A

Book: The Fifth Man Read Free
Author: Bani Basu
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you anymore?’
    Aritra’s face turned white as chalk. What was Neelam saying? Could he trust his ears? Did he deserve such a cruel judgement? Was this verdict his due? Then let me prove, Neelam, that your judgement, your verdict, is completely incorrect. I desired your youth because it was part of your unique self. Neelam was weeping with her head on a bewildered, desperate Ari’s chest. She had understood his pain. ‘I was wrong, forgive me Ari. I feel desire too.’ After a long time, after such a long time Neelam had come to him on her own. When your love comes to you like the rain after a long famine, how extraordinary the madness of those showers is! What a magical honeymoon they spent that night in the room of the blue sky. Just before youth was sacrificed.
    It had been a long time but Aritra had not forgotten that night. Perhaps Neelam had. She wanted to forget. Now her eyes were lowered, the end of her sari was draped around her neck, a radiant orbit of uncombed hair around her head. Neelam was deep in worship. Don’t disturb her, Aritra. She will tidy up your room all day, arrange flowers, consult a thick pile of books to cook Chinese, Mughlai and Continental food. Aritra didn’t have to spend any time on Pupu either—her education, her tennis, her rowing. Nor did he have to take care of the banking, shopping, the mail, social relationships with people in Calcutta— nothing, nothing. Only, Aritra and Neelam now slept in separate rooms.

TWO
    Normally Piku and Esha led such uneventful lives that Piku herself felt claustrophobic at times. At nine every morning they took their mini buses from Central Park, one to Dalhousie and the other, to north Calcutta. From one end of the city to the other. Fighting through long traffic jams, taking two to two-and-a-half hours to cover what should have taken one. Tea in the morning, coffee in the evening. Conversations with the coffee pot between them. Reading magazines. Then the desk, pen in hand, notebook on the table, books on the shelves. Sometimes, the typewriter. A head packed with thoughts. A mountain of notebooks, red and blue ball-point pens. Piku would say, ‘How can you live like this? Let’s go for a film.’
    ‘What film?’
    ‘Who knows? Whatever’s running. Give me the newspaper, let’s see what’s on.’
    ‘Rubbish! Imagine watching a film just for the sake of watching a film! Very tiresome. Find someone else to go with, please, Piku.’
    Piku would say, ‘You’re a bore! You think I have no other friends? Why don’t you realize I don’t want to leave you alone? Don’t you ever wonder why every day has the same colour, Esha? Always a low, slack, off-key note. Why should life be so mundane?’
    Esha began to laugh. ‘Were you born thinking life is a romance novel? Then no one can prevent heartbreak for you, Piku. If you go for a film blindly you’ll be very disappointed.’
    ‘What to do, then?’
    ‘Nothing. Just wait. And that too, not impatiently.’
    Piku would say, ‘Tchah! I’m off to water the plants then. The yellow hibiscus is budding. Let’s see if it’s bloomed.’
    Esha told herself, ‘Well spotted, Piku. So ordinary and yet so extraordinary. Hibiscus, but a yellow one—as you watch the moments bloom, forget the grandeur you’re anticipating. If it comes, it will come. And no harm done if it doesn’t.’
    This was how the days passed, the months too—they were spent ripping out the pages of the calendar and tossing them in the dustbin. Piku went for films, to picnics with friends, spent three days at her niece’s birthday party instead of a single evening, and came back refreshed. She fell in love anew with their home in Central Park, the veranda, the garden, the conversations, the unlit nights on the terrace with the door locked and mats laid out, stars and glow-worms, glow-worms and stars, the sweet fragrance of flowers, humming, sleep. You’re so strange, Esha. You could have gone on the excursion. Didn’t you get a

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