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Journey's End
Journey's End
Journey’s End
The Boat House Club in Naini Tal is the equivalent of the Vice-
Regal Lodge of colonial Delhi. Ananto and his friend Sridhar had
managed invitations to the Saturday dance party through a bit of
wire-pulling. Ananto’s uncle had once served as the secretary of the
Municipal Committee, and the old munshi still had recollections of his
former boss. He’d put in a word to the Governor’s aide...
Those were the days when people dressed up formally for
evening parties. Besides, Naini Tal is cold in April. Fortunately, both
Ananto and Sridhar had brought their suits along, and it was just as
well they had, because dance parties at the BHC were strictly a ‘black
tie’ affair. But the big surprise was that Supriya Chakravarty and a
friend had also been invited. There was nothing to be done but to
keep out of her way.
Had Ananto but known it, Supriya was as astonished to see him
as he’d been on seeing her. She had other plans, however. As Ananto
was sipping his first cocktail, she came over to him. He braced himself
for a repeat performance of the recent son et lumiere.
“Mr. Mozumdar...no, no, please remain seated!” she said
pleasantly as he rose to his feet politely.
She was looking devastating in a pink kurta-churidar outfit with a
mauve cashmere cardigan. Her hair was parted neatly down the
middle and pinned demurely on the sides behind her tiny, lobeless
ears with a pair of blue porcelain butterfly hair-pins. A thin gold chain
emphasized her lovely neck, and the filmy dupatta did nothing to
conceal the rounded swell of her full breasts. Kolhapuri sandals
adorned her small feet, and a faint perfume of exotic wildflowers
wafted from her.
He felt weak and dizzy, like the time Abbas slipped him that
vicious rabbit punch when the referee wasn’t looking. She looked
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good enough to eat. She was—as far as he was concerned—by far the
prettiest girl in the room...which meant ‘the prettiest girl in Naini Tal’
for all practical purposes, for the elite and the fashionable were all
here. This dance party was the first fixture on the season’s festive
calendar, and no one would intentionally miss out on it.
He realised he was goggling at her like a beached codfish, and
cleared his throat apologetically. “Miss...Chakravarty, isn’t it? Fancy
meeting you here! I hope you’ve forgiven my ineptness at rowing!”
He grinned to show he meant no offence. “After a recent censure
from an authority on the subject, I’ve been practicing diligently every
morning. Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate my prowess with
the oars sometime, Miss Chakravarty?”
She laughed prettily, without rancour. It was the music a brook
makes as it titters its way over shingle and gravel to join a river. The
tinkling melody of it sent a thrill up and down his spine. Her small,
perfect teeth gleamed whitely through her incredible lips, magenta
coloured for the occasion.
Ananto wondered why nature had broken her rule in the case of
human beings. In every other species, the female was a drab,
nondescript creature as compared to the resplendent male. But
woman was a glittering thing, next to which a man looked dull and
colourless...as far as Supriya Chakravarty was concerned, anyway.
“Mr. Mozumdar...” she drew him aside. “I’m afraid I’ve wronged
you. Sorry! It was very rude of me...that day at the jetty. I sometimes
wonder why people put up with me!”
‘Because you are the most amazing thing that walks the earth’,
he said to himself. But he only made deprecating noises for her
benefit.
“No, no, Miss Chakravarty!” he protested, “You were perfectly
within your rights. It was our job to keep a sharp lookout...for enemy
vessels!” He came up with another disarming grin.
She giggled and his knees went all rubbery, like the time Negi
had got him with a thundering left hook during the semi-finals in the
welter-weight category.
“Oh, do call me ‘Supriya’!” she insisted happily. “And let’s make
up by dancing to this number...I just love it!”
He recalled little else of that evening. It passed in a happy daze
as he held her giddily in his arms. They danced on and on. She was
very light on her feet, and kept in step with him so beautifully, so
well-matched were they visually, that they got a standing ovation
from the watchers. She was flushed and breathless when they
returned to their seats. “Ananto, I’ve got an idea! Let’s go boating
after dinner!” she said enthusiastically.
*
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She had majored in foreign languages and had studied art. That
explained her relatively senior position in a foreign embassy. He was
a science student who had excelled in draughtsmanship and technical
illustrations, which is what he did in the advertising agency where he
worked. She wrote wild and wacky poetry that had been published
abroad. He had done a bit of trekking, hunting, and mountain
photography during his college days.
She liked the pre-Raphaelite schools of painting, and he freaked
out on Andy Warhol and Op Art in general. She read anything and
everything, and her taste in books ranged from classics to the bizarre.
He preferred westerns by Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour and was a
sucker for self-help books. Both were fond of continental food, action
movies, and vintage cars. Each found the other fascinating. It was not
surprising that they became friends before they became lovers...
The day they had dreaded was upon them at last; it was time to
return to the plains. Tomorrow they went their separate ways, she to
Delhi, he to Bombay. They clung to each other under the blanket, that
last night under the stars at Tiffin Top. They watched Venus ascend,
twinkling her old promise. But the Big Dipper spoilt it all by pointing
the way home. They didn’t want to go.
“Ananto, I didn’t want this to ever end. Do you think we’ll meet
again?” she asked. There was a tremor in her voice. It was quite
unlike her, to be so uncertain of the future.
He felt a chilly hand close over his heart. He tried to convey to
her a courage he hardly felt himself. “We’ve got to! But life is so
uncertain, Supriya... we’ve met in the past and we’ll meet again.
What’s important is the present; the future is always tomorrow’s
present, never forget. I can’t bear to leave you, either, Supriya!”
Ananto confessed.
“Promise you’ll keep in touch?” she asked through her tears. A
terrible premonition was upon her.
“I promise!” said Ananto, with a lump in his throat. He didn’t earn
enough as yet to ask for her hand. It was implicit; they never even
mentioned it, taking it for granted, their marriage. Beyond the
language of words, their hearts had promised themselves to each
other. They made love for the last time, as if their physical union
could forestall the inevitable.
“Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, Honeybaby,” he quoted
hopelessly, to comfort her, and to still the wild doubt in his heart.
“We’ll always meet. You must be patient.”
She nodded hopelessly, as girls in love have done for ages. She
had to wait for her man to be ready to support her. Life was no picnic,
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Mr. Mazumdar took one last, longing look at the photograph and
shut the diary with a heavy heart…for they had never met again.
They had written to each other, and kept in touch over the telephone
whenever possible. There was no automatic trunk dialing or Internet
then. Communication between distant cities was an expensive and
time-consuming affair.
Then her father, who was in the Indian Audit & Accounts Service,
had been posted to Brussels. Supriya had gradually abandoned hope
of ever seeing Ananto again. Slowly, as realisation dawned that he
had to accept the fact that Supriya would never be his wife, Ananto
too, realised it was a dream he had to let go of.
He recalled a conversation on the eve of their departure, when
she’d raised the subject of will and self-determination in relation to
destiny.
“Ananto, do you think we really can control our lives? I read
somewhere that if we want something badly enough, the entire
universe conspires to bring it to us.”
“Yes, I’ve read that too,” said Ananto thoughtfully, knowing what
was at the back of her mind. “But I’d like to qualify that with a rider:
yes, the universe does conspire to give us what we want if we want it
badly enough...provided it is for the Greater Good! By ‘Greater Good’
I mean the greater scheme of things, of which everything is a part. If
we want something very badly, but it’s not in consonance with the
overall plan, then I doubt whether we get what we crave. At least,
that’s what I think!” he finished sadly.
She was silent for a long time. “So if our getting together isn’t an
integral part of the grand design, we don’t make it? Is that what you
are trying to say, Ananto?”
“Yes!” he said simply, aware of her frustration at trying to fit into
some greater plan of which she knew nothing.
She shook her head obstinately. “I refuse to subscribe to such an
effete theory. I still maintain that Hannibal Barca was right: if you
can’t find a way, make one. And he took his elephants over the Alps
with him. Don’t be so negative, Ananto!” There was an undercurrent
of something like panic in her voice. Ananto was touched. He hugged
her.
“You’re right, as usual, honeybunch! We just have to focus on the
problem and work at solving it, right? After all, what can the universe
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have against us two getting married? How could that possibly put a
spanner in the Grand Design?”
“That’s more like it, Nantoo! (She called him by his pet-name
when she was especially happy about something). Keep thinking like
that and we’ll be cutting the cake soon!” She was trying to lighten the
mood. “And remember...I want to honeymoon here, in Naini
Tal...where it all began.”
Did she think it had been treachery on his part not to have
caught up with her? Did she think she had just been a little diversion
for him on a brief holiday to the hills? Did she feel he was guilty of
pusillanimity for not having found her—by hook or by crook—and
married her? Had their love really been durable enough to survive the
long separation? And did she appreciate the magnitude of the
obstacles faced by a mere technical illustrator in a small advertising
company who had to go looking her in a foreign country and win her
hand? Did she see now that some things—no matter how much we
want them—just aren’t fated to be? How did it affect her faith in her
ability to control her own destiny?
These, and a myriad other questions, had spun through his brain
for months and years. He was sure the answers would reveal
themselves in the fullness of time. If they were not meant for each
other, then the Grand Design had other uses for them. That was all
there was to it. It was up to them to search for—and find—meaning in
their lives in tune with their real destiny...
Sometimes he wished he’d never met her. At other times, he felt
he would never have really lived if hadn’t. She had illuminated his life
like a meteor. Her sparkling wit, her keen intelligence, her disarming
candour, her refreshing originality, her exquisite loveliness, and her
irrepressible zest for life had left their indelible mark on him. She had
sparked off something within him that had transformed his vision of
life. Contact with her unique, effervescent personality had changed
him forever. She had brought out the poet, playwright, art critic, and
human being in him. He had long abandoned the demeaning rat race
of the advertising world.
Ananto Mozumdar—known to the world as the eccentric bachelor
who had written the screenplays of a dozen major Bombay art films,
the bearded hermit-poet with long, unkempt locks who went about
giving away the money he earned as fast as it came in, who met the
mass-wedding expenses of a hundred indigent couples every year
from his own sources—was just a lamp for the timeless flame that
was Supriya Chakravarty. That was his destiny. That: and the
consequences thereof.
*
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He had no idea where she was now, but he knew she was always
in his heart. One day—somewhere, sometime, in some other age—
they would meet again. It was a celestially written certainty that he
didn’t doubt for a moment.
He shook his head with disbelief. Had so much time really
passed? Why, it was just like yesterday when he had met Supriya at
Naini Tal. Was it possible that a lifetime had gone by? He had never
returned to Naini Tal. He wanted to enshrine the memory of her
forever in his heart, with the hill station as a setting. He had no right
to disturb that sacred sanctuary. Nearly four decades had passed...
‘I must be an old man now!’ thought Ananto with mild surprise.
He had never given much thought to the matter. Time had stopped
ever since Supriya had gone from him. Now, for the first time, he
noted the warning signals of advancing years: the failing vision, the
breathlessness when climbing a flight of stairs, the poor sleep and
appetite. He leaned back in the easy chair and felt the cold touch of
winter at his door, although it was spring and the sun shone brightly
outside.
Time had got the better of him, he conceded. But he also
believed that the hand that had written every story in the world knew
what it was doing. With faith and with love, Ananto Mozumdar
welcomed his new coming of age as he surrendered to the will of that
eternal hand.
‘Next time, may the Fates be easier on Supriya and I...’ he
prayed, as he allowed the years to wash over him and inundate his
soul at last.
She wasn’t tall, but she was so well set up—so proportionate—
that her elfin charm took his breath away. She was wearing a mauve -
kurta-churidar outfit, hand embroidered, and set with sequins that
flashed and dazzled as they reflected the bright lights in the ceiling.
Her small, shapely hands fidgeted impatiently with her filmy dupatta.
Her amazingly recurved lips pouted sulkily as she looked down at her
perfect little feet clad in light-blue party slippers decorated with
beads. Her hair, cut short in a waif-like hairdo that caused his shins to
ache with the wonder of it, haloed a face that was beyond description
in its impossible beauty.
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*
“Major, you’re one hell of a lousy dancer, you know that?” she
giggled.
He shook his head dazedly again. He wished she wouldn’t do
that...and smile at him at the same time. Every time she did, he felt
like someone had penetrated his guard with a one-two combination to
the stomach. He felt dizzy, out-of-sorts.
“It’s ‘Captain’, not ‘Major’,” he muttered groggily.
“Hey! Are you okay, ‘Captain not Major’? You look kind of unwell
to me!” she said with genuine concern. They had amicably sorted out
the misunderstanding of the morning, and were standing under the
eaves at one end of the long verandah of the club, enjoying the
uninterrupted view of the mile-long lake. He nodded wordlessly.
“I know! Let’s go boating!” she laughed gaily. “That should clear
your head!”
It was the music a brook makes as it titters its way over shingle
and gravel to join a river. The tinkling melody of it sent a thrill up and
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down his spine. Her small, perfect teeth gleamed whitely through her
incredible lips, magenta coloured for the occasion...
~*~