It was 2 in the morning when my sleep was abruptly and rudely strained by the annoying sound of an off tune brass instrument. It was a really long day especially since the Colgate campaign was due next week. All of us at the agency were doing graveyard shifts. The Creative Director Ms. Zeena Abraham was literally driving a slave ship. No doubt it was a prestigious brand plus the CD was sensing the curtained lure of winning her 9th Best Media Campaign award – and a fat bonus. “It’s a team work guys” she had always said however the team thing was always restricted till the work part. In other words our share of success was limited to a group picture donning the Colgate smile post the award ceremony, and not a single paisa ever came to us. I had just dozed off when I was rudely awakened by this offensive noise coming out from the next room. It was just 3 months that I was staying in Pune as a paying guest of Mrs. Screewalla, and I was really not accustomed to its culture. For where I came from in Calcutta, this was an intolerable act. I remember once the Boses were throwing a cocktail party in the neighborhood and the sound of inebriated laughter and revelry had echoed beyond the Bose residence after 11 PM, Fultuda the cultural gatekeeper of the “para” along with some others had almost gone into a fist fight with Mr. Bose and his guests. Needless to say this was not repeated. But where I was staying was a Parsi neighborhood of Pune, things were different. Cultural surprises sprang up almost at every corner for a Bengali Middle Class Bhodrolok.
In local terms these were called Rooming Houses. A Parsi family had rented out their entire bungalow with its 8 to 9 rooms had been to people who had come from outside Pune for academic or professional reasons. It was a birdcage of a room with a window. The curtains were a remnant of the British period, so were the furniture that comprised of a Chair, a Table, a Bed and a lockless wooden cupboard. There was a common bathroom. The rent was Rs. 400 a month and additional Rs. 150 if you eat breakfast and Dinner. This was an ideal set up for me who had joined Bates India as a Trainee Copy Writer with a meagre salary of Rs. 2000. Mrs. Screewalla had rented out 6 of the 8 rooms to different people with strict instructions that she would not tolerate amongst many things, cooking in the rooms, girlfriends / boyfriends after 8 P.M, Cigarettes and drugs before renting it out. All tenants had quietly complied with this. Although sometimes these rules were irritating, but the place was quite near to the offices and universities on Senapati Bapat Road, so we bore with it.
I had just shifted here a month back and I barely knew the other inmates. I briefly knew their names like Srinivasan was from Madras who was a Commerce Final Year Student at Symbiosis who spoke very little English or Hindi save Good Morning and Good Night. Deepen Suri was a management student from Chandigarh who always yelled “Ki Haal Hain Bangali babu” every time we met and went into his room. That was the extent of our conversations. The room on the other side of the parlour was that of Neena Sapra a journalist from Delhi with the Times of India, she smoked Classics and drove a scooty. She looked arrogant and affluent and had an aura of carelessness about her. Once we had spoken briefly about the state of tribals at Purulia and learnt that she had spent some time there for some welfare work during her JNU days. The room facing the courtyard was of Mr. Ramesh Dandekar an Insurance agent from Kolhapur, who was hardly around and I saw him maybe on 2-3 occasions at the breakfast table, and who had tried selling me a retirement Policy. The sweetest was Sonam Kyndiah. She was 23-24 a BPO employee from Shillong extremely pretty and always with a smile on her face. Her work hours were weird and most of the time she had really loud music on her Walkman plugged into her ears. So the chances of interaction were minimal. She was quite strange and we had often heard sounds of weeping coming from her rooms. But nobody intruded on anyone’s privacy. Then there was Mrs. Tenaz Bharucha.
Mrs. Bharucha was an old Parsi lady. She was easily over 80. She was a frail little thing with a creased face that bore the marks of yesteryears. In spite of her age she was quite conscious about her make up. She always wore bright red lipstick and nail polish, something you rarely see amidst the Didima Thakuma (Grandmothers) at Calcutta. When I had joined this facility, I was warned about her on the very first night by Deepen Suri. “Stay as far away from these old ladies” he had advised. “They are forsaken by their own families and need someone to run errands for. They have no one to talk to and per chance if you lend them a patient ear and fall for their Grand Motherly charm, she would be haunting you every day and not only that you might even end up footing her medical and other bills as well”. Well I had neither the time nor the inclination for this as I was doing my Masters and spent my after work to study for my finals. Mrs. Bharucha did try to strike up a conversation with me several times, but I remembered Deepen Suri’s advice and had courteously dodged her by saying “I have to finish some assignments for tomorrow or I am studying for my exam etc”. She had always laughed cheerfully and said “That’s no problem Dikra, we are the passengers of the same ship, and we’d surely meet some other time.” “Do something, when you are relatively free come over to my room and we’d talk over some cookies.” I was interested in neither.
Now in the middle of the night I found myself laboriously awake due to the hideous sound coming from the next room. I felt very annoyed and helpless at my predicament. Tomorrow I had to give a lengthy presentation to the clients and I sorely needed my sleep to look and feel fresh for that. What on earth can be happening? I stepped out of my bed and into the dark corridor to trace the source of this beastly clamor. I saw even Deepen Suri was out. I could clearly see the irritation on his face as well. I asked him “what’s this din?’
Deepen angrily replied “trumpet”.
I said “What trumpet? Who’s trumpet?”
Till then the refinement of Jazz had not hit me. My knowledge of wind instruments was limited to Kishan Kanhiya’s Bansoori (flute) and the occasional saxophone on Hindi songs.
“Bangali Babu it is a brass instrument played by Jazz musicians in the west. It needs major strength in the Chaati (Lungs). Haven’t you heard about Louis Armstrong or Miles Davis?”
I had to admit to him, much against my liking that I had not. “But who is playing it?”
“Mrs. Bharucha dada. What a nuisance she is. Look I am quite hot headed so would you kindly go and tell her that it is past mid night and she has absolutely no right disturbing us like this.”
I walked towards Mrs. Bharucha’s room. To my surprise the door was wide open. The old lady was sitting on her bed with this contraption. Deepen said this thing needs a lot of strength in the wind pipe, I wondered where she got that strength from.
Seeing me she walked up to me with a beaming smile, “Banerjee! Welcome dikra.” She used to call me by that name as it made me sound like a Parsi. Banerjee-Pestonjee all Jee’s are Parsis.
I couldn’t be rude from start so I asked her how she was.
“I am good. Really good. I bought this wonderful instrument from a garage sale. See it is almost new. Took me just Rs. 30. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, it is beautiful Mrs. Bharucha.’
‘I had always wanted to learn how to play the trumpet. Homi used to love this instrument. He would sit for hours and listen to it. Harry James, Dizzy Gillespie, Tommy Dorsey, Oh! Those wonderful musicians.’ I could hear a sigh come out of her.
‘I heard that playing the trumpet is very difficult it requires a lot of pressure on the wind pipe.’ I asked.
‘That it does Dikra; the toughest part is first few blows filling up the pipe. Once that is done its easy. Why don’t you sit down darling?’
‘I would come back another day. I have a very difficult presentation tomorrow Mrs. Bharucha. I need to sleep.’
‘Off Course, off course Dikra. Is my trumpet playing disturbing you?’ She asked with genuine concern.
‘A bit.’ I had to be honest here.
‘Sorry darling. Extremely Sorry. I would not play anymore. You go and sleep gently Dikra.’
As I was about to go out she called out ‘just a minute son. I would make you some hot cocoa. There is nothing like hot cocoa to put you to sleep’.
I tried to refuse but she was already boiling water and milk in her small electric heater. ‘Don’t say no, son. Listen to this old woman. You would sleep like a log. After Homi passed away I could not sleep. We had been together for 60 years you know. So I would stay up all night tossing and turning. Then I invented this wonderful sedative, thanks to Mrs. Bottliwalla. Now I sleep like a child.’
The cocoa was ready. I had to drink it. While I was drinking it she was telling me about her children. She had four of them settled in various different places. She hadn’t met any of them in the last 10 years. But they used to send her an occasional letter or a card sometimes. They sent her pictures of their families and children which were displayed all over her room.
‘Banerjee would like to see pictures of my grandchildren?’ She quipped.
‘Some other time Mrs. Bharucha.’ It was already late.
‘Ok Dikra. You go and sleep now. The cocoa would make you sleep like a baby.’
I don’t know if it was the cocoa or something else, that night I couldn’t get a wink of sleep. In the morning I met her again near the bathroom. Seeing me she joyfully exclaimed ‘Slept well, didn’t you?’ I covered my soreness with a smile and replied ‘Yeah great’.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she expressed animatedly.
After that night there used to be several incidents from Mrs. Bharucha that were disconcerting for all at the lodge. However we overlooked it considering her age and her over all pleasant demeanors. I learnt that she was trying to learn how to play the trumpet through correspondence. I had heard about correspondence courses in Bible but how one can learn to play a musical instrument through correspondence was beyond my understanding.
Her trumpet used to keep us awake quite frequently. One day Deepen went to her room in a fit of rage and yelled at her. ‘Look madam, it is all good that you are learning how to play the trumpet. But I fail to realize why you have to choose this unearthly hour for your lessons. Why don’t you practice during the day when no one is there?’
‘I busy during the day.’ She had snapped.
‘You have no work Mrs. Bharucha. All you do during the day is just going around town.’ Deepen fumed.
‘That my son is my work.’ She retorted gently.
‘Fantastic. At least when you play that thing at night you can keep your doors locked?’
‘But one has to play the trumpet in an open space. You can see the instructions if you don’t believe me.’
‘I would complain about you to Mrs. Screwalla.’ Deepen says as a final threat.
‘Go ahead and do it. I have a lease agreement with her. Nowhere does it say that I can’t play trumpet in the house’.
‘You are disgusting’ protested Deepen.
‘Tch Tch you shouldn’t talk like that Dikra. Ok now go I won’t play anymore.’
The noise receded for a few days and resumed again. We fretted and fumed inside. But no one said a thing to her because of ever smiling self. Every time you happened to cross her path she would always talk a lot.
‘My granddaughter Annie has had her first teeth. Feroze has sent her picture. Come and see Banerjee how pretty she looks. Almost like an angel, don’t you think? I think there is no other baby in world as beautiful as her. I am going to visit her this December. I have asked Feroze to send me tickets. He has said he would send them. I can’t go to Bangalore without tickets Banerjee, right?’
But Decembers would melt into March and no tickets ever came from Feroze or any of her other children. She was one of the millions of neglected veterans in the country, whose existence didn’t mean much to anybody. They lived on the little pension they had which could barely meet up with the rents and medication. On top of that Mrs. Bharucha had this bad habit of having parties. She would buy some cheap local wine from Parsi ladies and throw a party. We would find small notes cello taped to our doors that read;
Dear Friend,
Today is a very significant day in my life. On this day I had met my husband Homi for the first time. We met at the Annual Parsi Ball and had dinner together and danced. Before the evening was over Homi had said that he loved me. To remember this special day I am inviting a few very close friends. You are cordially invited.
Tenaz.
I didn’t feel like going to her parties. But you had no option as she would knock on your door after every 10 minutes and say ‘Come on Dikra, you are late. Everyone else has come and we are only waiting for you’. When I would go there I would see that I was the only one in that room. Nobody had turned up and she had probably said the same thing to all.
The room would be lit with candles. There would be chips and peanuts on the table along with a bottle of handmade local wine and some glasses. Mrs. Bharucha in a black evening wear would flutter all over the room looking exceptionally happy and satisfied. Sometimes Sonam or Neena would join us. I had never seen Mr. or Mrs. Screewalla at any of these parties. Mrs. Bharucha didn’t have any friends outside, so it was always us. Like the focal point of the group she would walk up to everyone with her glass of wine and say, ‘Life is beautiful isn’t it?’
We would somehow reply, ‘Sure’.
‘This was a great party, wasn’t it?’
‘Fantastic’. We would echo
‘I feel like I am 17 again you know.’ She would chirp.
But her attempts to go back to her youth started getting more and more frequent and tedious for all of us. We stopped attending her parties. She would knock at my door and with a doleful look say, ‘Today is a very special day in my life, Homi had proposed marriage to me 60 years back……..’ her voice trailed away and I would not even listen.
‘Please Mrs. Bharucha today I cannot make it. I have some really important office work to finish.’ I pleaded.
‘Just for a while Dikra’ She implored.
‘Impossible, Mrs. Bharucha.’ I would stand my ground.
She would walk away slowly and dejectedly to her room and probably party all alone. Sometimes the horrifying trumpet would bellow out and one of us had to run to her room to ask her to stop playing. We would feel angry and miserable about her.
Well close to autumn that year our miseries came to an abrupt end. We learnt that Mrs. Bharucha had sold off her trumpet for lack of funds. We were delighted. Shortly after that I received an offer from Response an agency in Calcutta and I gleefully came back home. Before I left I had gone to see her. She was not well and was lying on her bed. Seeing me her face lit up and she asked me if I had got her a card. She said she was customary to bring cards when you come to meet someone unwell.
‘I am collecting all the cards Banerjee. See Neena has given me this wonderful card. This one is from Srinivasan. Mr. Dandekar gave me this one. See what Deepen has given me these beautiful flowers along with a card - the poor darling. He doesn’t have much for himself and he went out and spent this money. I am very upset with him.’ Her voice was filled with happiness and genuine concern for Deepen.
‘Dikra do remember me and invite me to your wedding’ she had said and kissed my hand before I parted. I felt heavy but the excitement of getting back to Calcutta was more overwhelming.
I came back to Calcutta and joined my new job. Slowly memories of Pune were fading out. In the meantime I met Lali who worked in the same agency with me in client servicing and after 6 months of courtship we decided to tie the knot. A month before the wedding my father handed me a bunch of cards to give out to the people I would like to invite. As I sat down one night to prepare the list I remembered Mrs. Bharucha and that she wanted to come to my wedding. I had Mrs. Screwalla’s address and I mailed her the card for Mrs. Bharucha alongside a promise to buy her a return ticket to Calcutta if she agreed to come.
On the day of my wedding I received an inland letter from Mrs. Screwalla that read:
Dear Mr. Banerjee,
I am so happy to hear about your wedding. On behalf of all of us and Mrs. Bharucha we would like to wish you a happy and pleasant marital life. It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that on the 6th of December, that is 3 months after you had left Mrs. Bharucha left us for her heavenly abode, she was suffering from tuberculosis and succumbed to age, lack of attention and medication. We had tried contacting her children and only her younger son who stays in Bombay came over to complete her last rites. On the last day at her death bed she had fondly remembered each one of you and had asked me to personally apologies to all of you about her trumpet playing. She had asked me to tell you in case you ever came or wrote that she had absolutely no interest in that instrument or any other musical instrument for that matter. Her only reason to dole out that atrocious sound every night was so that one of you would come to her room to ask her to stop playing. For according to her nobody ever went to her room till she played it. She used to love your company and said that was her only way to escape her loneliness.
She has asked me to convey her gratitude to all of you for the company and love that she had got from and you and sent you her blessings.
Regards
Sara Screewalla.
As I finished reading the letter the memories of an old Parsi lady with constant smile on her lips, perched on my moist eyes. I could almost hear the annoying noise of her trumpet from far off till it slowly melted into Bismillah’s Kedar that had started playing – a ritual in Bengali marriages.
In local terms these were called Rooming Houses. A Parsi family had rented out their entire bungalow with its 8 to 9 rooms had been to people who had come from outside Pune for academic or professional reasons. It was a birdcage of a room with a window. The curtains were a remnant of the British period, so were the furniture that comprised of a Chair, a Table, a Bed and a lockless wooden cupboard. There was a common bathroom. The rent was Rs. 400 a month and additional Rs. 150 if you eat breakfast and Dinner. This was an ideal set up for me who had joined Bates India as a Trainee Copy Writer with a meagre salary of Rs. 2000. Mrs. Screewalla had rented out 6 of the 8 rooms to different people with strict instructions that she would not tolerate amongst many things, cooking in the rooms, girlfriends / boyfriends after 8 P.M, Cigarettes and drugs before renting it out. All tenants had quietly complied with this. Although sometimes these rules were irritating, but the place was quite near to the offices and universities on Senapati Bapat Road, so we bore with it.
I had just shifted here a month back and I barely knew the other inmates. I briefly knew their names like Srinivasan was from Madras who was a Commerce Final Year Student at Symbiosis who spoke very little English or Hindi save Good Morning and Good Night. Deepen Suri was a management student from Chandigarh who always yelled “Ki Haal Hain Bangali babu” every time we met and went into his room. That was the extent of our conversations. The room on the other side of the parlour was that of Neena Sapra a journalist from Delhi with the Times of India, she smoked Classics and drove a scooty. She looked arrogant and affluent and had an aura of carelessness about her. Once we had spoken briefly about the state of tribals at Purulia and learnt that she had spent some time there for some welfare work during her JNU days. The room facing the courtyard was of Mr. Ramesh Dandekar an Insurance agent from Kolhapur, who was hardly around and I saw him maybe on 2-3 occasions at the breakfast table, and who had tried selling me a retirement Policy. The sweetest was Sonam Kyndiah. She was 23-24 a BPO employee from Shillong extremely pretty and always with a smile on her face. Her work hours were weird and most of the time she had really loud music on her Walkman plugged into her ears. So the chances of interaction were minimal. She was quite strange and we had often heard sounds of weeping coming from her rooms. But nobody intruded on anyone’s privacy. Then there was Mrs. Tenaz Bharucha.
Mrs. Bharucha was an old Parsi lady. She was easily over 80. She was a frail little thing with a creased face that bore the marks of yesteryears. In spite of her age she was quite conscious about her make up. She always wore bright red lipstick and nail polish, something you rarely see amidst the Didima Thakuma (Grandmothers) at Calcutta. When I had joined this facility, I was warned about her on the very first night by Deepen Suri. “Stay as far away from these old ladies” he had advised. “They are forsaken by their own families and need someone to run errands for. They have no one to talk to and per chance if you lend them a patient ear and fall for their Grand Motherly charm, she would be haunting you every day and not only that you might even end up footing her medical and other bills as well”. Well I had neither the time nor the inclination for this as I was doing my Masters and spent my after work to study for my finals. Mrs. Bharucha did try to strike up a conversation with me several times, but I remembered Deepen Suri’s advice and had courteously dodged her by saying “I have to finish some assignments for tomorrow or I am studying for my exam etc”. She had always laughed cheerfully and said “That’s no problem Dikra, we are the passengers of the same ship, and we’d surely meet some other time.” “Do something, when you are relatively free come over to my room and we’d talk over some cookies.” I was interested in neither.
Now in the middle of the night I found myself laboriously awake due to the hideous sound coming from the next room. I felt very annoyed and helpless at my predicament. Tomorrow I had to give a lengthy presentation to the clients and I sorely needed my sleep to look and feel fresh for that. What on earth can be happening? I stepped out of my bed and into the dark corridor to trace the source of this beastly clamor. I saw even Deepen Suri was out. I could clearly see the irritation on his face as well. I asked him “what’s this din?’
Deepen angrily replied “trumpet”.
I said “What trumpet? Who’s trumpet?”
Till then the refinement of Jazz had not hit me. My knowledge of wind instruments was limited to Kishan Kanhiya’s Bansoori (flute) and the occasional saxophone on Hindi songs.
“Bangali Babu it is a brass instrument played by Jazz musicians in the west. It needs major strength in the Chaati (Lungs). Haven’t you heard about Louis Armstrong or Miles Davis?”
I had to admit to him, much against my liking that I had not. “But who is playing it?”
“Mrs. Bharucha dada. What a nuisance she is. Look I am quite hot headed so would you kindly go and tell her that it is past mid night and she has absolutely no right disturbing us like this.”
I walked towards Mrs. Bharucha’s room. To my surprise the door was wide open. The old lady was sitting on her bed with this contraption. Deepen said this thing needs a lot of strength in the wind pipe, I wondered where she got that strength from.
Seeing me she walked up to me with a beaming smile, “Banerjee! Welcome dikra.” She used to call me by that name as it made me sound like a Parsi. Banerjee-Pestonjee all Jee’s are Parsis.
I couldn’t be rude from start so I asked her how she was.
“I am good. Really good. I bought this wonderful instrument from a garage sale. See it is almost new. Took me just Rs. 30. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Yes, it is beautiful Mrs. Bharucha.’
‘I had always wanted to learn how to play the trumpet. Homi used to love this instrument. He would sit for hours and listen to it. Harry James, Dizzy Gillespie, Tommy Dorsey, Oh! Those wonderful musicians.’ I could hear a sigh come out of her.
‘I heard that playing the trumpet is very difficult it requires a lot of pressure on the wind pipe.’ I asked.
‘That it does Dikra; the toughest part is first few blows filling up the pipe. Once that is done its easy. Why don’t you sit down darling?’
‘I would come back another day. I have a very difficult presentation tomorrow Mrs. Bharucha. I need to sleep.’
‘Off Course, off course Dikra. Is my trumpet playing disturbing you?’ She asked with genuine concern.
‘A bit.’ I had to be honest here.
‘Sorry darling. Extremely Sorry. I would not play anymore. You go and sleep gently Dikra.’
As I was about to go out she called out ‘just a minute son. I would make you some hot cocoa. There is nothing like hot cocoa to put you to sleep’.
I tried to refuse but she was already boiling water and milk in her small electric heater. ‘Don’t say no, son. Listen to this old woman. You would sleep like a log. After Homi passed away I could not sleep. We had been together for 60 years you know. So I would stay up all night tossing and turning. Then I invented this wonderful sedative, thanks to Mrs. Bottliwalla. Now I sleep like a child.’
The cocoa was ready. I had to drink it. While I was drinking it she was telling me about her children. She had four of them settled in various different places. She hadn’t met any of them in the last 10 years. But they used to send her an occasional letter or a card sometimes. They sent her pictures of their families and children which were displayed all over her room.
‘Banerjee would like to see pictures of my grandchildren?’ She quipped.
‘Some other time Mrs. Bharucha.’ It was already late.
‘Ok Dikra. You go and sleep now. The cocoa would make you sleep like a baby.’
I don’t know if it was the cocoa or something else, that night I couldn’t get a wink of sleep. In the morning I met her again near the bathroom. Seeing me she joyfully exclaimed ‘Slept well, didn’t you?’ I covered my soreness with a smile and replied ‘Yeah great’.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she expressed animatedly.
After that night there used to be several incidents from Mrs. Bharucha that were disconcerting for all at the lodge. However we overlooked it considering her age and her over all pleasant demeanors. I learnt that she was trying to learn how to play the trumpet through correspondence. I had heard about correspondence courses in Bible but how one can learn to play a musical instrument through correspondence was beyond my understanding.
Her trumpet used to keep us awake quite frequently. One day Deepen went to her room in a fit of rage and yelled at her. ‘Look madam, it is all good that you are learning how to play the trumpet. But I fail to realize why you have to choose this unearthly hour for your lessons. Why don’t you practice during the day when no one is there?’
‘I busy during the day.’ She had snapped.
‘You have no work Mrs. Bharucha. All you do during the day is just going around town.’ Deepen fumed.
‘That my son is my work.’ She retorted gently.
‘Fantastic. At least when you play that thing at night you can keep your doors locked?’
‘But one has to play the trumpet in an open space. You can see the instructions if you don’t believe me.’
‘I would complain about you to Mrs. Screwalla.’ Deepen says as a final threat.
‘Go ahead and do it. I have a lease agreement with her. Nowhere does it say that I can’t play trumpet in the house’.
‘You are disgusting’ protested Deepen.
‘Tch Tch you shouldn’t talk like that Dikra. Ok now go I won’t play anymore.’
The noise receded for a few days and resumed again. We fretted and fumed inside. But no one said a thing to her because of ever smiling self. Every time you happened to cross her path she would always talk a lot.
‘My granddaughter Annie has had her first teeth. Feroze has sent her picture. Come and see Banerjee how pretty she looks. Almost like an angel, don’t you think? I think there is no other baby in world as beautiful as her. I am going to visit her this December. I have asked Feroze to send me tickets. He has said he would send them. I can’t go to Bangalore without tickets Banerjee, right?’
But Decembers would melt into March and no tickets ever came from Feroze or any of her other children. She was one of the millions of neglected veterans in the country, whose existence didn’t mean much to anybody. They lived on the little pension they had which could barely meet up with the rents and medication. On top of that Mrs. Bharucha had this bad habit of having parties. She would buy some cheap local wine from Parsi ladies and throw a party. We would find small notes cello taped to our doors that read;
Dear Friend,
Today is a very significant day in my life. On this day I had met my husband Homi for the first time. We met at the Annual Parsi Ball and had dinner together and danced. Before the evening was over Homi had said that he loved me. To remember this special day I am inviting a few very close friends. You are cordially invited.
Tenaz.
I didn’t feel like going to her parties. But you had no option as she would knock on your door after every 10 minutes and say ‘Come on Dikra, you are late. Everyone else has come and we are only waiting for you’. When I would go there I would see that I was the only one in that room. Nobody had turned up and she had probably said the same thing to all.
The room would be lit with candles. There would be chips and peanuts on the table along with a bottle of handmade local wine and some glasses. Mrs. Bharucha in a black evening wear would flutter all over the room looking exceptionally happy and satisfied. Sometimes Sonam or Neena would join us. I had never seen Mr. or Mrs. Screewalla at any of these parties. Mrs. Bharucha didn’t have any friends outside, so it was always us. Like the focal point of the group she would walk up to everyone with her glass of wine and say, ‘Life is beautiful isn’t it?’
We would somehow reply, ‘Sure’.
‘This was a great party, wasn’t it?’
‘Fantastic’. We would echo
‘I feel like I am 17 again you know.’ She would chirp.
But her attempts to go back to her youth started getting more and more frequent and tedious for all of us. We stopped attending her parties. She would knock at my door and with a doleful look say, ‘Today is a very special day in my life, Homi had proposed marriage to me 60 years back……..’ her voice trailed away and I would not even listen.
‘Please Mrs. Bharucha today I cannot make it. I have some really important office work to finish.’ I pleaded.
‘Just for a while Dikra’ She implored.
‘Impossible, Mrs. Bharucha.’ I would stand my ground.
She would walk away slowly and dejectedly to her room and probably party all alone. Sometimes the horrifying trumpet would bellow out and one of us had to run to her room to ask her to stop playing. We would feel angry and miserable about her.
Well close to autumn that year our miseries came to an abrupt end. We learnt that Mrs. Bharucha had sold off her trumpet for lack of funds. We were delighted. Shortly after that I received an offer from Response an agency in Calcutta and I gleefully came back home. Before I left I had gone to see her. She was not well and was lying on her bed. Seeing me her face lit up and she asked me if I had got her a card. She said she was customary to bring cards when you come to meet someone unwell.
‘I am collecting all the cards Banerjee. See Neena has given me this wonderful card. This one is from Srinivasan. Mr. Dandekar gave me this one. See what Deepen has given me these beautiful flowers along with a card - the poor darling. He doesn’t have much for himself and he went out and spent this money. I am very upset with him.’ Her voice was filled with happiness and genuine concern for Deepen.
‘Dikra do remember me and invite me to your wedding’ she had said and kissed my hand before I parted. I felt heavy but the excitement of getting back to Calcutta was more overwhelming.
I came back to Calcutta and joined my new job. Slowly memories of Pune were fading out. In the meantime I met Lali who worked in the same agency with me in client servicing and after 6 months of courtship we decided to tie the knot. A month before the wedding my father handed me a bunch of cards to give out to the people I would like to invite. As I sat down one night to prepare the list I remembered Mrs. Bharucha and that she wanted to come to my wedding. I had Mrs. Screwalla’s address and I mailed her the card for Mrs. Bharucha alongside a promise to buy her a return ticket to Calcutta if she agreed to come.
On the day of my wedding I received an inland letter from Mrs. Screwalla that read:
Dear Mr. Banerjee,
I am so happy to hear about your wedding. On behalf of all of us and Mrs. Bharucha we would like to wish you a happy and pleasant marital life. It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that on the 6th of December, that is 3 months after you had left Mrs. Bharucha left us for her heavenly abode, she was suffering from tuberculosis and succumbed to age, lack of attention and medication. We had tried contacting her children and only her younger son who stays in Bombay came over to complete her last rites. On the last day at her death bed she had fondly remembered each one of you and had asked me to personally apologies to all of you about her trumpet playing. She had asked me to tell you in case you ever came or wrote that she had absolutely no interest in that instrument or any other musical instrument for that matter. Her only reason to dole out that atrocious sound every night was so that one of you would come to her room to ask her to stop playing. For according to her nobody ever went to her room till she played it. She used to love your company and said that was her only way to escape her loneliness.
She has asked me to convey her gratitude to all of you for the company and love that she had got from and you and sent you her blessings.
Regards
Sara Screewalla.
As I finished reading the letter the memories of an old Parsi lady with constant smile on her lips, perched on my moist eyes. I could almost hear the annoying noise of her trumpet from far off till it slowly melted into Bismillah’s Kedar that had started playing – a ritual in Bengali marriages.
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