NAYANTARA & NEELANJAN CHAPTER 9

Sheepishly I asked the cop to tell me which hospital it was?
“This is Bombay Hospital & Medical Research Centre and this is Marine Lines”, the hefty cop replied.
I rang Sanjeev’s number and was still clueless who he was and how Paakhi and he knew each other.
Clearing my throat I inquired, “Mr. Sanjeev?”
“Yes. It’s me. Give me the location without a delay of single second”, he replied back.
“Bombay Hospital & Medical Research Centre at Marine Lines”, I replied sheepishly.
I was trembling and also shivering. I had never seen so much blood in my life. Still horrific was the presence of Paakhi’s blood on my shirt.
My eyes were getting blurred and my heart had started beating faster.
Paakhi’s phone rang again.
“This is Sanjeev here and why the hell has she been taken to Bombay Hospital? Don’t you know Jaslok should have been better?” he said angrily.
I simply couldn’t figure out what to say.
“Yes. Certainly! But the cops didn’t waste a minute and made the ambulance park straight in front of this hospital’s gate”, I replied.
“Where is she now?” Sanjeev asked in a much higher pitch this time.
“They are taking her to the operation theater and I need to hang up now since I have to sign up some papers”, I concluded.
“No need to sign any papers before I reach there in another twenty minutes”, said Sanjeev.
“But they require signature of a person who is ready to take her responsibility”, I replied.
“Look Mr. whoever you are. Neither are you a family member nor are you a friend. Basically I don’t know you and I still don’t know what Paakhi was doing at Colaba. Ok. Now let me hang up because I think I am almost there!” concluded Sanjeev.
“Are you her family member, friend, fiancée, office colleague or relative?” asked the cop.
I was thoroughly confused. I just replied with blankness in my voice.
“A friend”
“The doctor who examined her the moment we bought her in here says, stitches need to be administered on the wound she sustained on her forehead”, said the cop.
“They need somebody’s signature since lot of blood has flowed down. There might be a mild fracture close to the area near waist. Only an X-ray can confirm that”, completed the cop.
To sum it up, it was necessary for some documents to be signed up before Paakhi could be operated.
I was at the most difficult juncture of my life. Neelanjan’s Nayantara was injured. And Paakhi who had saved Abhiroop’s life was now unconscious.
As I was lost in my thoughts, a black colored Mercedes came to a halt near the entrance. The door opened and I saw an average built but close to six feet tall guy jump out of the car. He was wearing blue denim jeans, a white T-Shirt and a black jacket over it. Reebok was imprinted on the white pair of sport shoes he was wearing. He straight away walked towards the reception desk, we were all standing at. Looking at the cops and without even taking notice of me, he straight away walked towards them.
“I am Sanjeev. How is Paakhi? Where is she?” he inquired.
“She is in the Operation Theatre, a bit critical and needs to be operated immediately”, one of the cops replied.
“Ok”, Sanjeev concluded.
“Where is that guy who seemed to have accompanied Paakhi in the ambulance?” asked Sanjeev.
The cop who had taken down my statement a few minutes back directed him towards me.
Sanjeev gently walked towards me. I kept looking at his personality. He was definitely handsome. ‘I am rich’ was written all over him. He slowly approached and stood close to me glancing at me with anger, suspicion and speechlessly.
“I am Sanjeev. My name is Sanjeev Surti and I am Paakhi’s fiancée”, he introduced himself.
The papers I was clutching in my hands slipped. The pen landed on the ground and I suddenly saw the world of my dreams shatter.
“What have you done to my Paakhi?” he questioned in a tone that was extremely uncanny.
Before I could reply, he gripped my collar.
“This is Paakhi’s blood on your shirt, isn’t it?” he asked.
“You have her blood on you” he added.
“Give me the papers and get out before I unleash my inner evil on you”, he yelled.
The cops came to my rescue and freed me of his clutches.
“Wait Mister”, Sanjeev yelled at me.
I turned back. Sanjeev made an advance to me and the next moment landed a tight slap on my face.
“You are responsible for all this and I promise you every needle that pierces my Paakhi’s skin will leave its pain on you”, he said.
I was utterly shocked to discover Paakhi was engaged. Sanjeev was real and he was standing in front of me. I mustered the courage to get up. My lip had started bleeding profusely after it suffered the slap. I looked at Sanjeev from the corner of my eye as he stood their signing the papers. I advanced towards him and was about to tap his shoulder, I collapsed.

- vociferous

NAYANTARA & NEELANJAN CHAPTER 8

In that dingy apartment in Jogeshwari, life was nothing less than hell.
If not cockroaches, the tremendously mobile mice family kept me on my toes.
They had eaten up my shirts, notes, currencies and at time even cheques.
When I tried to complain to my landlord, he retorted that this was still much more of a paradise I can expect to inhabit in Mumbai.
Going to the office was out of question.
I still called them up to inquire if any one was around. Sajjan replied, “Sahab aaj aaram kijiye”. (Sir! You rest for the day today)
No one seemed to have turned up after a turbulent lash of monsoon the previous evening. Before I could hang up, I asked Sajjan to help me with the number of our Colaba office.
Inadequately educated and least interested in digging for numbers, Sajjan still reluctantly helped me with the numbers. Before I could hang up, he couldn't hide his curiosity to ask me as to why I needed the number of our Colaba office.
I dialed the number from my mobile phone and in a much heavier tone asked for Paaki Seth. The voice on the other end replied that she was absent. I was a bit surprised. I was not thinking of that moment but of the evening. She had asked me to meet her at Leopold Café. She had not confirmed the time but I was fine as far as she was comfortable meeting me in the evening.
I shaved and was about to step into the bathroom for a shower. I suddenly heard a knock on my door. Grabbing a shirt to shield my average built, I opened the door. In front of me was standing Reshma. She has been working in this building as a maid in at least five of the rooms. Some rumored about her to be much more than a maid. But my landlord maintained she has always been a victim of jealousy. I agreed. I was only stunned as to why she was at my door.
“Your landlord told me you need a maid”, spoke Reshma.
“I never asked for one because I don’t require one”, I replied in a displeased tone.
“Rs. 250 for washing of clothes, Rs. 250 for utensils, Rs. 250 for housekeeping and for anything else it can be negotiated”, spoke Reshma with intoxicating confidence.
I wondered what she really tried to explain with her extra stress won anything else for which she was open to negotiations.
“If you don’t mind, I want you to leave now”, I told Reshma.
I made it clear to her that I being single never would require any of her services and mildly warned her to not lure me to the set of anything else she was referring to.
“Rude”, yelled Reshma and left to my relief.
I took a peaceful shower and put the music on.
Lost in Kishore Kumar’s melodious voice he lent for every song he sung for Aandhi, I retired speechlessly into instant sleep.
Luckily I had set an alarm for 4 pm on my mobile phone. I jumped off my bed and was also surprised to see around ten missed calls. Every call was made from different numbers which appeared to me of public booths. But one number that caught my attention was the number Paakhi had asked me to dial. I mustered the courage to dial it. The beep suggested the owner of that number was busy on a call.
I looked at the watch and decided to leave for Colaba to be at Leopold Café by 8 pm and not upset my Nayantara.
At exactly 5 pm, my phone rang again. This time it was the number Paakhi had asked me to dial for her. The voice on the other end was of a male.
“I received a call from this number, who is it?” asked the voice.
“I am Abhiroop”, I replied.
“You have been bothering me gentleman. I am clueless as to what kind of problem do you have?” he asked angrily.
“I am requesting you to stop calling my number because I hate wrong numbers and blank callers”, ended the voice.
I was angry and at the same time clueless as to whose number was it if it was not Nayantara’s or Paakhi’s.
At 8 pm sharp, I was at Leopold Café. On some of the walls I could see what the massacre of 26th November had done to this café which was established in 1871. The Leopold Café opens up at 8 am in the morning and remains functional till midnight. Authors, poets, lovers, travelers, photographers frequent this place.
I spent some time at the counter that sported the lovely Leopold merchandise one can purchase and take along. I was impressed by the T-Shirt and the coffee mugs.
I looked at my watch and it was ticking 10 minutes past 8 pm. I stepped out of the café and was relieved to see Paakhi trying to cross the road. The traffic was thick. Rains had once again started but this time the downpour was moderate. Paakhi waived a hand to me. I signaled back. The road got clearer. She stepped down from the divider and started pacing a little faster to cross the road. Suddenly I saw a car speeding from the right and before Paakhi could cross the road, the car barged in and in front of my eyes flung her at least five feet above the ground and sped off. She landed on her head. Her left arm was bruised. Blood suddenly oozed out of her forehead and within minutes, a crowd gathered. I ran faster, took her in my arms and held her close to my heart and screamed – Ambulance Please!
Some visitors who were already sitting at the café came to my rescue collected the things that might have fallen off from her purse. One of the crowd members handed over to me her mobile phone, which rang the moment I placed it in my pocket now drenched with Paakhi’s unstoppable blood. I couldn’t answer it. And then the last content that seemed to have been lying their unattended was handed over to me. It was a small photograph; the one’s which fit into a wallet. Half of the portion was now badly drenched in blood and slightly mutilated by now because of manhandling. On the right was visible Paakhi’s image in a vague tone. Amidst chaos, I could not figure out whom she was with?
An ambulance arrived and so did some cops. I requested them to first help me take Paakhi to the hospital, any hospital nearby and assured them of answering all queries that might rise.
In the ambulance, I was accompanied by one traffic cop and a bystander.
As we started moving towards an unknown hospital, Paakhi’s phone rang.
This time, I answered it.
The voice was familiar to me.
“I have been trying your number since one hour, where are you?” inquired the voice.
“I am taking her to the hospital. She has met with an accident”, I replied back.
“What? Where? And how did this happen? Which hospital are you taking her to?” questioned the voice.
I was myself clueless as to which hospital we were headed to so I looked at the cop. But the cop was himself on the phone inquiring about hospitals around.
“Who are you?” asked the voice.
“I am Abhiroop”, I replied.
“Are you not the one, I spoke to this morning?” he asked.
I said yes to his question.
“Give me your location, I will be there in one hour”, he replied angrily.
The ambulance stopped and the cop signaled me to get off the ambulance.
Paakhi suddenly opened her eyes and cried out a name which pierced my ear and heart too.
“Sanjeev”, she cried in pain. She then again slipped into unconsciousness.
The phone rang again.
“See Mister whoever you are, I am Sanjeev here. See to it that nothing happens to my Paakhi. And if you are the one who is responsible for this, let me tell you the worst is on its way”, he completed.
I was stunned, surprised and speechless about whatever was communicated to me over the phone.
The cop asked me something but I went blank and slipped into a strange state of silence.

- vociferous

NAYANTARA & NEELANJAN CHAPTER 7

Paakhi and I were having the first ever lovely conversation.
She told me to not address her as Paakhi because she loved being called Nayantara.
“Do you know to write poetries?” she asked.
“I used to when I was in Kolkata but presently no more”, I replied.
“Rabindranath Tagore, Sarat Chandra, Bankim Chandra are the authors who were born in West Bengal. They all were great thinkers, great writers and wrote things which are ageless. My personal favorite though is Devdas. It is an ageless story”, said Paakhi.
I was stumped by her knowledge of authors and poets who were born in Bengal but world renowned because of the literary excellence they had achieved.
I had read Devdas a more over 30 times. I had not only like Devdas’s love story with Paro. But his relationship with Chandramukhi always put me in a irony of how a person can get so besotted with a courtesan. Gradually I did realize that Devdas is not the story of a zamindar family. It is the story of Lord Krishna, which Sarat Chandra had interpreted with great panache. Some also argued that it was Sarat Chandra’s own life. Brought to life on celluloid by many renowned film makers right from Bimal Roy to the very recent Sanjay Leela Bhansali, Devdas seemed to be like a goldmine. But right here, it was Paakhi who was talking to me about the Bengal based writers.
“I like Devdas too”, I replied.
“Don’t you think, the author Shree Sarat Chandra could have done justice by bringing Chandramukhi and Devdas together?” asked Paakhi.
“Yes he would have done the poetic justice. But don’t you think Devdas died a better death?” I asked.
“How do you say that?” Paakhi asked me.
“Devdas was always in love with Paro till the end of his life. Even in Chandramukhi, he tried to find Paro”, I replied.
I also understood that Chandramukhi and Paro both loved Devdas in their own way. If Paro was her Lord’s Radha, the Meerabai was Chandramukhi.
“What kind of relationship do you think Devdas and Paro shared?” Paakhi asked.
“Same as that of Radha Krishna”, I replied instantly.
“And what do you think Devdas had to do with Chandramukhi?” inquired Paakhi.
“Chandramukhi pushed Devdas back to sanity. She made him realize that he belonged to Paro. She knew somewhere that she could never win the heart of a person she loved and worshipped. His heart and his self had always belonged to Paro. They were childhood sweethearts. There was no way they could have stayed separable. Finally destiny too brought them together but Devdas couldn’t even get a glimpse of Paro because if he would have succeeded, Sarat Babu could have never delivered the greatest romantic epic of all times”, I concluded.
“But do you think this filmmaker Anurag Kashyap did justice to Devdas by presenting him as DevD?” Paakhi inquired with a slice of anger filling her eyes.
I had seen DevD. I had also discovered how Anurag, one of my favorite filmmakers of Indian cinema had transported the story to the culture rich Punjab. He had shown it in the light of North Indian robustness. DevD roamed through the lanes of Paharganj in Delhi. He befriended commercial sex workers. And his Chanda was a far cry from the subtleness of Chandramukhi presented by Vaijayantimala and Madhuri Dixit.
Sheepishly I replied, “Yes he did do justice.”
I continued, “Devdas is a story that can be adapted to any time, any century and any locale and still it won’t lose its luster.”
“Devdas is ageless, Devdas is charismatic and Devdas is a story that can also be set at a foreign destination”, I said.
“It is a young Devdas who is a cult figure of recent times in the form of DevD caught in the cobweb of love, lust, drugs and a rebel within”, I added.
“So Neelanjan is a bit of writer too but seems to be not writing nowadays?” remarked Paakhi.
She was right. She was close to a passion of mine, I had long buried when I had left Kolkata.
I had given up writing for a reason that was far closer to heart than closer to my life.
Just like Anurag Kashyap, I too had tried writing Devdas in today’s context and adapted it to the Kolkata of recent times. I wanted to tell her that in my story Devdas was caught in a live-in relationship with Paro. I had planned to call him Devu and had rechristened Paro as Pamela. And of course Chandramukhi was to be presented as a high society woman whose name was supposed to be Chand. But I wanted to give Chand, the shades of grey. She was supposed to be a good looking, vivacious lady who befriended the crème de la crème of Kolkata. But very few would know that she used her beauty and grace to leverage power between two political parties stuck in a battle of conquering the reigns of Kolkata. Somehow my pen had just moved an inch and something happened which changed the course of my life. I wished to say all this to Paakhi but deep within I was shaken by the thought of losing Paakhi.
“Every Bengali loves to imagine. I imagined too!” I replied back to Paakhi.
Paakhi and I were lost in conversations.
Thankfully due to a rainy night and to help stranded bystanders, the Barista outlet was lenient enough to make it available the entire night.
Finally the rains subsided.
I glanced at my watch and it was close to 5.30 am.
We both could see people heading back home. It was taken for granted that very few would be planning to go back to their offices.
“We should now leave Neelanjan”, said Paakhi.
“So early?” I inquired.
“Well, if I am not mistaken, we were here for the entire night”, said Paakhi.
I just wanted to tell her that one night was not enough for Nayanatara and Neelanjan to understand that love was developing between the both of us.
Half heartedly, I too agree to depart.
“So which train are you taking from VT?” asked Paaki.
“Not from VT but from Churchgate. By the way it is no more VT. They call it CST!” I replied.
“Yes. Politically I am so incorrect”, said Paakhi with sarcasm.
“And where are you going?” I asked her.
“Let’s see, can you please dial that number for me again if you don’t mind?” asked Paakhi.
I dialed the number and on hearing the first ring I handed over the phone to Paakhi.
She just walked to a corner of the shop and started speaking. I kept looking at her from the billing counter. I realized she was trying to explain things to someone on the other end. After 15 minutes she came back to the counter and thanked me for having helped her with the phone.
“Everything fine Nayantara?” I asked. I was excited that I was addressing her by the name she wanted to. Definitely I was falling in love with her.
“I wish this world was a place of imaginations Neelanjan. Why do we have to rebel against our wishes, desires and dreams?” she said in a sad tone.
The moment we stepped out of Barista, Paakhi waived for a taxi and hopped in. She bid me a farewell but in a hurried way and the taxi disappeared far away. I just could think that it might have taken the JJ flyover route. But I was clueless where Nayantara’s destination was. I started walking back to Churchgate. Clouds had disappeared and slowly the sun was preparing to shine over the city of dreams. Once at Churchgate, I was again surprised the way Paakhi or Nayantara just disappeared. But I was content with the fact that we were working for the same company. The next day itself I can visit her during lunch or say in the evening, I can just wait for her outside her office.
I waited for the train to be announced. As I was supposed to board the train, my phone rang. The number somewhat looked familiar. I answered it. On the other end was a male’s voice.
“Paakhi!” said the voice.
“Abhiroop. I am Abhiroop speaking”, I replied.
“Maybe a wrong number, I guess?” said the same voice.
After disconnecting the call, I checked my call registry that had the number which I had dialed for Paakhi. Strangely I realized Paakhi had deleted it. I redialed the number; I had received the call from. No one answered it.
The train moved towards Borivali at a normal pace. As it touched Mumbai Central, my phone rang again.
This time the number was unknown and unfamiliar.
“This is Nayantara. I am really sorry Neel. Can we meet tomorrow evening at Leopold Café?” said Paakhi.
“Yes!” I replied instantly.
Finally I reached Jogeshwari and once again was back to that dingy apartment of mine.

- vociferous