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
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
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