Mrs Chatterjee and the Mute Spectators

by Mridula Sharma (India)

Making a local connection India

I found myself expecting a hubbub while waiting for a cab at the airport. I wanted the city to be what I had heard it to be- noisy and colourful. The calm that I felt at seven in the morning started to betray my presumption. Nasim, the driver, was a young man in his twenties. I could understand his Hindi accent, he could understand mine. He asked me the purpose of my visit, for most sane people in India would be concerned about a young girl- wearing a hairband that made her look even younger- travelling alone. I informed him that I was supposed to present a research paper later that day. I called up Mrs Chatterjee, and asked her to help Nasim navigate the route toward her house. “Why did you go to that road?” I heard her ask with authority after I switched on my phone’s speaker. She questioned him. Angrily. The totality of her auditory expression established her power. I wondered if Nasim was scared. Soon, their trivial dispute transformed into a full-fledged war within the ambit of a telephonic conversation. She questioned his decision to opt for a certain route, declaring with sheer force that it was a foolish choice. He responded that he had not chosen that route at all, and challenged her claim to have knowledge of the route that he had actually taken. Their passionate arguments that would have made a decent comedy show episode for Indian television, evoked my laughter in the most natural way- suddenly. I did, however, make sure that they didn’t hear me. Before leaving the cab, I asked Nasim how to say goodbye in Bengali. He paused, slightly laughed, and finally, shrugging his shoulders, said, “Ta-ta.” I couldn’t understand if it was a question or an answer. I settled it for a response, and whispered “ta-ta” to him before stepping outside. Mrs Chatterjee waved at me from her balcony. From my earlier telephonic interactions, I had taken the liberty to conjure up an image of hers in my mind. She was supposed to be an elderly lady donning a pair of boring spectacles. Mrs Chatterjee was, however, a loud woman in a dull saree. Her round face emanated an undeniable charm. The living room had a bed, a table and some plastic chairs. Everything was brilliantly colourful. The walls covered the whole azure of the sky. All the doors adorned the same shade of green. A shelf stood silently in the corner, with books, puppets and some framed black-and-white photos. Within twenty minutes, I realised two things. First, our conversation followed a simple algorithm: she asked me a question, I answered, and then she said “okay” while nodding her head with vehement passion. Second, she had two chief facial expressions. Either she would stare open-mouthedly with evident disregard, or she would smile with a peculiar sense of pride. I observed the former expression when I told her that I was a literature student. The latter emotion enveloped her face when she informed me that she was the organiser of the pandals for Durga Puja every year. A young man with a bandaged wrist interrupted our exchange of pleasantries. She suddenly exclaimed, “Why are you wasting your parent’s money? What’s the point of studying history, then?” He told her that he was studying political science. She shrugged. For ten minutes, Mrs Chatterjee scolded the young man in Bengali. When she asked him about his preparation for civil services examination, he shook his head. “Does it seem like a joke to you?” she thundered. He appeared confident that he could crack it; she seemed certain that he could not. So, he made a bet with her that his preparation at the coaching centre will enable him to clear the examination. Their firm handshake sealed the mightiest bet made in Mukherjee road that morning. I continued listening to them with an uncanny curiosity. What was a man, who ascribed meaning to surrounding idleness that Kolkata’s busy streets could not approve of, doing at this house? Unfortunately, I never saw him again because he disappeared in the evening. I hope that the man is still out there somewhere, alive and dreaming.