Superseded

It had been happening for quite a long time. Over the years, it had assumed form of a regular, quotidian happening. In that painfully awkward, though abundantly spacious, confinement of the elevator of the building, they all would keep telling themselves in their mind that this was quite a common occurrence in posh building towers of Bombay. On return from their offices in the evenings, they would park their cars and walk to the lift. They would patiently stand in the lift and wait for their floor to arrive. Somehow they would thwart the awkwardness of their being together in the elevator by averting their faces to avoid eye contact. They would walk out hurriedly of the elevator as it would stop at their floor. Some of them knew their fellow occupants by face, but none had ever attempted a conversation while waiting for his floor to arrive. Exiting the elevator, they would enter their apartments, and forget the building a part of which was their apartment.

Satya Prakash , who had recently shifted into a flat on the seventh floor, had experienced little unease initially during his evening elevator rides, but he now knew ways to engage himself in thinking his thoughts while the elevator took its time to reach his floor. It was, however, quite contradictory to ambience of the Ashok Vihar colony of New Delhi, where, in his parental house, he was born and grownup into a young man. Satya Prakash was an assistant editor in a newspaper office. He had a Masters degree in arts and a PG diploma in journalism.

For the previous few days during his evening lift ride, he had been thinking about a lady, who everyday boarded a charted bus from the same stop of Colaba where Satya Prakash waited for his bus for return travel from office. He was now certain that he knew the woman out some 8 years before while in college in New Delhi. What was the Bengali sounding name? Was it Sen or Sengupta? Why, yes, the name was Pallavi Sengupta. Next day in the evening, he would talk to her, and perhaps she too might remember having seen him years back in the college.

Satya Prakash, while waiting in Pragati Express for the train to start, immediately noticed her from a distance as she appeared suddenly from behind the glass paneled swing door of the ac chair car compartment of the train. It was a coincidence that her seat was just next to that of Satya Prakash’s.

She had a copy of some novel of Grisham in her hand. She leafed through the novel trying to recall where she had ended reading last time.

Satya Prakash decided to have a little talk with her. He said, “Good morning Ms. Pallavi.” The lady was apparently taken aback. She looked in his face for spotting a familiarity to make sense in her memory. Her memory appeared to have given her no answer. Satya Prakash added to simplify it for her, “You remember DIT College, first year, Rashmi Khanna, your friend. I thought you might remember having seen me with her in college way back in 92. I am Satya Prakash Ahuja.” Rashmi was not exactly a girlfriend; she was more a senior to Satya Prakash than friend. It was just that they used to come to college in the same bus.

Her memory had now sorted out the matter alright. Rashmi Khanna, that tall, fair, outspoken Punjabi girl and the handsome Punjabi young man both of whom always came together to the canteen in the mornings to have first tea, and then disperse somewhere in corridors of the college. So here was that same young man, now with a little paunch. She appeared to have remembered something funny of the old times, because she smiled as she remembered. Perhaps his shortness by two inches to Rashmi’s 5-10, which made it look like a pair of an elder sister and a kid brother. The sister, however, would let the kid always pay for the canteen tea. Of course, the poor boy had to sacrifice his allowance, which was otherwise meant for buying cigarettes. That drew Pallavi’s eyes to her vanity bag where a pack of Marlboro lay among the contents together with a gold plated tiny cute lighter, which she had purchased from a mall in Indonesia. How she cared not to misplace the lighter even more than her expensive jewelry. She was enamored of the blue, stiff, beam like flame that leapt upright from the tiny bore of the lighter; something like the direct, concentrated and swift healing effect of a tiny medicine tablet in the body of a severely suffering man.

“You have been transferred from Calcutta? You moved to Calcutta after marriage, so Rashmi told me.”

A pellucid contempt for something or someone in Calcutta, in the same instant, took the edge off the easily set aplomb on her face. The name of the city had raked something over in her. She looked again at her purse, and opened it while thinking. “I have changed a bit from the college days. Now I smoke one pack of cigarettes a day, and can hardly do without smoking for more than a waking hour.” And she rose to go out of the ac section of the compartment. Satya Prakash too followed her. As she exited from the door of air-conditioned inside, she, without bothering the statuary prohibition of smoking in trains, picked a cigarette from her pack, and clicked the tiny lighter in her hand. She directed her beloved blue flame to the end of the cigarette. Fortunately the ticket examiner was nowhere in sight. She looked at the end of the cigarette from where a thin line of smoke snaked into the smoking prohibited space of the train. Some agonies in her memory were torturing her; Prakash could see that very well. Prakash, thinking to use a bit of conversation as a diversion, spoke, “I am a newspaper journalist, an assistant editor. My office is in Colaba only; near where you take your bus.” She joined the diversion and returned, “I work in an office there. We take contracts for Power Plants. I am going to attend a meeting.”

Pallavi looked out of the compartment’s door into the pall of darkness. Underneath calmness on her face, a sharply serrated bitterness prodded a nettlesome unease to break open the thinned pellicle of her scattered composure. Then in a precipitous correction, bitterness in her face peeled off, and a copasetic fresh skin, energetically held by a smile grew on her visage. In her unruffled voice, which appeared cutting dead and treading on some dehisced wound, she asked, “what about your family Mr. Abuja? How are your kids and your wife?"

Prakash laughed and said, “I still don’t earn enough to support a family.”

She too returned a laugh. “You further studied in New Delhi only.”

“Yes, first a Masters degree. Then a diploma in Journalism. And did you carry on studies at Calcutta? ” He almost immediately repented for having touched her on the raw again.

She again started looking blankly at darkness outside. She needed darkness to look or overlook somewhere in herself, which was abstaining from light. Then again the same obsequious control that appeared to correct and align things in order, worked its way, and made its forceful presence on her face in an open slather.

“I studied management in Calcutta and got the degree. My marriage broke in a divorce in just few months. Soon after divorce I joined the management studies. After leaving the college, I joined a company. I have been working in different companies over all these years. Now I have joined this company, which sets up Power Plants.” Words came out of her as neatly typed lines on a fresh paper.

Thus they talked this and that: something from the old times of college; something on randomly picked topics; something from newspapers and so on. Topics meticulously careened to keep clear of any mucking potholes yet again.

On reaching Pune, they said their good byes to one another near the taxi stand. After Pallavi left, Prakash proceeded to find a hotel room for him near the railway station itself. He slid Pallavi’s card in his wallet behind his ATM and Credit cards.

On the third following day, Pallavi herself rang up.
“Good morning Mr. Prakash.”
“Good morning. How are you and from where are you speaking?”
“Here from the bus stop at Colaba. Today I missed my bus. Occasionally, my one friend and I used to spend some time in coffeehouse here, when we didn’t feel like going straight home in the evening. Now the friend got married and shifted elsewhere.”
“Pallavi, if I accompany you to the coffeehouse, would you mind?”
“No, it will be pleasant to see you again and have a chat.”
“Can you please wait for just five minutes there? It will take me just five minutes to reach there.”
“I am waiting here.”
Prakash found Pallavi waiting at the bus stop. She was attired in a deep blue color dress that day, which was sprucing up her personality.
They walked to the nearby coffeehouse. Pallavi knew the location. They walked in silence for some time. Prakash broke it finally and said, “Did you have a very busy day?”
“Oh no, just routine work.“

The coffeehouse was ordinary in appearance, but had engaging walls hung by pastiches of works of some European known painters.

It started raining outside. The front entrance to the place was full open. The pluvial air outside reached the interior.

When two hot steaming cups of coffee arrived at their table, they started sipping from their cups as if the coffee would brighten them to find what to talk. Then Prakash said, “I asked my mother to come to Bombay, but she preferred to stay back in Delhi. The families here, living in tall building societies, hardly have a society at their place of living. This is true of Delhi and other metros also. Do you know that some political people, after earning name and money, shifted to costly flats in these societies and returned to their chawls soon after. Their wives could not survive the isolation that is so inevitable there.”

“For certain few others, this is the convenience that doesn’t let them leave Bombay, Mr. Prakash.” She appeared to have an affinity and a resemblance to these few others she was talking about.

They waited for the drizzle to end. Then they walked to a waiting taxi and Pallavi left.

There was not a day when Prakash and Pallavi won’t talk over phone. They used to come to the coffeehouse occasionally, spend some time over coffee. Sometimes Prakash accompanied Pallavi while she did some shopping.

One evening while Prakash and Pallavi were sitting on a bench in a park, Prakash, having worked that day on a piece about a beauty competition, said, “ while in college, you had taken part in some beauty contest and won prizes also. Didn’t you ever think about modeling as a career?”

She smiled, reflected for a long moment and said, “In those years, I liked to look beautiful. Later during my struggle time in Calcutta, I got rid of this urge for looking good. I shunned it for the fear of the future agony that would have overridden me for my having lost good looks in old age. When a beautiful woman grows old, she gets a shock when she finds her beautiful face of younger years giving way to a wrinkled face with pucker lines allover.” Just then, a Bengali sari seller came there, and started showing saris to Pallavi from his mobile collection. He had tied two thin bed sheets in the manner of two baskets, one on either side, on a long bamboo, and carried the saris stacked inside the bed sheet carriages. Pallavi talked to him in Bengali. She selected some pieces.

Pallavi paid for the saris. While the vendor was packing the saris in a polythene bag, Pallavi said, “ Mr. Prakash, can you notice that there, among the two bed sheet basket carriages, one bed sheet is relatively new, and thus does not have blackened load lines, which are appearing on the other one. This is similar to a woman’s face. When she finds her face gathering wrinkles as a result of time’s load lines, she loses all that is based on her beauty in her life. She finds it hard to reassemble, redo her personality in that age. A woman too, like men should base her personality on some kind of permanent attributes, on which she can ever rely.” And she had looked on as the sari vendor walked away with his mobile sari shop oscillating on the bamboo on his shoulder.

For some urgent official purpose, Prakash had to go to Goa ; he somehow missed to inform Pallavi. He tried to call Pallavi from Goa, but her direct number was not working. He didn’t remember the board numbers of her office. She had recently shifted from her old apartment, and had no phone at the new place for the time being. Somehow the job that he had at Goa took him three days to complete, and during these 3 days he could not talk with her. He decided to buy a mobile on his return to Bombay, though it was a costly affair in Y2K.

Prakash was informed in his office on his return to Bombay that Pallavi had telephoned to know his whereabouts. None had bothered to remember the telephone number of the hotel, though Prakash had left the number with his office. Prakash rang up Pallavi’s office number from a local telephone booth. That day the telephone line was alright. Pallavi was however absent from the office. She was supposed to go to Bangalore for some official meeting that day, and was probably at the airport at that time.

Looking for her seat, Pallavi walked in the aisle of the aircraft. She had seen a coffin being loaded in the luggage deck while she was boarding the plane. This had saddened her even more. She asked a woman attendant of the airline about it, who was not on duty and was just going to Bangalore to attend the funeral. She was sitting in a vacant seat next to Pallavi. The lady told Pallavi that their pilot, who captained this aircraft for the previous five year, died of a serious lung infection the previous night. He flew this aircraft till 2 weeks before from then, the lady told Pallavi. She further told her that the captain was aged just 53; he was a bachelor and seen always with a smile on his face; he was a spry ripsnorter, who used to become intimate with the crew without letting them know the formation of an adhesion.

Pallavi could very well see the crew members of the aircraft doing their duties mechanically with their moods and minds under the pall of distress of their captain’s death. The shock and grief that threaded through the mind of all crew members, bespoke of a certain kind of a shock inflicted on the mind of some inveterate window-shopper- the sudden shock of the onlooker who routinely enjoyed seeing a mannequin in a shop for the previous few weeks, which was swathed in a coat - pleasing, instantly captivating due to a meticulous blend of style, shade, and color; only this day he found the mannequin clad in the same coat with the inside of the coat, which had a lifeless style and color, turned outside; additionally the wooden mannequin’s head was missing.

By the time the flight reached Bangalore, Pallavi felt quite low; she would have even wept had there been some intimate person to listen to her.

On the third day after Pallavi’s leaving for Bangalore, Prakash dialed her office number and was told that Pallavi had taken a leave that day; she had of course returned from Bangalore. Prakash searched a number in a diary and rang up again. This was number of a neighbor of Pallavi.

Pallavi came on the line and having no idea who the caller was, said hello. Her fragile speech was speaking volumes of an ingrained despair.

“Hello, who is on the line?” She repeated.

When Prakash told her, he could feel a note of regeneration in Pallavi’s voice. After half an hour, they were sitting at their usual place in the coffeehouse. They sat in silence, none trying to start a hare. At length, Prakash said, “What is it, Pallavi? It appears you really have a fever,” and for the first time, Prakash touched Pallavi at her wrist to feel the fever. She had no fever. Her face spoke of a sleepless night.

“Did you read all night something, some sad story perhaps?”
“No”.
“Then why didn’t you sleep?” She didn’t answer. She opened her hand bag and reached for her sunglasses. As she quickly covered her eyes with the glasses, she said, “something causing itch in the eyelids.”

Prakash looked full into her face. She, little perturbed by the thrust of his eyes on her face, said in jest, “what’s wrong now? It appears the fever has left me and caught you.” She had done her best, but it was so erratic that she herself gave it up.

Prakash took his sight off her face, and appeared trying to make a decision. He didn’t take long as it was a matter much thought about, almost conclusively finalized. He said, “Pallavi, I must talk with you about something that is of serious concern for two of us. I long back reached a decision and have been awaiting an opportunity to mention it to you. This is important so please don’t interrupt. You have had enough of weeping over your misfortunes. You have had enough struggle with your reminiscences. This is the end of them all. In plain words, you and I must approve the most obvious now. That is our marriage; this is because we both want it that way.”

Prakash tried to see Pallavi's eyes through her dark glasses but could not. He gently removed the glasses from her face. Her eyes were staring at him in amazement. She slowly took back the sunglasses and then opened her handbag and put the glasses inside.

“Won’t you say something?”

Pallavi thought for a moment, then took out a folded piece of paper from her handbag and handed it to Prakash. Prakash took the paper, and read what was written there in Pallavi’s hand;

“Am I different from a closed dusty book?
Lying in a battered bateau, drifting in the river of time without hurry?
It was my unfounded belief that his coming and reading through me was enough,
To make me his destination, and him the man of my story.
I dreamed he would bring the boat to one bank of the river where there will be a home,
A home for me and my hero, a home where I would revert to a woman from a book.
As he, holding my hand, would step inside the door.
But my begging to God for this fortune has no earthliness.”

Prakash looked at her, reflected for a moment, and felt the urge to score out the text and mark it "Superseded" as he used to do while handling his official paperwork.