SARANGA

Abhik Mukherjee

It was early October, an hour after sunset. As I sat on a reclining chair in the wooden portico of my little cottage and stared out at the inky darkness that had descended around me my mind was in a state of tranquility and repose that I have unfailingly experienced every time I have given the Himalayas, the love of my life, a visit. Here I was, in this beautiful world of infernal sorrows, the snow capped peaks above me, the meadow, which during the day is so breathtakingly beautiful, in front of me, the dense but by no means oppressive darkness all around me, and there my worries were, in Hell where all sorrows should rightfully be; and so in vacant abstraction I sat till the approach of a ghostly figure in the cold stillness of the night. The adumbration brought a smile to my lips. The form, whose outlines I saw, belonged to a man whose persona was in such contrast to his situation that the instant I first beheld him I knew there was an obvious disconnect between his present and his past.

That evening was my third at the cottage on the meadow. The cottage was comfortable, the meadow idyllic and the service good. Back inDelhithe family business, whose health invariably perks up when I am not meddling in it, was doing very well in my absence and my brothers running the show there were actually encouraging me to write another unreadable book in my mountain retreat before coming back. In the event, I decided to stay on to make Kaushik’s acquaintance.

Kaushik was one of the many servants Himachal Pradesh Tourism Development Corporation employed to serve their guests at their cottages on the meadow. But he was so different from the rest that, when he knocked on my door the morning after I reached Khhajiar, tea in his hands, I thought he was a guest who had mistaken my cottage for his. His face spoke of his class and upbringing. I am not alluding to his looks. For the record he was not handsome. I am talking about the sum total of a face, the mysterious, indescribable essence in it that tells you the kind of family its owner comes from, his intelligence and educational attainment. This man, who was about my age, had given me a very favourable first impression. I knew from the moment I opened the door to find him smiling at me with my tea in his hand that he had to be from a good middle class family, city bred, and public school educated.

What was he doing here, so far away from human civilization; a humble servant tending to the needs of guests, most of whom were from the very background that he came from? My ability to smell mystery is not as poor as my business sense. Of course there was mystery here and only his past would unravel it.

Kaushik had been less forthcoming to questions about himself than I had hoped. Every time I attempted to strike a conversation with him he would smile graciously, reply in as few words as was absolutely necessary so as to not answer me and yet not be rude, give me a good reason to leave, bow somewhat ceremoniously, and retreat. And every time he did that, I admired at his education and intelligence—for only very good education and intelligence of very high order nurture discretion, discrimination and judgment can enable a man to use words so economically and yet so charmingly.

As he entered my well lit portico I grinned generously at him. “Come Kaushiksahib,” I said amiably. “You are just the person I want!”

“Sir?” he smiled, tilting his head in a way very special to him.

“I am on the horns of a terrible dilemma,” I said. “And only you can rid me of it.”

“Why do you think I can be of help to you, sir?”

“Because it concerns you.”

“I don’t understand sir.”

“Your colleagues,” I said, lowering my voice, “have many stories to tell about you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “About me?”

I nodded. “About your past.”

“May I ask what the dilemma is?”

“It is not right to listen to gossip.”

He grinned generously. “Then don’t,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I can’t do that either!” I exclaimed mischievously.

“Why?” He was still smiling.

“Because I am a modern writer.”

                                    ( to be continued)