Buddhadeva Bose - The Love Letter And Other Stories

~the~

and other stories

Published in Rainlight by

Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd 2014

7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj

New Delhi 110002

Sales centres:

Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai

Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu

Kolkata Mumbai

Copyright Damyanti Basu Singh 2014

Translation copyright Arunava Sinha 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

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eISBN: 9788129132819

First impression 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This edition is for sale in Asia only.

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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publishers prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

Walking though the drizzle in a raincoat, he kept stopping every now and then to fill his lungs with oxygen, to swallow a few mouthfuls of light air. It was lovely, this drizzle, this fresh air which seemed newly awakened; this quiet, narrow serpentine lane, whichalthough a little uneven, paved with stones, a little too clean and desolatevaguely reminded him of Beltala Road. SoIm going back? Yes, of course. My job, my family, my Speech magazine, my linguistics society, all of them are in Calcutta. How will Calcutta survive unless I return? But there are still three days to go.

He chanced upon a street corner; on the right a mansion with Doric columns, in front of it Diana surrounded by her nymphs, a wide avenue bursting with the sound of scooters. This is Rome, I have arrived in Rome, the infinite city of memories and lovelinessI arrived this instant, for the first timeand now? The lane after the statue of Dianawasnt that what the girl at the hotel said? Looks like that street thereyes! Another narrow, paved lane, small shops on either sidefurniture, silverware, clothes, booksbehind the glass the latest books in four languagesIm tempted to enter, but not now; first, the letter. The rain had almost let up, the sunlight became visible on the last few drops, the enormous square was lit upcrowds of people, taxis coming to a halt, two horse-drawn phaetons awaiting the most sophisticated among the touristsand a flight of steps began where the square ended; steep, wide, venerable, like a concentrated, silent welcome. So this was the Piazza di Spagnia. He didnt stop for a look, he walked on quickly, a wall caught his eye: a deferential notice on a plaqueKeats-Shelley House. That second-floor roomthat window, through which a foreign young man would gaze occasionally, an unknown, dying poet, seeing nothing, understanding nothing. I will be in that room in a few minutes, from the same window I will look out on the Hispanic stepsthe same I who, till the age of forty-two, had considered Delhi my western frontier. Excuse me for a few moments, Shelley-Keats: first, the letter.

After a single glance, he tore his eyes away from the fountain before him; American Express was just two buildings away.

It was summer, there was a crowd of American tourists, long queues snaked up to every counter. He was behind nine or ten people. He was looking at the letters arranged in their pigeonholesenvelopes of different colours, red blue yellow green airmail flags, stamps glittering as though they had been crownedinside them, scores of languages; so much hope, happiness, comfort. Is it that light grey envelope there? No, thats been given to someone else. Even after scouring the racks with his eyes he didnt seem to spot the familiar grey envelope. Was it just an aerogramme then, or perhaps a picture postcard with a couple of paragraphs? Or was it actually possible that not one of those numerous envelopes had his name on it?

Suddenly, he felt warm; taking off his raincoat, he folded it over his arm.

Who was this distant friend for whose letter he was so distraught? Sadly, the answer was rather pedestrian. A woman whom he had metunexpectedly, unbearablyin a Midwest town in America, because of whom his days had become burdened for several weeks now and his nights tumultuous, whose absence accompanied him everywhere in Europe, from one city to another, from one country to another, continuously. And continuously the letters from this woman, in every country, in every city, while travelling on the train, while eating at the restaurant, on a bench by the river, on the steps before the museum; in the spaces between all he had seen on his travels, all the sights, all the paintings, all the palaces, all the old manuscripts, the letters ebbed and flowed like waves, a secret longing in his middle-aged veins, exciting and pleasurable like the beginning of an illness. Of course he had written back, toostaying up nights in his hotel room after the exertions of the day, sometimes the moment he arrived at a new town, sometimes he had constructed sentences in his head while travelling, which he no longer remembered when it was time to write the letter. There were no significant developments to report, no questions that had to be answered, nothing new that needed to be said but, still, he had to write. He had to write in a language that was foreign to both of them. She could at least use her mother tongue, German, from time to time, but although he could read five European languages he could write only in one, English, which he had once prided himself on knowing very well. But when he tried to write to a special person during a particular state of mind, he discovered that what he had thought of as English was nothing but a tight, ill-fitting dress, which he could use to accommodate his research on linguistics, but in which it was impossible to express what was in his heart. It was a formidable obstaclebut still he had to write. Such a turmoil in his hearthe could not find the words to match it, he condemned his own fate because she did not understand Bengali, and then the very next moment he bowed in gratitude to his destiny, because his lifehis humdrum Bengali life on which the shadow of old age had fallen alreadyhad experienced something so astonishing.

Her last letter would reach him here in Rome. Last, for he was going directly to Calcutta from Rome, and to him Calcutta was synonymous with a well-defined, disciplined, clearly articulated circle of life, which included many other people, and had no room for anything purely personal. He would board the eastbound plane three days from now, and the woman of his desire on the other side of the ocean, living on an unknown longitude on a distant Western continent, who had awakened him, who had aroused his sadness, would be lost at once. What had been alive in two chaotic hearts would be converted into a silent point on a lifeless atlas. That was why todays letter was crucial.