“What the hell, Antara. Why is there no sugar in the tea?”

“Chachi ji, I have brought sugar separately. I wasn’t sure how much everyone would want…”

“What nonsense… You don’t know how much sugar…”

“Actually, she did the right thing, Auntie,” Mrinal interposed much to Mrs. Gupta’s annoyance, but she kept her feelings in check before her guest, which she wasn’t wont to doing before her niece. “I don’t take sugar in my tea,” he added, ignoring the surprised and amused glance from his father.

“Send some of the cookies we brought from Goa,” she practically barked at her niece as she added sugar in her tea. Antara went inside to carry out the instruction. But she didn’t come out with the cookies herself. A maid did. Mrinal was terribly disappointed.

He had been extremely reluctant to go to Guptas. But his father had insisted during their evening walk that he should also stop by their good neighbours. He was a grown up man now, and must learn to discharge his social duties. Apparently visiting neighbours in his father’s city also came under its ambit. A city he hadn’t spent much time in several years now. As he had sat there fully aware of every second that passed by and tried to ignore the sound of Mrs. Gupta’s constant chatter, which wasn’t letting his father or Mr. Gupta talk much, he had gotten something like a jolt on seeing this young woman come out with tea. She looked like a protagonist right out of the romance novels. Slim, fair, translucent skin carrying a healthy, pink glow, large eyes, clad in a simple, cream salwar kameez with a thin line of dupatta going around her neck, two gold ear-rings stretching her delicate earlobes and a thin gold bangle adorning each of her wrists. Mrinal didn’t think until then that any such thing as ethereal natural beauty existed. If the distress was missing in her countenance when she had entered, Mrs. Gupta’s rebuff had made up for it and she looked the proverbial damsel in distress as she withdrew from the room they were sitting in.

Who was she?

“So, you are settled in Mumbai, Beta?” Mr. Gupta’s question, which broke the monotone of Mrs. Gupta’s blabber, brought Mrinal out of his reverie.

“Uh… I like my job. So, I guess yes…” Even if he were to leave his job as an assistant professor in Mumbai, he was definitely not interested in coming back to Kolkata. Nothing moved in this sleepy city. Besides his parents and ancestors had created such deep roots here that everybody in this huge city was either a relative or a close acquaintance. The incessant social obligations it created was tiring for Mrinal. There would always be someone or the other visiting at home; there would always be a few social calls to be made; and there never was any conversation that excited him much. The same business issues, cricket and lame, superficial political discussions amongst men. The same jewelry, affairs, wedding and movies discussions amongst women. And it wasn’t like the close-knit community was happy together. Everyone always had some grouse or the other against someone or the other. The sides kept changing though. Two people who sounded like they would eat each other alive if it weren’t illegal were the best pals by the time Mrinal came to spend the next vacation with his parents.

“That’s good. That’s good. It is a city of opportunities. You can also help expand Agarwal Sahab’s . business in the city,” Mr. Gupta responded.

Mrinal just smiled trying not to appear condescending and bored. “He is a teacher by heart Gupta ji. He can’t be bothered with business and all,” his father, Nishant Agarwal, replied while throwing an affectionate smile at his son and patting his shoulder. Mrinal reciprocated his smile. His father was not a big talker, but his understanding was something Mrinal was thankful for. Otherwise charting a course away from the family business would not have been possible for him given the pressure and expectation from his entire extended family and his mother.

—

“Why don’t you tell us if there is a girl tucked away somewhere? Just how much time do you think you are going to take to get married? You are already thirty, beta. Good girls are not going to wait forever. In fact, they get married off earlier.”

“I know, Mummy…”

“If you know, then why aren’t you willing to meet the girls?”

“This is not how I can do things…”

“Then do it your way. Find a girl. So long as she is from our community, what problem can we have… It’s not like we will ask for a fat dowry or anything…”

“Right! That’s precisely how one goes about falling in love! Ask about community; and the dowry-giving capability of the parents…”

“No need to taunt me. I am thinking of your future only…”

“My future is in no grave danger because of my marital status, Mummy…”

“Leave him alone,” Mrinal’s father came to his rescue again.

“Leave him alone, indeed! So that he goes about his wayward ways. When he gets out of hands…”

“That’s enough, Mohini. Let him eat peacefully. Otherwise, he will leave this house sooner than he needs to…”

When his father got stern, his mother did usually shut up. It happened this time too, but not without a concluding grumble, “Men will never understand how much a mother worries or cares…”

“Thank you, Papa,” Mrinal said to his father later in the evening when they were alone.

“You are welcome, son. And while I don’t condone your mother’s pestering, I still share her dream. Of seeing you happily married. Don’t turn away from it just because you feel the need to be different from everyone. Everyone needs company. You are no exception.”

“I know, Papa. But I just can’t get into it this way…”

“That’s fine,” his father smiled at him, “Do it your way, in your time.”

—

But that night Mrinal Agarwal was restless. He tossed and turned in his bed for quite some time before falling asleep. This was unusual, because he was a quick sleeper. And he dreamed. Of an apsara from some TV serial he had watched in his childhood. Except that, he recalled on waking up, her face looked like Antara’s. What the hell! He looked at the clock. He hadn’t had a great sleep with all the dreaming. But he had woken up in time for a quick morning jog. He decided to go for it as it would help him clear his mind. He could always take an afternoon nap if the night’s sleep proved inadequate.

As he went round the park near Guptas’ house, despite himself, his steps traced the path of his yesterday’s reluctant social visit.  The main gate of the house was unlocked as was customary in the locality that prided itself in being safe. There was a large lawn and a garden on the way to the main house. Mrinal hesitated for a moment, but figured that an early morning tea-visit won’t be unwelcome in this society. And as an occasional visitor to the city, he would be especially welcome.

But he froze, when behind a wildly growing rose plant, he spotted her. There was a makeshift easel which she was striking a brush. The ease and boldness of her strokes emanated a confidence that wasn’t visible during their brief encounter yesterday. His train of thoughts were broken by the shrill voice of Mrs. Gupta, “Antara. Where the hell has that girl run off to? Filling up her drawing book again…”

“Coming Chachiji,” Antara hollered back, even her raised voice so much sweeter on ears than her Chachiji’s usual conversational one.

She left everything in a huff and ran off towards the house. She hadn’t noticed him, nor had anyone else. He did something about which he would be incredulous all his life. Where did he get that impulse from? He took long strides towards the easel and found that the boldness of her strokes had done justice to the half-done painting. He bent down and picked up some pieces folded art paper lying on the ground. More paintings. They could have benefitted from being painted on a proper canvas. But she obviously wasn’t getting any pampering or encouragement about them – “drawing book” as they were termed by Mrs. Gupta. Then he noticed a small faux-leather-bound diary, carrying the name of Gupta Enterprises, lying on beside the sheets.  Something she would have gotten from Mr. Gupta’s stationary, either stealthily, or owing to a moment of graciousness from him. Fully aware of how improper it was, he picked it up, and quickly flipped to the first hand-written page after ignoring the photographs of the deities and the last year’s calendar lying between the cover and that page. “Antara” stood out and still blended in the page filled with the pencil sketch of arabesque motifs. He shut the diary and, after looking around, slipped it into the pocket of his track suit. Then he quietly left the house.

—

To be continued