If Piyali didn’t find it so difficult to approach strangers she would have liked to be a journalist like her friend Sonali. So when Sonali invited her to accompany her to interview an erstwhile tawayaf and well-known singer Meher Jaan, she went eagerly. Meher Jaan was a recluse in her old age and any music lover would cherish a meeting with her. Piyali was no exception.

The old woman was dressed simply, but her house displayed the rich relics of an era gone by. The exquisite carpets and rich chandeliers could have been from a period film set. At first Meher Jaan didn’t pay much attention to Piyali. But she turned to her when Sonali made a formal introduction, and seemed to be taken aback. She squinted at her for a long minute, then asked, “What did you say your name was?”

“Piyali.”

“Piyali what?”

“Piyali Banerjee.”

Meher Jaan nodded, but she looked dissatisfied.

“She is trained in classical music,” Sonali offered, “And sings very well herself. Of course, only by my standards.” She chuckled.

Meher Jaan obliged her by smiling and asked her to start the interview.

In due course, Meher Jaan brought out old albums for Sonali to select some good photographs from for her story.

“Come with me while your friend does your job,” Meher Jaan told Piyali, her voice much kinder than earlier, “You might like some old records from my collection.”

Piyali followed her as her chest tightened. Why did Meher Jaan seem to know her? She couldn’t fathom how that could be. But she felt that she was about to find out.

“Would you like to play this one?”  Meher Jaan picked up a record and asked Piyali.

Piyali nodded without looking at the record.

“Put it on then,” she indicated towards the table on which record player was mounted. Piyali went to the table, but before she could place the record in the player, her eyes caught a framed photograph kept on the same table. There were eight women in the photo, all dressed extravagantly. Piyali froze.

“Who is she?” Piyali put her fingers on one of the women and asked.

“Her real name was something else,” Meher Jaan replied, “But here she was called Salma Jaan. We always gave new names to the girls here. She was a refugee from East Pakistan. Had come here as a young girl. Her family was killed there. She had survived somehow. She and her training in music. What mastery she had at such a young age!”

“What happened to her?” Piyali asked, her voice trembling.

“The days when tawayafs were respected for their craft were past. I couldn’t keep her here. After she became pregnant, she ran away. She wouldn’t have her child grow up here. I ran a tight ship. Girls didn’t just run away from me. For a long time I knew where she was. But I let her go. I couldn’t really have kept her here, I knew that. Her willpower was strong.”

“Salma Jaan,” Piyali mumbled, the unfamiliar name felt rough on her tongue.

Meher Jaan came forward and cradled Piyali’s face in her palm, “Not her real name. You are lucky, Piyali.”

Piyali felt numb. She turned on her heels and walked out of the room.

“Sonali. Mukundo Babu called. I must go home right away. You continue and finish your work,” she told her friend in a measured tone and left the house with equally measured steps. Once outside she ran mindlessly until she was exhausted and out of breath.  She found herself in a secluded area. She dropped to her knees right there on the pavement and sobbed into her hands.

—

The knock was soft, almost inaudible. If Mukundo hadn’t been sitting still on the table with no other sound in the room, he may not have heard it. It must be Piyali. Sumedha or Mohima wouldn’t knock like that. It was strange for Piyali to knock that late at night, but she had been acting weird since yesterday. Perhaps she had come to have a tete-a-tete now. Hopeful and curious, he opened the door. There she was. Wearing her clean, ironed night dress; her hair in a high ponytail, no makeup on the face – just the way he liked her the best. He resisted his temptation to draw her in an embrace and wasn’t prepared for it when she did just the same as soon as she entered the room.

“Hey,” he said softly, as her hands clutched him, “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” she spoke into his chest, “I was missing you.”

He broke the hug and cupped her face, “I hope so. Because I miss you every moment, even if you are only in the next room.”

Her lips parted slightly inviting a kiss from him. He was happy to oblige her. Next, he groaned loudly as she ran her fingers over his spine and planted a kiss on his chest.

“Piyali, don’t!”

“Why not?”

“I won’t be able to stop then.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He held her and looked straight into her eyes, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Is it wrong?”

“Of course not! When we both want it, it is the most beautiful thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“You are a brutal woman! Don’t you know that I have been sure for years?”

“Then why worry,” she said and snuggled up to him.

He wrapped his arms around her and led her to his bed.

—

She had wanted to leave afterwards. But Mukundo had insisted that she stayed with him.

“But Kaki…” she had protested.

“She won’t wake up until six. I am putting an alarm for five in the morning. Then you can go to your room.”

She had agreed to that. But when Mukundo woke up she wasn’t in the bed. The clock showed it was two at night. At first, he thought she must have panicked and decided to go to her room early. But some instinct made him want to check up on her.

He saw her entering her room just as he came out of his. She must have left just before he woke up. That must be what had woken him up too.

There was a bathroom between their rooms. Assured that she was all right, he went in to relieve himself and decided to go back to bed after that. But after coming out, he decided to pay her a surprise visit in her room.

Her door was shut, but not locked. He opened it cautiously. She wasn’t there and her bed was not slept in. He went to check the attached bathroom.  The door was unlocked and she wasn’t inside. He hurried back to his room wondering if she had gone back. She was not there either.

He panicked and went to her room again. When he switched on the lights, he noticed a paper lying on her table. He grabbed it and started reading.

“Mukundo Babu.

Until I didn’t know who I was, your love made it easy to imagine that it couldn’t have been anything that bad. But now I know. I love you and will always love you. Till my last breath. I love Sumi and Kaki too. But I am not the wife you deserve. I am not the mother Sumi deserves.

Please remember the good memories and try to forgive me for the bad ones.

Your unfortunate lover
Piyali”

—

To be continued