A Good Day In Connaught Place

SUJIT SARAF

ARUN K walked up the steps of the Metro station in Connaught Place and decided that, on balance, it had been a good day. For six days he had agonised over the extra four rupees he would spend by taking the Metro instead of the bus, but now he knew he had chosen wisely. The train had been empty at the university — he had had no trouble getting a seat — and the crowd that came in at Kashmere Gate was not as intimidating as he had feared. It may have been the air-conditioning that had mellowed everyone. Above ground, every form he approached appeared to threaten; under it, lulled by the gentle roll and swish of the train, the world was friendly. Everyone held on to nice plastic handles and stared into space without the slightest suggestion of contempt.

Outside, in the blazing afternoon, the kind faces resumed their aggression. He transferred his wallet to the front pocket of his trousers, thinking it would be so much nicer if the whole city of Delhi — shops, houses, pavements, people — could be relocated underground: a subterranean metropolis connected by a quiet Metro. Pausing before a shiny granite slab announcing the station name, Rajiv Chowk, he inspected his reflection. Silk shirt, red tie, grey trousers, wallet forming a neat rectangle against thigh. His hair was unruffled even after the ride. Not a bad picture, and he had no fear that his students would see it. There was little likelihood of running into any, so far from campus. Indeed, he should consider dressing like this even in class. There would be some sniggering, but it would abate once the idea grew on them.

The granite reflected a second form behind him. He turned around quickly, grateful for the wallet in the front. It was only a man selling drinks. Arun K sighed, scanned the bottles, and pointed to the one that was least pretentious. The man held up a fist and spread his fingers, twice, in a sort of code. Ten rupees, perhaps? Arun K was afraid to ask. He rarely bought anything but tea at the stall outside campus. The man stared. Perhaps the granite slab was his regular beat, thought Arun K, and he was encroaching. He shuffled away nervously, fearing an outburst, feeling the man’s eyes on him and anxious to be out of sight. Having climbed a grassy knoll he stopped, panting, and looked around. He had shaken off the man but now lost his bearings. Before setting out, he had planned his route carefully from the Metro station, and this detour had thrown that plan into disarray. Ah, the whole expedition was foolhardy. What made him think he could get by in the cauldron of Connaught Place, where thieves and pick-pockets lurked at every corner? The silk shirt was now plastered to his chest. He should have stuck to his kurta-pajama. And how was he to cross over to the other side without meeting someone who knew him?

Madras Hotel was at the far end of the circle, he had been told. The outer circle or the inner one? In either case the walk would be long. Instead of going along the road, he would cut through the park in the centre and ask someone on the way. The inner circle was calmer, and the grass in the middle dotted with men playing cards. He approached a few groups but they took no notice of him. He was afraid to interrupt. Finally, he saw a lone man resting under a gulmohar tree and plucked up the courage to ask.

“Connaught Circus,” the man said.

Was that the outer circle? Arun K wondered. It was easier to remember Indira Chowk and Rajiv Chowk — the outer circle was like a mother folding her son into her bosom, someone had written when the names were changed. Now, which one was Connaught Circus? And where in the circle would he find Madras Hotel? At this the man gestured vaguely at cars, scooters, smoke, icecream stands, and hazy buildings in the distance. Arun K continued, turning over in his mind the title he would give to his book. Bhartendu Harishchandra, Father of Modern Hindi… but there were so many with that claim already. His must be original, unique, imaginative, taken from the earliest works of the master, which he hoped to find in the little bookshop behind Madras Hotel. You’d have to know exactly what you wanted, he had been told, but the man had a catalogue inside his head. You named the book and his hands reached for an alcove. On that score Arun K had no worries — he knew what he was looking for, having spent 15 years searching.

A nice way to spend the afternoon, he thought wistfully as he picked his way through the card-players. Look at that cluster, where they appeared so engrossed in their game! Why, they would not turn to look if the master himself were to walk by, reading from his own poems! Such was his own absorption 15 years ago, on those quiet evenings when he had first discovered Bhartendu.

We be slaves to the gifted, servants to the wise Friends to the poet, well-wishers to those who wish well

He stopped, overwhelmed, prepared to declaim to the next cluster, which erupted in laughter. They were playing Teen Patti and someone had given away a good hand. Arun K sighed and looked skyward. In this whole Connaught Place — or Rajiv Chowk, now — no one was thinking of the master. Except the brave researchers in the bookshop behind Madras Hotel, of course. Passing the entrance to the underground Palika Bazar, he was tempted to run down the stairs, back into air-conditioned comfort. Seven years ago, this was where he had bought the silk shirt, or been cajoled into buying it. This was where solicitous men in tight shirts pulled you into stalls and pressed bags, purses and stereos into your hands. The air-conditioning that soothed the citizens of the Metro seemed to excite their nerves in Palika Bazar. A guard sat at the entrance, gun laid across knees, sandbags piled on his left. Arun K hurried on.

THE SHOP was easy to locate in the basement of Madras Hotel, though the board outside had nearly faded. Naveen Pustakalay. Descending, he was filled with excitement. Here in this dungeon lay forgotten manuscripts, rare letters, diamonds only a jeweller could assess. How fittingly obscure the façade was! Who inside Madras Hotel, tapping its old carpet with his foot, knew what treasures he stomped upon? And what a delightful name for a shop filled with old books!

The staircase led to a dark passage that ended abruptly at a window. Peering through the bars, he could see a few shelves. A bulb hung from the ceiling. In its dim light he saw a man appear from an inner room. Breathlessly, Arun K declared, “Show me everything you have on Bhartendu Harishchandra! Every scrap, every letter, unfinished manuscripts, hand-written notes. No matter how old and in what condition…”

The man held up a hand. “Name?”

Arun K stopped. Ah, he had been hasty. A thousand gems lay buried in this cave; how was the keeper to dwell on any one? Very well. He repeated slowly, happily, confidently,

“Bhartendu.”

“Some south-Indian?”

Arun K drew back from the window and responded with dignity. “I speak of Bhartendu Harishchandra, father of modern Hindi!”

The man pointed to the wall on his left and shrugged. “All English.” Arun K read the titles: TOEFL, GMAT, C++, GRE. “I was told you had Hindi novels.”

The man sighed. “Difficult.” Turning to his right, he pulled a few books from hidden shelves and slapped them on the counter under the window. “All Hindi.”

Arun K recoiled in horror. What were these? Softbound curiosities with sleazy pictures on the covers!

“Pocket-books,” continued the man. “Very romantic.”

Arun K asked fearfully, “Do you not have any… serious books?”

“Come inside,” the man said, opening a door in the wall. Arun K’s spirits lifted. The pocket-books were a façade, of course, meant to discourage the dilettante. Hidden behind this philistine exterior were dusty pages… the inner room had a recess in the wall, stacked with books. The spines were all torn and most had no covers, but Arun K set to work with renewed zeal. After an hour of dusting and coughing, he turned over a slim volume that he recognised instantly, because the cover was torn and the first verses were clearly visible. The pages shook in his hands. He did not read, for he already knew the words.

We be straight with the straight ones, devious with the crooked

And, says Harichand, sons-in-law to the arrogant

Not, of course, a rare verse, but hand-written in black ink. The date scrawled at the top was 1935 Vikram Samvat — 1878 by the Gregorian calendar. Arun K gasped. Could this be a note in his hand? The original, the first draft? He would have to compare it with samples from his papers and cross-check the date; he must not jump to conclusions. For now, he must control the wild pounding of his heart. The man was watching him, and would be sure to extract a good price if he knew. Arun K walked back into the shop unsteadily, holding the booklet with an air of abandon, noting that someone had bound it in cardboard leaves that had been thicker than the pages they enclosed, before being ripped away by an indiscriminate hand.

“How much?” he asked, looking away.

“Take it.”

No doubt the man was being sarcastic, thought Arun K. Keeping a lid on his emotions, he suggested nonchalantly, “Five rupees?”

“Take it, take it!” the man repeated with rising impatience.

Arun K walked briskly away from Madras Hotel. In the hour he had spent underground, a cheerful spirit had invaded Connaught Place. He clutched the book lightly, fearing his sweaty palms would soil it, and made his way back to the inner circle, where a disturbing thought brought him to a sudden stop. He re-opened the book and studied it, then flung it to the ground. The scrawls had been made with a ballpoint pen. How could he have been such a fool? He was filled with rage at the scoundrel who had cheated him until he remembered he had paid nothing.

Defeated, he picked up the book — now pressing it brutally against his body — and walked through the cardplayers again. There were no less than a hundred clusters now. Who were these men? Did their lunch hour last all afternoon? Standing on the knoll, spurious edition in hand, he reached a decision. He would show them all! He would write a paper about the ugly truth exposed by this trip. In vain I trudged through Connaught Place looking for good books in Hindi... How well the master had foreseen this! He knew, more than a hundred years ago, that his beloved tongue would wither away in romances, pocketbooks and the casual insults of card-players.

With English, one acquires skill in every trade Yet, ignorant of his own tongue, remains deficient

Yes, he would use the master’s own words. Thus emboldened, he crossed the road and strode down the pavement, passing shops and restaurants with supreme indifference, when doubt assailed him. Was there not a hint of wistfulness in those lines? Were they not too defensive? Had not Bhartendu hinted that the battle was already lost? This, perhaps, was not the line to launch his essay, and the paper would have to be in English, unlike the master’s lament, or he would not know where to publish it. He was aware of the irony, of course, but how many burdens could one man bear? His palms had begun to sweat again. The silk shirt dug uncomfortably into his armpits, and his tie seemed to have tightened of its own, as if determined to strangle him.

A SUDDEN gust of cool air broke his reverie. He had been standing outside Nirula’s ice-cream parlour, and someone had opened the door. Air-conditioning! Perhaps he could rest inside for a moment? Through the glass wall he saw bright plastic, curves of chrome and edges of shining steel. The glass transmitted no sound, but he could tell everyone inside was talking and laughing. He had heard of Nirula’s — there was one somewhere on campus — and knew it was expensive. He fingered the hundred-rupee note in his pocket. It had been meant for Bhartendu books. No, of course not. It was reckless of him to even consider this.

“Are you coming inside or not?” the guard asked.

Arun K felt ashamed. He should not have bathed in the cool air for so long. The guard, dressed impressively like a maharaja, pulled the door open with a scowl, and Arun K knew he had made a mistake even as he was drawn inside, soaking the air-conditioning guiltily, feeling poorer by the minute. Perhaps no one would mind if he left right away? But surely the guard would notice. Very well, he would buy a small ice-cream. Back on campus, he would go without tea for a few days.

There was a line at the counter. That was a relief, for it gave him time to study the menu overhead. Those were ice-cream flavours, no doubt, but none looked familiar.

“Sir?”

He was already at the front. How had the line moved so quickly? The girl wore a nice little cap and tapped a microphone, and looked at him. Frantically, he searched the price list behind her. The smallest number he saw was 28. Ah, his Metro ticket had cost only 11! But he could not back out now.

“That one.”

She turned to follow his gaze. “Tutty Fruity?”

He nodded quickly. She pressed buttons. A bell rang somewhere. “Thirty-five.”

He was certain it said twenty-eight on the chart but was embarrassed to look again — she would notice. Perhaps the rest was for the guard, or the air-conditioning, or a seat. He did not want to make a scene. He would take the bus back instead of the Metro — that would save four rupees.

He left the counter with his ice-cream and a red paper napkin, disappointed that the scoop was so small. A large table had opened up but it had six chairs, all screwed into the ground. Did they not have a one-person seat somewhere? He had to find something quickly, for he was afraid someone he knew would pop out of the crowd. How ridiculous he would look in silk shirt and red tie, and ice-cream in hand! A polished counter ran along the wall, and one of the stools near it was unoccupied. He perched on it, turned his back to the restaurant and sank his teeth into the cone, placing Bhartendu’s book at his right hand. This was the sweetest ice-cream he had ever tasted. He took small bites and ran his tongue over his lips, determined to make it last, watching himself in the mirror that covered the whole wall along the counter. He did not look too bad. At 42, his hair was still dark, and the silk shirt did suit him, now that the air-conditioning had detached it from his chest. He could also scan the whole restaurant in the mirror, and saw no one who could be from the university. Feeling better, he folded the red napkin and stuffed it into his breast pocket, where it looked like a handkerchief. This had been a good idea — recuperate inside a cool oasis before marching back into the heat to battle indifferent card-players and people who were not thinking of Bhartendu. He would pick up a few more of those napkins when no one was looking — they would be handy because the bus would not be air-conditioned like the Metro — but the guard might see the extra napkins peeping out of his pockets.

HE BECAME aware of a man on the stool to his left, facing the mirror as he did. He, too, had a red napkin stuffed in his breast pocket. Perhaps that was the fashion these days. Arun K cast a sidelong glance at his neighbour — indistinct face and unimpressive frame, distinguished only by the copycat handkerchief. Unlike the others, who took large bites from their pizzas and spoke loudly even when their mouths were full, he toyed listlessly with his ice-cream cone, looking around after every nibble. There was a nervousness about the man that put Arun K at ease. He decided to strike up a conversation, perhaps even mention Bhartendu. Preparing to speak, he fished out the napkin and wiped away a drop of ice-cream from his chin, and noticed in the mirror that his neighbour had done the same. But of course, they were both eating ice-cream. He allowed himself to frown gently before crushing the napkin and letting it drop on the counter, noting with distaste that the other man did the same. That was when Arun K noticed, to his horror, that his neighbour wore a silk shirt, red tie and grey trousers, an odd selection for such a hot day. He considered his next move carefully, afraid that every twitch in his face would be replicated in the one on his left. As a test, he pulled up the collars of his shirt and, inevitably, his double responded. Arun K froze, aware of goo from the ice-cream trickling down his fingers but loath to clean it lest the man should replicate the action and remove all doubt.

He considered a sharp turn to his left to confront the plagiarist, but discarded the idea because if the man was indeed aping him, he would be obliged to execute a similar left turn, rendering conversation impossible. Then he heard a shuffle and, over the din in Nirula’s, a single word. The man had spoken, and there was no mistaking the sound thus produced.

“Bhartendu.”

Arun K sat very still. He must have heard his own thoughts, for the face in the mirror was gnawing at the ice-cream with renewed concentration. Was it possible that, here in Connaught Place, someone wished to discuss the master’s works with him? Perhaps the man had merely introduced himself. But no one had such a name nowadays. Regardless, he must not follow suit, must protect his identity. One never knew what dangers lurked in Connaught Place. Even so far from campus, someone from the university could be watching him, taking note of the silk shirt, and preparing a dossier that would be used to embarrass him. The man seemed to be waiting for an answer, and only one seemed possible. Arun K calmly replied,

“Harishchandra.”

This caused a violent reaction on his left. In defiance of the air-conditioning, his companion’s forehead sprouted pearls of perspiration. He leaned closer and whispered,

“The delivery is complete, sahib.”

Arun K nodded absently. It would not do to ask too many questions. The man swallowed another lump of ice-cream, then turned to his right in great distress and demanded, “When will KK come?”

Arun K rolled the question over in his mind. Perhaps this KK — Kishore Kumar? Karishma Kapoor? — had something to do with the completed delivery. A man, perhaps, and a man of consequence, seeing that the prospect of meeting him had struck dread in the man’s heart. It was not clear why Arun K should be the manager of this rendezvous, yet the responsibility had indeed been thrust on him. Aware that his neighbour watched him with great intensity, he wiped off the long lingering ice-cream goo from his fingers — KK’s friend no longer dared ape him — and tapped the wooden counter deliberately. This appeared to send a shiver down the man’s frame.

“He is here? In Nirula’s?”

Evidently he did not recognise KK. Arun K saw him evaluate a sardarji, then a slight man in a safari-suit, and finally a hairy duo who slurped their sundaes noisily. Rejecting these, he rested his panic-stricken eyes on his ice-cream, pleading silently for more information. Arun K shook his head and saw relief flood into the man’s face.

“Is he outside, then?”

Arun K nodded. Yes, KK had to be outside, somewhere in Connaught Place, sitting on the grassy lawn with the card-players, or buying a cool drink on the pavement. The man asked urgently, “How will I know him?”

Arun K touched the counterfeit manuscript lying on the counter. “Do you like poetry?”

The man shrugged, as if to say he suffered the activity when pressed. Arun K gave a leftward push to the book. “Read this to KK.”

The man stared as if at a bomb. “Where?”

“Walk to the Palika Bazar entrance. Start near the gulmohar tree. You will see men playing cards in the park. Ask them if you may read the poems of Bhartendu Harishchandra to them. If they say no, ask the drink-sellers. Try everyone you see. When you ask KK, he will respond, ‘I have loved the poems of Bhartendu Harishchandra for 15 years.’”

“But when will he come?”

Arun K sighed. “Who knows? Today. Tomorrow. The next week, perhaps.”

The man looked crestfallen. Arun K leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “KK likes disguises — sometimes a dhoti, sometimes a police uniform. Even a saree. And he does not like to be kept waiting.”

The man swallowed the rest of his ice-cream, scooped up the book with trembling hands, nearly dropped it, slid off his stool and rushed outside.

Arun K saw him pass through the heavy glass doors, nearly bump into a woman and disappear, then stalked to the counter, stuffed a dozen napkins into his breast pocket and walked out of Nirula’s, looking straight at the maharaja outside. He cut across the lawn and made for Plaza Cinema, where he would take the bus back to campus. Stopping near Palika Bazar, he saw the man approach a group of card-players. Would you like to hear the poems of Bhartendu Harishchandra? he seemed to ask them. There was silence, then an irritable wave of the hand. At a second cluster, there was laughter; at a third, a confused shrug, after which the man approached the guard outside Palika Bazar. Arun K strode past him. A sudden breeze rippled pleasantly over his shirt, and Connaught Place felt cooler. On balance, it had been a good day.