After an initial hiatus, the rains are here with a vengeance. Drenched clean of the summer squalor, the leaves hang wet and fresh. The tree outside my window has this bright red flower (in Bangla we call it ‘krishnachura’). The lone cuckoo seems to have lost his sense of time and season, calling out loud over the pitter patter. The parched land lets out a sigh; an earthy smell wafts through. Memories flash by, totally unconcerned of my ability to handle them. Did the earthy smell do this? Or was it the cloudy sky, the water drops hanging on the petals, or the impending reality of meeting ‘him’?

I was stuffing my books hurriedly into the cloth satchel that all of us owned. There was no time to check the routine and everything had to go in. The Wren and Martin slipped my hands and fell. I bend down to pick it up and there beside the open book, lay a black and white photograph. I looked furtively across the room, where baba was reading the newspaper. He was too engrossed in the political bedlam, to notice. In a way good, I thought. I quickly put the young man in his rightful place, at page no 101, and the book in the bag. Just two minutes left for the first bell at 9 a.m., so I had exactly four minutes to reach school, park the cycle and rush in before the 2nd bell. I zoomed out and jumped on the Hercules that two years back had belonged to Riju. He had outgrown it and now officially the battered contraption was mine. I raced the old trusted war-horse across the fields, taking the muddy short-cut. Water splashed and my white kurta immediately spotted the muddy marks that ma would have a tough time with. Never mind, I thought, will handle ma later, when the time came. As of now, I had to make the 2nd bell.

Was there something missing in my life? At 56, I was well established, known and respected. My husband, bless his soul, had been a pillar of support and encouragement through those tedious years of struggle. In-laws, parents, children, siblings, we managed all. There were tensions, confusions, harsh words and tears. There were moments of joy, euphoria and camaraderie. I had lived a life as complete, as I could hope for. Now, left with myself, my work was the only presence that I desired in my life. Or so I thought. What was happening today? Why was I going back to some insignificant instants? It must be the programme, I thought angrily. I had called up Riju on Sunday, and told him about the television discussion, I was to be part of. It was on ‘influence of western classical instruments and how it has contributed to modern Indian music’. I was not particularly excited about it, when the organisers had called up. I had casually asked about the other participants and came to know that ‘he’ would be anchoring the show. Did I sound nervously excited when I spoke to Riju? Whatever it was, Riju as usual was quick to spot it. ‘My goodness he is still so much in you’, he exclaimed.

My mother used to spend most of her time defending my escapades to irritated neighbours, and of what was left she insufficiently divided between housework, taking care of three kids (thankfully her other two children were model specimens that friends, relatives and neighbours admired) and pampering a much-dependent husband. ‘Rinki is a monkey, all she lacks is a tail’, was what she was used to hearing. ‘Rinki is a monkey’ was what my godly siblings said, when I had exasperated them enough, to break their saintly demeanour. Unperturbed I continued, with all the naughtiness unsuited to a 12 year old.

Today I had woken up quite early. I need not have, as I was to be at the studio only at 11 a.m. After my morning tea, I went though some details I would be keeping handy and referring to, as the discussion went on. I did not feel like having breakfast. I was feeling oddly excited. I sat on the recliner in the balcony, my seat of solitude. I was going to meet him today, in person. All those intense moments of unrealistic adulation, fantasy, passionate desire, that had grown and assumed a realistic proportion, only to be ridiculed and snubbed, came back.

I had seen him, or rather his movie when I was thirteen. He was an upcoming talented name and the Bangla film industry was waiting with bated breath to see him make his place (or be wiped out). I caught my breath, as he looked into his beloved’s eyes. Something flipped inside me. The pain was so physical; I could almost touch it. His eyes looked straight into my heart. I, who was the local tomboy always dressed in my elder brother’s hand downs, regaling in the trousers, when my friends walked around in dainty frocks. I, who refused to grow my hair from the fear that ma would tie it up in the ubiquitous plaits that was the fashion of the day. I, who played with boys in all their rowdy games, never viewing them as more than necessary nuisance, I, ‘Rinki the monkey’, was experiencing a totally alien emotion. What was this feeling?

Just couldn’t decide which saree to wear. Should it be some heavy silk? Or printed georgette that can give me a slimmer look? I had almost emptied my wardrobe, before sense prevailed! What was I doing? I was behaving like a teenager on her first date. This was sheer stupidity, I chided myself. I selected a simple cotton tangail, and looked at the clock. Gosh! It was late! Quickly, getting the rest of myself presentable, I asked Ramen to take out the car.

People at home, thanks to Riju, came to know of ‘him’. Initially everyone smiled, indulging my feelings with a sage nod. ‘It would be over in a month’, said baba. ‘Thank God, Rinki is behaving like a girl’, ma heaved a sigh of relief, now confirmed that my sexual inclinations tilted towards the ‘normal’ paradigm. ‘Rinki has gone mad,’ said Riju with the decided authority of a nerdy 15 year old. But a month went by, a year, then a few years; I turned from a gawky adolescent to a young woman, reasonably good looking, poised and individualistic. Quite a few of the men, with whom I interacted academically or socially, were interested in an association beyond mere friendship. I wanted to get interested. But they all looked mere boys. Where was the man I was looking for? The only man in my mind was ‘he’. People at home started getting irritated, as I refused young men who were good husband material. Baba was disgusted. ‘This is going too far’, was his response. Ma was at a loss. ‘This girl has given me only trouble’, she complained. Riju gave me quizzical looks, perhaps the only person who could understand my emotions to some degree. ‘Do you really think that you will ever meet him, forget getting acquainted?’ was his incredulous reaction. I did not care. I could not see beyond him. What could I do?

I was sitting in front of him. The other two participants had not arrived. The steam from the coffee mugs created a mist before my eyes. Outside the rain was pouring incessantly, drowning the world away. Despite the years the dimpled smile was still so true. He was saying something to which I nodded vaguely, as I remembered those sultry summer afternoons, my room in the attic, the whirring of the old table fan and me with my face deep inside my pillow; my anguished love releasing itself, away from prying eyes.

How could I make them understand that it was not an adolescent obsession? It continued well beyond those formative years when people fall in love quite regularly. I never missed any of his movies, read all the magazines that even as much breathed his name, kept tab on him like a jealous lover, dressed as if he would see me, grew up as he would perhaps like me to be and realised that I was totally in love. It did not matter that he would never know of my existence. I loved with an abundance that was all consuming. My studies did not get affected. For all the while, I was preparing myself; as if getting ready for the day that I knew would surely come.

He would be almost 68, I thought. He wore a trendy pair of spectacles, the style icon even now, I thought, as my face broke into a silent smile. He noticed it. ‘You are smiling, is it something I said’, he asked. ‘No..ooh’, I stammered. He was not happy with the answer, but being the gentleman he was reputed to be, he continued with what he had been saying. I was in turmoil, I so wanted him to hold me just once. This was insane, we had a live discussion coming up, an audience waiting and I for one was not going to lose my cool.

I surpassed the expectations of my family when I went abroad for my doctorate. That’s when I met Rathin. Ours was not a whirlwind romance but a rather unequivocal decision to get married. Riju was the only one present and could just about keep himself from shouting, ‘Rinki the monkey is married’. We completed our studies and our honeymoon and returned home to a life of responsibilities. Riju for one heaved a sigh of relief now that my ‘idiotic infliction’, as he called it, would be gone. I too thought the same. However, this was not to be the case. It did not help that Rathin was a movie buff and to add to it, an ardent admirer of ‘him’.

The discussion went about quite smoothly. It was interesting; we had a knowledgeable audience. Sparks flew, but all for a productive purpose. He was a brilliant actor but not quite good an anchor and at times one of us had to take the reigns in our hands. Once it was over, our producer invited us over to the studio canteen for lunch. One of the participants excused himself because of a prior appointment. We had a lively lunch, all of us high from the success of the programme, and a few beers. ‘He’ was laughing heartily, talking of incidents that would make excellent copy for any writer; teasing our producer for playing safe with staid discussions, such as this, were there was no way one could create heat. In all this banter, Romi, the other panellist and an old friend, suddenly quipped, ‘Rinki has been a fan of yours for as long as I can remember’.

Even when I was with Rathin, I would find myself thinking, what if this was he. I chided myself for such un-wifely thoughts. Rathin was a good man, responsible, caring. What more did I want? He was a good father, an excellent provider; I was so lucky. Why was I so occupied with a presence that if known would make my world come tumbling down? There was no answer; all I knew was that I loved him insanely.


He stopped in the middle of an anecdote and stared at me, a surprised smile on his face. I felt my ears growing hot. This was so ridiculous. My well-kept secret, shared only with a very few people, was laid out in public and in front of the very person who had ruled my entire being from the day I have come to know myself. I managed a cool smile and said, ‘Romi, he has millions of such fans, who worship the ground he treads on’. He was looking at me with those eyes. I felt all my secrets were nakedly visible to him, a miserable hip of unsheathed emotions. ‘Yes, there are fans but rarely a fan whose books I admire so much,’ he said. ‘You have read my books? You are interested in musical instruments? You know about me?’ the questions tumbled down, toppling over each other, in my haste to ask them. He was saying something but I was deaf to it. The buzz in my ears was pure music, ‘he knows me, he knows me, even if only by name, he knows me’.


Rathin came to know of it. Once, submitting ourselves to our desire, I had screamed out his name. The world seemed to stop. Rathin was very understanding. Oh! How I wish he was angry. He was unaffected. Life went on, as if it never stopped. I dreamt of him more and more often; it was he who made love to me, he who sat by my side, he who read the first draft of my books, he who criticised and commented, he who drew me to him kissing my lips hungrily, it was he who did all that I wished Rathin would do.

‘Of course I have read your books. You were in Brazil for a workshop, right? Will you be writing on African American music, this time?’ he was asking. ‘I don’t know, I have some ideas that are taking shape, but I want to ponder on them for some more time before seeing what direction they are taking’, I replied. Romi had got up to take a call while our producer was busy ordering the dessert. He looked at me and said, ‘why don’t you give me your number? I would love to talk to you more… ’. Everything in my world stopped, as I heard myself, ‘9922……’.