The Replacement

-1-

“Arrey…aren’t you Indrajit?” One man in the queue suddenly shouted.

I looked up and tried to see through the glass screen of the counter. And got a flinch! What a classic case of telepathy it was! The last night only I had been thinking of a chance meeting with this man – Saumitra Roy, my favourite teacher.

“Sir! How are you Sir? I was just thinking about you last night only!”

“You are working here! And I didn’t know! I can’t believe this!”

“Actually Sir, today is my very first day in office!”

“But...” he was about to gush out again. I noticed that the other people in the queue were not taking this conversation with much kindness and getting little restive.

“Sir, could you please wait for me? Just 15-20 minutes – then it will be lunch time and we can talk freely. And please give me your passbook – you wanted to update it, no? I will do your work in the meantime.”

“Fine, fine! I am waiting. Finish off your work, then we will talk. Here it is!” He handed me over his passbook and sat on a steel bench, evidently happy.

I started dealing with other men standing in the queue. Fortunately, the line was not long and the queries thrown at me were not much challenging – thanks to my beginner’s luck! I was completing the work in a trance, with my mind absolutely ruffled with the memories that ‘Sir’ had just managed to rake up.

It was a comparatively relaxed day in the bank and I became free before the lunch time. I got out of the counter. I was feeling a strange excitement. While I was walking towards him, I felt I was actually walking towards my bygone life.

Saumitra Sir was reading a Bengali newspaper. Seeing me in front of him, he almost jumped from his seat and threw the newspaper beside him without even folding it properly.

“Indrajit, now tell me how come you are here? Where have you been all these years? Why didn’t…” amidst his demented surge of queries, I was thinking how deeply he loved me. He must have had a legion of students after me, yet how intensely he remembered me after so many years! I went a little numb and took a seat beside him in the bench. I made a quick scrutiny of his features. He had changed – for the better, it seemed. He was not anymore that careless, unkempt, absentminded school teacher I once knew. Rather, Sir appeared quite smart and dapper, despite having put on some weight. The greying hair was carefully brushed, the glasses were expensive and stylish, the linen half shirt was classy and the pair of denims was folded at the bottom! I got a pleasant whiff of Old Spice when I sat close to him.

“Sir, after passing H.S, I returned to Murshidabad, my place. I took admission in the Baharampur College with Geography Honours. Then after graduation, I started preparing for competitive exams and finally landed this bank job. It is pure coincidence that I got my posting here, at Rabindrapur!” I tried to bridge the long discontinuity in our communication in the briefest possible manner.

“But that’s excellent! I simply can’t believe.”

“How are you now, Sir? How are Sayan and Sohini? They must have grown quite big now!”

“Yeah. Sayan is at Bangalore now and Sohini is in JNU, studying Sociology.”

“Whao! Both of your children are jewels, Sir. I knew they would do well. But Sir, that means you are now living alone.”

“Er…not exactly…” Sir’s reaction surprised me. He never had any relatives around. He floundered a bit, as if brakes were suddenly put on him, “Actually, I…and your auntie live here.”

“Auntie!” My astonishment raised my voice high enough to make a few of my colleagues turn faces towards us.

“Er…actually I had to marry again!” He almost whispered and sounded guilty.

It took some time to sink in. Then I reasoned with myself that there was absolutely nothing wrong in it. It must have been quite difficult for the widower to look after two motherless children.

“Sohini and Sayan needed a mother…it was for them only…you can understand…” it seemed Sir was trying to give justification for his second marriage.

“Right Sir, very right. I do understand.” I tried to quell his discomfort, though I was feeling a strange sting of an invisible thorn somewhere in my mind. I did not know why I felt bad that Sir had moved on in his life, leaving behind the memories of the late Rita kakima(auntie).

“Tell me when shall you come to my place? Saturday? Sunday? Take my phone number. Call me before coming. But you must definitely come.”

“Ok Sir, in Sunday afternoon. Right?” I said somewhat absent-mindedly.

“Done. But don’t miss it. See you.”

-2-

The meeting with Sir took me to a ride down memory lane.

My father had been in a transferable State government job. Due to his posting at Rabindrapur, I had to come here from Murshidabad after passing Madhyamik examination. I took admission in Rabindrapur Higher Secondary school. Though I had done well in Madhyamik, I soon got to realise that Higher Secondary was an entirely different proposition. The syllabus appeared frighteningly formidable.The lectures of my teachers were going over the top of my head. Physics and Maths, especially, became my nemesis! I was feeling clueless and helpless.

One morning, one of my classmates gave me an idea – “Let’s join the private tuition classes of Saumitra Sir.”

“Who is he?”

“He teaches Physics and Maths in Netaji Vidyamandir – the school beside the municipality. He’s a good teacher, I have heard.”

Saumitra Sir stormed into my life in style. Besides being an exceptional teacher, he was very jolly and without the acerbic air of a typical school teacher.He could mix with his students quite easily, yet managed to keep a respectful distance. His carefree looks and easy personality also helped. Sir became an instant hit with us. Suddenly Physics and Maths stopped appearing intimidating. He completely destroyed our fear and we acquired a taste in those subjects. Though I was not particularly outstanding as a student, he always had a special weakness for me. His tuition classes were generally held in weekends, between 3 and 4 pm. We used to wait through the entire week for it – we became addicted to his classes.

But personally for me, his classes were not the only thing that attracted me to his house every weekend.

His wife – our Rita kakima – made quite an impression on me. She was a plump, typical Bengali middle-class housewife with absolutely no hint of extra-ordinariness anywhere. Presentable at the best, she never looked very intelligent either. But she had a disarming smile that could lend an entirely different look to her. Every time we entered Sir’s house, she was invariably the first person to come out, switch on the fan, roll out a carpet on the drawing room floor and ask us to sit on that. Then she would bring a blue plastic jug full of water and gently place it beside us. And everything she would do, was with that smile which was the most defining feature of her face.

She would do another thing which became almost central to her personality. And it was only me among the batch who was privy to it. She could prepare lassi outstandingly well. It may sound commonplace but I could swear I had never had any better drink than the lassi prepared by her. And strangely, the lassi would always turn out amazing with an uncanny consistency.

And that lassi was only my prerogative. I noticed that whenever I was with my friends, she never offered it. Only when I was alone – having come first or due to others being late – she would prepare it exclusively for me. The drink became like a secret relationship between kakima and I, with the whole world completely unaware of it. It was a peculiar excitement for me. I started craving for that regular sequence of events where I would first enter Sir’s house alone, then she would come out with that smile, ask me to sit at the drawing room, go back inside and reappear with that white nectar in a glass. It often seemed to me that it was not a mere drink, rather an extract from all innate feminine virtues of kakima, presented to me with an earnest dignity. I knew I was falling free to an addiction.

But one terrible morning cleared me from this addiction once and for all. Rita kakima died from a sudden cardiac arrest. She was apparently washing clothes when her time came and was alone in the house. Sohini, her daughter, discovered her lying amidst a pile of washed clothes but by that time, she was well beyond everything.

Sir was severely struck by this tragedy. He became completely disorganised and unsettled. My friends started talking about his mental health, initially little discreetly, then quite openly.His tuition classes automatically folded up. Even his colleagues were voicing concern about his mental condition.

Since I heard the news of her death, I never visited that house again, nor did I make any efforts to meet Sir. All my friends and batch-mates met him after the incident to convey condolences, tried to console him and even attended the “Shradh” rituals for the late kakima. But I could not. I heard from my friends that Sir enquired about me a couple of times.

My Higher Secondary exam only a few months away then. After the exam, I left Rabindrapur and went back to Murshidabad. To me, Rabindrapur became like a god-forsaken land.It became unliveable for me. It is still not clear to me why the death of a teacher’s wife should matter so much for a student. Human mind keeps many things stashed deep inside.

After six long years, I would again have to come back to Rabindrapur once again with this bank job and bump into a much changed Sir on my very first day in office.

-3-

I started feeling a peculiar tension right from the moment I woke up on Sunday morning. Today I was scheduled to visit Saumitra Sir’s house as per my commitment during our chance meeting at the bank. Once again, the tension did not make any sense to me. However, I identified only one small part of that tension as a tearing curiosity to see how Sir was doing in his new life with a new wife.  

I called Sir at 1 pm but found his phone switched off. I tried several times but could not get to talk to him. By 2.45, I found myself walking. My legs seemed to have taken decisions on their own as to where to go. I was walking towards Sir’s house.Though it was a scorching day, I did not mind the heat.

I remembered the direction perfectly. But I found a multi-storeyed building staring at me right in the place where his humble, one-storeyed house used to have been. Shocked, I asked the vintage security guard seated at a stool, “Does not Mr.Saumitra Roy stay here?”

“Second floor, number six,” the old bat, busy grinding some khaini in his palm with the thumb, replied without looking at me.

That meant Sir had sold off his property to a promoter and obtained a flat in return. “Smart of you, Sir,” I said to myself. I did not like to take the lift. While climbing up the stairs, I could understand that it was quite a plush apartment.

A nameplate was fixed on the door of the flat no. 6:

“Saumitra Roy, M.Sc (Mathematics), M. Phil;

          Banshari Roy, M.A (English)”

It was 10 past 3 – exactly the time we used to come here for study. I moved my index finger towards the calling bell. I noticed my finger was slightly trembling. I hit the bell. A beautiful chime was heard.

I was hearing my heartbeats – again did not know why. The wait seemed endless.

The door opened with a little creak. A woman emerged, probably in her mid-forties. Her pretty face was little puffed up, as she had to cut her nap short. This must be ‘Banshari Roy, M.A (English)’!

“Yes?” her left brow shot up.

“Ma’am, I am Indrajit Chatterjee. I was a student of Saumitra Sir. He asked me to come today.”

“Actually, he is not home. But he may be back anytime. You’d like to wait?” The lady appeared formal and polished. I nodded with a shy smile.

“Come in,” the lady had not shown any sign of smile till now.

I was ushered into a very well decorated, classy drawing room. There was no remote similarity between this room and the one we had studied in. No, one similarity was there – a picture frame holding a photo of Sayan and Sohini. On top of the huge TV, stood a big, laminated photograph of Sir and this woman – both in marriage attire. I could remember that black and white photograph of a newly married Sir and our Rita kakima on top of a termite-eaten bookshelf in that old room.

The lady was running her fingers through her hair. I gave quick glances at her. She was wearing a floral-printed maxi. Her hair was cut in subtle steps, eye brows carefully plucked and nails neatly manicured.She was neither wearing shankha-pola, nor could I notice any sign of sindur at the roots of her hair – evidently a liberated, stylish and modern lady in stark contrast to a demure, homely Rita kakima. Sir had truly moved on in his life. Though this lady was undoubtedly beautiful and quite composed in her manners, I could not take to her. A sad sigh stormed out of my nostrils.

She noticed me sweating and switched on the fan. I saw a remote in her hand. Probably, she was planning to turn on the AC.

“It is quite hot outside, no?” She asked softly. I saw a faint smile on her lips, for the first time.

“Yeah, it is,” I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead.

“Let me get you a glass of lassi,” suddenly said the lady, with a straight face.

An unintelligible sound broke through my lips. I felt as if I was struck by a thunderbolt. But did she actually say that? Her lips had moved alright but the words seemed to have flown across from a very different, distant world many light-years away, from another forgotten woman who had still been quite alive in my subconscious mind!

It was around 4 o’clock. The sun was blazing outside. Though the windows were covered with dark, heavy curtains, some light was still managing to enter the room creating a queer mesh of light and shade inside. In that uncanny embrace of light and shadow, the woman stood with a part of her face lost in the mysterious darkness.

Those words seemed to be still lingering in the air. I got goose-bumps. For a moment, the woman appeared out of the world! I stood up from the sofa with a jerk and hurried towards the door.

“Hello! What happened! I…” she asked.

I could not dare look at her astonished face, and simply ran away from her.

While I was pacing down the stair-case, I still heard Mrs. Roy calling me.

“What happened Indrajit? Where are you going? Your Sir will be back any time. Come! Come!”