My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose Page A

Then he said, “What do you think is the way out?”
    â€œOf course,” I said, “there is an easy way out – just marry her.”
    â€œYou’re asking me to marry her? If that were possible it would have been simple.”
    â€œWhy isn’t it possible?”
    Ramen said, “I’m not exactly a fan of marriage.”
    Now it was my turn to persuade him. “Not fond of it? Meaning? You will marry, won’t you? Surely you won’t stay unmarried all your life? And there’s nothing standing in your way either, you admitted yourself that you like her, you feel for her . . .”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I feel for her – I’m human too.”
    â€œBut then what’s standing in the way of your marrying her?”
    â€œSomething is standing in the way,” Ramen now made another confession. “I’ve promised Ruth that if I do get married again, it will be to her.”
    â€œWho on earth is Ruth?”
    â€œRuth is the girl in my shop . . .”
    â€œAgain, Ramen!”
    â€œCan’t you understand, she has no one of her own . . . And the way she’s pursuing me – I’m very unlikely to get married again, but if I ever . . .”
    I said angrily, “So an Anglo-Indian’s ploys matter more to you than a Bengali girl’s tears?”
    â€œSay what you will. I’m off to bed.”
    Ramen yanked his jacket off and threw it on the floor, rolled his trousers up to the knees, and stretched himself out on the couch.
    Enraged as I was, I said nothing more.
    Sleep eluded me that night. I could see Bina’s woebegone expression, puffy eyes, unkempt hair. I felt pain, and yet it wasn’t quite pain, it was an unfamiliar pleasure. I imagined I was pacifying Bina, consoling her. She refused to listen, but I kept talking; once, she smiled, said something, and then I suddenly realized that Ramen and the girl who was so besotted by him were no more in my thoughts; I had forgotten about her. Embarrassing myself, I decided straightaway that getting involved in others’ affairs was not wise. It didn’t make any sense to visit the Duttas anymore, it was best to mind my own business.
    But Ramen wouldn’t let me be, he forced me to go along with him the next day. As I had said earlier, I enjoyed the atmosphere there. And in a few days I became addicted in any case; I stopped being a footnote to Ramen and started frequenting the place on my own. In that time Bina had finally got hold of herself, her face had acquired color and a smile, she spoke beyond the dialogue she had begun delivering again with such talent. With her recovery the pace of rehearsals rose; the intense level of socializing that went on before, after, and during therehearsals was something I witnessed only that one time, in my entire life.
    In the first week of March, a couple of months after the first time I had been to Mr. Dutta’s house, in winter – possibly in January – The New Nest was staged. There were four performances. I was present on all four nights, sometimes observing audience reactions in the theater, sometimes helping to arrange the actors’ costumes before the enactment began, backstage. I wasn’t spared the driving around to perform various chores, nor was I deprived of the honorable responsibility of dropping three members of the huge cast home after the performance.
    The production came to an end, but the aftermath lasted another whole month. First at Mr. Dutta’s place, then at a restaurant, then at his friends’ country home, and finally again at Mr. Dutta’s – feast after feast, celebration after celebration. Although I had not contributed much, having spent most of my time watching, I was invited to every celebration; the Duttas were flawless hosts. By now, I’d had the opportunity to get to know several members of the troupe quite well, I no longer felt like a fish out of water among them.