Rajmahal

Rajmahal by Kamalini Sengupta

Book: Rajmahal by Kamalini Sengupta Read Free Book Online
Authors: Kamalini Sengupta
shared only with Surjeet Shona, his eager acolyte: What are the Stracheys doing here in this crazy, filthy, smoggy, out-of-control city? Do they really need this apartment, this Rajmahal, these ancient toothless servants, just for the sake of a view of the crowded maidan , access to a few shabby clubs, an idea that their Raj is still here? How do they face the sly hints about the greed of the British during the Raj, their savage revenge after native uprisings? I have heard them being taunted about the famine. Have they forgotten how they went skipping across starving bodies on their way into Firpo’s? What about all the writing on this British indifference, the writing which reviles it? What about Jack Strachey’s own true background? (I know what this means, after all, though I was so young when I left Russia. Jack Strachey was a full adult when he left his country.) A “true” background means a wholeness which can never exist in another country, in spite of a long life’s association. It means knowing people of your own family, your region, your background . . . It means recognizing who you are and what you are, your true level . . . Ah! There I may have hit on something. Perhaps Jack Strachey’s level in England is the problem . . .
    Small differences with the Indians on which Jack and Myrna had commented and laughed over the years were now like monster barriers.
    â€œIt’s rude to tell the truth, but not to yawn, spit, and burp.”
    â€œAnd fart too.”
    â€œ W hat about nose picking?”
    â€œHave more, na, please, but you must . . . ”
    â€œNo thank you . . . ”
    â€œAre you sure . . . ?”
    â€œOf course I am, I said so didn’t I!”
    Exasperating. Maddening. As if one doesn’t know one’s own mind.
    â€œLook at him Jack, piling my plate, it’s monstrous!”
    â€œShshsh. Just eat as much as you can . . . ”
    â€œMyrna, give Mr. Ghosh another helping . . . ”
    â€œI just asked him, he said ‘no’!”
    â€œMyrna! Insist, go on! Or you’ll offend him . . . ”
    But Jack knew the Indian experience would deny him simple solutions, that, in the end he could not have re-adjusted his personality and status-consciousness in Britain. Here his level was intact and understood. It was himself now and till the end.
    Myrna’s familiar quack quacking penetrated.

    â€œWhat dear?’ he said mildly.
    â€œHow do I look ?” Myrna said in that anxious tone close to hysteria. “How do I look , Jack? You’re not listening !”
    How did she look indeed? Jack realized he hadn’t looked at her recently, because of her incessant natter, because of his incessant concern for her. “ You . . . ” automatically, knowing his best strategy. “Darling, you . . . look . . . just fine . . . ”
    â€œDon’t lie! I don’t believe you meant a word of that!”
    â€œWhat dear?”
    â€œI used to be so sexy.” Myrna’s voice took on a mewling tone.
    â€œDon’t I know it!” Jack dutifully lunged at a heavily corseted breast.
    Myrna slapped him away. “Stop it!” She started crying, turning Jack’s heart and lowering his resistance so painfully that he groaned out loud.
    â€œOh Jack, I don’t know how I should do my hair, and what I should wear . . . It’s so hard . . . ”
    â€œHush.” Jack’s voice trembled. “Hush . . . ”
    â€œI can’t decide! Should I dye my hair? And look at these stays, they hardly make a difference. It’s too awful of Martin to forget the new ones . . . And, and, should I dye my hair? It’s awful .” Desperate. “You aren’t saying anything. Should I dye my hair, Jack Strachey, should I dye it, so they’ll look at me again... ”
    â€œI love you.” Jack was saying under his breath, all this while, like a mantra. “I love you. Hush, hush.” He held

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