If We Were Having Tea: Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay

 

I’m not sure where it came from but I suddenly imagine myself in a Bengali household. It’s an old fashioned Bengali home with a large verandah and a small courtyard where a huge neem tree stands tall. This room I stand in has a high ceiling, lined with heavy beams. There are two large windows with green shutters. A big, wooden almirah is tucked at the far corner; its glass doors flaunt nicely stacked books. Old books. I walk towards it and the first book I see is probably Datta, as my very limited knowledge of Bengali tells me. I have read the Hindi translation of this book.

I walk back and sit on a chair by the window from where I can have two views —inside there is a long corridor which leads to a couple of closed doors. Outside, there’s a narrow, quiet alley. The purplish grey sky waits for the dawn to break.

At this eerily early hour, the still sleepy house is breathing a pin drop silence. 

A gust of wind makes the white curtain hanging from the door frame flutter and I glance towards it. Suddenly you appear from nowhere, clad in a crisp white dhoti-kurta, a sombre expression on your face, and my childhood comes rushing towards me. My heart skips several beats as I cannot believe I am actually seeing you. Is it a dream, I wonder. It feels like I have time travelled. And now I feel what if you sit across from me and we have a little chat with a cup of tea? I can almost smell adrak-elaichi waali chai brewing somewhere. 

If we were having tea, I would simply tell you how much I have adored you all these years. 

I don't remember how I got introduced and drawn towards your books. Maybe it was after I found Mannu Bhandari’s ‘Swami’ in the small library of our home. You may not know about it so I’d tell you that it was a modified version of your book Swami. It remains my favourite till date. 

Or maybe it was after I read your poignant short story ‘Ram Ki Sumati’. 

I could see a flicker of a smile on your face and I’d quickly add, with a hint of pride, that we share our native land. I would tell you that I had even crossed  your school in the town where you used to study as a young boy. It was Durga Charan High School, right? This thought fascinates me so much that it's indescribable.

If we were having tea, I would tell you that I read your books in Hindi without even realizing that I was reading translations. I feel so lucky to have access to your books because of beautiful translations. I would gladly inform you that I have become a translator, something I had never thought I would do. But now that I am a translator, it gives me a different kind of feeling thinking of your books. 

If we were having tea, I would tell you that your books have been adapted into many beautiful movies like Khushboo, Swami, Parineeta and many more. I would see a flicker of surprise in your eyes. You shouldn't be surprised though because I have heard that you were on the sets when Devdas was being made. 

I was at my Maa’s friend's place when I found Devdas first. It peeked through the glass doors of an old, dusty bookshelf and I shamelessly borrowed it from her. 

I’d tell you that we have at least fifteen other Devdas movies, and I’m sure it would make you laugh. 

If we were having tea, I’d tell you that I had requested someone to buy your books from Calcutta and she brought me a big fat book — a collection of your novellas — Grihdaah, Chandranath, Parineeta, Srikant, Brahman Ki Beti, Path Ke Davedar, Charitraheen, Biraj Bahu. 

Sometimes I wish I could read Bengali.

 

If we were having tea, we would talk about writing and good storytelling. How could we not? How could I miss this chance? I would tell you how I felt that your stories were way ahead of time. Would you teach me a few (a lot of, actually) things about storytelling and creating memorable characters? Particularly strong female protagonists.

I am sure I would see a content smile playing on your lips. 

If we were having tea, I’d tell you that I dug out your book Panditmashai (Pandit Ji in Hindi) after 17-18 years and am currently reading it.

As we continue to talk, the dawn breaks into a golden, gleeful morning. Streaks of sunshine make a crisscross pattern on the table. A voice comes from somewhere. The sunshine turns bright, so bright that it blurs your presence, as though it's emanating from you. It feels like you are disappearing and my heart sinks. I don’t want this rendezvous to end. I want to talk more. 

‘I have to go. It was lovely talking to you,’ you say with a soft smile and my heart melts. You get up and walk towards the same door you came from. The brightness subsides and I see you fade into the length of the corridor. 

(It is Saratchandra's birthday today)

Written for Bookish League hosted by Ritu Bindra

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