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MEMORIES OF LIGHT AND SHADE, PART II
This is a continuation of MEMORIES OF LIGHT AND SHADE - PART I from our Apr 2008 issue.
On the way back
home, Swati asked me, “Who’s Dory?”
I said, “Dory
was one of my friends from here, didn’t I tell you about her?”
Swati answered
“No, I’ve never heard her name before.”
We didn’t buy a
car when we visited Iowa this time around. I did learn to drive, but hadn’t
driven for awhile. Back in Calcutta we never feel the need to drive our
cars. We always have drivers. Unlike the US, where only multi-millionaires
can afford to have chauffeur-driven cars, in India maintaining a driver is quite
affordable. In fact, it helps to create an opportunity for at least one
person amongst the millions of unemployed seeking jobs. So for me, it’s
quite impossible to drive a car in the US.
There was always
someone to give us a ride, whenever we needed one. Paul also appointed two
students to the invited writers to help them to move around.
That day, after
the party, Eric was driving us back home. Eric was not a student; he was a young
assistant professor in the English department. He didn’t know much about India
but seemed quite eager to know about it. He didn’t understand Bengali, so it
was impolite to talk in Bengali amongst ourselves when he was in the car. So I
told Swati that I would tell her more about Dory later when we got back to our
apartment.
Then I asked
Eric, “I heard you guys are rehearsing for a play? When’s it going to
be staged?"
We were driving
along the banks of the Iowa River. Our apartment complex was called the
Mayflower. It wasn’t very far away. It was past midnight and there
were very few cars on the road.
Eric answered,
"September 7th is the Labor Day holiday, and I had hoped to stage the
inaugural show on that day, but unfortunately it seems that’ll be almost
impossible to do as one of our actors left for Chicago unexpectedly. We’re
in trouble now. We need to find a substitute for her and get her ready. It
looks like we’ll have to postpone the date for sometime in the near future.”
Swati then said,
“I went to see the rehearsal the other day. Susan was acting quite well.
Why did she leave for Chicago?"
Eric commented,
“She went for a TV commercial, but I don't think she's going to return."
I said, “Here,
don’t you have a Theatre and Drama School here? Can’t you find student
actors?’
Eric said,
“This is not a Drama School production, it's our own English Department
production. Sunil, can I ask you something?”
"Of
course!”
"Is your
wife Swati is willing to act in the play? It would be really great for
us."
"That you
can ask her directly, she’s right here, next to you."
"Really, I
am really not aware of all the etiquette in your country; I thought I needed to
seek your permission first."
"What ideas
do you guys have about India? Husbands lock up their wives before leaving
for work, or what?”
Eric was suddenly
embarrassed, "Oh, I really don't know…"
I started
laughing loudly and said, "Do you belong to that group of people who still
think that we have snakes and tigers roaming around in the city, quite freely,
and people lying dead on the sidewalks and naked saints going about hypnotizing
common people?"
Eric too started
to laugh and said, "God, No! I know that Calcutta is a big metropolis. I
read about the city in Allen Ginsberg's Journal. He wrote quite a bit about your
big city."
I said, “Men
indeed tortured and oppressed women for centuries, but now women have learned
how to turn it around. They are taking all the revenge they can. They are the
ones who rule now. We men have to abide by them. You know, I’m always
shaking—hahaha! She was a working woman for awhile and, you know, she
even acted in a couple of plays. So there is absolutely no question of getting
my permission for the play in this case.”
Eric in a
surprised tone said, "Are you kidding, she acted in plays too?'
I said,
"Yeah, in a couple of them. They were considerable productions and she
received acclamations for her roles.”
Swati was shy,
"Oh, that was a long time ago.”
Eric responded,
requesting, “Madam, if you would kindly consider our play..."
Swati started to
refuse profusely, “No, no, how I would be able to act in an English play?
My accent won't be right—"
I interjected,
"Don't worry, they’ll teach you the accent!"
Eric said, “No
worries about the accent, this is international casting. One guy is from
Argentina, another girl is from the Philippines, another one came from Japan.
The story line is also somewhat abstract, not related to a particular country or
culture; it could be related to any country ..."
Eric was so
excited that when he reached our gate to drop us off he said, "Would you
mind if I stayed with you for awhile? Is it too late?”
For us, it’s
never too late for addas
[1]
. Even though it was already past midnight, we Bengalis never ever care
about the time when we are in the adda mood with our friends, discussing any
random topic under the sun. Often we are so engrossed, captured, and engaged in
our adda sessions that we are oblivious to time and place. The morning sun fills
the room and birds come out chirping near our windows, and then we come back to
senses.
I welcomed,
"Come in! Come in! Let's have another drink!”
He started to
describe the play passionately, as he came in and took his seat. It appeared
that he was really on a mission to get Swati to agree to take part in the play.
I also began to
love the idea just because it would give Swati an outlet. Instead of just being
the wife of a writer she would also have her own identity.
From the very
next day Swati took part in the play and started going to rehearsals. She left
every afternoon. I was alone sitting at my desk, writing. The last
time I was in Iowa, I was a poet. I wanted to be a poet, a full time poet.
Poetry was my only mission and vision. No prose for me. That was what I had
wished for. After my return to Calcutta, being in a vagabond unemployed state
for awhile, I was almost pressured to join a newspaper as a journalist. I
started writing prose. The editor asked me to take up the pen for stories
and novels. That was the turning point in my career as a prose writer.
Satyajit Ray, the famous director from Bengal, made two feature films based on
my novels, and then the editors put more pressure on me to write more prose. I
became a regular prose writer and obliged to write prose. Desh, the weekly
magazine, began to feature episodes of my novel. I was feeding them the
installments from there.
I was still
writing poems. Nights were devoted to poetry. Days belonged to prose. My writing
table was near a window. It's pretty impractical to keep the windows open
there. The temperature dropped and then it wasn’t particularly comfortable.
Drawing the curtains back revealed a few maple trees on one side of the street
and, as you looked out, on the other corner you could see the other wing of the
building. Just at our level on the seventh floor you could see the window of
another apartment, directly across. The curtain of that window was always pulled
to one side. A girl lived there, all alone. You could see her moving across the
room in her bra and panties, casually and carelessly. I supposed, when she got
out of the shower, she wouldn’t have a string of cloth hanging from her body.
All bare, all alone.
While writing,
occasionally I had to gape and gaze, collecting and cohering my thoughts
together. And then, I could see her across the way. I was a middle-aged
man; I knew it pushed the boundaries of decency to stare at a beautiful naked
body belonging to another woman when your wife was not there. Ogling was not
desirable on any count. The very thought of this rebuke of myself made me
laugh, but still I got up and drew the curtain halfway back.
On one side of
our wall, we had a Botticelli print. A portrait of a Botticelli girl. Very
typical of his style. Oval, smooth, egg-shaped. Then, I
discovered, as I stared at the painting for a while, that the chin of the girl
in the portrait bore a great deal of resemblance to Dory Gleaves.
I had almost
forgotten about her.
I had remembered
Dory at Paul Engle’s party the other day while conversing with Professor
Lambert. I started recalling everything, one event at a time. I had told
Swati about Dory over the past few days.
Dory’s name
might have faded away, but her face was still fresh in my memory. Dory was the
first white woman I had kissed. I hadn't met Marguerite yet.
Then I was an
inexperienced young guy in my twenties, visiting the US from a far off land
called India. I was yet to know all the etiquette of American culture.
I used to forget to say “Thank you” all the time. A friend,
having returned from the US, warned me that you should never ever get drunk at a
party. “Make sure to have some cookies with butter before you head out
for a party, because that helps you to be sober and alcohol has somewhat less of
an impact. And remember, never touch any woman until she extends her hand
to greet you, at least within the first few days of meeting her.”
After I landed,
Paul Engle introduced me to Dory. She was there to help me out, to get
acquainted with the daily chores, on campus and locally. Dory herself was
a poet and a student in the English Department. She was quite well-built
and smart but smoked like a chimney. I too was guilty of the same offense.
On my first day she took me to a supermarket and helped me buy all the
necessities for survival. In the evening, when taking off, she told me,
“I’ll come again tomorrow and have a date with you.”
I had heard and
read about this dating but had no practical experience of it. It was not quite a
known concept in India at that time. Guys and girls could not even hang out
together. Having a relationship with the opposite sex was meant to be kept
secret, and you could meet your girlfriend only by sneaking away from your
family.
The next day,
Dory and I got together and spent the evening together. We went out and walked
by the riverside. You could see couples sitting and walking together hand in
hand and enjoying the wonderful weather. Dory was from Mexico City; her mother
tongue was Spanish. She even knew the famous Mexican poet Octavio Paz
personally. We talked about Spanish literature that evening. My
knowledge of Spanish literature at that time was paltry, but a little richer
than Dory's knowledge about Indian literature. I still read Himneth and
Lorca. Dory never ever heard about our Rabindranath Tagore.
I had opened a
bank account earlier in the day. A bundle of dollar bills was sitting in
my pocket. It was an eerie feeling. When I left India, I had mere
eight dollars and had never seen so many dollars at a time with anyone, let
alone myself. I was indeed feeling rich.
Poverty was my
constant companion at that point in my life. I had to manage every penny that I
earned. But that day, I just wanted to spend like I never cared. I invited
Dory for dinner and asked her to take us to a fancy restaurant.
Dory opposed the
idea, but I was unwavering and unyielding. I wanted to be careless about my
lifelong dearth of funds, at least for the day. We finally went to a fancy
restaurant and had dinner and drank a lot. But still I was sober. I could walk
straight and think straight. When Allen Ginsberg was in Calcutta he told me that
all those drunken scenes from Hollywood, most of them were artificial. In
the civilized western world intoxication seemed inappropriate, very much more
amongst writers and artists. But I guess by the sixties, the intellectuals had
gotten hooked in to other kinds of addictions—peyote, mescaline, LSD,
marijuana, and other stuff.
On the way back,
I walked her to her doorstep. Walking up the stairs, she said, “Good night.”
I also returned
her wishes.
She didn’t
extend her hand, so there was no question of a handshake on my part. I reminded
myself, “Nope. We should date two more times, maybe three.”
Dory started to
giggle and said, “You blockhead, don't you know? After a date, when you
drop her off, you’re suppose to kiss your friend?”
She crossed over
and pulled me in to an embrace.
I met up with
Dory another three times. But we never got too close to one another because, in
the meantime, she had introduced me to her friend Marguerite. They both used to
come together and visit me at my apartment. Then, all of a sudden, one day
Marguerite came all by herself. After that Dory neither came to my
apartment nor called me on the phone. When we came across each other at parties
we just chit-chatted and shared casual words and moved away to meet others at
the party.
Later—many days
later—it amused me when I thought about it. The best outcome of me meeting
Marguerite was that she immersed me in French literature. We read many French
poems together and shared the most beautiful poetic discussions. She told
me different versions of the story of Esau, and I later wrote a novel about him.
I had managed to learn a few French songs too. If it were not Marguerite, but
Dory, by now I would have been more conversed in Spanish literature. Instead of
Apollinaire, I would have memorized verses of Unamuno.
I don’t think
my relationship with Dory would have lasted long. Though she was a smart and
attractive young woman, she was too much practical and close to reality. She
was less interested in discussing poetry and more interested in how to reach
publishers and get published. She talked about how editors behave with poets and
how agents ignore poets for many good reasons. She was interested in all
the gossip about poets and them fighting with one another and so on. These are
common traits in all countries, I guess, but I wasn’t so eager to know about
these worldly things. For me, poetry, and poetry in itself was what
mattered to me. At the other end of the spectrum was Marguerite. She was so
oblivious to reality, with much less concern about money matters. Her innocence
attracted me, drove me to cling to her.
Jean Lambert had
assured me that after returning to Texas he would send me Dory’s number.
I thought to myself, “Where is he? He didn’t call me. This is
unusual here in the States. If somebody gives his word he tries to keep it.
Maybe he lost my number so he couldn’t follow up with me.” But then,
he could have gotten in touch with Paul Engle.
Then I
remembered, Professor Lambert had come to Iowa to sell off his house. Maybe
he was still here? Professor Lambert had said something terrible the other day.
Dory could not walk anymore. What had happened to her?
I had met Dory
exactly seventeen years earlier. She was four or five years younger than I was.
Marguerite and Dory were the same age. So, that meant they were about forty,
forty-two now, still considerably young. I was the one who was now
forty-seven, quietly walking toward the milestone of middle-aged.
The most
convenient time to call Paul was in the evening, around six, six-thirty. He got
back home from school around that time and, while sipping his tea, he replied to
all the letters he received. On average he replied to about ten letters.
It was interesting enough that some local newspaper reported as a factoid that
Paul wrote about three thousand five hundred letters per year. This was almost a
world record for any writer.
Paul never knew
Allen Ginsberg personally. They had never even met. Paul wrote in traditional
poetic forms while Allen and company were the Beat Generation of revolutionary
poets. They revolutionized the poetry world with their non-traditional forms and
broke the norms of traditional poetry.
The last time I
spoke to Allen over the phone, he asked me, “How is this man Paul? Let
me know how much he really dislikes me, because he’s never invited me to his
university for a poetry reading.”
This last
question, when I asked Paul directly, really surprised him. “What? All the
students are so eager to listen to his poetry. We never approached him to come
here because we thought he would immediately decline our proposal. Poets of his
genre don’t like traditional poets like us!”
A few days later,
I took Paul to Allen’s place in New York City. That was the first time the two
of them had met in person. Both shook hands and embraced each other quietly,
warmly.
Paul and Allen
were similar in that they both had immense zest for writing letters. But Paul
typed out each and every letter, while Allen’s were handwritten most of the
time.
When I called
that evening, Paul said, “Sunil, I am so happy to hear from you, but could you
please call back a little later—maybe in half an hour or forty minutes? I’m
kind of tied up with something right now. Okay—wait, no, don’t worry,
tell me…”
I was a little
embarrassed and said, “I’m really sorry, I really didn’t mean to disturb
you, and I don’t have that urgent of an issue…”
Paul said, ‘No,
no, don’t worry, please tell me now. I really have some time now for
you...”
I know that’s
how he was, always busy but interested in all matters.
I said, “It’s
nothing terribly important. I just wanted to know whether Professor
Lambert, whom I met at your place, has gone back to Texas yet. I need a
little help…”
Paul cut me off
in the middle and asked, “What’s the time now? Quarter to seven?
Please get ready by seven-thirty; I’ll pick you up and we’ll go someplace
interesting. Ask Swati to get ready too. Seven-thirty sharp…”
I wasn’t able
to say anything else. He had already hung up.
Seventeen years
ago, Paul was the same as he was now. He used to call up abruptly, asking,
“I hope you haven’t had your dinner yet. I know Indians usually have dinner
late. Get ready, I’ll be over soon and pick you up and we’ll head to
someplace interesting.’
Where I could be
going, what the occasion was, I had no clue whatsoever.
Once I was
enjoying time with Marguerite with a glass of red wine discussing Jean Genet’s
novel. She had come over to my place so we could spend the whole evening
together. We had plans to make omelets with mushrooms. But Paul called up, and I
could never say no to Paul’s invitations. Paul was so kind and warm to me,
more so than to other writers.
He took me along
with him to Arizona and Michigan too, only so that I could have new experiences.
Once I travelled
with him to Cedar Rapids in Missouri to visit a dying old lady, almost for no
reason. Paul’s mother died when he was three or four years of age. He didn’t
have any memories or recollections of his mother. This old lady was Paul’s
mother’s friend. Paul sat by her bedside, “Auntie, just talk to me about my
Mom. How was she? What was she like? Was she quiet or bubbly? Did she love
sunshine or did rainfall make her happy? Did she always dress up or keep
things simple. Did she love poetry?”
It was indeed a
strange experience from my perspective. A fifty-five year old man with the
curious mind of a little boy was building up an image of his mother. I was happy
that Paul took me along that day. For that very reason it was sometimes hard for
me to turn down his untimely invitations. Moreover Paul was not aware of my
plans to spend time with Marguerite. Anyone from Iowa would have easily
disclosed such a relationship from its inception, and for me it was a very
private affair.
Our evening was
just warming up as planned, and then there this sudden call and invitation to
join Paul. I really used to feel sad leaving her alone on those evenings,
but Marguerite never ever stopped me from going either.
She told me,
“Okay, you better go. Have fun and eat good food, but I’m not going
anywhere. I’ll be here, sleeping in your bed.”
It was September,
winter had not yet arrived. You still didn’t need warm clothes. A casual
shirt and trousers were pretty comfortable. I was wearing trousers, so I just
grabbed a shirt and went down to meet Paul. He came and picked me up in his car
and drove to our destination, unknown to me.
There was no
point in asking, “Where are we headed?” I knew the answer would be,
“Hold your breath and wait until you get there!”
The car stopped
in front of a house, somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Then Paul said,
“This is my friend, Van Allen’s, residence. You’ve met him, haven’t
you?”
I nodded in
agreement.
Van Allen was a
famous scientist, a Nobel Laureate in physics. I had met him couple of
times; was very humble, polite, and soft spoken. We have so few of these Nobel
Laureates, so anybody who gets it becomes a big celebrity. There was always a
big buzz around him. Here, there were so many of them, that nobody really
singled them out. The University of Chicago had twenty-eight Nobel Laureates.
You would bump into them frequently on campus. They were so reachable and
regular people. Van Allen also lived like a normal guy in Iowa.
Van Allen was
sitting outside on his porch. I immediately thought we were having dinner at his
place. But then I wondered where other guests were. I saw none around.
Van came and
greeted us and then said, “Paul, I’m ready, good to go.”
Then he
hesitantly said, “Sunil, please have a seat.”
Then he took Paul
to one side and talked in low voice, discussing something, and I felt I was the
topic of their conversation. I started wondering, “Have I made some
mistake?”
Paul came back
and said, “Sunil, I hope you don’t mind. They’ve opened a new restaurant
here. The food is very good, and it’s gotten rave reviews. But there’s one
problem about getting in there…”
Instantaneously
and almost involuntarily I said, “Because of my skin color, they will not
allow me? So what, don’t worry, you guys go, and I can easily walk back
to my apartment.”
Paul
scolded me softly and said, “Skin color? Are you crazy? We don’t have such
things in Iowa. Nobody is bothered by skin color. The problem is elsewhere. This
is a very fancy and formal restaurant and they have a dress code. You’re
only wearing a shirt, but they require a jacket to get in.”
Paul said,
“Why would you go back? No way. Just tuck in your shirt, and Van
will lend you one of his jackets. He has quite a few of them. Just try a
few and wear the one that fits you the best.”
Van brought
out a few. He was more or less of my build, so one of the jackets really fit me
well.
Again, but?
Now we were
finally good to go. Suddenly, Paul busted out in laughter, directly looking at
me. Van too joined him in few seconds.
After long
seventeen years, Paul was asking me to join him on another such adventure.
Swati would not join us. She had already left for rehearsal and would not
be back before eight. I wrote her a note and stuck it to the refrigerator.
I had no idea what was waiting for me.
To be continued..
