Dress Circle

I am groping in the dark.

I am thinking coherently, but not going anywhere. All around me, I see an entire humanity stretched out leisurely.

They all appear the same, everywhere. From Har Ki Piyari Ghat [stairway leading down to the water] to Nirvana Talkies [Cinema] at Rafi Ahmed Kidwai Road. They attain the anonymous entity of masses, with hearts beating to the same rhythm, brows furrowed at the same interruptions. I see their faces, which are all the same, but they cannot see me. They are much too bothered with the screen before them, going, “Pehlaa pyaar [first love] . . .”

This is what happens when you arrive at a matinee show late. Your eyes cannot get over the nostalgia of so many kilowatts of sunshine. You are a nuisance, and people are rude to you. The ticket boys with flashlights hate you for arriving late. They prefer that you never arrived at all, and they could sell the seat to Mr Ray Ban, who stands with a hundred-rupee offer near the rear stall. From amongst the thunderous applause that greets the hero’s screen début, you have to pick out your seat in the dress circle almost blindfold, third row, five from left, taking care not to step upon the chiffon sari with pink toes and week-old pedicure, flip down your seat and sink into its soft cushions.

Only when the lights come on during the intermission do I become aware of my neighbours. The usual chip-munching teenage crowd in vibrant colours is present. The last time I saw these colours was during Holi, the festival of the colors.

At home, Holi is celebrated with the usual fanfare: throwing Abir, coloured powder which we toss over each other. Sometimes, Abir is mixed with water, which results in everyone getting drenched. Papa’s friends come, including Amit Kaku, whom I adore for his perfumes and classical voice, but, with the exception of him, I do not find these people interesting. They rarely bother to have anything to do with the colours. Usually, they retreat to the study for cards and drinks. Aunties are slightly better. They twirl your nose and flick your ears and force you to get wet. Bhai’s friends are also invited. These are ex-Indian Institute of Technology students, who scare me with their brooding intellectual gravity. I much prefer to be alone, and I never invite my friends over. Instead, I visit them.

I have never been a fun-loving teenager. Instead, I was mama’s perfect darling girl, sapient and sage, and have sat stoically through many a scrubbing while Bhai kicked his way out of the tub. When I turned thirteen, the same day that Bhai turned fourteen, I told an astonished Auntie Sonya that my age was a hundred and thirteen. I have never received a Valentine card, never played with a doll’s house, and have never worn dresses with childish, silly prints. When my friends were carefully selecting shades of lipstick and nail varnish for a newly acquired freedom at college, I stood on the footpath immersed in Henry James. This is not a statement of pride. Sometimes, as at weddings, it is a social handicap. My friends have declared me cosmetically challenged. Even now, I am wearing faded jeans and cotton kurti [short top worn by women], no embellishments - and have come here alone.

I don’t come to watch a movie. I come to be with one-hundred people for two-and-a-half hours when I need that break from George Orwell or Chekhov. To get away from home, or more specifically Ma, whose eyes haven’t yet stopped asking me what am I doing with my life post-Vivek, my lost love. I have no idea. I keep asking myself the same question. So I come here and grope in the dark, to avoid being groped in the dark.

It's the same old movie and the same old songs. But, for a fraction of a second, the narrative catches my attention. It always works that way: associations, moments spent together over the telephone, books shared and laughed heartily over, a very bad fall on the stairs and get-well-soon mails that almost popped out of my mail client, so eager they were to reach you. A phrase that catches your sudden attention in a conversation. Something that he told you. They come back to you in a deluge and you have no magic umbrella to keep yourself dry. Tears turn into streams where you wash your dreams. A year-and-a-half of togetherness is translated into ten-thousand-years of sorrow. I tell you, it takes your peace away and, before you realize it, you are cursing yourself, cursing him, cursing your parents, cursing everyone around you, and crying at a stupid sob scene at your local flick [cinema].

“You need this.” I am proffered a handkerchief.

I stop sobbing and take a look. He has a broad, clean smile and eager, frank face. “No thank you,” I say and dry my eyes. I feel ashamed.

When the lights come up, we avoid each other and leave separately.

New Market gathers me unto itself. The hawkers here provide me with a good study in business management. I have my two futchkas [popular junk food] for a rupee from one of the corner boys.

“That makes ten futchkas for five rupees, thank you.”

I watch them peddle away furiously, hoarsely screaming their wares aloud at the top of their voices, bargaining with fat rich ladies who shall not budge an inch from the prices they bargain with. Or slim, petite papa’s girls who melt away at a mauve hairclip or silver pin. They talk nonstop, laugh with the girls, could have been their college mates had it not been for discriminating circumstances. They drive away my depression. It is a full-moon night. I press my pillow to my breast and sleep over Vikram Seth [renowned Indian poet], while the white lace curtains over my bed ruffle my hair and a white moonlight softly scorches my face.

Two days into February, and it is already hot. I drop at Shyambazar on my way home, at the National Variety Stores. The shopowner greets me politely. We were regular customers for supplies purchased for Bhai’s boarding house at Mount Hermone, Darjeeling. Cases full of essentials and cold creams used to be procured for each new session at the end of February. A superman or a GI-Joe had to be thrown in too, as a bribe

As I take my sunscreen and a few knick-knacks Ma needs. Uncle hands me an Alpenliebe [brand name of a sweet confection] and asks, “How is Shubhro, he of running nose and chubby cheeks?”

And then he turns to Uncle Sharma, the accountant, and says, “Mr Ray’s son is a student at the Institute of Technology.”

Home is walking distance away, and I am not in a mood to board a bus full of homebound office workers. Neither do I feel like walking. Morning papers reported an accident where a bus suddenly boarded a footpath and ran over a woman. I may be shattered, but I still love life and want to live. No razors, nooses or railway tracks for me! No footpath-bound buses either!

A tram bell sweetly tinkles its way into my thoughts. I tell myself that it tolls for me, and hop in for a laid-back, relaxed, window-side journey.

I notice the lampposts throwing a murky yellow aura on walkers, vehicles, and footpath-dwelling women who sell fries dipped in batter or corn roasted over a fire. Glowing faces, faintly shimmering with sweat that is their own yet not altogether so. There is a face for the client, another for the child sucking away at the breast and yet another for the occasional policeman dispiritedly trying to clear the footpath for the pedestrian's convenience. The monolithic tram of ancient Kolkata strains in its old fashioned way amidst the newcomers of yesterday trying to justify its existence with its slow, painstaking journey. Most seats are empty. The conductor smiles and hands me my ticket.

I return the smile.

Back home, a party is well under way. I try not to look guilty for, not only am I late but, to be truthful, I had forgotten. For the life of me, I cannot remember this being planned. However, I slip confidently into Piya’s arms and accept her hug and manage to congratulate her for her engagement to Bhai. Tomato juice is being served in salt-rimmed glasses - an imitation Bloody Mary.

To my amazement, Boropishi is asking Pishua, “Why not have the real thing?”

All my contemporaries are grouped and huddled according to age, gender and rank. Someone remarks on my slight stature and the dark circles under my eyes. Concerns are expressed over my non-directional existence in a family of solicitors, doctors and engineers. My marriageability is mentioned casually. Everybody agrees that I shame myself with my three-penny job at an obscure Salt Lake [suburb of Kolkata] bookstore. Remarks are exchanged about who was the smarter of the two of us, and how everyone expected me to go to medical college, and Bhai to go to a correctional facility.

I stand waving goodbye with Ma on the porch with a tight twirl in my stomach. My past is deleted, and it is as if I have climbed up the diving board at the Anderson Club to find the swimming pool under me being maintained and dry. My future lies inert before me. I may drift into it, but not right away, certainly not before tomorrow!

Next matinee, I am back at Nirvana, and just in time. It is a Goldberg movie, Sweet November. It is a classic story of a woman with terminal illness spending her last month in love with a workaholic, changing his life forever. I cannot hold back my tears. Vows are too brittle, love is too short-lived, life is too fragmentary, moments are too vulnerable.

I do not notice when my hand is taken into another hand and I have started devoting more attention to the owner of the other hand than I had been paying to the movie. When I let this happen, I want to let it remain there, along with my newly acquired carpe diem [enjoy the moment] wisdom.

After what seems an eternity, I turn to look at his eager face, but memory betrays me and I cannot make sure whether we have met before or not. During the intermission, we discover that introductions are unnecessary. We talk instead about Asimov, about Raj Kapoor and Nargis, about Frank Sinatra and Westlife. We also talk of O’Henry’s The Gift of the Magi. Afterwards, I lose him in the crowd. I cannot remember his name, or whether he has even told me it, but I buy an advance ticket for the next Friday release of Cold Mountain.

Next Friday, I am on my way. A collective sigh of disappointment goes up as the bus comes to a throbbing halt after an agonizing traffic delay. I glance at my watch. It is five minutes to three. I do not want to be late for the show. I have been faintly expectant this whole week, and Ma noted that I have been a trifle little less depressed. As a matter of fact, things have indeed disturbed me less than they usually do: failing alarms, cold cups of tea, power cuts, cupboard cleaning sessions, absentee maids, misplaced lenses, sleepless nights. Over and above everything, I have even managed to feel good about my rides to and from work. I have ignored the prying wolfish hands that invade my privacy in overcrowded buses as they seek their share of pleasure. Eyes that rove around your body, making you want to get under a shower with a scrubbing brush and strong disinfectant. Elbows that work overtime, knees that want to communicate incommunicable yearnings. And breath, dear God, the warm burning breath that travels down your shoulders, back and waist, reaching into crevices and creases of your garments, reminding you that, no matter who or what you are, you are a woman, a woman, a woman.

I take the short cut through Ezra Street and arrive five minutes late. The trailers [advertisements] are just starting. I see him waving me over and I no longer feel human. I reluctantly part with my loneliness. I am in the throes of something greater and, above me, over which I have no control and therefore don't feel responsible for.

I let go, closing my eyes, ears and other senses to the outside world. What good were they anyway? Things may pass, but I pay no heed. I steal my two-bit happiness from the clutches of time. I laugh a borrowed laugh, and drop a borrowed tear on a borrowed hand in a world on short-term lease.

We exchange poems, songs, anecdotes, childhood stories, but never personal details, not even names. We disturb serious movie-goers with our private giggles over intimately-shared secrets.

He confesses his fright of spiders and his emotional response to Princess Diana’s funeral.

I confess that I dream of babies most of my time.

Every Friday, we buy dress circle tickets to whichever matinee film is being shown. We pay for both our tickets on an alternating basis. Clock hands race, weeks fly away from us like caged birds given their freedom. But it is never enough. By silent agreement, we never meet outside the theatre, nor do we linger after the movie. We are completely content to sit side by side in the same seats, his hands holding mine, ever so lightly. And to do us justice, we do also watch the movie.

A month passes. The results for Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi, admission tests are out in my favour. There is no time to be wasted. Under compulsive family pressure, I pack my things and prepare for my relocation to Delhi. I fly on Thursday, so I cannot say goodbye and ask him to keep in touch.

The following morning, I arrive at Nirvana with a throbbing head and eyes swollen from crying all night. I summon the porter, and ask him to do me the favour of delivering this note to the gentleman who comes here for the three-thirty movie every Friday and takes the two seats in the third row, five from left, dress circle.

He is immediately obtuse. “Which show?” “Whereabouts in the dress circle?“ “How can I recognize the gentleman?”

Intermissions are due anyway, so I bribe my way into the auditorium, accompanied by the porter, and approach our two usual seats from the rear. As I point out the exact location of the seats to the porter, slipping him two hundred rupee notes for his trouble, my eyes come to rest on a very familiar back. He is sitting at our usual place in his usual casual way, with a woman slightly older than me. They are talking animatedly and he is holding her delicate hand in his - ever so close, ever so gently.

- Mandira Mitra
Kolkata, West Bengal, India.