Rajmahal by Kamalini Sengupta Read Free Book Online Page A

ruler and ruled. When “natives” weren’t allowed into the exclusive pool of the whites. (“Did they think our color would come off and stain their pool? What about sharing the water with people who only use bathroom paper . . . ! Chchi !” the minister who led the party had said.) Once the ruler had left, the racism lay exposed and had to be excised. It was the racism, which had been “impolite.” But this in no way justified his, Proshanto Mojumdar’s reverse impoliteness to members of the offending race who were here as his guests, when most of that had been put away in the past.
    It was later that Petrov, who had gone backstage, would tell them of the ironic parallels between this incident and the happenings of the first Neel Dorpon nearly a century ago. That during the rape scene, a shoe had been thrown at the offender, to opposite effect, because the flattered actor, unhurt, had taken a bow! The incident is a legend in Calcutta theater circles.
    â€œMaybe today’s shoe-thrower reenacted it on purpose!” said Petrov.
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    â€œPoor Pro!” exclaimed Martin in the privacy of the Strachey limousine. “What a disaster!”
    Gwen’s rage simmered down to a squeaky indignation and she suggested boycotting Proshanto Mojumdar’s party.
    â€œOh come!” protested Martin. “You’ ll break old Pro’s heart. Besides you must go to the 300 at least once before it folds up.”
    â€œOf course she must!” enthused Myrna, who couldn’t bear to miss a party. “The 300’s such fun!”
    â€œIs it?” said Jack.
    The play had left him dejected, adding to the weight of a sadness he didn’t want to analyze. Every dismal event sharpened his sense of failure, shrinking his ego, leaving him only with the natural aversion to letting go.
    Martin hadn’t given up either. He planned to persist in Gwen’s indoctrination. Tonight he would tell her of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, when the odious Dyer had ordered his men to fire mercilessly on an unarmed and cornered Indian crowd, killing hundreds. He would tell her of the same Dyer who had ordered that Indians would be whipped unless they crawled on their stomachs when they were on a particular lane, because an English woman had been attacked on it. Martin would then take her to dine at the Bengal Club, just up the road from the Rajmahal. There, he would point out the entrance gates which the British women of Calcutta had picketed in 1919, demanding a collection for the disgraced
Dyer. And then he would point out the valuable paintings in the Club, its history as the color bar, and finally soothe her with the magnificent Anglo-Bengali smoked hilsa fish. He wondered if her intellect would allow her to accept what he told her and if she would get her balance back, or if she would get squeakily indignant again. His erotic fancies were aroused by thoughts of provoking his petite intellectual.
    At the 300, Myrna almost fell in love with Proshanto Mojumdar as he swept her on to the dance floor and surpassed himself, pressing his right hand firmly into the small of her back and holding her hand high with his left, fox trotting and quick stepping with authority, sideways, backward, swaying and gliding, waggling his backside for the rumba or twitching his shoulders for the cha-cha-cha. It was a good thing they would dance less and less frequently. Who could imagine them replacing these structured dances with the grinding of the grunge generations? This was one of the last times the Stracheys would visit the 300. The Russian couple who had contributed to its special quality had already left, and the 300 was to follow Martin’s prophecy and fold up. That night, in spite of Proshanto and Myrnas’ wonderful exhibition on the dance floor, the Rajmahal party stayed somber, and the characteristic gaiety of the club went missing.
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    Martin could see his dream of staying on in Calcutta