Rajmahal by Kamalini Sengupta Read Free Book Online Page B

receding. After all his persistent and desperate attempts, he recognized the futility of persuading Gwen. “Lucky Petrov,” he thought, filled with a genuine and deep envy, and he often sought the Russian’s company.
    â€œYou don’t miss Russia, Europe, the language, the people . . . ?”
    â€œI have been on visits,” said Petrov. “What is there to miss?”
    â€œDo you still think in Russian?”
    â€œNo, no,” Petrov shook his head. “I realized some time ago that I now think in English, and sometimes Bengali. Very rarely in Russian!”
    â€œWhat about the food, the culture . . . ?”
    â€œI adore Bengali food. And I can have Russian food in a restaurant here. I can see European theater, admittedly only occasionally. Listen to European music . . . in fact, I am planning to go to a film on New Year’s Eve. I do not usually go to films, but this one is a must. It is a film on the life of Glinka, the Russian opera composer? Well? Interested?”
    â€œGlinka!” said Martin. “Well. I shall certainly mention it to Gwen. Her field’s music, and she’s sure to have heard of, er, Glinka. As long as it’s nothing to do with India!”

    â€œYou will be going to an Indian picture hall,” warned Petrov. “More correctly a Calcutta picture hall! On New Year’s Eve!”
    â€œOh yes!” said Gwen when Martin broached the subject to her. “Glinka’s a particular favorite of mine!”
    â€œMother, Father,” called Martin unbelievingly. “Have you ever heard of Glinka?”
    â€œI’ve heard him mentioned,” said Myrna vaguely. “But we’ll go on to Prince’s after the film, dear.”
    At 11:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, the Petrovs and Stracheys walked into the Globe to watch Glinka .
    The hall was abuzz with an unnaturally excited chattering and a raffish element had occupied the cheap seats in the stalls closest to the screen. The Rajmahal party sat upstairs in the plush Royal Circle. In spite of the cool Calcutta winter, it was stuffy in the hall without air conditioning, and the raffish element had divested itself of its collective shirt, which hung limply on the proscenium. “What interest can they possibly have in Glinka?” wondered Martin. He saw his father nudging his mother and heard him whisper, “Can you imagine them when the singing starts? What will we do with our Gwen? Shall we leave?” And he was delighted when Myrna whispered back, “No no. Let’s watch the fun.”
    Goaded by this remark Martin applied his diversionary tactics to Gwen again, murmuring to her and nibbling her ear. “It’s our last night here, after all. She owes it to me,” he thought.
    Gwen woke up when the first firecracker burst against the screen with a greenish spark, Bang! followed by a cheer from below. There was a hush when the film began. But it was clear this would be no ordinary viewing. Half an hour into the film, myriads of little firecrackers were exploding and sparking against the screen while the actors went through an inaudible mime. The mob downstairs wildly imitated the arias, and when there was any suggestion of a kiss they erupted with smooching noises and pranced joyfully in the aisles. Plucking their shirts off and swinging them about their heads, they continued to fling endless salvos of firecrackers with inspired frenzy at opera stars, amorous couples, and the miraculously unharmed screen. Petrov shot out a swear word and Martin turned to him with his face split in a grin. In the end, the Rajmahal group was shaking with collective laughter. They watched the pale magnified figures on the screen and the thin dark Bengalis writhing in the pit below. “I’ll send you some Glinka records from London,” shouted Gwen to Petrov. “You can listen to him
at home!” “Yes, let’s go to Prince’s,” said Myrna quickly.