A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

their imagination. And if the visitor isa
woman, then as if by magic she changes
into a blue-eyed prostitute. Perhaps their
memory has got muddled. But they will
never accept this fact. On the other hand
they will put you in the wrong and start
believing that you must be Chakravarty.’’
“It’s not their fault, Nurie. In old age
one becomes senile.”
“I agree with you, Saheb. But I don’t
understand one thing. They vividly
remember even the smallest details of what
transpired years ago. For instance, on the
last day of October in 1930 when there
was a dance at Annandale which woman
was wearing which frock? Was it lined
or floral? They forget nothing. Not to talk
of relatives and servants they even
remember the names of cats and dogs
that the family owned from time to time.
Saheb, is it some kind of mental illness?”
“I’m not sure. It could be some kind
of illness,” I said making a grave face.
“If it’s an illness how is it that both
the sisters have identical trouble? If
something has gone wrong with the heater
Chakravarty is responsible for it. If the
shoe hurts it’s due to that blue-eyed
prostitute. If the milk has curdled it’s
Chakravarty’s doing.”
“Nurie, how do you feel living with
these sisters? Don’t you get bored?” I asked
in a subdued voice.
“Saheb, I pity them sometimes. They
look scared all the time, with not a moment’s
peace of mind. For hours they remain
obsessed with one thing or the other. But
can one fight against nature, Saheb?
Sometimes I think that I should call it
a day and spend my time in prayer and
saying the rosary. But I can’t leave them
in the lurch like this, not at the fag end
of their lives. They are solely dependent
on me... Arre, I just forgot. What’s the
time? I’ll be back in a minute. I must
open the evening room.”
The evening room is known as ‘The
Evening Shadow’. It holds three or four
chairs and a teapoy. An old bookrack
rests against the wall and a table in a
corner. On a shelf rest some family
photographs and a beautiful flower vase
with flamboyant red flowers. In this room
all the windows open onto the west through
which the elongated shadows of the pines
sway on the wall. The last rays of the
sun falling on Ruby’s silvery hair turn
them golden. In this house everything
looks so antique that it looks like an open
page of history. Even Grace and Ruby
look historic. Their faces framed against
the windows are reminiscent of the centuries
old British rule over India.
Nurie has already told them that I
am here.
“Come in, please,” Grace says without
looking in the direction of the door.
“Good evening.”
116 :: January-March 2012