Short Story
Well-Known
artwork by amina
Trolly's father's library is stacked from wall to ceiling with books. Aslam is amazed at seeing the collection. Trolly has never mentioned anything to him about this library. Smiling a bit, Trolly's father says, "I spend at least eight hours in this library every day. It has now become my obsession. In fact, I think I've spent my whole life reading books." Trolly's father is a calm, gentle man with a pair of sharp eyes beneath eyebrows beginning to form a single line. Curved lines of old age grace his forehead. Aslam does not know why a deep respect for this gentleman has grown in his mind from their very first meeting. The gentleman takes down a volume of a year's issues of the monthly 'Mahe Nou', bound in morocco leather, from the mahogany shelf. Turning over its pages, he remarks, "Aslam, I'm afraid I don't know whether you're aware of the fact that education is held in little esteem in this country." "Is there any education in this country that ought to be valued at all?" Trolly replies, quickly taking up her father's words. Trolly is not a new acquaintance of Aslam. He first met her on the grounds of the university a year back. During that first meeting, the conversation had somehow veered towards the mention of a minister. She had then said, "I'm his niece." "A minister's niece! I mean, your uncle is a minister?" Aslam had been very much taken aback. Daubing her thin lips with lipstick, Trolly had responded, "Yes. An uncle of mine is a minister and another one is an ambassador." Aslam had thought that somebody whose uncle was a minister would also be leading the high life. He had asked, "Is your father also…" "No, no," replied Trolly, "my father is not chasing after some ministry. He has an import-export business." Aslam came to know all this, and while not exactly sure about the reason to himself, he knew that he liked Trolly very much. A gentle breeze is blowing. Strolling on the green grass of the garden, Trolly's father says, "You know, Aslam, I've earned all this, everything I have with my own effort." Aslam cannot quite understand what he's talking about. He looks at Trolly and her father with bewilderment. Trolly chuckles. Her father smiles, too. It is Sunday. Reclining in an easy chair, Trolly is leafing through the pages of what looks like a glossy American magazine. No sooner does Aslam stand in front of her that she demands an explanation, "What took you so long?" "How could I come? Your uncle prevented me from doing so." "What do you mean?" "I mean the curfew and Section144, which has been declared and enforced these last few days." "Oh!" Trolly raises her eyebrows. Suddenly Aslam says, "Well, Trolly, I have to ask you this: Was it declared just so they could shoot our innocent boys?" "Hmmm…what did you say?" She looks up, tossing aside the magazine. Sorry, what did you say just now?" "I was talking about that shooting incident. Haven't you heard about it?" "Yes, I have," says Trolly, nodding her head. "But what if I say that firing at those people serves them right?" "Yes, what'll you say then?" Trolly's father's grave voice asks from the doorway, where he is standing. "In fact, the younger generation of this country has gone to the dogs; otherwise they wouldn't make such a row for a non-Islamic language." There is a pause. Then, since he's not quite finished with the topic, he goes on to add, "An Islamic language should be the state language of a Muslim country. There's no two ways about it." "Bengali language has no real tradition of its own," Trolly says, keeping time with her father's words. "In fact, there's nothing there at all. Not even a penny's worth." Aslam is about to reply heatedly when Trolly stops him, "Well, let's leave it at that for now. I think the devil might be in possession of you. You need to be exorcised. Come on, let's go upstairs." She pulls him by the hand to an upstairs room and sits him down on a chair. Switching on the electric fan, she stands by his side. Then, passing her fingers lightly over his hair, she says, "I never thought that you'd be like this." She smiles wanly. Aslam has a chat with an old retainer of Trolly's father. The man somehow reminds him of George Bernard Shaw. Aslam feels weird at making this connection, at finding a physical similarity between the long-dead Bernard Shaw and this old man. Purely out of curiosity, Aslam asks him, "How long have you been here?" "I've been here for a long time, shaheb. Since that time of war", replies the man with a smiling face. "What do you mean? More than ten years?" "Yes, shaheb. I've been here for ten years or so." He then says, "These people, they were not that well off then, at that time. They only had a ration shop on Circular Road in Kolkata." He clears his throat. Then adds, "They made their pile of money only after the partition of India …" He does not his sentence. On hearing Trolly calling for him, he hastens towards the inside of the house. Aslam does not see Trolly again for a long time. Then they run into each other again on the university grounds. "Hi Trolly, how are you?" Aslam asks. "Not too bad. I'm going to London next month." "Why, all on a sudden?" "Well, you know my mejo apa lives there. I'll be staying at her house for a few days. Then I'll go visit boro apa in California." "When will you be back?" "I'm not sure", Trolly says, her eyebrows dancing. "Boro Apa hasn't been back ever since she immigrated there. Mejo Apa too is on the verge of doing the same. Maybe, I'll also do…" She stops abruptly without finishing her thought, and Aslam cannot quite figure out why. There is a long pause, and then she says, "Come over to my house one of these days. There is something important I've got to talk to you about." Another day, when Aslam goes outside for something or the other he comes across Trolly while walking along the road. She is driving a big car. As the car comes near him, she speaks, "I think you must have heard the news." "What news?" he asks, surprised. "Why, haven't you read the newspaper today?" Trolly asks, a little surprised. "No, not yet." "Then get into the car. I'll give you a surprise", she laughs loudly. He does. They drive to her house. Where Aslam is surprised on seeing the rows of cars in front of her house. He asks, "What's the matter, Trolly?" "You haven't understood anything, have you? Father is going to be the senior officer of central education ministry very soon", she says smilingly. "Oh, is that so?" "Yes, it is. Will you still like him?" "Of course, we'll like him. He's such an intellectual…" But Aslam does not know why these words choke in his throat. Trolly, with a smirk, says, "Father may need a private secretary. You should write an application to him. I'll put in a recommendation for you before going abroad." As soon as Aslam gets out of the car, he notices Trolly's father. But the man is so busy greeting his friends and well-wishers that he does not notice Aslam. Trolly says, "You'd better sit in the library. I've work to do. I'll be there after finishing that, okay?" She turns to go upstairs. In the library, Aslam takes a book from the shelf and starts reading it. It is the English translation of Tagore's Geetanjali. "Who's there? Oh, Aslam?" Trolly's father's startled voice makes Aslam look up from the book. Her father, in a buoyant voice, asks, "When did you come?" "Fifteen minutes back, I think", replies Aslam, his voice a little hoarse. "What're you reading?" her father comes closer. Then, leaning on the book, he says, "Oh, Geetanjali? A very nice book, indeed." Trolly's father, the future top bureaucrat and boss of the country's education ministry, becomes eloquent in his admiration of the volume. "Ah, Geetanjali! A wonderful book! One of Milton's greatest novels."
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