The Money Carpet (standard:fantasy, 4442 words)
Author: abhijit dasgupta	Added: Feb 19 2006	Views/Reads: 3236/2475	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It;s an India specific story about the angst of a young newspaper reporter who is a romantic at heart and plays fantasy games of music with a pavement dweller.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

she was tying little things that had to do something with her gods and 
goddesses. 

Ma's lines were rehearsed; this had been told so many times before. “He
came in, I could make out he was happy, proud also...but he would not 
show it. He sat beside me: ‘Madhu, you have given us a son. I have 
nothing to give you but this. Tomar bhalo lagbe bodhoi. May be, you 
will like this.' I opened the wrapper. There was a small, pink 
Madhabilata flower inside and a pair of tiny slippers... padukas...made 
of sandalwood. I had never known your father to be religious; nor that 
he loved flowers so much either. But...this had a different meaning. My 
name is Madhabilata, was it because of that? But the slippers? Janish, 
ami ekhono jani na keno tor Baba amakey ogulo diyechilo. I still don't 
know why he gave me those....” Anirban had seen those little slippers, 
not an inch bigger than his school eraser, kept on the shelf where his 
mother had her gods and goddesses lined up. Every day, after her bath, 
Ma would light up an incense stick, fold her hands and mutter a silent 
prayer. And, the little boy did not fail to notice, after every prayer, 
she would look at her husband's photograph which had, since he died, 
also become part of that sacred shelf. Since she did not get any 
Madhabilata flowers in the market and, actually, because the maid did 
not care, Ma put the brown wrapper which her husband had carried to the 
hospital on the first day beside his photograph, not forgetting to 
weigh it down with a small coin. 

She had kept that wrapper, only shreds of them as the years passed, till
the day she died. Ma loved his father very much. Ma would look far 
away. Then, the story would take a totally different turn. Far away 
from the man who gave birth to him. Mandrake, Phantom, Superman, 
sometimes, even Sherlock Holmes and Jules Verne. And he loved Ma's 
version of Lorna Doone. She, merely a high school passout, was 
well-read. 

Anirban, picking from his bowl, continued to listen. Till it was time
for his bath and lunch. Mother and son would sit together and eat. And 
then, holding tightly on to his mother's saree,  the little boy would 
fall asleep. Thinking of a small, pink flower which he had never seen, 
a young woman on a hospital bed, two tiny wooden slippers and a shy man 
whose face he could never remember once he woke up. Anirban never 
dreamt. He woke up only when there was load-shedding. And the beads of 
sweat started gathering on his face and shoulders, wetting the thin, 
stained yellowish pillow. And that was sharp at 3.30 every afternoon. 
Those days, you could time your clock  with the load-shedding hours. By 
then, Ma would be ready with his milk and a large plate of puffed rice. 
Anirban didn't have much use of the plate; he put all the rice in the 
milk and, using a wooden spoon, made a paste as he crushed the cereal 
in the milk. His mother watched him do this every day as she sipped her 
tea. This routine continued till the day Ma died. She was not  even 40. 
Anirban never quite understood why both his parents had to die so 
young. 

II 

The lane where he lived reminded Anirban of the TV serial, Nukkad, which
he loved because of its street characters who were so real-like that he 
at times he even talked to them while watching the show. The lane— the 
Corporation address qualified it as a bylane leaving Anirban trying to 
figure out the difference— was grandly named after Raja Harishchandra 
or Harishchandra, the King ; whether it was a tribute to the first 
Indian talkie or the King himself, nobody was quite sure. There were 
rows of shops jostling for space on either side of the lane which had 
just about enough room for a rickshaw and a small car to pass through 
together and there was talk among oldtimers that when the going was 
good and the world was not such a bad place to live in, neighbours 
actually exchanged teacups and banter across windows of different 
flats. And wives, drying their wet, bathed hair, chatted one-to-one on 
balconies separated only by a partition wall. Anirban lived alone in a 
tiny one-roomed first floor flat but what he liked most about his home 
was the small, squarish balcony that overlooked the dirty, dingy lane 
below. He did not socialise with any of his neighbours and, anyway, he 
was hardly home, leaving at 9 in the morning and returning late at 
night, sometimes not at all. The neighbourhood was somewhat wary of 
him; old men looked at him with disdain, the middleaged  refused to 
acknowledge him and those, who could have been his friends had Anirban 
given them some hint that he was willing, gave him various names behind 
his back. His only communication was with the local stationery 
shop-owner, Bihari, who gave him cigarettes “on account” and never  
bothered about prompt payment and some local boys who lived on the 
small, lean pavements and escorted him up the stairs when he came home 
late at night, obviously too drunk to make it to his flat. Anirban was 
a sub-editor with the fastest growing English daily of Kolkata, a job 
for which he slogged, sometimes double-shifts a day, and  which, at the 
end of the month, gave him just enough money to eat a little  and drink 
a  lot. Most of the time, Anirban drank with willing colleagues who, 
like him, had nowhere to go but his preferred regimen was drinking 
alone. He drank only rum which he bought from the store just next to 
where the bus dropped him, and he made it a point to open the newspaper 
wrapping and carry the pint of rum in full view of the conservative 
neighbourhood as he walked down the lane to his flat. At times, 
stopping at Bihari's, he even opened the cap and deliberately took a 
swig or two, lit up a cigarette and then proceeded on his brisk walk 
home. He loved to shock Raja Harishchandra Bylane. 

The locality hated him. But nobody told him anything either. He didn't
bother. This lane in North Kolkata had seen drunks for two centuries. 
As long as you didn't make a pass at any of the daughters or sisters of 
the locality, you were just mere garbage. Nobody bothered. Not even 
when Anirban and Kaka played antakshari from the balcony. A game of 
songs in which one player took the queue from the other, beginning his 
version with the last syllable. It was a game vastly popular in India 
but not a game which was played in the dead of night across  a balcony 
and a still pavement. It was also a game, naturally, of music where 
defeat came when any of the players failed to continue the strains with 
a new song. It was, also obviously, a longish game with no set time 
limit. Anirban and Kaka played this game every night. 

III 

Anirban had a dream. Someday, sometime, he wanted to write a story. He
had no idea what he wanted to write, he had no clue why he wanted to 
write and, also, he was totally unsure whether he would be able to 
write at all. Finally, and this was the most difficult of them all, 
even when he had snatches of some story to tell, he would rack his 
brain through the day to come up with an opening line. And always, 
absolutely always, he failed. The first line always eluded him. His 
story continued to remain a dream. Anirban was now quite sure that he 
would never make it. 

He had a passion. He loved Hindi popular films, the national Indian
addiction, second not even to cricket.He loved the music more. And this 
was where Kaka came in. And the antakshari. 

Kaka was a character you didn't find even in story books. He wore chrome
yellow trousers which glimmered in the moonlight, he wore bright, 
fluorescent red shirts which made him look like a dancing, elf-like 
flickering ember, and he always had a thick, blue polka-dotted tie 
which swayed like a wizard's wand as he sang. He never wore shoes; he 
said bare feet helped him dance better. He had a scar marring his face; 
that did not stop him from borrowing heavily from superstar-hero Rajesh 
Khanna whose nickname he adopted or behaving like actor-villain 
Shatrughan Sinha whom he thought he resembled, if only for the scar. In 
reality, he was neither. He was simply a thin, impoverished man who 
sold tickets in black wearing a striped cloth wrapper which ended at 
the knees and a white shirt  and hung around cinema halls through the 
day; but once the night shows got over, returned to the lane to get 
dressed for the night. And the game. 

When Anirban returned late at night and poured his drink in the only
stainless steel glass that he had, the neighbourhood had fallen asleep 
at least a couple of hours back. The crows were frozen on the treetops, 
Bihari had closed his shop long back and even the boys had pulled up 
the available piece of cloth over their heads and gone to sleep. The 
lane was lined with rickshaws on either side with the men who pull 
vehicles during the waking hours now sound in slumber. Nobody walked 
the lane to even reach any other destination. The streetlights, if ever 
there were any, were out. The windows of every family were closed. 
Except the open, jagged corridor-like sky above, and Anirban and Kaka 
below, nobody was awake. Raja Harishchandra Bylane was deserted and 
empty. 

Tonight was the day of the full moon. The game, as with any other game,
would begin with a toss. 

IV 

Anirban was on the balcony. Kaka fished out the old Victoria from his
box which reminded Anirban of a wrinkled magician who used to sit on 
the pavement outside New Cinema theatre near the huge media house 
Ananda Bazar Patrika with a black box, persuading people to buy con 
cards. The Victoria was a copper coin which Kaka had got from where 
even he did not remember but it shone under the moon  and had a face of 
Queen Victoria on both sides. For both of them, the coin was a “She'' 
and the name, simply Victoria. Unknown to even them  perhaps, it gave 
their game a sense of royalty and pomp. Victoria, as well as the moon, 
were their mistresses of the night. 

Kaka always tossed. And Anirban always let him win. For both of them,
this was a ritual which needed to be played out in the darkness. As the 
coin went up to come down with a silent whir, and Anirban smilingly, 
confidently lit up yet another cigarette, the moon changed sides. Like 
a beautiful, sleeping wife.  The game had begun. Kaka began singing. 
His voice, as Anirban reckoned, was not all that bad but he never got 
the words right. The pitch was high, sometimes he went totally 
tuneless, but the tuneless mirth left Anirban asking for more. The 
level in the bottle went down with every song, Kaka swayed like a merry 
ghost. 

Even the moon was in full splendour; Anirban, his fingers tapping the
balcony railings, his feet moving noiselessly with Kaka's music, was 
convinced  that the moonlight was happy too. Suddenly, he cupped his 
hands and drank some moonlight. He took a deep breath. The balcony 
moved. Kaka seemed to come near. It was as if he was on a swing, moving 
towards Kaka and then swaying away as quickly; never touching each 
other. Like Satyajit Ray's Charulata and Amal. On the garden. One 
singing, the other in bliss. A permanent visual image for the Kolkatan. 
A point of reference. 

The moon changed sides again. Anirban squinted. Kaka  knew the rules of
the game. Anirban never sang. Kaka would go on and on; one after the 
other, he sang the songs. Mostly popular Hindi RD Burman numbers, 
sometimes a Salil Choudhury thrown in, to keep alive the Bengali 
tradition, atb it were. This was a one-sided antakshari. But with two 
players. Always. Like the Victoria with the same face on both sides, 
like the moon-wife which changed sides, like the moonlight which 
happily gave herself up in Anirban's cupped hands. 

Anirban poured another drink. The measure was now going awry; it was
time he got rid of the stainless steel, he thought. The moon was a 
speck of delight in the red, unseen, deep rum. Anirban drank. It was 
then that the first window flung open. 

V 

It was like one of those countless films that he had seen. Or even
similar to the old, very old, Pramathesh Barua's Mukti  where the 
titles began with one door opening on to another, and yet, another. One 
after the other. Or Guru Dutt's Kagaz Ke Phool where that shaft of 
streaming light in the empty studio illuminates heroine Waheeda 
Rehman's face in a mysterious, sensual black and white beauty. Anirban 
never quite felt the need to go beyond popular filmic metaphors and 
images whenever he needed to describe something to himself. 

The light from the first window struck the lane like a moment of sudden
truth. And then, another window. More light. And then, yet another. And 
then, all of them. The lane was awash with light. Yellow, goldlike, 
streaming across the lane, all over the frozen crows, the sleeping 
rickshaws, the boys whose faces were covered with cloth. Kaka continued 
, trancelike, with his songs, swaying more as light after golden light, 
hit him like sharp rain. Anirban could not see much; he simply thought. 


She needs rest. 

He looked at his cupped hands. The moon again changed sides. The
Victoria glittered on the lane. 

VI 

And, suddenly, they began. The people at the windows, on the other
balconies. Applauding. Clapping. Cheering. Currency notes flying down 
from as high as four stories, in slow motion from terraces that Anirban 
never knew even existed, coins tossed from all rooms, people emptying 
their pockets on the lane. Like the Biblical manna from heaven, like 
the sweets that came down from the skies as Satyajit Ray's Goopy Bagha 
sang and danced during wartime in that alltime classic. 

Rupee notes blocking out the corridor-like sky as if a huge kite
festival was in progress. The tinkling of the coins falling on the 
ground making a noise drowning the sudden alert calls of the crows, 
their sleep broken by a non-existent dawn. 

And then, as  suddenly as everything had begun, it stopped. The windows
slammed shut, the lights went off, the crows went back to sleep, the 
rickshaws stood lined as before, the boys slept, their cloths covering 
their faces as if nothing had moved. Kaka was  not to be seen. Anirban 
cupped his hands again. But the moon was gone. She was resting. 

The next thing he knew was the wail of the siren, announcing that it was
9 o'clock in the morning. He was late, terribly late, for work. The 
Darjeeling Accord. It was to be signed today. To supposedly quieten the 
hill frontier of Bengal, of which Kolkata was the provincial 
capital.Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi and hill rebel leader  Subhas 
Ghising. He had sheafs of overnight telex as well as agency copies to 
sort and arrange before the chief sub and the news editor walked in.The 
junior sub-editor's job in the morning was to do just that; keeping the 
meal ready for the bosses, they joked in the office canteen. 

As he rushed to the loo, Anirban prepared himself for an assault in
office. 

VII 

It hit him like a first orgasm.Inexplicable, misunderstood, just the
moment remaining forever etched in your mind like a Pissarro painting. 
Only the points making up a whole, not all of them visible, waiting to 
be touched. 

Everything was in place like the last time he left it at night. The lane
was flooded with currency notes, like a carpet neatly stitched for 
royalty to walk on. Anirban didn't believe his eyes. Even the coins 
were all there, some even neatly placed on the rupee notes to prevent 
them from flying in the wind. Small, round paperweights. The small, 
dingy bylane littered with money. This, Anirban thought, as he tiptoed 
on the road, trying to avoid smudging any rupee, was the ultimate 
fantasy. 

And then, something else hit him. More potent, more incomprehensible,
more mysterious. Raja Harishchandra Bylane was indifferent. Everything 
was as should be; nobody even as much cared for the money floating 
around. There was fat, pot-bellied Chandu walking quickly to the 
market, jute bag in hand; Mr Mullick trying hard to manouvre his huge, 
anachronistic Ambassador car out of the lane; the wives, already in 
deep chatter across balconies; Bihari, welcoming him with his packet of 
Wills Filter, noting down the date for his account to be settled later 
when Anirban got his pay packet. 

A breeze blew. The rupee notes went flying, like pigeons in flight all
over the open sky.The boys, the only ones who seemed to care, rushed 
in, like those peons you see in government offices, placing 
paperweights quickly on files so that the babus could turn the fans to 
full speed. 

One by one, as if picking rags, they got the rupee notes back in place,
placing the coins on them, fixing the carpet in order. Not one of the 
boys, Anirban observed, was even vaguely interested in putting away 
some of the cash. He saw Rupa, the college girl who stayed next door 
and looked like Juhi Chawla, that year's Miss India, but who never ever 
gave him a serious look, pass by without, yet again, acknowledging his 
presence. She was walking faster than usual, trampling the notes as if 
they were dirt which would go off the leather-soft  sandals she was 
wearing once she returned home and brushed them against the doormat. 
Like him, she was late too. Bihari handed him his packet of cigarettes 
with the same daily question, “Matches...?” Anirban, in a daze, walked 
past. He saw one of the rickshaws which had still not got a passenger. 
There was money strewn all over the arm-rest, the seat, on the ground; 
the rickshawallah himself was busy mixing his khaini. Unmindful. 
Chandu-da was returning. “Aaj kissu pelam na bajarey, bujhley? Not even 
potatoes in the market... And there's a shutdown tomorrow , as well. 
Have you heard, Mr Reporter? ” Chandu, smiling, the good neighbour 
suddenly, for whom all journalists were reporters,  had never ever 
talked to him before. Here he was discussing potatoes with Anirban. And 
tomorrow's shutdown. Not a word about the money carpet. Wasn't anybody 
interested in money any longer? There was something seriously wrong. 
Anirban thought he was Alice. He looked at the sky. May be, it would 
rain. There were clouds, dark, ominous. Did it rain in wonderlands? 

VIII 

It lay unnoticed, near the garbage dump. A small, new brown wrapper,
neatly tied with red, thin strings, like the ones his mother used for 
tying pendants with faces of gods and goddesses hung loosely around his 
neck. Somehow, it stood out in the money carpet, the garbage glittering 
with coins. Anirban knew it was waiting for him. He stepped quietly 
aside, letting a rickshaw clatter by. Crumpling the notes as it trudged 
along.Then, quietly, very quietly, he bent down, picking up the 
wrapper. Tenderly, as if it were a baby. He opened the strings. Inside, 
there was a small, pink flower. The Madhabilata. Fresh, soft, drops of 
water still sticking to its petals. And two, tiny  sandalwood slippers. 
The padukas. Not longer than his school eraser. Long deleted from his 
memory; forever, he had thought, lost from his mother's sacred shelf. 

Anirban took a long look. “Janish, ami ekhono jani na keno tor Baba
amake ogulo diyechilo...Why he gave them to me” His mother's voice. 
Beating against his head. 

“Ami jani... I know, Ma.” Anirban muttered. 

Without turning around, Anirban silently slipped the brown wrapper, the
flower and the slippers into his pocket, taking care that they did not 
fall out. He held on to them tightly. He headed for the nearest 
medicine shop. He had to make a call. 

IX 

The phone rang only once. “Barun, sir, It's me, Anirban. I am not coming
in today.” “Meaning? It's already 10. Not one copy has been sorted. I 
am doing that myself. This is highly irresponsible...And how can you 
not come today? The PM is already in Darjeeling....” “I am quitting, 
Barun, sir.” There was silence for some seconds at the other end. “Tui 
ki pagol hoye geli? You gone crazy? Drunk in the morning? What's the 
matter?” Barun-da, his chief sub, sounded shocked. And concerned. “I am 
quitting, Barun-da.” Anirban repeated. “How do I send the letter? I 
don't want to go to office. Should I post it? Or, may be, could you ask 
somebody to pick it up from home?” He did not want to prolong the 
conversation. But Barun, sir was not convinced. “What's happened? Gawd! 
If you quit like this...What about your dues? And what about the notice 
period? Erom bhabhey hoye na!  It does not work like this. This is not 
done, Ani...” Barun-da's voice trailed off. “I should have done this 
long back,” was all that he said, before hanging up. 

As Anirban, his hand grasping his pocket, began walking back home after
paying half a rupee to the medicine shop owner for the call, it started 
to rain. Heavily. 

The money carpet, Anirban realised in horror, was getting wet. 

X 

For the first time in his life, Anirban had got his first line. Taking
out the exercise book which he had kept aside for that day when he 
would get to pen his first line, he started writing. 

It was a natural. It flowed like the moonlight. And the rain howling
outside. 

He wrote the first sentence: “Anirban always thought he was like a
flower...” 

ENDS 


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