Waiting

By Sukhendu Ghosh

- Chandi babu not in office today?

- I’m sorry. But he’s on leave.

- Oh my God, let me just sit down here for a while.

She sat there, in the vacant chair in the small cubicle- without permission.  An old beauty, brimming with bright golden skin, tender silvery hair, in a creamy white sari and shiny black frame glasses, a bit parkinsonian perhaps, she looked completely exhausted- quite fed up though.

• Can I get some water to drink?

• Oh sure, why not? 

I put forth my bottle and said,

• If you won’t mind.

From a side of my small office desk I was eyeing the lady, sitting in  the chair of my boss Chandi babu, OSD (Officer-on-Special Duty) who was absent in office for the day. Autumn, the fabulous season of festivity, had arrived. Through a chink of brown vertical blind, purple-blue sky flecked with tiny white clouds was visible. With a push of my heels I neared her with my swivel chair and asked,

• Would you mind to share your problems with me? 

• Oh no. Not at all. I’d rather be happy to do so, if you really want to know.

• Well, please.

She gave the bottle back to me and went on...

• I, Probha Mukherjee, an octogenarian family pensioner, live alone at Ballygunge, South Calcutta. My husband, late Dr. Patrick Mukherjee, Ex Deputy Secretary of this Department, died immediately after his retirement almost two decades ago. My only son, a bachelor and doctor too, died young a long time back.

Ravi, the tea vendor, moved briskly from chair to chair serving hot tea in paper cups. The aroma of freshly brewed tea filled the air. I beckoned him.

• Tea?

No. Thank you. I have relied on homemade food all along and as of tea, my daily quota of tea is fixed. One with the morning breakfast and one in the evening . Now on to the issue, I have two daughters also- the elder one is settled in Los Angeles along with her family, seldom comes to India and the younger married to an IT professional, living a few miles apart at North Calcutta, pays frequent visits to my house to know the details of my bank account, fixed deposits, safe deposit boxes and so forth. But I’m steady enough, you know. Never ever did I bend before any pressure. But it’s money that matters now. 

Taking a sip from the steaming cup of tea, I asked.

• How? 

• My meagre amount of family pension, for reasons not clear to me, has remained unrevised for the last 20 years, depriving me of the benefits of two consecutive Pay Commissions. It has pushed me into a financial catastrophe, forced me to stagger from here to there for long. They told me to get in touch with Chandi babu, OSD, MA Branch. So here I am. But as luck would have it...

• Hope you have a phone. Could you please give me your number and a few details about the file to note down? Feel free to take my number also, if necessary.

• I get it. But please let me write the details myself.

She kept on writing with a slight tremor and with an antique ink pen (a Pelikan140, perhaps). She handed over the piece of paper to me along with a small “not so smart” phone,

• Please save your number here. Promise you never to contact unnecessarily.

I walked her to the lift, advising her not to come to this office any more, unless asked to. She waved her hand as the automated doors closed.

It was long but not too long. The chapter was closed in less than four months. I had to explore many areas of action. Massive file movements were on among internal branches and between departments. My office bosses were consulted with and convinced. They talked to their higher authorities who gave the final touch. Lady Mukherjee called me occasionally, but she came to my office only once to express her gratitude, only after the battle had been over. Her pension jumped almost four times of the last (she had had an enormous arrear payment also) and our professional relation turned into a personal one. Samiran babu (Babu, a Bengali gentleman equivalent to Mr. in English) the narrator of this tale, was transformed into Samiran beta (Beta meaning son) which I cheerfully accepted. She used to call me at regular intervals but most of the time I was reactive rather than proactive. She shared me her problems, her belief in God and Humanity, her plan to bequeath her entire property to an organisation dedicated to the service of mankind. I was requested several times to pay a visit to her Ballygunge house, the complete address of which is still unknown to me. In fact, I was never interested in that for many reasons. 

              Then came THE YEAR 2021 with the second and the most hostile wave of the Global Pandemic- shattering life, paralysing system, materialising Calpurnia’s ( Calpurnia of Julius Caesar by Shakespeare) nightmare- “Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.” Lady Mukherjee talked to me over phone like usual, expressing her deep concern over the unforeseen threat to humanity. But the call from the other end stopped coming all of a sudden.  I waited, waited and waited....  and then rang back finally. For full time did the phone ring. But there was no reply. I kept on trying, but was in vain. Days passed, then weeks, months and years. Since then I’ve been giving my best to contact, but...

She never called me back again.

And I could never stop waiting for her call. 

By Sukhendu Ghosh