That summer day of 1973, had finally seen the sun after a couple of days of incessant Dooars drizzle. The vibrancy of the Chulsa club bounced back as the clouds cleared and there was a hum of activities on the golf course and in and around the clubhouse. The tennis courts too welcomed the sun as well as the excited players.
"You should have seen Jyoti’s game today. Her shots were pro!” Pushpa said to Krupakaran, as they both beamed with pride. "You are being generous, Pushpa," said Jyotsana fussing over little Shalini in her arms. But she was pleased that her game had turned out better than usual.
"Did you use the new racket today?" asked her husband Krupa.
"Oh come on, not again," she said with an amused smile.
But the twinkle in his eye was a sure-fire sign that there would be yet another retelling of the story. Their friends Chand and Pushpa were among the keenest ears. Krupakaran began to narrate how tennis had nearly caused a serious crack in their matrimonial brickwork.
Wednesday evenings had always been a high point in the lives of planters and the ladies as they mingled over games and tea in the club after the long monotonous evenings of the week. Jyoti's competitive streak soon began to emerge as her game of tennis improved steadily. All this time, she had been playing with rackets the other players could spare and expressed her desire for a new racket to her husband.
“I will buy the best of it. Wait for a few more months,” he said in an effort to accumulate some money.
She continued to play with borrowed rackets, all the while schooling her own sense of impatience. Almost a year had passed, and one fine day, her patience had reached its apotheosis. In an impulse, she said to her husband “if I had asked my father for a new racket he would have got one for me immediately.”
Words, true to their nature, pierced straight into his heart. Though invisible, the bruise ran deep. Nonetheless, he managed to keep an impassive face. Deliberately crunching on his toast louder than needed, he said, “you are most welcome to go to Nagpur and ask your father.”
Krupa headed out to the fields for his kaamjaari, after the spat. When he returned to the bungalow he was shocked and at a loss for words for a brief moment to see that his wife had actually taken his words seriously.
Pondering over the events earlier, he sat in the verandah and noticed that the baby milk formula was sitting on the table. He assured himself that Jyoti would be back soon, at least for the sake of the baby. It was also the end of the month and she might not have enough money to see her all the way through Nagpur. But there was not much he could do now. To take his mind off his helplessness, he went to Chalsa Dhaba with his colleagues.
Meanwhile, Jyoti sat in the rear seat of the car, deeply hurt by her husband’s behaviour. With an exasperated breath, she patted her baby who lay oblivious of the emotional entanglement of her parents. The car sped along on the highway from Zurantee towards Siliguri.
She wasn’t quite sure of her plans, knowing that travelling to Nagpur would not be possible at such short notice. Trying to be level-headed, she tried to come up with a better plan and said to the driver, “Bagrakote, Huria saab ka bungalow chalo.”
However, fate had other plans. En route, she was informed by another estate assistant that Navin was on annual leave. Despite all that was brewing in her mind, she came back armed with Navin's borrowed racket with help of the assistant. She found her fury fed further when her husband was nowhere to be seen in the bungalow.
When Krupakaran returned later that night, the bearer informed him that memsaab was back. Relieved, he tiptoed into the room. Outwardly, he was nonchalant but from within he knew what would follow. Admiring the little angel in the crib, he stretched and yawned as if announcing his arrival wordlessly. Quietly he changed and slid into the bed next to his wife and turned the other side. There was an awkward silence except for the stridulating of the crickets.
The heavy humid air led him to doze off soon. But his slumber was interrupted by his wife nudging him in the middle of the night.
“How can you sleep, without knowing what has happened? You haven’t even shown any concern about the baby.”
Krupakaran thought that silence would be the best option at the moment. He said, “it has been a long day for all of us. Let us get some sleep now and we can continue the rest tomorrow.” He covered his head with a pillow and fell back into sleep.
He squinted at the sunshine streaming in through the window the next morning. But there seemed to be something amiss. He glanced around the familiar room as he caught sight of the crumpled sheets and realised that he was on the floor — his back sore and neck stiff.
The racket had turned out to be more expensive than anticipated!
They still have a good laugh about it, each time the story is retold. Though Jyotsana David maintains that this is his side of the story. Her side remains to be told.
Glossary:
Kaamjaari: Daily work supervision
Memsaab: Ma'am
Bagrakote, Huria saab ka bungalow chalo: Drive in to Mr. Huria's bungalow in Bagrakote Tea Estate