The phone rang.

Shovonlal was surprised. He had been under the impression the phone was out of order. He had been sitting outside in the garden, from where he heard the phone ring. Who was telephoning at this hour? He didn’t feel like getting up to answer. He was in fact afraid to enter his room. Who could possibly be telephoning him now? Was there anyone here in this town who might want to? He had gotten a phone only because of his urge to speak to Sujata. It was only through the phone that he had some contact with Sujata once in a while — and that too, never at Sujata’s initiative. If Shovonlal phoned her, she did pick up the receiver to speak to him.

Apparently her mother stood beside her all the time. But at least he got to hear her voice. This was enough for Shovonlal’s satisfaction. It was for Sujata that he had moved to Bihar. The only consolation was that he was near her.

The phone kept ringing.

Suddenly Shovonlal wondered whether it might be Sujata who was calling. But Sujata never telephoned. Besides, she wasn’t even here — she had gone to Munger the day before. Was she back already? She had said she would be away for seven or eight days. Maybe she was back.

Shovonlal went in. The phone stopped ringing as soon as he entered. Still, he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello. . . who is it?’

No response.

‘Hello. . . hello. . .?’

No response.

Putting the receiver back in its cradle, he returned to the garden.

He thought about Sujata. He had known her since childhood. They had gone to the same school, passing their matriculation exams together. Then he had gone away to college in Calcutta. He used to write to Sujata from there. Had Sujata kept those letters? She had told him on the phone that she had burnt them. He had some of her letters too. Simple, restrained letters, but even in them, within those unassuming words, Shovonlal used to seek deeper significance. She would never write, ‘I am well.’ She would write, ‘I am in good health.’ Shovonlal used to imagine hidden meaning in there. ‘I am in good health’ meant she wasn’t cheerful, she was miserable. Things like that couldn’t be written openly. She wrote, ‘You must be happy with new friends at college in Calcutta.’ She never added, ‘You must have forgotten me.’ That part remained unsaid, but Shovonlal had no trouble reading between the lines. It was her unarticulated statements that held deeper meaning for him. He felt that what she had not said in so many words had actually been conveyed in a far better manner. To say them would have meant being done with them. Not saying them had placed them in the category of the infinite. They could never end. There was no count of the number of times Shovonlal had read Sujata’s short letters, discovering new meaning in them each time. In one of them, she had written, ‘I hope your studies are going well.’ Shovonlal had savoured the silent mockery in it.

He was rapt in his thoughts of Sujata. The incessant chirping of crickets, the black clouds in the sky with a few stars in the gaps between them, that huge banyan tree amidst the mass of darkness — all of them seemed to be imbued with Sujata. Shovonlal felt that this darkness was just like the darkness that shrouded Sujata’s life. This indefatigable call of the cricket — we hear it every day, but do we ever hear the entreaty it holds within? Do we ever try to understand the essence of the message that gives the darkness its heartbeat? Had we understood Sujata? Had we succeeded in honouring her rare displays of joy, just like the handful of stars amidst the clouds? Had we come to know that banyan tree subtly ensconced in the darkness — so alive, its life-force flowing in its arteries and veins, its joy expressed in its leaves and buds, its festive identity camouflaged in its silence? We had not. Just like we had not come to know Sujata either. She had once said, ‘Our freedom is on paper only. The insurmountable wall all around us has only changed its colour from time to time, it has not been dismantled. It remains as insurmountable as before.’

After her mother’s death, the wall had become still more insurmountable. Sujata’s mother liked Shovonlal. She might even have agreed if the subject had been broached. Inter-caste marriages were taking place, after all. But Shovonlal didn’t get the opportunity to talk to her. She died of a heart attack before that. Then Sujata’s father was transferred to Bihar. Shovonlal followed him there. It was impossible for him to stay far away from Sujata. He’d had to rent a house in Calcutta too, just like he was doing here. In fact, rents were lower in this town. Shovonlal would have come even if they had been higher. There was nothing to prevent him, for he had no ties anywhere. Not only did he not have parents or siblings to worry about, he was also not fettered by a job or a profession. He was a poet, a writer. Had it not been for his father’s bank balance, he would have been in serious trouble. But he was not. He had moved to this Bihar town six months after Sujata’s father.

He had visited them as soon as he arrived, discovering that Sujata’s father had married again. And he had married, of all persons, Amita, who was Shovonlal’s classmate in college. Not just his classmate, but someone who had fallen in love with him and had wanted to marry him. He had kept her numerous letters for a long time, planning to show them to Sujata. But he hadn’t got the chance. And he had burnt the letters. Who would have imagined that the same Amita would end up as Sujata’s stepmother and guardian. The first time that he had visited Sujata here at home, he was startled to see Amita. She must have been surprised, too, though she didn’t show it. She had simply disappeared inside the house, half-covering her head. As though she didn’t know him, had never seen him. He had made the proposal of marriage through a letter to Sujata’s father. He still remembered the reply. . .

Dear Shovonlal,

You are highly educated. I did not expect a letter like this from you. I love you like a son, and had expected you to think of Sujata like a sister. Moreover, Sujata is the daughter of a Brahmin, while you’re a Vaidya. Vaidyas are trying to establish themselves as Brahmins these days, but society at large has not yet acknowledged that. Sujata’s mother — although she is her stepmother, she is a genuine well-wisher — will never agree to this wedding. When I showed her your letter, she said: if you go ahead with this wedding, I will leave home. Sujata’s mother said something else too — that given your proclivities, it would be best for you not to visit our house any more. My best wishes are with you.

May God give you good sense.

Yours sincerely, Harananda Chatterjee.

The wall was insurmountable indeed. Amita’s advent had made it even more so. It did not take Shovonlal long to fathom why Amita had become so concerned about Sujata’s well-being. If she had not been there, he would have been able to persuade Harananda. He had met Harananda one day in the field near Jhau Kuthi. Shovonlal used to visit that desolate spot for a walk every day. It was a huge bungalow set in huge grounds, with a tiled roof. There were long verandas and steps all around the house. And enormous grounds. Shovonlal loved the place. He went there for a walk every evening. He had told Sujata on the phone, ‘I have no way of visiting you at home. Can’t you come to Jhau Kuthi on some pretext? I haven’t seen you in so very long a time.’ Sujata hadn’t agreed. A couple of days later he met Harananda in the field near Jhau Kuthi. ‘Still here, Shovon?’

‘That’s right . . .’

‘How long are you planning to stay?’

‘Permanently.’

Harananda was taken aback by his answer.

‘Have you returned to your senses?’ he asked.

‘I had never lost them,’ Shovonlal answered courteously.

‘What I had written to you was not in jest. I will wait for Sujata all my life. If you had considered the whole thing more rationally, you would not have been angry with me.’

Harananda looked at him for a while. Then he said, ‘I had asked Sujata, she isn’t unwilling. Given the way the wind is blowing in society these days, I would probably have agreed too. But the problem is with Sujata’s mother. The letter I wrote you was dictated by her. She has threatened to either leave us or to hang herself if this wedding takes place. What can I do? Let’s see if she changes her mind.’

Shovonlal knew she wouldn’t. He also knew that at this age Harananda would not go against his young wife’s wishes. Shovonlal kept thinking of Sujata. Suddenly he felt someone standing behind him. He rose to his feet quickly — but no, there was no one there. He sat down again. A cold wind whistled. But still he remained sitting. A little later a dog barked. Shovonlal rose to his feet again, flashing his torch all around. The dog stopped after barking for some time. Then the owls began hooting. They were trying to say something in their rasping voices, which Shovonlal could not understand. He thought they were saying: can’t you see, can’t you see, can’t you see . . .?

What was it that he should see? There was nothing but darkness. He let his tired body slump into his chair. But he couldn’t help feeling someone was moving around — he could sense a presence circulating silently, a gentle smell of hair in the wind. Then everything stopped. Shovonlal lay there like an inanimate object.

The phone rang again.

Shovonlal ran into his room quickly.

‘Hello, is that Sujata? Sujata, yes, how are you?’

‘Come over. We can meet this time . . .’

Sujata’s voice seemed to be coming from a very long distance.

‘Shall I come to your house?’

‘No, come to Jhau Kuthi. You had asked me earlier,

I couldn’t go then. Now I have. Come . . .’

‘How did you get to Jhau Kuthi at this hour of the night?’

‘I’ll tell you when you come.’

At Jhau Kuthi, Shovon found Sujata sitting on the steps, alone. He hadn’t spotted her at first, seeing her only after he lit his torch.

‘Sujata?’

‘Yes. The walls around me have been broken, I am free — there are no more impediments.’

In the torchlight Shovonlal could see the joy in Sujata’s eyes.

‘What do you mean, free?’

‘I was in Munger. I died a short while ago, buried under a house. Didn’t you feel the earthquake here?’

‘I did . . .’

‘What about you, then . . .?’

‘No, I am alive.’

‘Then your walls haven’t been broken. How shall we be together then?’

Sujata stretched her arms out. Shovonlal tried to take her hand, but couldn’t. He only touched air, Sujata was flesh and blood no more.

‘How shall we be together then? All my walls have crumbled. But yours haven’t. How shall we be together . . .?’

Sujata sobbed.

‘Tell me how we can be together. You must tell me, Sujata . . .’

‘There. Jump in. Break the walls . . .’

Sujata pointed at the old-fashioned well. Shovonlal was transfixed.

‘Come with me . . .’

Sujata advanced slowly towards the well. Shovonlal followed her mechanically.

At the edge, Sujata said, ‘Jump in. Break the walls, get rid of the obstacles . . .’

After a few moments, Shovonlal jumped.

Banaphool translated from the Bengali by Arunava Sinha; excerpted from What Really Happened and Other Stories, with permission from Penguin Books, 2010

Published on July 4, 2014