Camellia: Rabindranath Tagore

Kamala was her name.I saw it on the cover of her bookShe was on the tram, going to college with her brotherI was on the seat behind hersThe perfect line of her profile was visibleTender wisps of hair straying on her shoulderIn her lap were her books and notesI didn’t get off where I should have.

Since then I’ve been timing my departureThough it doesn’t match my working hoursFrequently it coincides with their hour of travelFrequently I get to see her.I tell myself, what if there’s nothing between usShe’s a fellow-passenger at least.A pure intelligenceSeems to shine through her appearanceThe hair swept back from her young foreheadHer bright eyes fearless.I wished a crisis would erupt right nowI could fulfil my existence by rescuing her –An assault of some sort on the road A goon trying to get fresh with her…It happened all the time these days.But my luck was like a shallow, murky pool,Incapable of holding anything historicOrdinary days croaked drearily like frogsSharks and alligators weren’t invited, nor swans.One day there was a crowd, some jostling

A half-Englishman was seated next to Kamala.Without provocation, I was dying to knock his hat off,And throw him out by the scruff of his neck.I couldn’t find a pretext, my fingers itched.At that moment he lit a fat cigarAnd began to puff on it.Going up to him, I said, ‘Throw it away.’Pretending not to hear,He blew smoke-rings deliberately in the air.Plucking it from his mouth I tossed it out.Balling his fists he glared at me –Then leapt off the tram without another word.He probably knew who I am.I was well known as a footballer,A bit of a loud reputation.Her face turned red,Opening her book, she pretended to read.Her hands trembled,She didn’t even glance at the hero.The office clerks said, ‘Good for you.’Soon afterwards she got off, before her destination,Took a taxi and went on her way.

I didn’t see her the next dayNor the day after.On the third day I spotted herGoing to college on a rickshaw.I realized my bull-headed errorShe was quite capable of looking after herselfI needn’t have intervened at all.I told myself again,My luck’s like a shallow, murky pool –The memory of my heroism echoed in my mindLike a mocking bullfrog.I decided to make amends.

I’d heard they usually vacationed in DarjeelingI needed a holiday urgently that year.They had a tiny home, it was named Motia –In a corner down a slope from the roadBehind a tree,Facing the snow peaks.I was told they weren’t coming this time.Contemplating return, I ran into a fanMohonlal –A little sickly, tall and bespectacled,His weak constitution perked up only in Darjeeling.He said, ‘My sister TanukaWon’t let you go without meeting you.’The girl was like a shadowHer physical existence the barest minimum –Not as keen on her meals as she was on books.And hence such unusual admiration for a football captainShe thought it generous of me to meet her.What games destiny plays!

Two days before my return to the plains, Tanuka said,‘I’ll give you something to remember us by –A flowering plant.’Such a nuisance. I was silent.Tanuka said, ‘A rare, expensive plant,Needs a lot of care to survive on our soil.’‘What’s it called?’ I asked.‘Camellia,’ she answered.I was startled –Another name flashed in the darkness of my mind.I smiled. ‘Camellia.Its heart isn’t to be won easily, is it?’I don’t know what Tanuka made of this,She was embarrassed suddenly, pleased too.I set off, along with the potted plant.It turned out she wasn’t an easy co-passenger.In a carriage with two compartmentsI hid the pot in the bathroom.Never mind the details of the journey,Forget, too, the triteness of the months that followed.

The curtain rose on the farce during the autumn vacationIn an area where tribal people livedA tiny village. I’d rather not reveal its name –Compulsive holiday-makers aren’t aware of its existence.Kamala’s uncle was a railway engineerHe had set up home hereIn the shade of a sal wood, in squirrel country.Where the blue mountains could be seen on the horizon,A stream coursed across a bed of sand nearby,Silkworm were cocooned amidst the flame of the forestOxen wandered about beneath the treesUnclothed tribal boys perched on their backsThere were no houses to stay inSo I pitched my tent by the riverI had no companionOnly the camellia in its pot.

Kamala was here with her mother.Before the sun was overheadWhile the dew-soaked breeze blewShe strolled in the sal wood with her parasol.The wild flowers bowed in prayer at her feetShe didn’t even spare them a glance.Crossing the stream with its thin trickle of waterShe went to the other bank,To read beneath a tree.That she had recognized me was obviousFrom the fact that she didn’t notice me.

One day I saw them picnicking on the sandbank.I had the urge to ask, don’t you need me for anything.I can fetch water from the stream –Chop wood and bring it from the forest,Besides, isn’t it possible to findA decent bear in the jungle nearby?

I spotted a young man in the groupIn shorts and an imported silk shirtSitting beside Kamala with outstretched legsSmoking a Havana cigar.While Kamala absently shreddedThe petals of a white hibiscusAn English monthly magazineLying by her side.

In this desolate corner, I realized,I was unbearably redundant, I wouldn’t fit.I would have left immediately, but for an unfinished task.The camellia would bloom in a few daysOnly after sending it to her would I be free.I roamed the jungle all day with my gunReturning at dusk to water the plantAnd check on the progress of the bud.

It was time, finally.I had sent for the tribal girlWho brought me firewood every day.I would send it with herIn a leafy box.I was reading a detective story in my tentWhen a melodious voice wafted in, ‘You called for me?’Emerging from the tent, I sawThe camellia tucked behind her earLighting up her dark-skinned face‘Why did you call for me?’ she asked again.‘Just for this,’ I replied.And then I journeyed back to Calcutta