Coming into the outer room for some work, Kakli spotted Shekhar standing by the window. His whole body was pressed against the window, staring out at the street. In the dim twilight darkness, his figure was gradually becoming a silhouette.
: What's the matter? You're back so early?
Kakli asked, her hand touching the light switch. Bewilderment was gradually settling across her entire face.
: Just like that.
Shekhar replied without turning his face from the street. She couldn't be satisfied with this terse answer. She asked again.
: What did Kalababu say? Did he like the manuscript?
The moment the name 'Kalababu' reached his ears, Shekhar's face turned bitter. A stream of disgust flowed like a waterfall through his chest. Shekhar had gone to see Kalababu just this evening. Kalabaran Sarkar, Nilam Publishers. Everyone in the book district knew him by that single name. Before Puja and New Year, writers would literally queue up at his gleaming shop!
Usually the man's face was always plastered with smiles. His teeth, stained with betel juice spots like custard apple seeds, would constantly peek out through the gap in his thick lips! But that was Kala's other face. The employees managed the shop while Kala swayed in his swing chair upstairs, in front of that gleaming white telephone. After seven, no one could find Kala anywhere. This became gossip at other publishers' adda tables in the book district, yet Kala remained Kala. It was to this very Kala that Shekhar had gone today after office hours.
There was a power cut in that area then. A half-naked brass fairy holding two enormous candles in both hands stood illuminating Kala's table. Behind the chair, next to the portrait of the Father of the Nation, light and shadow played on the face of the girl in shorts and kurta on the Phillips fridge calendar. Kala was making some scribbles on a piece of paper. Seeing Shekhar, waves of laughter rose on his broad, flat face. With his rough fingers, he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the cane basket, then settled back even more comfortably.
: Tell me, what's the news?
Kala asked Shekhar, his eyes dancing.
: I came about my novel. How far have you gotten with it...
Shekhar didn't finish his sentence as he pulled up a chair to sit.
: Which one? Tell me?
Kala asked, wiping the layers of fat on his throat with a handkerchief.
: The one called 'Outside the Circle.'
Shekhar answered quickly.
: Oh come on, is that even a novel?
Kala pulled out the white paper package from the drawer and pushed it toward Shekhar.
: What do you mean?
Listen, this kind of writing doesn't work anymore. The public wants something else now, understand?
: I don't quite...
Shekhar couldn't grasp the matter.
: What have you written here, huh? No sex, no violence. At least two or three bedroom scenes...
Kala laughed slyly. Each of his laughs hit Shekhar like a slap.
: But I tried as much as possible...
Shekhar tried to explain.
: Nonsense, that didn't work. Make it more natural. Make Pranita surrender more to Manish. In the bungalow, the two of them together... clouds in the sky, torrential rain, solitude, a call...
Kala made a clicking sound with his tongue. Long ago, Shekhar had seen a bear licking its tongue at the zoo. Exactly like that. He looked at Kala. His eyes held a devouring gaze. Suddenly he leaned forward and whispered.
: Do one thing, Shekharbabu. The election is coming. Write something exposing the leftists. Looking at Shekhar's speechless face for a moment, Kala continued.
: Make that Manish a labor leader.
Being chased by police, Pranita, I mean that whore's place...
: But I...
Shekhar tried to say something.
: Oh, just listen to what I'm saying!
Kala lowered his voice even more.
: A special message has come from Delhi. The leftists must be defeated at any cost. Their image needs to be destroyed first, and you people can do that. I've already said I'll give this much.
Kala showed his index and middle fingers together. With a thunderous sound, the Ruppur Local shook the railway bridge behind the housing and rushed past. Shekhar turned around. Kakli was still standing the same way.
: Anik Thakurpo came around noon. He was saying something about their program at Sealdah tomorrow. Election campaign. Drama, songs, speeches...
: Don't need to go listen to all that. Leftist stuff. Eye-washing before elections. Besides, I'll do some correction on the writing tomorrow. I'll need you.
: But Anik Thakurpo said...
: I don't do politics, Koli. What's the point of creating unnecessary trouble?
Kakli stopped short. Her silent gaze pierced into Shekhar's chest. He felt a kind of discomfort. His shirt collar, damp with sweat, was sticking tightly to his neck. Trickling sweat from his chest and back was dripping in large drops, merging and falling with a patter inside his vest. Shekhar took long, deep breaths. Kakli remained standing the same way. With wide eyes, she seemed to be searching for something in Shekhar's face. To change the situation, he moved forward and felt around the top of the bookcase. The packet of Charminar fell past the bronze Buddha statue to the floor at the touch of his finger. As he bent to pick it up, his eyes went toward the sky.
On the roof of Dhiraj's family in the next block, against the backdrop of an antenna, a patch of pale cloud was gradually growing larger. The caged parrot in the opposite flat was calling out harshly and flapping its wings. Leaning further out the window, Shekhar watched more carefully. The black cat was climbing up along the balcony grille.
Shekhar didn't go to the office the next day. Early morning, he took the manuscript of 'Outside the Circle,' pressed a pillow to his chest, and lay face down on the bed. Kala had said the writing needed to be changed. Besides, everything else he had said with his rough voice through the gap in his thick lips seemed etched in Shekhar's mind. While saying those words, Kala's face had seemed somehow abnormal to him. His eyes were gleaming in the candlelight. Kala kept swallowing the saliva that had thickened and gathered.
Shekhar cast his gaze out the window. The sounds of Kakli's small tasks were floating from the kitchen. She was quickly finishing her household work to help Shekhar with his writing. The novel had to be finished today. Whatever fate had in store. Either this way or that way.
: Koli, hurry up! The writing is quite long, you know.
Shekhar called to Kakli while lying on the bed. He felt around and pulled out the cigarette packet and lighter. He lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke in billows. The smoke swirled upward, then was drawn outside by the breeze. There was a sound of a door closing in the kitchen. Kakli entered the room, pushing aside the curtain and wiping her hands.
: Cooking all done?
Shekhar said, moving to one side of the bed to make room for Kakli to sit.
: I finished everything this morning. I'll have to go again in the afternoon.
Kakli tried to understand Shekhar's reaction, remaining impassive.
: Where?
Shekhar turned the pages of the manuscript.
: What! Didn't Anik uncle ask you to come along? They have a program today at Sealdah. Apparently this will happen every day now. Sometimes Rasbihari, sometimes Chowringhee, and so on!
Kakali pulls a pillow across Shekhar's back onto her lap. Shekhar says nothing, just the rustling sound of turning pages.
: Tell me what needs to be done.
: I need to change a few portions of the novel. I mean, I'll have to rewrite some parts.
Shekhar says while pushing the manuscript toward Kakali. Kakali runs her eyes over the back of the crown-sized paper.
: Oh, that piece! The one you wrote when we were staying in Naihati?
Shekhar nods.
: Yes, that's the one. Kalobabu has marked a few places. Those are what need to be changed.
He points out the sections marked with red crosses. After scanning it once or twice, Kakali closes the manuscript.
: What's there to change? It's perfectly fine as it is.
: No, no, I mean Kalobabu was saying that the portion with Manish and Pranita needs a bit more detail...
Suddenly Shekhar seems to see Kalo right before his eyes. Flat nose, cunning eyes, deep in those eyes lurks a predatory gaze, ready to pounce. The black cat sitting on the opposite balcony keeps turning its head to look at Shekhar. He averts his gaze. Kakali is staring at him intently. At his face. As if trying to understand something.
: What kind of detail?
: Well, like this, I mean...
: What kind, tell me!
: Just this, you know!
: Meaning?
Looking at her face, Shekhar bursts into laughter.
: I can't tell you that.
: Why can't you tell me?
: Well, in that portion with Manish and Pranita, they go out of Calcutta on a scooter and get caught in the rain. Finally they're forced to spend the night in a dak bungalow.
: Yes, that's how it was originally. So what?
: Kalobabu wants an addition. I mean, they're unmarried, young man and woman. A secluded dak bungalow, rain, no electricity, just a hurricane lamp flickering dimly, and in that setting they get a bit more close...
Leaving the sentence incomplete, Shekhar turns his eyes away from Kakali's face. He fumbles under the pillow and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
He lights another one. Kakali has no trouble understanding his hint.
: I understand the situation. So what do you want me to do?
Kakali throws the manuscript bundle in front of Shekhar and finishes her words slowly.
: I'll have to change the writing quite a bit. Besides, Kalobabu has given some other guidelines too.
: What kind?
Kakali speaks the words as if mechanically. Taking a drag on his cigarette, Shekhar continues.
: He wants me to make Manish the leader of a leftist labor organization. Being chased by police, he enters a red-light area. Finally, in the room of a prostitute named Pranita...
Kakali says nothing. Slowly she gets up and goes to stand by the window. The loose bun touching the slightly exposed curved part of her fair back trembles in the fan's breeze.
: What's in it for him?
: There's an election coming up. Apparently secret orders have come to take any measures against the leftists.
: So that's why such guidelines for this kind of writing!
Kakali says without turning her face from the window. Her sharp sarcasm hits Shekhar's eyes and face like a glob of spit.
: What do I care, tell me! I'm only concerned about getting paid.
: How much will Kalobabu pay?
Standing with her back to the window, facing Shekhar, Kakali hurls the words at him.
: He said about twelve hundred.
: That much! If your Kalobabu wanted to buy me, what price would you quote?
Kakali's words slap Shekhar around wildly. In an instant he freezes like a lightning-struck palm tree, burning. Another train thunders past, shaking the housing. A gust of wind brings the suffocating smell of the tannery to his nostrils.
The caged parrot flaps its wings. The cat is approaching. The iron cage sways back and forth.
At two o'clock sharp, Shekhar set out. In his portfolio bag, the manuscript was inside a thick envelope. Kakali's words kept pricking like a thorn. Constantly! The girl was far too sentimental. Yet it was with this same Kakali's boundless enthusiasm that he had first picked up the pen. She was the first reader of his writing, and had corrected many of his mistakes too. She had become so disturbed over this trivial incident. When Kakali said those words, he hadn't dared to look at her face. Somehow he had felt afraid of her.
Lost in these thoughts, Shekhar had boarded the Alipore-Salt Lake mini. As soon as the road curved in front of Nilratan, he quickly got off. Then, swimming through the dense crowd under the flyover, he eventually reached the ground floor of Kalo Sarkar's publishing house. Crossing the counter and climbing to the second floor, he heard the tinkling laughter of a feminine voice. Hesitating slightly, he came and stood in front of the heavy curtained room. Parting the curtain a bit, he peered inside. Like meat displayed at an open market butcher's shop, there was a skeletal woman in disgustingly revealing clothes. Shekhar should think of her not as a woman but as a girl. She was sitting on the armrest of Kalo's chair.
Cashews on the plate in front. One of Kalo's hands was playing around her waist flesh. He was flirting with the girl. The smell of strong perfume had spread throughout the room. Probably the scent was coming from that girl's body. Without any preamble, Shekhar entered the room. Even seeing him, there was no reaction from them. The shameless girl remained sitting on the armrest. Seeing Shekhar, Kalo sat up straight.
: Did you bring it?
: Yes.
Opening the portfolio chain and extending the envelope toward Kalo, Shekhar said. Almost snatching the envelope open, Kalo bent over it. Shekhar stared at his dark, flat face, trying to gauge his reaction. The girl was looking at him disgustingly from the corner of her eye.
: What have you done, sir, tell me? Damn!
Kalo wraps up the entire bundle and pushes it toward Shekhar.
: Nothing happened. What I said that day didn't sit well with you, Shekharbabu? Eh?
Kalo chews his words as he speaks them.
A strange restlessness had been building inside Shekhar all this while. He can't stay still any longer. Kakli's face keeps floating up before him—two eyes brimming with silent reproach, guarded by dark curls. Everything seems to get muddled somehow. His body recoils in disgust.
: What exactly have you gained, tell me? How much more will you dirty up the writing?
Shekhar quickly crumples the bundle and stuffs it into his bag. Then he hurries out. As he descends the stairs, he can hear the ugly, continuous laughter of that boy and Kalo Sarkar.
Out on the street, Shekhar takes a lungful of air. His face is dark; evening is falling over the book quarter. Walking along, he feels the crumpled stack of papers shifting around inside his bag. He stops abruptly. Takes it out of the bag. Looks around once. Then steps back a few paces and hurls the newly added pages into the darkness of an open manhole he'd just passed. At that moment his entire body feels light as a feather. He turns his wrist to check his watch. Half past six. That means Kakli must have reached Anik's campaign rally at Sealdah by now. Taking long strides, Shekhar crosses the tramline and walks toward Sealdah.