That day Mr. Chakraborty settled with his assistant, sitting on the sofa, that they would leave for Cox's Bazar on the third. After their discussion ended, he got up to deliver the news to all the artists he planned to take along.
His full name is Amiya Chakraborty. One could say that both the educated and uneducated people of the country know him by this name. Not only do they know him, but the intellectual circles of the country are now unanimous in their praise of every film directed by Amiya Chakraborty. His reputation has spread abroad as well. Amiya Chakraborty—film director.
These days he's making a new film. He's named it 'Prajapati'. Ninety percent of the film's shooting is happening outdoors. To capture a particular scene from the story, he's chosen Cox's Bazar as his location. The scene goes like this: village people are dying of starvation in hard times. And their numbers are so great that there aren't enough people left alive to bury them. Dogs are devouring some of the corpses. Some bodies lie scattered on the seashore. The tide comes and carries these dead bodies away, far, far into the distance.
Chakraborty arrived at the Cox's Bazar rest house with his team. Among those who came with him are popular actress Shubhra Sen (currently playing the central character in 'Prajapati'), and Promila Devi. Promila Devi is older than Chakraborty. She's been working in the film industry for many years. She too was once a very famous leading lady. Now she's aged, playing mother and grandmother roles. Often, between conversations, she laughs and says, "Once upon a time when I..."—meaning, reminiscing about those old days of the past.
On the fifth, Chakraborty instructed everyone in the team that tomorrow they would shoot on the seashore. And tomorrow's scene would be: starving people lying dead on the beach. The tide comes and carries away these corpses, floating them far, far into the distance.
The next day everyone sat ready, waiting for the tide. Work would begin as soon as the tide came in. Chakraborty sat beside the camera with a grave expression, head bowed. The expensive cigarette in his hand was burning to ash. Some of the artists were passing time with casual conversation. Their soft murmur was disappearing with the light touch of the breeze. In the middle of their talk, Promila Devi, as was her habit, began speaking of her old days. And she began in that familiar way of hers—once upon a time when I...
Then—I was acting for the first time then. In small roles. How old could I have been! Say, fifteen or sixteen. We lived in Nabab Ganj then. "We" meaning mother, myself, and a distant relative of ours.
One day that relative came and told mother, "The college boys are putting on a play together. They want Promila to act in it." Mother thought it over and said, "What sort of payment will they give?" He said, "The boys don't have much money. But they're willing to pay twenty rupees."
Saying this, Promila Devi burst into hearty laughter for a while. Eventually stopping her laughter, she began to speak again. Twenty rupees was quite good money in those days. I heard from my mother that for her first performance in life, she received a total payment of just one five-rupee note. Now, well... never mind that.
I agreed to act in that college play. The college was right next to our house. And the character they gave me in that play was the role of a courtesan. I acted very well in it. One could say that it was through acting in that play that my name spread everywhere. While acting in that play, I met a boy. His name was Mrinal. He was studying in the BA class at college. He was very handsome. Elongated eyes. Just above them, thick dark eyebrows. His fair forehead was broad. The dry hair on his head was always disheveled. Even a little breeze would toss it about and make it fall across his forehead. The look in his eyes made him seem so simple, so innocent.
Mrinal played the hero's role opposite me. He had never acted in a play before. So there was quite a bit of stiffness in his gestures and speech, as if he couldn't quite relax. I liked the boy very much. For some reason he drew me like some invisible force. On the shores of my youth-filled heart, his image, thoughts of him would rise in waves again and again. I helped him wholeheartedly to become more relaxed. I would even take it upon myself, after rehearsals ended, to take him to the park or by the lake. We would talk so much, tell so many stories. And I would watch how much more at ease he had become.
Actually, I too enjoyed talking with him, listening to what he had to say. In short, I had fallen in love with him. He too was young. His body's blood also ran with warm currents then. Gradually, in the fierce heat of both our youths, we drew close to each other. Mrinal took my hand and confessed, "Promila, I love you." I answered with that ancient phrase of womankind: "Promise me you'll never leave me!"
In time, the performance of the play was completed on the appointed day. Still, Mrinal and I met every day. But one thing Mrinal couldn't hide from my eyes. I would see that as long as Mrinal stayed with me, he would either keep looking around cautiously, or would startle at any sound from behind. One day I asked him, "Tell me Mrinal, why do you keep startling like that?" He just smiled and said in an indistinct voice, "Do I?" I remained sullen. Mrinal understood that I was hurt. To appease me, he finally agreed to tell me why he startled like that. Hearing it, I was stunned.
Promila Devi stopped talking and stared at everyone with a fixed gaze. In that look, her stunned expression seemed clearly visible, even after all these years. With makeup on her face, and this speechless, amazed stare, it seemed as if Promila Devi was acting. But the next moment, addressing Shubhra Sen, she began the rest of the story in a simple, natural manner.
You know what Mrinal said? He said somehow our love affair had reached his parents' ears. So he was being very careful, making sure he wouldn't be caught in front of any of them.
Promila Devi paused again and after a while, making her voice heavy with thought, said: Actually, Mrinal had fallen in love with me, but couldn't love me deeply. He always tried to keep our love affair secret. As if our relationship was somehow illicit. As if he'd face condemnation if people found out. Still, I loved him with all my heart and soul. I dreamed about him.
Days were passing like this. Suddenly one day I learned from one of his friends that he was going abroad for higher studies. When I met him the next day, he himself brought it up first, saying, "I've received a scholarship, Promila! I have to go to England on the fifteenth of next month. I'll get a degree and come back in two or three years." I placed my head between his knees and remained silent. Mrinal ran his hand through my dry hair and spoke some words like consolation, none of which entered my ears.
Where we were sitting then, there was a eucalyptus tree. From one of its branches, sensing the approaching evening, a crow cawed in broken notes and flew away. Then when darkness fell, neither of us could see the other's face clearly. So perhaps Mrinal couldn't understand how much my entire being had grown pale with silent pain that day. Each limb of my body seemed to be growing slack, separating from my flesh.
Promila Devi was speaking these words so rapidly, it seemed as if she was burning with anguish. She continued...
Finally the fifteenth arrived. Wednesday. Mrinal was to leave on the eleven-thirty night flight. I lied to mother: I had an invitation to a friend's house, I'd be late coming back. I came and sat at the airport in the evening. Time seemed to have broken its knees, so it was limping along. Each minute felt longer than an entire age. At exactly nine-fifteen, Mrinal got out of a car with his parents and many other people. He had seen me first thing, but pretended not to. And he kept his distance. Some kind of anxiety had appeared on his face and in his eyes. I understood that he wanted to avoid me. Seeing his behavior, I felt pity for him. I didn't go near either.
The day before, Mrinal had even forbidden me to come to the airport. When I asked why, he said, "Mother and father will all be there. Even if you come, we won't be able to say two words."
The truth is, in society we're like illegal weapons. People can mess around with us in secret, use us to satisfy their desires, but keeping an open relationship with us—if you're caught, it's straight to jail! We can only be kept as options, never made priorities.
Then Promila Devi wiped her tears with the edge of her sari, let out a trembling breath, and said, "Mrinal said goodbye to everyone one by one and boarded the plane. And when we were seeing her off, a young woman who had come along stood close to her, sobbing her heart out. Mrinal brought her face close to the girl's ear and whispered something—I couldn't make out what. But I heard clearly, as she was saying goodbye, Mrinal told that girl, 'Don't be sad, my dear.' She didn't look at me even once."
But I was watching her with unblinking eyes. Even after she disappeared into the plane, I couldn't turn away. Slowly, when the plane began to move its wings, I stood there transfixed. That sound came roaring into my ears. As if it was flowing effortlessly through the spaces between my ribs, that whooshing noise. The breath in my chest was getting crushed, suffocated. I stood there for who knows how long, dazed with cold anguish—I wasn't even conscious. When I came to my senses, it was half past twelve at night.
Outside the airport, a line of rickshaws and scooters stood waiting. The drivers were calling out, haggling. I got into a rickshaw and sat down. The one in whose shelter and care I had built my entire world—I was nothing more than a tiny fragment of her world. I felt as if I had fallen ill. This sickness would never heal. Everything looked blurred to my eyes. Along the deserted road, a dog or two walked by with lazy steps. And those empty spaces where traffic policemen usually stood seemed to gaze up at the infinite sky with vacant eyes, lost in thought.
Just then, Mr. Chakraborty suddenly shouted, "Everyone get ready! Look there—the tide is coming in!" And he went and stood beside the camera.