Scent of the Past

By Sudipta Mukherjee

"Intensely written, Scent Of The Past, unfolds a resonant story of two pairs of lovers, who meet after decades of estrangement. Opening in 1977 Calcutta, the story snakes its way through Snoqualmie, America to Heathrow to the breathtakingly beautiful hills of Shimla, India.

Life and the myriad complexities that come with it tak

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9789361723193

Book preview

Part - I

Chapter 1

September, 1976

A

young woman in her mid-twenties, clad in a Murshidabad silk saree, enters a chamber, on Bondel Road. The month is September, and the year, 1976. Monsoon has barely passed and autumn is yet to settle in. Not altogether chilly. But her head is covered with a scarf and shoulders draped with a rusty brown shawl. Her movements, swift and furtive.

There is a board, bordered with glowing tube lights that rests like a dazzling crown atop a ground glass door. The innards, luminously undecipherable. She looks up and holds her gaze on the board, without lifting her head. A quick pause. Checking her immediate surroundings with a swift turn of her scarfed head, she pushes the door open and slices through it, swiftly shutting it behind her back. The door makes an eerie sound before fitting itself into the solid wood frame.

She is a solo visitor this evening. And that’s no coincidence. She has purposely booked her visit today, keeping in mind the occasion a majority of the Calcuttan’s celebrate and not make visits to physicians.  Today is MahaSosthi; the first day of Durga Puja.

The Clinic is narrowly spaced but elegantly furnished. The walls are coated with a gloss finish of butter scotch. Pictures promoting pediatric brands dot them neatly. A subtle smell of sandalwood permeates throughout the space, like an undertone welcome.

You must be Ms. Rosy Pyne? the visitor says to a lady sitting atop a robust chair placed in the corner.

Rosy nods with a smile. Her smile, soft but plastic.

That way. Rosy points with her index finger, after scribbling down a few details on a piece of paper. Doctor is waiting for you.

Please take your seat, Dr. Arundhuti Roy greets her.

Dr. Roy is a gynecologist of moderate fame. She is a visiting physician of Belleview Clinic and Woodlands Hospital. She owns a private nursing home on Hazra Road in partnership with her cardiologist husband, Dr. Shounak Gupta. This is her private clinic where she sees patients five days a week, 6 to 8 pm. Arundhuti is pink complexioned with an oval face and arched brows. Her thin lips are coated with a pink lip color that matches with her temple bordered South Indian saree.

Ina Mitra, she reads out from the paper that now rests on her glass topped sandalwood desk.

Ina looks here and there for a while, in a fidgety demeanour, before settling her eyes on the young doctor.

She is unsure to begin…

Yes? The doctor knocks. Her delicately plucked brows arches over her glasses creating a few horizontal lines on her shiny forehead.   

I have a problem, Ina starts. Her eyeballs roll down on the table at once, as if pulled by gravity. Somehow, she finds it difficult to look into her eyes. Her voice refuses to surface.

Yes, Arundhuti says, repeats.

I am not having my periods, Ina says, raising her eyes. Both her ears glow red, a puff of embarrassment blushes her face. Her voice wanes, blurring out the last word.

Since when?

Last month.

Is this the first time?

Ina nods.

Please lie down on that table, Arundhuti says pointing to a slender semi reclining bed.

Although the thought terrifies her, makes her uncomfortable, Ina lies down on her back. Like a toy operated by a remote. Her tan sandals remain near the chair. She licks her lips, breaths in and out restlessly, audibly, when the doctor removes the saree from her midriff and touches her belly. The doctor’s palm feels soft and cold against her warm skin. A shiver dissipates. Another spasm of anxiety. More than the touch, the feeling makes Ina uncomfortable. Quite uneasy. Quietly uneasy.

For some time, the procedure continues, as Arundhuti feels Ina’s belly. After a while, the stethoscope replaces her hand. The metallic touch feels even more severe. Even more uncomforting.

Ina’s unease continues.

Is this your first child? Arundhuti inquires, returning to her seat.

Ina’s vision blurs. A drop rolls down her left cheek. This is what she has feared.

Yes, but I am not married, she blabbers.

Who is the father?

A friend, confirms Ina. We got engaged last month.

He knows?

Ina shakes her head absentmindedly.

Where is he?

In the UK, studying medicine.

But he deserves to know, you realize that? Arundhuti says with a gush of anger.

He broke our engagement, Ina says.

And your parents?

My mother is no more.

Arundhuti sighs.

Now what? She rests her elbows on the table, and removes her glasses. Placing her fingers on her closed eyes, she rubs them gently.

But Ina sees none; her head held low. A soft sob rises from her side of the table.

This is not the first time Arundhuti is put into this. Women, both unmarried and at times married, had begged her to abort their proof of love. Unmarried ones, she does it like a surgery. With little emotion. Like the removal of a tumour, or an appendix. But married ones? She shakes her head, in disgust, in her own witlessness in understanding them.

A child is a blessing. Are you sure you want this? Arundhuti is tempted to say.

Without asking, Arundhuti knows the rest. The vague plan in Ina’s head that she is somehow unsure of executing. The role she is expected to play, against a bundle of cash. She gets up from her chair, and sits next to Ina. Cupping her hand, she says, You got to be strong Ina.

Ina looks up. She doesn’t know how to respond. What to say. A benumbing passivity has taken charge of her face, her mind.

I don’t want this child, she hears in her own voice.

Ina breaks into tears. Covering her face in the cup of her palm, she sobs. I don’t know… I can’t think, she repeats, repents, in between her sniffles.

Rosy, how many appointments remaining? Arundhuti asks, raising her voice.

Rosy rushes in, None madam.

Close down for today, she orders.

I hope you don’t have any urgent work now? Come with me. My driver will drop you home, Arundhuti says, confidently.

Both the ladies leave the chamber and climb up a sky-blue Contessa. A uniformed chauffeur opens and shuts the back doors before placing himself behind the wheels and turning the ignition on.

Rosy wears a polite smile as she sees them off. A quick-witted smile that leaves little room for doubts.

The incident courses through her with little surprise, although she was sitting outside the chamber, although she has heard little. This is a kind of re-enactment that Rosy has grown used to, stretched across the tenure of her career. A re-enactment with little outcome of course.

An unwed mother, small talks, unheard, their gliding away in Arundhuti’s car…unexplained.

The demand for an end. Or is this the beginning?

Chapter 2

"W

ill be late tonight, Baba," Ina whispers into the telephone, placed next to the cocoa-colored sofa set she is seated on.

The cream wall at her back boasts a painting, autographed by the artist.

‘Ray’ it says, in cursive strokes, in black, on the left corner, towards the frame.

A woman is standing inside a stone cell; her hands clasping the dark metal rods. Her eyes are closed. Two streams of tears roll down her sunken cheeks. A dim yellow lights up her hollow face, as if a candle is glowing in the front.

Ina presses the receiver close to her left ears, her head slightly tilted.

At a friend’s place. She will drop me home, she says next, before placing the receiver on the table.

She eyes the apartment in silence. A luxurious living space on the 10th floor of Monalisa Building, in Camac Street; spectacularly designed, decorated and maintained.

Rich silky drapes curtain the window, the auburn carpet below her feet, soft as wool, the porcelain flower vases spilling riots of colour, a sweet fragrance pervading the entire space. A solid wood bookcase facades the front wall, pregnant with collection, dustless, a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling, like a bunch of luminous grapes, an expensively carved walnut wood partition separates the hall from the dining area. Ina admires them in silent awe, taking in the finery of the details.

And yet, hidden somewhere in the expressed lavishness, she sniffs something, oddly vacant. A hollow, a soul less ness embedded inexplicably within the luxury. Almost like a secret. Unexpressed. Repressed.

Coffee, Arundhuti says, taking the seat next to her, on her right, as she places two mugs on the glass center table. Aroma of the coffee brushes away the flowery fragrance.

Your husband isn’t around? Ina inquires.

He will be joining us soon, Arundhuti replies.

And children?

I don’t have any, she says, in a slow tone. As if she is talking not to Ina but to herself.

Ina knows immediately, why she is where she is. Although she keeps mum for a while, a part of her is already aware of Arundhuti’s intentions in bringing her home. With that knowledge, while intuitive, dawns knowledge of a different kind. She knows at once what is that’s lacking in the house, in those precise details with which the house is clad, draped, stacked from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. What is that invisible factor, suspended in its cold silence. Not saying a word, yet, saying volumes.

Ina holds her breath, anxiety jumping in her temples, like a ping pong. Her feet turn cold.  She toys with the loose end of her saree, repeatedly, nervously, as if she’s asked to write a Sanskrit test; a subject she never could muster. She looks at this woman, Arundhuti, who is now half way through her speech, still unsure how to start; still fearful of the outcome. Her eyes reap tears in volumes. Pain threatens to rise from somewhere within. Ina uses her entire strength to curb it.

Because Ina does not interrupt, Arundhuti goes on.

Terminated pregnancies…many…doctor…a life…this world, Ina hears in Arundhuti’s voice. Reads through her moving lips.

Again, a blank. A thoughtlessness in spite of speech.

Words, words and more words flow like a stream. And yet, at the end only darkness prevails. A bottomless chasm. A vacuum swallowing up what has been said. And the meaning!

Ina knows where Arundhuti is marching into, and yet she remains riveted to her seat. More shocked than confused. Infused with anger, in spite of her blank look. She isn't listening to her either. She is just there, beside her, but again miles away from her. Too far to hear her whining voice. Too isolated to be a pair.

The coffee on the table grows old and cold.

Give this child to me… Arundhuti says and stops.

Ina is suddenly ushered back to her senses. Wide awake. Alert with outstretched eyelids.

Arundhuti’s tone is pleading, enough to melt a soul, but Ina is angry.  A blush of infuriation has already made its way, observable, blatant. 

This is not the idea with which she had walked inside the chamber today. Discarding her unwed child, however devastating, was her only choice. But mothering it and then giving it to another woman, in charity, is unthinkable. An abstract proposition beyond her imagination.

This is impossible, she says, rigidly, rising on her feet at once. A few brisk strides and she is standing next to the door.

Would you like to lose your first child? This is the only way Ina, you can leave the child and still be with it, Arundhuti blurts. Think about it!

Ina does not reply. And thinking is impossible now. She has hardly placed her hand on the brass door knob, when Arundhuti catches her from behind.

Please, listen to me, she begs. Your one yes, will make my life. I will take care of everything. I promise.

Ina walks away, leaving the door ajar, leaving her opinion unsaid, leaving Arundhuti in tears. She doesn’t even turn to steal a glimpse of her. Arundhuti’s voice fades away with added distance, until it is no longer heard.

Ina walks down, repenting, regretting.

Crazy woman! she sighs.

She doesn’t even realize that in haste she has missed the elevator, and came down all the ten floors on her foot. 

Reaching the street, she slices through it, alone and sad, both her feet unable to maintain a steady balance. She feels dizzy, her throat parched as if she has swallowed chalk. Her empty stomach twists and turns below her tightly pressed petticoat. An aggressive pant drums in her chest.

It is when she crosses St. Lawrence School that Ina feels a shiver passing through her body like one sharp streak of lightning cutting her timid flesh. She realizes that she has left behind her shawl in Arundhuti’s living room. Her shawl and her scarf. Both.

Conscious, but also dazed, she retraces her steps. It is a walk through a ground glass tunnel; the outside world is a slowly moving blur, muted. Ina is barely aware. Her feet numb with weight, and yet she is moving, as if on auto pilot. Her only awareness is of a solid cramp in her stomach, and her calf muscles tightening. Her unguarded torso exposed to the early Autumnal chill.

After what seems to be an interminable time, Ina discovers herself standing at the door, she had left a while ago; opened-unanswered-unreconciled.

The door is unlocked.

A wail welcomes her now, punctuated regularly, irregularly by a male voice. A soft hush, definite but inaudible.

Ina stands there for a while, unable to make up her mind. The wails rising and falling like waves of a sea. The silence in between, singing in symphony.

The house has a secret preserved, like a tombstone engraving the hollow remains of a life. And she is standing on the brink of it. The periphery of that hollow.

Her right-hand rests on the hatch. The tube light above her blinks restlessly, with a dysfunctional eye. Somebody pulls the elevator below. A stir on the 9th floor. Or perhaps, the 8th. Ina is suddenly conscious of her surroundings. Seen and unseen. Even the child inside her, barely a child now, feels solid, heavy. Worthy.

The doorbell does not ring. She pushes in. The door is open anyway.

Excuse me, Ina says, standing at the end of the long corridor, leading to the hall. It is now that the portrait captures her eyes. She looks at the barred woman, not as much to admire the artistry, as to avoid her eyes.

The couple unhooks at once. Arundhuti’s eyes are swollen with tears. Her face red, as a ripened cherry, Ina observes. The man with her is Dr. Gupta, her husband, she presumes without being prompted. Irregular blotches of wetness cover the material of his shirt, on his chest. He has a pair of sparkling eyes.

Hello, he greets Ina, looking up at her, acknowledging her presence.

My shawl, Ina says pointing the bundle on the sofa.

Her two eyes are hollow. Like a pair of ponds dug out clean, standing too long in the sun.

She is aware of Arundhuti’s presence in the room, solid and immobile like a boulder, with gaze fixed on the floor. Ina refuses to speak to her.

Arundhuti, still as a mouse, does not look up. Embarrassed, as she is, to face Ina. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, there is something else that stoops her.

Oh please… Dr. Gupta extends the bundle to Ina, rising on his feet.

Taking the shawl from his hand, Ina drifts away. As if she is in a terrible hurry to reach somewhere. Too busy to look up, to say thank you.

It’s quite late, should I drop you home? Dr. Gupta’s voice reaches Ina, before she crosses the corridor.

I can manage.

Neither rude, nor soft. A composed reply, an escape.  Her back facing the couple.

Allow me… Please, the doctor begs, as he rushes behind her, leaving Arundhuti on the couch.

The elevator descends. In silence but also with sound. Mechanical squeaks of its myriad parts make the inner stillness even more pronounced.

One box, two people, three lives, ten floors… A journey from unknown to known.

Ina feels Dr. Gupta’s presence close to her body. Sober, but also imposing. The tall build, the slim frame, the clear complexion, the small crescent shaped birthmark on his left cheek, the shiny forehead, his spectacles resting at the bottom of it. She is aware of every single detail. Although her eyes are stubbornly hooked on the polish of his black shoes, she breathes in his musky perfume, mixed with the smell of his flesh.

Come, he says, as he opens the front door of his car, allowing Ina a comfortable seating.

New Alipore, Ina says.

Gupta starts the ignition.

Again, the proximity. Again, the awareness. A cube of silence rolls through the busy streets of Calcutta. Silence and stillness. Ina’s body is tensely held.

Be comfortable, ma’am, Gupta says after a while, sensing her lack of ease.

Ina does not reply. She appears as if, given a chance, she will jump out of the car, any moment.

Please don’t misunderstand her, he starts again, It’s the sorrow inside that sometimes speaks, and not she.

Ina turns her face towards him. She keeps looking at his face, absorbing his words. Also taking in his soothing profile. The richness of his beauty.

He looks into her eyes. The expression on her face is not of recognition, but the lack of it. Absence of something, something that he mistakes to be apathy, indifference.

There isn’t a thing that Arun cannot do. Only that she cannot become a mother. Polycystic ovarian syndrome. I am sure you have heard it.

Ina nods. I am sorry to hear that, she interrupts.

That’s okay. I understand your anger. You know the fun is, Arun does too. But there are times when…

I am sorry for my rudeness.

Please don’t be. I know, her proposal is difficult, Gupta consoles.

On the left, there, Ina says, pointing to a lemon-yellow house.

Gupta opens the door and helps Ina out. Good night, he adds.

Thank you, Ina replies, turning her head one last time.

A half smile on her lips is what he sees last before turning his car towards Tollygunge Circular Road.

By the time he returns home, Arundhuti is fast asleep. Curled up on the couch she has dozed off. He drapes her with a blanket, and sits next to her. A glass of imported scotch accompanies him today, tonight.

There is an image too: a half smile on a pair of thin lips flicks in his mind, every now and then. Unwarned, but not altogether unwelcome.

The thought is irrational. The impulse, absurd. He resists the desire. Pushing it off his mind remembering some of his critical patients. But it arrives, after a while. Again. And yet again. It keeps returning like a stubborn memory, and he feels powerless to restrain.

Chapter 3

"W

here were you? He called three times," Col. Mitra says, sitting at the end of a marble topped dining table.

Banani, serve us dinner, Mitra orders, raising his voice. His voice is deep, and pitch commanding.

Sudhanshu Mitra is a man of colossal height and voluminous girth, an imposing presence. He was a Colonel from the Indian Army, now retired. His once rosy complexion has been bronzed by decades of rigorous military service. His face resembles a robust plum with a sharp, symmetrical nose.

I am not hungry, Ina says, taking a place on the couch, a little removed from her father’s line of sight.

I was waiting for you. You had food outside? he says, knitting his bushy brows.

Ina shakes her head. Bring me a glass of water, Banani, she says, ignoring her father’s question.

You look so pale. Aren’t you well? he asks, turning towards her.

Banani places two dishes on the table, loaded with luchis and curried baby potatoes.

Come Ma, food is getting cold, he pleads, as he folds the right sleeves of his milky white, crisp Punjabi.

Ina sits next to him, reluctantly.

Did he say anything? she says.

Who?

Rangan.

No, he wanted to talk to you. Is everything okay? he pesters.

Ina nods, gently. Her eyes are fixed on her un-nibbled plate. The smell of food feels repulsive.

Who is this friend you went to meet today? Col. Mitra inquires, in a casual tone. Somebody I know?

From Shimla, she says —lies— avoiding his eyes.

A pause. A break in the conversation.

Once silence arrives, it permeates like a puff of perfume, and lingers like a note of sitar. Before long, it grows uncomfortable.

An overzealous microphone from a nearby pandal starts singing. A sea of noises gushes inside.

The daughter sits with her hands tucked; only looking at the food, as if she is eating with her eyes. Her plate, touched, untouched. The father digs into his plate, eating like a fifteen-year-old, only pausing for refill.

With Ina around, the burden of time invariably vanishes. Like absence of darkness in the presence of light. Her stories, her sketches, her thoughts, her moods, her whims structure their lives. Often permeating through the rigid boundaries, to flood the space between them. So much so that the days Ina spends in Calcutta, Col. Mitra cancels all his meetings, friendly or otherwise. His impromptu gatherings at the Ordnance Club, his honorary activities at the Missionaries.

Ina had been a motherless child, but never an unhappy one. She always created her own happiness. But now she is unhappy. Grouchy and swollen, sullen. Like rain bearing monsoon clouds.

Are you okay? he knocks again. Her smile-robbed face pricks his eyes.

Not feeling well, Baba, she says, pulling herself from the chair.

Should I call Dr. Nandi?

No need. Just a little tired. Ina says. Calling it a day. She turns her back and proceeds towards the staircase. Not that Ina is too tired to give her father company. Something she had done unflinchingly so far. But that, she is too scared to. Her father’s surprised look and unintentional queries are a threat now.  Ina doesn’t admire herself escaping from his company, but she does it anyway.

Whatever makes you comfortable… Mitra adds.

Upstairs, Ina falls flat on her stomach, on the bed. Digging her face in her palm she breaks into tears. Silently at first, then audibly.  Lying inside a giant box, with closed windows and barred doors, she takes refuge in its blackness, in its momentary comfort, its unquestioning silence. Outside her window, the loudspeaker hums away, one song after the other.

Isolation is consolation, and loneliness, a dependable companion. The silence of