Recap: Ronny continues to struggle with the Shomoy script as the deadline draws near when he realises that all the female characters that he has drawn resemble Lata Ghosh! Aaduri, out for lunch with Hem, gets philosophical after Lata quotes Wendy Cope in her message.

My dearest Pixie,

I was delighted to receive your email, with all your news. It would have been great to have you at Molly’s wedding, but I do understand how busy Bappa and Nisha are in the new place, with the new job, and you, at your strict new school. But as you said, I am going to visit you soon enough, and yes, of course, I shall get you a bunch of books that should see you through to the new year and, hopefully, longer.

Calcutta has kept me super busy. There was lots of wedding-y stuff to deal with, for one. Our old house needed quite a bit of work before we could host Molly’s engagement. I have attached a few pictures here: the courtyard all dressed up, the bride in her controversial red-and-white outfit, and lion pillars with the dancing lights. Then, we had a sangeet yesterday which was quite fun, lots of Bollywood dancing. The wedding, of course, is tomorrow. It’s at a hotel, though, so there isn’t very much for me to do but dress up and chit-chat with people who come and go. I am secretly quite excited about helping open presents. Do you like opening presents? There is always one person whose job is to make a list of who gives what (don’t ask me why though) and I inveigled myself into that role simply because I want to open the gifts with Molly.

Your letter to me, Pixie, was so honest and full of what you were feeling that it is only fair that I too pour (some) truth into mine. It’s been a weird month for me. In the last week, a few people from the past, people I haven’t met in years and years, have suddenly reappeared. Suppose 10 years have passed, and you, Pixie Ghosh, have gone to London for a holiday, and you meet your old friends and teachers. You might wonder then, might you not, what your life would have been like had you not left London at all? That’s how I have been feeling half the time. But it does not make any sense, this feeling. I have always believed that what happens in life is what was meant to happen anyway!

TBH, Josh’s birthday party sounds like great fun. I had always wanted an Enid Blyton-themed birthday party myself, but my mother hadn’t heard of most kinds of Enid Blyton food. Like she’d have made us chicken sandwiches. But that was about it. And when I was growing up in the Eighties, mothers (and aunts and grandmothers) organised birthdays, making everything from scratch, no ordering stuff from outside. So that was that.

I have a feeling that you will get on really well with my Mama and Nimki. (Both of who are constantly badgering me about something or the other!) Yes, Nimki makes nice nimkis — though I don’t know if they’ll beat your grandmother’s — but her fabulous prawn pakoras are the best in the world, and my mother bakes lovely chocolate cakes. Maybe I can bring some for you when I come to Jampot?

I have been writing this letter to you, sitting on a green bench in a little park in our neighbourhood. A beautiful white tabby is curled up next to me. I tried to make friends with her, but she seems grumpy. But I think the grumpiness might be a front because she hasn’t moved away so far and is allowing her tail to tickle my leg as I type this out on my phone. An old friend met me this morning and I asked him to drop me off here. I wanted to gather my thoughts in the sun and write to you (and to my friend Aaduri, who you will meet soon) before returning to my house, where guests will be arriving in droves all day today.

As a young girl, I would come to this park on winter afternoons and hang about, while my cousin Goopy played cricket with his friends. Sometimes they let me play. Usually, I sat on the swing and read a book. When my friend Aaduri came to visit me at home, we would always play badminton and invariably the shuttlecocks would fly far away, disrupting Goopy’s cricket game or the pedestrians outside or the impromptu gathering of birds. So, Aaduri and I spent more time hunting for shuttlecocks than actually playing!

I can see now that a whole team of crows has gathered up ahead, where the swing is, and are busily inspecting something. I have a feeling it might be a dead rat. So I am not venturing that side, even though there are clumps of my favourite pink and white flower there, growing against the wall of the community club. (I say favourite because I cannot, for the life of me, remember its name! Little pink flowers on the vine? Your dad might know the name, ask him. If you pick the flowers and suck the stalks, you’ll get a little shot of nectar. That’s what we used to do before we went home in the evening.)

Give my love to your parents and Posto and Ram Singh and SCONE. Dying to know more about him!

Lots of love

Lata

***

In a way, it was good that Aarjoe had appeared in that ridiculous limousine, thought Lata as she walked up to Ghosh Mansion, clutching her flowers and swinging her bag like a girl. It meant the car couldn’t come right up to the house and Aarjoe hadn’t been able to invite himself inside, in his attempt to further ingratiate himself with Boro Jethu. Also, she had managed to gather her thoughts in peace.

Her life had become a bit of a comedy of manners lately, hadn’t it?

It was half-past 12. Aarjoe had been badgering her to have lunch with him, at some fancy place or other — Calcutta was full of these — but citing the wedding, she had begged off. She wasn’t going to lie to herself. Despite what had happened, despite how the separation and the divorce had crushed her, drilling a hole in her being through which all light drained out daily, she did not feel any bitterness on her tongue, not any more. At one time, she had moved continents just to avoid seeing Aarjoe because the sight of him in those early days of heartbreak, him standing at the grocery store, getting gas, doing something as innocuous as that, opened up her wounds instantly. That would then take weeks to close up again.

And now, here he was. Telling her sentimental things, inviting her for lunch, getting her flowers.

What was she feeling inside? She had wanted to probe, to dig, to tease.

But there was only a blankness inside, a strange kind of calm.

It was decidedly odd.

Lata walked into the lane, at the end of which stood Ghosh Mansion. Up ahead, she saw a taxi stop at the gate. (Even Aarjoe’s stupid limo would have squeezed in, she now supposed, had they taken the other route, but she was glad he hadn’t pressed.)

A man got out of the cab, in a pair of blue jeans and a white sweatshirt, and effortlessly swung a suitcase out. As he paid the driver, Lata suddenly felt her pulse racing.

Is that him?

But he has not come to Calcutta in 12 years!

Lata streamed ahead, grateful again for the flats, the flowers shedding petals on the street behind her to leave a fragrant trail. She raised her voice, “Goopy! Goopy, is that really you?”

The man looked up and flashed his lopsided grin.

“Munni, I never could induce you to call me Dada now, could I?”

***

Soon the news spread like wildfire in Ghosh Mansion, “Munni has brought Goopy dada home, Munni has brought Goopy dada home.”

As the only son of the patriarch, Goopy was seen by the staff and the remaining few tenants as the true heir to Ghosh Mansion. His long absence had engendered much muttering.

Lata had had nothing to do with Goopy’s return. But she soaked in the credit nonetheless as she led the way to Boro Jethu’s quarters, stopping often to say hello, pointing out the wedding lights and the rain damage, all in one breath. Raju grabbed Goopy’s suitcase, Nimki rushed to make tea.

Upstairs, though, it was all anti-climactic.

Boro Jethi had gone to the beauty parlour with Manjulika and Kakimoni. Boro Jethu had accompanied Kaku to The Oberoi for some last-moment menu adjustments. And Molly, Molly was still sleeping.

Raju kept the suitcase in his old bedroom, and the cousins followed. Raju opened the windows and the door. They sat down on Goopy’s carved single bed, facing the posters of his youth.

“You look lovely, Munni,” Goopy finally said.

Lata felt herself tearing up. “Did you come alone?” she asked him.

(To be continued)