From where to where -- a short story

Illusutration is for representational purposes only 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Shampa Banerjee wore a shimmering red chiffon saree. Her smooth, long black hair fell like a waterfall down her back. She had loaded up the jewellery: a gold nose ring, a gold necklace and gold earrings. She wanted her husband to be proud of her. They mingled with other guests in the hall of a five-star hotel in Bhubaneswar.

Shampa had married a top executive working at a mining company.

It was a love marriage. While she is a Bengali Brahmin, her husband is a Malayali Christian. They met at the company office, where she worked as a secretary. She knew it was an instant karmic connection. She was on the plump side, while he was slim and tall, with a goatee and a bald head. He was coming off a divorce from an Anglo-Indian woman, whom he had met in Kolkata. There were no children.

Shampa’s family opposed the alliance. For one, Francis Xavier was already in his forties. Second, they belonged to different religions. But she did not pay heed. Francis had an excellent education. He had a sterling reputation in the company and was moving upwards in his career.

They had a registered marriage. To avoid office gossip, Shampa quit her job and joined another company as a secretary. Both of them did not want children. They wanted to be with each other without distractions. Their sexual chemistry was intense and passionate.

They took time out for holidays whenever they had the chance. They saw movies and attended parties. It was a beautiful time. Shampa could not have been happier. In bed, his musky body odour intoxicated her. It seemed to activate her pheromones. She loved to wake up next to him in the morning, one leg placed across his body.

During the office party, Francis was mingling with the other guests. The company was celebrating superb annual profits. Shampa was conversing with the other wives. All of them wore expensive jewellery and sarees, she realised. That is one thing she liked about the company. Salaries were quite high. They also looked after the staff.

Francis sat on a sofa with his colleague, Anirban Datta. They talked about a recent film called ‘Silver Linings Playbook’. Francis had seen it on Netflix. “It’s a romantic comedy with superb acting by Jennifer Lawrence,” said Francis. “She won an Oscar for Best Actress for it.”

Shampa observed Francis from afar. She felt glad to see him happy.

A few moments later, Francis fell silent. Anirban saw his head lolling on his chest. He held Francis by his shoulders and lowered him to the sofa. When another colleague, who saw this, came up, Anirban said, “Call an ambulance.” The company had numbers for ambulances.

People crowded around the sofa. It seemed clear to Shampa that Francis had lost consciousness. ‘How could this happen?’ thought Shampa. ‘Francis was in good health. Low blood pressure must have contributed to the fainting.’

The attendants carried Francis into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. The ambulance set out, its siren blaring, for Apollo Hospital on Sainik School Road.

Anirban and Shampa followed in his car.

Both of them saw nurses wheel Francis into the intensive care unit. They sat outside in plastic chairs placed against the wall.

“Must have fainted,” said Shampa.

Anirban nodded.

Unfortunately, that was not true. The doctor, in his white overcoat, came out quickly and shattered Shampa’s life.

Francis had a massive heart attack and died in the ambulance.

Shampa stared at the doctor with her mouth open. She could feel her vision becoming hazy. The blood seemed to race through her head like a tsunami. Shampa grabbed the top of the chair and steadied herself. Anirban immediately put a protective arm around her.

“Unbelievable,” he heard Anirban whisper under his breath.

The next few days slipped by in a blur for Shampa. She had to make funeral arrangements. Francis’s two brothers insisted on a church service and burial. There was no will. The brothers disputed who would be the heir. Shampa said as the wife she should get the provident fund and other arrears. It became a court case.

Shampa realised it would take a few years before the court settled the case. Her lawyer guaranteed her it would be in her favour. She could not blame Francis for not writing a will because he could not have imagined he would die so soon. Such a short but sweet life. How she loved the man. Nine years went past in such a beautiful way.

She had to leave the office bungalow and take lodgings in a cheaper part of town. Her friends in the company drifted away. Shampa could no longer afford the lifestyle they had. She had no option but to opt out. She knew living on her salary would be tough. Shampa had been so used to a high-flying life. She felt she had to move to a city where there were more opportunities. And also, to avoid social humiliation. If she met those wives again, at some mall or the other, they might ignore her. That would be a painful experience.

Shampa had a few college friends who had settled in Delhi. She called them up and asked whether there would be any job opportunities. One of them, Rathi Das, suggested public relations. Shampa felt that would work for her. With her gorgeous looks, she was confident she could charm any man.

Six months after Francis passed away, Shampa moved to Delhi. She took a flat on a terrace for rent in Mayur Vihar. In Delhi parlance, she came to know they call it a barsati. It did not matter, as she did not have to maintain appearances.

Rathi gave Shampa a PR contact. Shampa called him up. He was also a Banerjee like her, called Prasun. He agreed to meet her at a cafe in Connaught Place after work.

Shampa wore a white kurta, blue jeans and Kolhapuri slippers. She had removed all her gold jewellery. She had heard Delhi was unsafe for women. In her Bhubaneswar days, she travelled in an air-conditioned car. But now it was auto-rickshaws, buses and the metro. ‘That’s life,’ she thought. ‘Nobody can avoid hardships forever.’

At night, she missed Francis very much. Previously, she would sleep pressed against him. Now, she only had a pillow to hug. But she knew crying and moaning over a past that no longer existed was a waste of time. She had to survive, somehow. Since she had angered her family with her marriage, she did not want to turn to them for help. Shampa was sure they would have had an ‘I told you so’ look on their faces.

‘F..k them,’ she thought.

She tied her hair up in a topknot. Shampa had kept her hair long because Francis liked it so much. She briefly pondered cutting her hair to shoulder length. That would make it so easy to handle. But she remembered what Francis had told her once, “A woman looks so sensual with her long hair.” So, she kept it in memory of Francis.

Shampa took the Blue Line metro to Connaught Place.

Prasun greeted her with a smile. Shampa immediately liked him like a brother. He had a small goatee, a receding hairline, and kind eyes behind black spectacles.

They ordered a burger each. And a coffee.

When they began conversing, Shampa realised Prasun was a copywriter.

“Rathi heard it wrong,” said Prasun.

Shampa smiled as she bit into the burger. She wondered whether she was wasting her time. And she hoped she did not have to pay the bill.

Prasun was direct and honest. “I assume you are in your late-thirties,” he said. “At your age and with your lack of experience, it will be difficult to get an opening. Do you think you have a talent for copywriting?”

Shampa was silent. ‘Do I have a talent for copywriting?’ she thought. ‘I don’t know. Do I have a talent for anything?’

“Did you study English in college?” asked Prasun.

“Yes, from Lady Brabourne College in Kolkata,” said Shampa.

She could see a look of disappointment in Prasun’s eyes, who had also grown up in Kolkata. Shampa knew her college was not in the Top Three.

“Listen Shampa, I will be honest with you,” he said, leaning forward. “I can only offer you freelance opportunities. If you do good work, only then can I try to convince my boss to take you on.”

‘Freelance,’ she thought. ‘This means very little money. How will I survive? And even if I am capable, how long would I have to wait till I impress Prasun?’

She said, “Prasun, I can do it on the side, but I need a regular job.”

He said, “I understand.”

“Can you suggest anything?” she asked.

Prasun looked into the distance.

“PR could be ideal for you,” he said. “I’ll check with some of my friends. In the meantime, I will send you some work on WhatsApp.”

“Okay,” she said.

Graciously, he paid the bill.

They got up and shook hands. Shampa realised Prasun had soft hands, unlike many men who grip your hand as if they want to crush it.

When she reached her flat, she undressed and slipped into a cotton nightgown. She remembered the see-through thigh-high black nighties and lacy lingerie that she wore. The aim was to get Francis excited. Now she wore cotton nighties with the hem a few centimetres above her ankles.

Shampa lay down on the mattress placed on the floor, the back of her head resting on her palms, and stared at the ceiling. It was an unsightly sight. She could see brown patches on the white surface. ‘What were they?’ she wondered. ‘Nobody has painted this place for a long time. Landlords don’t want to spend money on upkeep at all. Greedy guys.’

The noise of the road below seeped in. She could hear horns blowing and people shouting. ‘Everybody is busy except me,’ she thought. Much later, she would realise it was not busyness, but a harsh, exhausting struggle to make ends meet. And to keep their families afloat.

Shampa had been a feminist. Which is why she resisted marriage. But she wasn’t very career-minded either. So, she was in a nowhere situation now. Shampa had married Francis because she had fallen in love. All her feminism flew out of the window at that point. ‘It had been the right decision,’ she thought. ‘Now God had taken Francis away. What can I do?’

She remembered the famous quote by American film director Woody Allen, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.’

‘How true,’ she thought.

The days slipped past. Prasun gave her some contact numbers. She met a few people. They asked for resumes. Shampa sent them through Gmail. But the resume was too thin. Nobody called her back. They did not want to take a risk with an unknown person.

Prasun sent her an image and asked her to write some copy. She did so. He did not respond immediately. When she prodded him on WhatsApp, he said it was okay. Prasun went out of touch. If you have no talent, she realised, they were not interested. She wondered whether she should sleep with somebody to get a job. But Shampa dismissed the idea immediately. It was unethical and it would damage her morally.

All her friends were busy with their children, husbands and careers and trying to balance it all. They had no time for her.

Shampa spent many evenings staring at the ceiling. This was to give a rest to her eyes after she had stared at the mobile screen for a long while. She ordered food from Swiggy and ate absentmindedly.

She was feeling the first signs of desperation. There was not much money left. After that, what? Shampa might have to swallow her ego and make peace with her family. Her parents lived in a two-storey house in New Town in Kolkata. They would reconcile because Francis was dead. So, it would be fine.

Shampa was sure they would make another attempt to get her into an arranged marriage, despite her age. There were so many widowers around. For the first time, Shampa did not reject the idea. She felt it would be better to get into a relationship rather than remain in the solitary existence she was living now.

But, for immediate cash, Shampa would have to ask her elder brother Dipankar for help. He was the CEO of a top-notch tech company in Hyderabad. He could send Rs 50,000 a month for a while. But it could not be forever. Dipankar had a wife and two children. It would be unfair to him.

One Sunday evening, to get out of the claustrophobia of staying cooped up in her flat, Shampa stepped out for a walk. Since it was a holiday, there were not too many pedestrians around. She looked up at the sky. It was a clear blue even though it was the winter month of December. A chilly breeze blew. Shampa had covered herself with a shawl.

From the opposite direction, she saw a tall foreigner. He had a shining bald head and sparkling saffron robes. It struck Shampa how calm he looked. She realised he offered the sense of security that every woman craved.

When he came abreast, Shampa said, “Excuse me, you belong to which order?”

The Swami paused and smiled. Nice, even white teeth. Shampa immediately noticed how blue his eyes were. Right in the middle, there was a black iris. It seemed as if it was a whirlpool and Shampa was drowning in it.

The monk said, “I belong to the Shanti Ashram. Have you read the book, ‘My Spiritual Journey?’”

Shampa shook her head and pressed her lips together.

“Our founder, Bhola Nath, wrote it,” he said.

“Where are you from?” asked Shampa, craning her neck to look at his face.

“Oh, I am from Texas,” he said. “Why don’t you come to the ashram to get a better idea?”

“Where is it?” said Shampa.

“In Noida,” said Swami. “We have satsangs, kirtans, spiritual counselling, and meditation retreats.”

Shampa nodded and said, “Can I have your mobile number?”

“Sure,” he said and rattled off his number. Shampa saved it on her mobile phone with the name Swami Dayananda.

“Hope to meet you,” said Swami Dayananda, and smiled at her.

Shampa smiled back.

She felt elated as she carried on walking. ‘Maybe, God had set up this accidental meeting,’ she thought. ‘Who knows?’

Back in her room, she googled and got an idea about the activities of the ashram. She read the Wikipedia entry on Bhola Nath. She realised the monk had settled in Pittsburgh, USA, in 1940 and spent three decades of his life in America. This explained to Shampa the presence of foreigners in their ashram.

As a child growing up in Kolkata, she had missed hearing about Bhola Nath, even though he was a Bengali and had grown up in Howrah. She had been aware of Ramakrishna Paramahansa and his disciple, Swami Vivekananda. Her parents were not overtly religious.

Shampa stared at Bhola Nath’s photo. The late spiritual leader had piercing eyes. She also watched a few YouTube videos.

One week later, she went for a visit.

One of the first things Shampa noted was the silence and the sense of peace that pervaded the place. Everything was so clean. The garden had mowed lawns and trimmed leaves. She called Swami Dayananda on his mobile phone. He came out and took her around. Walking next to him, with his 6’ 2” height, she felt like a pygmy.

He took her to a temple inside the premises, the library, counselling rooms, the kitchen, and the dining area. Swami also led her to the female retreat block and showed her the single rooms. He showed her a block where nuns or sanyasinis lived.

“You should take part in a retreat,” Swami Dayananda said, in his gravelly voice. “There are three-to-five-day courses.”

Shampa nodded and said, “I will.”

Shampa felt herself calming down. After seeing the filth and garbage in the city, she appreciated the cleanliness of the ashram.

Within a fortnight, Shampa attended her first retreat. And she enjoyed it to the fullest. She felt a sense of completeness that she had not encountered with Francis, despite all the bliss she experienced from their relentless love-making. She wondered if the ashram was her destiny. A path to spirituality and bliss.

One day, Shampa spoke to Swami Dayananda about being a nun. He listened quietly and said succinctly, “Being a nun is very challenging. A lot of sacrifice is necessary. So, think hard about it.”

Sometimes, when she lay on the mattress at her home, she imagined kissing Swami Dayananda. To see those blue eyes, just centimetres away. Wow, that would be a great experience. She also imagined the Swami kissing her throat and nibbling her ears. It sent her heart racing.

But soon, she blinked her eyes rapidly, shook her head from side and side, and shut out the images. She knew it was not right to think that way. Shampa was sure that the Swami had no such thoughts. But she had to admit to herself that the monk attracted her.

Six months elapsed. Shampa was a regular attendee. Soon, she volunteered to work as a nun.

There was an interview process. Six monks grilled her. Asked her several questions about her life. She told them about her lack of encumbrances.

In the end, the ashram accepted Shampa. A week after she joined, she woke up one morning with a phrase resounding in her head, ‘From where to where’.

Indeed, she could never have imagined her life would take such an almighty turn. And this happened based on an accidental meeting of a monk on a Delhi street. But as she knew, many great spiritual leaders had asserted there were no coincidences. Everything happened for a reason. But Shampa was honest enough to admit to herself it was her physical attraction to Swami Dayananda that compelled her to go down this road.

She and Swami Dayananda spoke often, but he always kept the conversation at a formal level. Shampa knew the monk was aware of her attraction to him and he wanted to keep her at bay.

Shampa continued to work hard. She felt that, with time and patience, she could lodge herself in the heart of Swami Dayananda.

It was going to be a stern test for the monk.

Few men can withstand the fearsome determination of a woman.