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Mr Aich and Busy Lizzie

It was six months since Somnath Aich, “H” to his foreign friends and colleagues, had come to Bournemouth on a…

Mr Aich and Busy Lizzie

It was six months since Somnath Aich, “H” to his foreign friends and colleagues, had come to Bournemouth on a long-term assignment. Initially when asked, he had doubts. He had never heard of Bournemouth nor did he relish working for a university. “It is public sector — always a pain”, he thought. The notoriously bland English cuisine and the egregious weather added to his misgivings.

And he had the wedding to look forward to. True, it wasn’t a done deal yet but he had positive vibes. Dalia Dutta was the real thing, he felt. Perhaps not quite the paragon of beauty he had always wished for but indisputably easy on the eye. She was 39, a respected homeopath with a decent practice in Garia. She loved sewing and cooking fish was her speciality; sang a bit too — quite competently, Somnath thought — and was a classically trained amateur dancer. The references had all come back to their complete satisfaction. “So soft spoken too!” his mother had gushed. “At last Somu, I think I have found exactly what I have been looking for. Fingers crossed, we will have the wedding this November!”

Somnath, a firm believer in destiny was glad they had not given up. Every weekend, for the last 20 years, he and his mother, ignoring the sniggering neighbours — particularly that scum Motwani — had called on so many prospective brides, meticulously selected from the matrimonial columns of Kolkata’s leading newspapers. But always, quite inexplicably, they found something lacking, something not quite right. Many would do for most but not for Somnath, the only son, a rank holder in the engineering entrance exams and now a successful executive with his own office in a sprawling complex in Rajarhat. Destiny, he was convinced, had brought them, at last, to the brink of sweet success.

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***

It was May but the mercury struggled to reach double figures. Somnath got up to turn the heating on. He was surprised to see that the radiators were nicely purring. Strange, he thought. He distinctly remembered turning the heating down after lunch. He picked up the pair of gloves lying on the sofa. They were so crisp and warm as if they had just been ironed for him to slip on. Wrapping the shawl tightly around him, he sat down to call his mother.

He was pleased to learn that things were all good back in Kolkata. His mother was doing well. The neighbours were not causing her any problems, not even that accursed scoundrel, Motwani. Motwani, confound him, had called on his mother this week enquiring about the wedding, asking why he had not seen Somnath da these days.

“Tell him”, Somnath boomed, “I am in England on a prestigious assignment for the British government. Managing a million pound project, leading a team of seven and that includes three English girls and a Ugandan.”

“I have”, his mother, equally agitated, assured him. “I have told him not to meddle and mind his own business. Always brewing trouble!”

Pacified, they talked of pleasanter things for some time before Somnath went ballistic again. “No Ma, don’t say that again, please”, he thundered, “It is not going to happen. I am 46. No point wasting my time and energy”. Then sobering a little, he said, “Go to bed, Ma. It is late.”

The sudden surge of anger and his mother’s plaintive pleas in her weak, tremulous voice had disturbed Somnath. He sat still, gazing vacantly out of the window at the shadowy, solitary woodland path outside his garden that backed on to the dense woods beyond. He shuddered, haunted by unpleasant memories. Dalia Dutta, who he had thought was perfection personified, how she had disappointed. Pouring over her dossier, for one last due diligence before confirming the match, he grinned contentedly at her photo, the laminated horoscope, which so brilliantly complemented his, the many certificates and commendations. And then, what was that? Two admit cards for the same examination for two succeeding years? Immediately, he had called Dalia’s uncle. Yes, it was as he had suspected. She had failed her matriculation exam on her first attempt and they had kept it from him. “What of it?” her mother had tearfully argued. But no, he was resolute; deception piled on abject academic failure; he would not fall for that.

The next day, at work, he signed up for Bournemouth.

***

His colleagues had all rented near the University to be close to work, the amenities and the entertainment. But Somnath desired soothing solitude. To everyone’s surprise, he chose to rent a converted barn in Nower Hill, a secluded village in Hampshire. It was quite an old building but big and airy. The location, though remote, was gorgeous, next to lush woodland, filled only with silence and birdsong. He enjoyed the drive to work and delighted in long walks in the woods, reviving his jaded lungs with the air, fresh with a wild, woodland fragrance. More importantly, the rent was very reasonable. He would be saving a lot from his rental allowance. His dream of buying a Mercedes would be just that little bit closer. He loved to think of Motwani’s face when he drove in. Not just Motwani, the rest of the sniggering neighbours too. That would stop them talking.

He had feared the chores of domesticity, which his mother had taken care of, for him, in Kolkata. But he was pleasantly surprised how easy it all had been. Why last evening, he had just put the lamb on the hob and in less than five minutes, it was done. Properly cooked and seasoned. He couldn’t believe it. Wednesday morning, he thought he could see dust and a few bits and bobs lying on the floor. He made a mental note that back from work he would hoover the house. When he came back he realised he had been unnecessarily fussy. The old wooden floor was spotless as if it had just been wiped clean.

Sometimes, in the evening, when the sun still smiled benignly, he went out to the patio to admire the view and soak in the solitude around him. An exquisite climbing plant, burdened with sweet smelling lilac flowers monopolised the mature shrubs and trees not just in the garden but also in the woods outside. Somnath had found out that the climbing plant was called honeysuckle. He delighted in its mildly intoxicating aroma. Some evenings, through the windows a handful of the blossoms would make its way to his bedside table. Often it seemed they had been neatly arranged, as if by hand. Somnath would smile, “British hospitality at its best”. Even the dampness and the cold no longer bothered him. Initially, he dreaded the freezing bed sheets enveloping him in its icy embrace. Now his bed seemed nicely warmed up and inviting.

Life seemed good. Only if Ma stopped nagging every time they spoke on the phone, it would be perfect.

***

One Saturday morning he found the dreaded object along with the rest of the mail. It was a large brown paper envelope. On the front was his mother’s unmistakeable handwriting. Somnath immediately knew what it was. For the past few weeks he had tried to dissuade his mother with reason which, from prior experience he knew never worked. He had shouted at her; used strong words he shouldn’t have used. But his mother had nagged on, pleading for one more chance and ending the call with her signature emotional blackmail. Rupa Haldar, a small time entrepreneur, was her latest obsession. “Very different from the rest”, she had insisted, sobbing. Somnath, though, had held firm. Nothing doing! And now here was the envelope to tempt him with the customary mugshots, the CV and the all-important horoscope.

He resisted opening the envelope at breakfast, he held firm during lunch but by tea he lost the battle. With a sheepish grin, he tore open the envelope. Rummaging through the contents his experienced fingers dragged out the photo. Staring back at him was a rare beauty or so he thought; the sheer composure in the becalmed eyes instilled in him a peace he hadn’t known before. He sat transfixed, he knew not how long. When he finally got up, it was too late for dinner. Clutching the photograph he went to bed, continuing to ogle at it. Finally, taking one reluctant, last look, he gently put it aside on the table next to the honeysuckle blossoms. Closing his eyes, he fell into blissful slumber.

***

Still very dark, Somnath woke writhing in agony. His face throbbed with lashes of searing pain. A choking, clasp like grip, was digging deep into his flesh around the ears. He tried to get up, but an invisible heaviness weighed him down. As he struggled to free himself, his eyes, slowly adjusting to the darkness, swept across the room taking in the wave of destruction. The wardrobe doors were gaping wide, some hanging unhinged; his clothes lay scattered on the floor. The laptop, subjected to brute force, lurched precariously on the table next to the remains of Rupali Haldar’s ripped portraiture. The few honeysuckle blossoms, still on the table, seemed as if they had been chewed and spat out.

In desperation and panic, exerting all his animal strength with an almighty heave Somnath finally managed to shake himself loose. He was out of the room in a flash, bolting down the stairs and rushing outside slamming the door shut. As he ran through the dense wood, he heard a piercing wail come from the house. He did not stop. He ran through the dark shadows, panting, vaguely aware of some heavy breathing and sobbing behind.

***

Mr Mortimer, the old, wizened “senior rental advisor” at Nower Hill Lettings stared at the developing black eye of the tired and damaged man in his night clothes, cowering opposite him. He looked as if he had been dragged through thorny thickets. There were lacerations on his face and neck and signs of recent nosebleed.

“That, Mr H, is a remarkable story”, Mr Mortimer declared, in an officious manner, “We will definitely look into the matter. In the meantime, till we know what happened, you can stay in one of our service apartments in the city. There will be no charges”.

He hesitated a bit and changing his tone continued. “Mr H”, he said, “This is strictly off the records. I should not be saying this but I think you should know. Elizabeth Little, or Busy Lizzie, as she was known, was in the barn when German bombs rained down. She was 31 and single. I don’t believe it myself but there are rumours. There have been unsubstantiated sightings but no major incident was ever reported by any of the occupants before you. Although personally I consider it all rubbish, I think Nower Hill Lettings has some responsibility towards you. We will cancel the current lease and find you another accommodation if you want us to. You don’t have to pay any rent for the first six months.”

“Think about it”, Mr Mortimer kindly offered as he led Somnath out of his office.

***

Somnath Aich thought long and hard about it. He brought his considerable rational and analytical prowess to reach an objective closure. “I will go back”, he decided. “Lizzie liked me. She cooked my lamb, ironed my gloves, and mopped the floor. It was she who kept the honeysuckle neatly arranged on my bedside table. Rupali Haldar’s photo infuriated her and she lashed out. I will make a new life with Lizzie. She cares for me, she understands me. She is my destiny. I will woo her. I will convince her that I love her too.”

Excited and with a new-found resolve, Somnath Aich got into his car and drove to the familiar converted barn in Nower Hill for his tryst with destiny

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