Miss Melanie

                                            Image Source: www.rpnation.com

Miss Melanie was an enigma in herself, with her dangling silver pentacle necklace and green-grey eyes. She fed the pigeons every afternoon at three ‘o'clock with her left over puffed rice and beckoned to us whenever we passed her wooden worm-eaten door, peeling the shavings absent-mindedly.

Anyone who had had more than three conversations with her knew that she was a former singer at the very popular Park street night bar, ‘Trincas’. But that was before cabaret singing had gone out of fashion. She worked as a typist after that in Esplanade and had retired fifteen years ago. She used to be regular at her parish charities, but that was before the rheumatism set in. Anyone who had had more than three conversations with her also knew that she was crazy.

So it came as a surprise to us when a fancy, yellow Bugatti rolled up in front of her worm-eaten, wood peeling door one cloudy Monday morning and a portly, middle-aged gentleman stepped out, swearing briefly as he narrowly missed stepping in dog-shit. He knocked and the door opened a crack and he immediately disappeared into the dark.

I was hanging outside the sweet shop aimlessly, waiting for the shopkeeper, Raja, to pull up the shutters after his brief afternoon siesta, when I witnessed this strange sight. I didn't even know Kolkata HAD such a fancy car, which seemed to have raced right off an F-1 track and into my sleepy neighbourhood in Central Kolkata.

Miss Melanie didn't emerge from her house to feed the pigeons at three ’o’ clock that day.

I went on to the ‘para’ football club to emerge in my regular ‘adda’ session and catch the latest news on the Mohun Bagan game. My dad hadn't paid the cable bill and our television line had been disconnected. I lied about the bill payment, obviously, and my friends snickered behind their rough hands, obviously and I clenched my fists into a ball.

 It was no secret that my dad was an alcoholic and never gave my mum any money, unless she stole it from his wallet when he was drunk. Most of the times he wouldn't find out but the days he did, my mother would be nursing a pack of frozen peas to her jaw, avoiding my eyes.

So that day, after a brief quarrel with my friends, as I made my way towards the Tram Depot, I heard Miss Melanie beckon me. I noticed the Bugatti missing and sighed. I could have taken a selfie with it and cranked up a few likes on Facebook.

Wearily, I walked up to her and gave her a wry smile.

“Kemon acho, mashi?’ (How are you, aunty?’)

“Good, good. How’s my favourite neighbour doing?”

“I'm doing great! Summer Vacations are the best.” I lied. I could lie with a straight face but maybe that day Miss Melanie saw something in my eyes because she invited me to her house.  I stared at the space behind her and looked back hesitantly. When I was younger, I used to make up stories about my neighbours and in all the stories that featured Miss Melanie, I cast her as a witch. Nobody was on the street. If I was killed or kidnapped, nobody would miss me. I shook myself out of the silly thought and followed her.

There were books everywhere. I could see heavy Encyclopaedias amid last month’s copies of Cosmopolitan. A gramophone that would put any iPod to shame loomed majestically on a rickety coffee-table, next to a , surprise-surprise- iPod. The shelves had old knick-knacks and jars of bottled jam in colourful glass bottles. The walls were lined with old black and white photographs of a strange group of people. I looked closely and they were labelled in clear, cursive writing.

They were pictures of the INA.

I shook my head in disbelief and looked at Miss Melanie questioningly.

“Oh those? I was a former child-spy for the Azad-Hind Fauj.” She drawled, nonchalantly.

“What do you mean ‘child-spy’?” I stuttered, unable to comprehend the supposedly simple explanation.

“Arre, I was part of the INA. Many children did spy-work for them. Specially when the Japanese overran Calcutta in 1942 and bombed our port.  Where do you think Israel, Africa and Romania got the idea from? Our very own Netaji. I’m sorry, it doesn't feel right to call him that, he will always be Subhashda for me.”

“Why are you telling me all this!” I suddenly realised the meme I had last liked on Facebook. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you…” I shrank back against the time-stained wall and looked at her closely. It was almost evening and the shadows were getting deeper. I could hardly see Miss Melanie’s coloured eyes. Her pentacle caught the illumination of the hanging lantern overhead and light bounced off its pointed ends but when she spoke, her voice was tinged with kindness and a hint of nostalgia, as if she had rehearsed this conversation in her head many times before.

“Because I have seen you when you’re home. I've heard your parents. I may be touching eighty but I’m not deaf.  Now look here, I am too old to be continuing this work any more. Today the man who drove up, well, let’s just say he wasn't a salesman. He came with news that I need to find a replacement soon and I really need a break. It’s been over 60 years that I've kept this secret and frankly, I'm tired. So, let me make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

You must be wondering about what happened next, about the offer and my answer and whether this is fiction or fact and other seemingly important details like that.

Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to…