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…
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