'To be or not to be, that is the question,' paused RKM, in his no longer dramatic silence, reaching absolutely no effect. His hairline was thinning rapidly, his skin sagging and the shaking of his hands became evident the day he wrote Hamlet on the board. The swerves of the 'm' were unstable, and the 't' was loosely connected with the loopless 'e'. Raktim looked at the man, completely distanced from what he was trying to teach, in absolute liberation with his imagination, wearing a mask of attention which would not disrupt his creativity. People. People are my favourite things. He shifted his attention to Mandira, across the classroom, in one of the front benches. What a girl! She knows so much yet she listens in awe. What a waste. Why does she only speak in others' words? Damn your grass, Yeats, and damn your coffee-spoons, Eliot. How nice it would be to attend her lecture instead of RKM's. Raktim opened a page of his notebook, wrote down 'ConFuseD' and started sketching in and around it.
RKM: His wife, a housewife. No! A school teacher. Naaah. An ageing Air-India, saree clad air hostess, hahaha. No. He would die. Mrs RKM best suits the role of some kind of a social activist, passive one. The Shantiniketan types. At-home artist. Decorating her home, her only passion, or maybe we can assign some kind of religious frenzy to her. Ya, done. His son, ashamed to be their child, is happily studying what he does not want to in Bangalore, away. Got selected for a prime job in his campussing. Average, and average built. RKM likes Mandira. For his son. He has discussed this exceptionally bright student of his with his wife, who plainly is filled with disgust for "girls today in shorts and vest-like t-shirts. We need someone more homely for Arunabha." RKM is disappointed. Secretly, he likes the novelty of Mandira, her zest for the subject, her command in it, and of course she is attractive. Who would not like to be associated with her?
Cut. A Reception. RKM and Mrs RKM greet guests heartily. Both are secretly unhappy about their Arunabha getting to sleep with Mandira tonight. They avoid each other's eyes. Mandira does not steal any bit of the limelight, she is the limelight. Traditionally draped in silk extravaganza, the ornaments cannot outdo her features. She is chirping away at the sight of her friends and family members. Arunabha is nervous. He still finds it quite unbelievable that Mandira is his wife. Who said arranged marriages could not be interesting, any less exciting than eloping?
Cut. An apartment. Made ugly with stamps of vermilion on walls and ritual dressing in flowers. Mrs RKM spoonfeeds RKM with liquid enzymes and calls out Arunabha for the same. They had just retired to his room, together, her son and his wife. Arunabha obediently drinks it. She hands him over the bottle and asks him to offer it to Mandira. He takes it and leaves. Mandira changes and comes out of the washroom in comfortable night clothes, not nervous. They exchange cursory conversational sentences when they hear a scream.
Cut. They are all waiting outside their building, waiting for the fire to burn out. There was not much damage, no accidents, no casualty. Each eye outside, eyed Mandira, invisibly and inaudibly blaming her for being "unlucky." She holds on to Raktim's hands, looking for a friend.
Wait. What? No, not Raktim. It should be Arunabha, the dolt. Who is too coy to hold back her hand.
The bell rings declaring the class over. Mandira runs over to him. 'So, hero, to be or not be? Who did you make me murder today? Or was I your adulterous, seductress today? Here, let me find out.' She looks down at the page on which Raktim had scribbled ConFuseD.
The 'c' wore flowers, the 'f' caught fire and the 'd' became a door. Other alphabets in between formed a pattern, of supreme symmetry. Raktim could not come to terms with his feelings for Mandira. Love? Envy? Just my muse? Passion? Love? Envy? Really?
He tried to decide and playfully wrote down, “I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.” To which Mandira replied, with a curvacious handwriting and an ever victorious smile, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”
Cut. A Reception. RKM and Mrs RKM greet guests heartily. Both are secretly unhappy about their Arunabha getting to sleep with Mandira tonight. They avoid each other's eyes. Mandira does not steal any bit of the limelight, she is the limelight. Traditionally draped in silk extravaganza, the ornaments cannot outdo her features. She is chirping away at the sight of her friends and family members. Arunabha is nervous. He still finds it quite unbelievable that Mandira is his wife. Who said arranged marriages could not be interesting, any less exciting than eloping?
Cut. An apartment. Made ugly with stamps of vermilion on walls and ritual dressing in flowers. Mrs RKM spoonfeeds RKM with liquid enzymes and calls out Arunabha for the same. They had just retired to his room, together, her son and his wife. Arunabha obediently drinks it. She hands him over the bottle and asks him to offer it to Mandira. He takes it and leaves. Mandira changes and comes out of the washroom in comfortable night clothes, not nervous. They exchange cursory conversational sentences when they hear a scream.
Cut. They are all waiting outside their building, waiting for the fire to burn out. There was not much damage, no accidents, no casualty. Each eye outside, eyed Mandira, invisibly and inaudibly blaming her for being "unlucky." She holds on to Raktim's hands, looking for a friend.
Wait. What? No, not Raktim. It should be Arunabha, the dolt. Who is too coy to hold back her hand.
The bell rings declaring the class over. Mandira runs over to him. 'So, hero, to be or not be? Who did you make me murder today? Or was I your adulterous, seductress today? Here, let me find out.' She looks down at the page on which Raktim had scribbled ConFuseD.
The 'c' wore flowers, the 'f' caught fire and the 'd' became a door. Other alphabets in between formed a pattern, of supreme symmetry. Raktim could not come to terms with his feelings for Mandira. Love? Envy? Just my muse? Passion? Love? Envy? Really?
He tried to decide and playfully wrote down, “I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.” To which Mandira replied, with a curvacious handwriting and an ever victorious smile, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”
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