A gloomy day with dark looming clouds lending a grayness to a picturesque landscape. The huge expanse of trees, flowering shrubs, a meandering dusty track with a mansion looming ahead. A wooden gate shut out the mansion. Single storied,  with large glass windows overlooking the river. A large open space unkempt, overgrown with weeds with the promise of a beautiful garden which it once was.

A woman wrapped in a crimson shawl a bright blob in the dreary horizon trudged towards the mansion. The nameplate on the gate was a faded stone etching. “Laha Hall” it said. A hall? It was probably  the house of an erstwhile genteel Bengali family influenced greatly by the Europeans who ruled the country. The woman carried a large bag, her hair in a bun,  a blue saree and she wore gold rimmed spectacles which gave her the air of a school teacher.   She sighed and pushed the gate open,  marched up to the house and rang the bell. A resounding sound from a gong filled the environs and a husky voice shouted “Enter”

She opened the heavy door and peeked in tentatively. The door opened into a large room interestingly stacked with bric a brac. Bookshelves lined two walls upto the ceiling. And the profusion of colours of the spine announced  names which were a mix of literature, the classics and modern writers, some thrillers. There were shelves of beautiful hard bound leather backed collections. Tagore, Vivekananda, Dickens.

The empty spaces were crammed with curios and momentos. The usual Indian Terracotta, and Dokra, there were some valuable crystal pieces too. Masks that were tribal from Africa, South America, New Zealand lined a wall. The room was sparsely furnished. A large oakwood table cluttered with papers, strangely had no electronic gizmos. A laptop, an Ipad? There was a wooden carved sideboard with some cool labelled mugs on a tray, a decanter with an electric kettle to heat the water. On a salver beside it was a half empty bottle of Scotch and some glasses with dregs. It appeared that there had been others here recently.

There were two large comfortable Chesterfield  sofas, plumped with bright Ikkat cushions  and a wooden chest doubled as a table.  The Sofa had a guitar on it, plugged in. A huge gramophone with a horn and turntable had a record playing a soulful ballad. Sinatra was crooning My Way and the room was echoing the same. In fact it was loudly proclaiming. This is me.

A stunning woman stood before her. Tall, slim, with an olive complexion, dark smouldering kohl lined eyes, high cheek bones, shoulder length wavy hair. She was languid, almost feline in her demeanour. An author, the writer of the epistolary bestseller “Life and Love and In Between”. Sheena Laha. She was invited by Sheena for an interview for the Local Newspaper “The Herald” from Chandannagar where she  lived. She had travelled almost 100 Kilometres to meet Sheena  at Taki.

Taki is a town which has seen better times. Situated on the banks of the Ichhamati river it borders Bangladesh and is technically a part of the Sunderbans, the Mangrove forests to the South of West Bengal where the river meets the sea.  Before India attained independence the rich Bengali zamindars (land owners) from Jessore and Chittagong made their holiday retreats here. Beautiful stately mansions modelled after the homes of their colonisers, lavish and opulent with marble and crystal and furniture made of walnut, oak teak in classic European styles. All aristocratic families from Bengal owned one such home in a remote location. With a cool temperature and pristine surroundings it was the ideal family getaway. Going “Paschim”, going West for the Bengalis meant going to a holiday home no further than Madhupur or Deogarh in Bihar.

Sheena stood before her  in a gorgeous Kaftan of Habutai silk in Indigo with intricate Shibori stylishly patterned with birds in flight. A metaphor? Of wanting to escape or flights of fantasy? Perhaps! IndIndira, the journalist was being a little presumptive. Yet, the novel she had come to interview the author for spoke of angst, of separation and intense conversations on love, longing, religion, politics, society, relationships.

Indira introduced herself and iterated the appointment. Sheena silently pointed to the sofa gesturing her to sit and switched off the gramophone. An uncomfortable silence filled the room and Sheena walked over to the high backed carved wooden chair by the sofa and sat upright. The cigarette holder dangled seductively between red lacquered nails and she said “Ask”?

Indira pulled out a notebook from the voluminous bag and asked for her permission to take notes. She tentatively started the conversation and asked her about the place in the book, a nameless town but the description fitted her home,  Chandannagar. “The local school, the Church, The river, it is a vivid description of the town I come from. Have you been there?” Sheena drew on her cigarette and smoke billowed upwards. Lazily nodding she said  that she may have visited the place but she knew nobody. Would anyone read her books or even know about her in a small town like that she queried indifferently.

Indira interjected  and said that she was a famous author and had written 30 books all of which were best sellers. Yes, many had read her books, few were taught in the local University. She had read them all and had known her very well through her books. Now she wanted to know more about Sheena the woman, the  woman who dreamt, aspired, her hopes and insecurities. Sheena brushed this aside and said almost derisively that she was comfortable with herself and had never been unsure of her life and its decisions. Her voice faltered and Indira picked the cue. Did she never regret any of her choices? Of living here in this mansion in almost near solitude except for her occasional lavish parties which were widely written about.

Her aloneness was her muse. Alone, not lonely she purred. She had space to stare and lived life on her own terms. Who needed to be tied down? That would be boredom, a life monotonous and mundane. She lived in nature’s bounty. Anything she wanted was delivered within a couple of hours and she had no need of people who were generally hypocrites, and loved her because she was famous. Her parties and the conversations among people when tipsy were amusing and provided her insights into human character. With their guards down they were far more valuable specimens, grist for her writings than having them around all the time to observe the falsettos, the pretence or sham. It sickened her. She wanted to be real.

The sky darkened, and the clouds rumbled. Sheena offered her tea and strolled over to the sideboard to get some for her. She handed Indira a mug and Indira began with the man whom she had corresponded with. The letters were replete with incisive conversations yet they were love letters for a beloved. A passion that transcended space and time and barriers. It pulsated with life. This intensity had to be from a real life experience. Was it anyone she knew? Was it the person she had dedicated the book to J.R.?

Sheena turned around, clenching her fists,  her eyes were dark embers as she lashed out against Indira’s judgemental, middle class morality. She believed in love and desired good looking men , she got what she wanted. Relationships and commitment weren’t her mojo.  Her love was about immersing herself in another completely. To talk of art, literature, philosophy, films. She had been in love but was helpless and enslaved. The passion and the interlaced affection, caressing, fondling, seducing with a rhythm like the Tango. Slow and fast. She was scared of losing him and consequently herself. Moving away, living separately,  their communication became richer with less pain. The anticipated pain of separation.

Indira persisted. In her home town there was someone who was a fan of her writing and had read all her books and his initials were the same. Could it be him? Sheena interrupted her brusquely and said that she had written the book herself. Imagined both the characters. Indira haltingly said Jayanta and Sheena went white. She fumbled and feigning ignorance said who? Who was Jayanta?  Indira stood up walked with firm strides and facing her said Jayanta Roy. Sheena demurred  and asked how she dared to assume. Indira with a measured voice replied that she knew because she was married to him. Sheena fell to her knees in disbelief weeping, muttering.

When, when? She screamed, he had written to her a short while ago. When Indira said a decade she ran to her table and pulled out a sheaf of hand written letters and waved them at her. These were written some months ago. How could he have written these paeans if he was married to another. The marriage could not have been love, it must have been a compromise.

Indira said that she had always known of Sheena. Jay and she were best friends at University when they decided to get married.  Their marriage was about solace, comfort and togetherness. The relationship may seem routine  but it was real not fiction or imagined like the letters. They shared happy and sad moments, moved ahead sure footedly.  Falling in love and living together was true love. They had trust and faith in each other which Sheena did not have ever.

Sheena bent forward on the chair clutching the letters to her heart. Broken she murmured that these letters were the elixir of life and kept her going. And he had stopped writing to her, there was no communication at all.  She was too proud to go to Chandannagar and had contacted The Herald to send someone for an interview. She had to know the reason why he had stopped?

Indira turned around and said the reason was simply because Sheena  had thoughtlessly published his original letters, the world knew about them, some faintly recognised the characters. The moments shared  had literally become an open book and Sheena had lost the privilege of this relationship. In fact Indira did not wish to continue with the farce anymore. And Jay would not have either. Sheena recoiled,  stood up and angrily asked  Indira why she had spoken in the past tense. Were they separated, she shouted again almost gleeful at the sudden ray of sunshine. She would undo the separation she thought wilfully. She would never leave him again.

The clouds roared outside the window, torrential rain lashed at the window and Indira calmly said that he was dead, he had died a few years after they were married. The letters, Sheena pointed them at her, these letters, they were written by him. He couldn’t be dead. These couldn’t have been written by anyone else. He pulsated in those written words that he sent her regularly.

The rain had stopped outside and it was almost dawn The sky a lighter ash  grey had tinges of vermillion and golden as the sun was about to rise. Indira went across to Sheena, hugged her and said that she had written them to keep his memory alive. To save Sheena from the pain of loss. She knew Sheena was impetuous. She wrote for him, his deep  love and caring for Indira, she loved him enough to accept the past and had married him with full cognisance of the “other woman” in his life.  She loved him enough despite that, unconditionally. They both hugged each other and wept and then sat holding hands. Quietly side by side. Two women who had loved one man. And lost him. One loved him with the ferocity of the thunderstorm and the other was the calm aftermath. A balm for the soul. True love. Both!