The lost earring

(This is a real story told to me by my father-in-law)

NO ONE believed Ashutosh. No one. Even after 15 years, the incident is livid in his mind. Yet no one ever believed him. He fails to believe himself sometimes today. Did it really happen? Did he really go to Viratpur? Did he really take the earring? Then he shakes his head in confrontation. He still possesses the earring.

Life is full of surprises. But when surprise comes in a package of disbelief, an uncanny worth annexed to it, it remains a blow, a mystery to haunt your memory forever. Ashutosh was a non-believer in everything. From ghosts to planchets to God to telepathy — the world of ultra-physics failed to make a mark on his realistic mind. He lived for today and today only. Past is gone and tomorrow is uncertain. He chalked out his planned struggle through life and prided himself for owning a small, yet lucrative business of packaging, which he single-handedly expanded within a few years.

The day was Tuesday. He was still going through his graduation when he embarked n his business with a little help from his uncle. He was a practical man and did not go for outlandish education and opportunities that formed troubled dreams, which his mates went in for. He had no father and had to soon go for the green bucks. He had no hesitation in saddling up a horse that rode on the ground, instead of laying a green pasture, waiting for the unicorn to fly in.

It had been a Tuesday, did I say? A normal Tuesday that appears so many times in a calendar. He forgot the date, since it was of no value. It was a hot sultry day and the temperature around these places had climbed into the higher thirty’s zone. Coupled with the heat, the humidity and traffic jam along the highway were making his nerves frail. He screamed at every passer-by and talked to himself even as he drove his small Maruti Omni. He reached Viratpur at noon. The scorching sun shone ferociously above. He looked at it helplessly. It was as though the King of all lives was testing the strength of endurance among his subjects.

Ashutosh walked inside his client’s narrow office. The man he was to meet had gone out for lunch. He had to wait. A small revolving fan caressed whiffs of hot air over his face once in four seconds. He had no choice. The heat outside was worse.

He met his client after an hour and drove off to his next one. He had quite a few packaging orders and made a few deliveries. By evening he was driving back home through the highway. The evening breeze made desperate attempts to cool the ambiance. “Tough life,’’ he was talking to himself. “But I enjoy this gruel.’’ He felt he was cut out for the job. A cushy office job would have bored him.

The highway was emptier than usual. He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. He could drive back to his office, finish his paperwork and be home to his mother for her sumptuous dinner.

The blinding truck lights from the opposite direction triggered his cautious instinct and he drove vigilantly. And then that Ambassador came into full view.

It had crashed into a tree and the face of the vehicle was a dilapidated mess. No one could have survived the mess, he told himself as he drove past.

He thought he saw someone stuck inside, a hanging hand. He felt nauseated and did not stop. “It’s the police’s job,’’ he answered his conscience as he drove past.

Suddenly a man jumped in from the other side of crushed vehicle and yelled, “Stop! Stop!’’

He drove on for a few meters and then jammed on the brakes. He was a nice, helpful man who would do as much as required. He would surely decline any help of reaching the victim to the hospital. There were other vehicles; others can help.

“Stop! Stop!’’ the man ran towards the car.

“Please Sir, we are in a mess.’’ Ashutosh steered his gear up. “No you don’t have to take us to the hospital. My wife’s stuck inside, and I have phoned for ambulance.’’

Ashutosh looked at him blankly. Then what?

The man searched his pocket and took out a piece of paper. An address was written on it. `7/1B, Kolutala Lane, Calcutta 700014.’

“Yes?’’ he looked up, much in command. The man was holding one earring in his hand.

“Please reach this earring at this address.’’

“Earring?’’ He looked at the small ornament.

“Yes it’s made of gold and studded with precious jewels. Please do me this favor and reach this earring.’’

Ashutosh was tempted to ask “Why?’’ which was the big question on his mind. But he wanted to get out of the scene of action fast. So he nodded “Okay,’’ and slipping the address and the ornament into his chest pocket, he drove off as fast as he could. “May somebody help them soon,’’ he prayed.

He came back home, kept the two objects in his drawer and forgot all about them.

Three months passed by. His mother, one day, searching for a torch at the onset of the evening, anticipating a power cut, discovered the earring. Thrilled to bits that it belonged to her future daughter-in-law, she called her son up in his mobile.

“Ashu?’’

“Yes, Ma, say?’’

“Where are you?’’

“I am driving back home.’’

“So soon?’’

“Yes, I’ve finished for today.’’

“Okay, fine.’’ His mother decided to postpone the topic till he got back home. “Come.’’

When Ashutosh reached home, the powers were off. Under a candle, Mahima, his mother served him snacks and tea and broached upon the subject.

“So?’’ she smiled wickedly.

Ashutosh looked up blankly. “So?’’

“When am I meeting her?’’

“Her? Who?’’

Mahima took out the earring she was hiding in her sari aanchal and smirked, “The owner of this.’’

“Oh God!’’ Ashutosh stood up. “Oh hell, I forgot.’’

“Forgot what?’’

He sat down. “Tomorrow I have to go to Calcutta.’’

“Why?’’ Mahima’s curiosity was piqued further.

“I have to give this to someone. What was the address… 7 Kalibari… Oh my God! Where did you find it?’’

“In the drawer.’’

He leaped up leaving his food and rushed into his room with a torch. The piece of paper was upturned but right in front of the drawer.

“Here,’’ he came out with it. “Ma I’ll leave by Black tomorrow. Wake me up at four.’’

“But… who does it belong to?’’

He sat down and began sipping his tea and related the tale. His mother’s expression turned suspicious. “But why only one earring?’’

“I don’t know. I think he lost one, so he wanted to give the other. Forget it. It doesn’t make sense. And why should I waste my time thinking of it. I have loads of accounting to do. Tomorrow I’ll finish a few chores in Calcutta too.’’

His mother’s eyebrows remained twitched.

Ashutosh reached Calcutta by late morning and caught a taxi from the station. He asked the driver to drive to Kolutala Lane. The man looked blank. “Oh, forget it. Drive through S.N. Banerjee Road.’’ He leant back.

He asked almost 15 people before he reached Kolutala Lane. Then he searched for 7/1. It seemed that even the addresses were not in order. He got off from the taxi and began walking through the narrow lanes.

7/1, Kolutala Lane was a stunted black door with nothing as a calling bell or even a doorknob anywhere to announce the arrival of a visitor. Baring the door, which was over-painted, the rest of the house bore cement-less brick fangs that exuded uncanny warmth. Because, despite the destitute apparition, the house smiled with an all-faded glory and welcome. Perhaps such is the magic of culture.

He knocked on the door twice. No reply. Then he knocked again.

A male voice said, “Who is it?’’

This question had always perplexed Ashutosh. How does a stranger reply to this query?

He said, “Will you kindly open the door?’’

A moment later a bony, white-haired man in his late fifties opened the door. He was clad in an off-white halve-sleeved vest and dark colored lungi. His appearance did not attempt to hide the fallen glory, which in contrast, was radiating from his face.

“Yes?’’

“My name is Ashutosh Chowdhury.’’

“Yes?’’

“You see,’’ he searched his pockets. By now the woman of the house, clad in a fade red-white-striped sari, wound carelessly around an over-weight body came out and stood half-heartedly behind her husband. She was curious, yet her half-turned body language stated that she was also apprehensive and was ready to turn around and leave at the slightest disinterest on her part.

Ashutosh found the earring. He had wrapped it in a piece of paper. He unwrapped the paper under the curious eyes of the aged couple and pulled out the earring. He held it up and smiled, thinking that no more explanation was now necessary.

Their expression changed from scrutiny to a blasphemous gasp!

“Where did you find it?!’’ The old man exclaimed. The woman behind clasped onto her husband’s arm and began slipping!

Ashutosh did not know what words to frame. “I… I… a man near Viratpur gave this to me. He and his wife had an accident… I’m sorry!’’ Maybe they had died. Maybe the girl was their daughter… maybe…

“Where did you say?’’

“Near Viratpur.’’

“This man was medium built? Was it an ambassador…’’

“Yes,’’ Ashutosh looked at the woman apologetically. She slipped down and now sat near her husband’s feet. “Does the earring…?’’

“Belonged to our daughter.’’

“I am sorry, is she…?’’

“Died in that accident.’’ The man continued to stare at him incredulously. The woman slipped onto the ground and closed her eyes. She had fainted!

“Son, how long ago did you find this?’’

“About three months back. I’m sorry… I was busy…’’

“Three months back? You’re sure?’’

“Absolutely. Last may. And I think it was your son-in-law who gave this to me.’’

“I see…’’ he murmured, still looking at him with the same astounded expression, “We hadn’t found one…’’

“I beg your pardon?’’

“Son,’’ he adjusted his specs and looked at his fainted wife. “My only daughter and son-in-law died on spot in an accident in Viratpur 10 years back. We hadn’t found this earring anywhere then. It had fallen off from her ear. We still have the other earring in our locker.’’

He nodded his head in despair and invited him in. “Come in my son, please come in.”

By Kaberi Chatterjee
COPYRIGHT MATERIAL