Free My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose Page A

interested. Your role’s the biggest, you have lines with everyone.”
    Bina sighed and said, “Leave me out.”
    â€œWhat childishness is this,” Ramen smacked her lightly on the head. “Stand up straight, say your lines properly.”
    She seemed to tremble on hearing this, her eyes widened, blood rushed to her face. She didn’t play her role half badly after that. Andyet the lines of pain just didn’t seem to leave her face; it was as though she didn’t really want to say her lines, didn’t even want to think them; she was just being forced to.
    A little later Mr. Dutta said, “All right, let’s do act one now. Sarbeshwar, Basanti, Lily, Priyanath . . .”
    Four or five people stood up to occupy the floor as he spoke.
    The rehearsal went on till ten thirty at night. Many more friends, helpers and fans arrived: the room was full. The chairs had been pushed back against the wall and an enormous sheet spread out on the floor. I was seated on it in one corner, drinking it all in, watching, wondering, and constantly being astonished. The people seated around me all looked talented or proficient in some way. One of them was indefatigably sketching the women present with a fountain pen; some were immersed, with their pencils, in calculating accounts, some were reading proofs. Occasionally three or four people repaired to the veranda, usually for private discussions; although their conversation didn’t disturb the rehearsal, some of it reached my ears, as I was seated near the door. I felt a misfit in this bizarre dance, and yet I cannot claim not to have enjoyed it, for though I sat by myself I had no idea how time flew so quickly.
    Around ten-thirty, someone said, “Let’s call it a day.”
    Mr. Dutta said, “Anupam and Lalita’s last scene . . .”
    Bina exclaimed, “No, no, not that one.” I was surprised at the sudden vehemence in her voice.
    Ramen said, “Of course. Come, Bina, it’s getting late.”
    Bina rose slowly. She looked as though she wouldn’t be able to utter a word, but how beautifully she played that last scene. When Anupam said, “I’d better go, Lalita,” her eyes filled with tears as she said, “No, don’t go – don’t leave me.” I was full of admiration for her performance.
    Ramen was the last to take his leave, I had to wait for him. Mrs. Dutta said, “Do come sometimes, won’t you?”
    I nodded courteously, and Ramen quipped, “Why sometimes? He’ll come every day. He has no practice, you see, that chamber’s just for appearances.”
    Mrs. Dutta smiled and said, “Fine, why not set up your practice right here then? You are appointed medical officer of The New Nest .”
    I said, “That’s wonderful, but I don’t seem to have made much headway in my first case.”
    â€œBina? There’s nothing wrong with her – she’ll be fine soon.”
    Ramen spent the night at my place. I used to work as well as live in my chamber, at that time. I ordered some fried rice and cutlets from the restaurant nearby, and we sat down to chat over coffee afterwards. “Bina acts quite well,” I remarked.
    Ramen smiled without responding.
    â€œBut she doesn’t seem to be in good health.”
    â€œHer health is fine, it’s just been poorly of late.”
    â€œIt seemed to me her foot injury is nothing – there seems to be something else seriously wrong with her.”
    â€œYou’re right there.”
    Encouraged, I said, “She’s extraordinarily pale, I think it’s anemia. I could arrange for a thorough examination if you like. Perhaps Major Ghosh . . .”
    â€œDo you really think a doctor can cure her illness?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Why not? You’re half a doctor yourself – you shouldn’t be saying such things.”
    â€œBut I know what’s wrong with