Free The Fifth Man by Bani Basu

eyes, with the aura of dressing up still around her. Her profile was reflected in the mirror. The figure of a dancing deity from Khajuraho. Judging from the bronze figures of danseuses, only in the time of Mahenjodaro was slimness in the body of a woman valued in India. Since then all women had been depicted as heavy hipped and ample breasted. The ideal of the beautiful woman in this country involved plumpness. Neelam forgot everything as she watched herself in the mirror. All her sadness, all her fear, all her guilt from all these years. The twilight streamed in through the west window, sweeping everything away. Then she suddenly saw her own reflection in Ari’s glasses. He could no longer hear the call of this hour! The stars were obscured by clouds, Ari’s glasses had changed, so farewell was very easy. The defeat of a lifetime. Aritra Chowdhury had forgotten to hear the call. All this dressing up was an illusion, an act of pity. Aritra was leaving the twilight-filled room, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
    ‘Neelam, I want tea, bring some tea, a potful, I’m very thirsty, very.’
    Aritra hurried Neelam for the liquid he wanted to pour into his parched throat. Neelam realized that the Greek army was returning, accepting Helen’s decision to enter the castle of Troy of her own free will. Agamemnon was going back, Ulysses was going back, Menelaus was going back. They would take Elphinstone Road, cross Holkar Bridge, go past Deccan College and then onto Ahmadnagar Road, heading for Ahmadnagar or Lohagaon.

SEVEN
    A complete break for quite some time now from the bonds of books, of listening and cogitating and meditating. Audio-visual experiences outside of daily habit for some time now. As the train plunged into the silence of the night, Esha breathed a sigh of relief, switched off the light above her eyes and lay down in her bunk. A light sheet covered her waist downward. The wind blew in through the open window near her feet. The soles of her feet tingled with the chill. A thrill spread through her. The tingling rose from her skin along the edges of her thin sari to her garments and then across the rest of her body. Even into her blood. Such a pleasure. Ah!
    The first afternoon had not proved very difficult. She had turned drowsy, looking out the window through her sunglasses. She had managed to lean back and doze for some time, her face covered by a literary magazine. As evening approached, as the lights were lit, a buzz began in the train. The crunching of peanuts, biscuits, crisps. A child had been playing, he had come up to Esha too. Now suddenly he was screaming, ‘Make it whole again.’ His young mother had taken a lick of his lollypop, unable to control herself. That was it. His lozenge was damaged. It had to be made whole again. His abashed mother was offering him another one, red, green, blue, each a different colour. But he wouldn’t be distracted. He had to have the discoloured yellow lollypop he had been licking. But made whole again. Unable to perform a miracle, the pleas of his disturbed parents turned into annoyed rebuke. His father was shouting in a muted voice. Different groups of people were chatting, their voices merging with the sound of the train, one man’s deep voice rising above the others from time to time. ‘They used to have chilled water on the Geetanjali earlier.’
    Esha sat, lost in the hum of conversations all around her, wrapping her yawning evening languor like a shawl around herself. Her magazine was open in her lap, but the light was so dim that it hurt her eyes to read—all she could do was see the pictures. The lady opposite her asked in Hindi, ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘Kalyan.’
    ‘Only up to Kalyan?’
    Esha didn’t feel like prolonging the conversation. Her travelling companion was quite sociable. Someone or the other was there to meet her at every junction, carrying a tiffin box of either snacks or a meal. She had tried the sandesh Esha had offered her in the