Calcutta 1967, a period of revolution and poetry.
Charulata Dutta dreams to be a scholar, even if it implies going against her conservative family. Despite being the first graduate in the history of Dutta women, she soon finds herself trapped in a w...
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"Come love, make me better than I was..... come, teach me a kinder way to say my own name"
'Nilotpol da?' her eyes exuded surprise, bordering on astonishment.
'Sorry. I just needed to talk to you.'
'Me?'
'Yes. Could you spare a second?'
'A second is already over.' she said, chuckling. Nilotpol relaxed. If she was joking, she clearly wasn't offended.
'Well, fifteen minutes might do the job.'
'Sure. Shall I set a timer?'
'You are a fiendish talker. Has anyone told you that?'
'No. Only you."
'Well....can you help me with something?'
The din was getting louder, such that Charu couldn't grasp half of what he said.
'Let's go somewhere quieter. It is impossible to converse in midst of passionate slogans.'
He agreed. She walked towards the periphery of the mob, shouldering her way across, while Nilotpol stamped and elbowed, with visibly less grace than the lithe woman he was following. His breath hitched again. Sweet Lord! She was more graceful than a swan.
'What help do you want, brother?'
The word "brother" stung his ears, but he didn't object. Typical Indian mentality and all that.
'Well.....' how will he explain his situation? He would have to identify himself as a poet and an author, who struggled to construct sentences in English it would involve both self- justification and self-deprecation, and he wasn't eager to do either of them. He desperately searched his surroundings for any sign of Palash, but it was near impossible to do so, given the mass of red blocking his view. Meanwhile, Charu was watching him with rapt attention, wondering what on earth all these meant.
'I am an author' he said, almost resignedly. He would have to explain himself to her if he expected any assistance.
'That's significant.' Was she mocking him? 'And commendable. I haven't met many young authors who write decently.'
'I don't know if I write decently, but I do need your assistance.'
'Well...do you want me to be your muse?' the corner of her mouth tilted into the likeness of a smile. Forget the world; her half-formed smile will inspire his quill for ages to come.
'I..... sort of have a muse.' His voice sounded strangulated, which happens to be you... he finished in his mind.
'Well, so why do you need me?'
'Listen Charulata', the word sounded sweet in his mouth, and he savored the look on her face. Did she catch the slight blush that had dusted his cheeks just after he said her name?
