By the Lotus Pond

If you enter Lalbagh from the Siddapura gate, and take the tarred road down to the left you will get to the lakes. You could also take the new path directly after entering the gate. But most older people prefer the road. You walk down, past the tree that is worshipped on the right, past the  little maze that has been put up for children, and keep going downhill for a few steps more. 

And there, on the right is the Lotus pond, so-called because at one time, the little pond had many lotuses. Now the lotuses are gone, and the water is clear.But his intention was not to look at the lotuses. He had something else in mind. Around the pond were sheltered niches holding concrete benches, perfect for young people seeking a cuddle, hidden from the prying public eye.

He didn’t quite  remember which of the one of  the niches he had sat in, those many years ago, – except for the graffiti on the wall – so he had to visit everyone of them. In Bangalore, the rains can come unexpectedly- short, sharp evening showers. from “passing clouds”, as his father used to say. Or, there could be a “depression in the Bay”, and then, the rains would be very heavy indeed.  And it had been one such evening, when walking in the park, they had been caught in the rain. 

D.K. Chatterjee remembered the first time  that he met Sarala, who was to become his boss in the R&D department of one of the many public sector companies that were prominent in Bangalore in the early years of independent India. He had a post-graduate degree in Electronics, and he had come to Bangalore hoping to secure a job.

Sarala, who had completed her Ph.d from the Indian Institute of Science, in Bangalore, had been put in charge of the newly established R&D department, and naturally, she was on D. K. Chatterjee’s interview board. He wondered, now, more than thirty years later, if she had noticed anything special about him then and although they had spent so many years together, he could never bring himself to ask her this. Sarala had passed away three years ago, suffering a while from an incurable disease, and his grief over her death had only intensified over the years. 

D.K. Chatterjee -Dilip Kumar Chatterjee, to give him his full name-had been an excellent student, and to all his friends he had been known only as D. K. But Sarala never called him that- he was always Dilip to her, the way she called him the first time that they had met.

Maybe she was also an admirer of Dilip Kumar, the famous actor, like his father had been, he thought.

Dilip had, of course, been selected for the job that he had interviewed for, and she proved to be a demanding and knowledgeable boss. But it was only when Dilip shifted to a house in Jayanagar that he really got to know her. It turned out that Sarala lived in Jayanagar too, and that they both were among the first people to board the company bus that took them to the factory. Naturally, they sat next to each other in the last two seats of the bus, and this was what set everything in motion.

Sarala, D. K. learnt, was the only daughter – in fact the only child – of well-to-do parents.  Her father had retired as a doctor and had been employed in a government hospital. Her mother hadn’t gone out to work, she said, although she had a degree in Chemistry, but she enjoyed her life as a housewife, and indulged her passion for classical music. Her parents, although they were, to use a currently fashionable phrase “progressive”, in that they encouraged her to study a technical subject rather than the Arts, which was the usual norm, were  very worried that she hadn’t yet got married. This was the usual subject of conversation in Sarala’s house those days.

Sarala turned out to be a few years older than D. K., with the first grey hairs having made their appearance. It made her look distinguished, D. K. thought, and much to his own surprise, he actually told her that one day on the ride to the factory. She laughed, hearing that, and, unconsciously, he thought, kept her hand on his thigh. After all these years, he could still remember that, and again feel that thrill that passed through his body. His hand closed over hers, and they travelled all the way to the factory, talking about the experiments planned for the day, holding hands and not paying much attention to anything else. Most other people who got into the bus usually went directly to sleep, for it was a good one hour’s drive to the factory.

Sarala took a walk in Lalbagh, every Sunday, she said, and it would be nice if Dilip could join her, she said one day. And so, they began to meet every Sunday, around 6:30 in the morning, and after walking for about an hour or so, they would go to one of the MTR’s for breakfast – sometimes to Mavalli Tiffin Rooms on Lalbagh Road, and sometimes to Mahalakshmi Tiffin Rooms in Basavanagudi.  Of course, they also made it a point to go to Vidyarthi Bhavan, too,  only once in a way, though, because that small restaurant, famous for its thick ghee dosais, was often filled up with customers, even early in the morning. 

One Friday, Sarala told Dilip that she wouldn’t be able to meet him in the morning on Sunday in Lalbagh, but she would be free in the evening, and maybe they could meet then. Dilip readily agreed, he would take in a morning show at the Plaza theatre, he said, and meet her at around 4 o’clock in Lalbagh near the Glass House, and then they could decide what to do.

And it was this evening that DK remembered vividly.  They met, as planned, but the rain gods decided to play spoil sport. And it was as they were walking towards the lake – sitting on one of the benches there was one of their favourite things to do – that the rains came down, backed with thunder and lightning. They had gone too far from the Glass House to get back to it without getting thoroughly drenched, so they decided to look for shelter in the niches around the Lotus Pond. They found an empty niche with a concrete bench. As Sarala wrung the water out of her sari,  she pointed to graffiti on the wall and laughed. Someone had carved  the letters D-i-l-i-p and supplemented it with  a crude heart with an arrow, that pointed somewhere, but no name followed the arrowhead. And it was there that they first kissed each other, enjoying the rain and the simple pleasure of each other’s company…

Their families were informed. Sarala’s parents were delighted – they had despaired of ever seeing their brilliant daughter get married. DK’s parents were more circumspect – they wondered if their marriage would last.  After all, DK’s family was from Bengal, and Sarala and her family were from the deep south. And then there was the difference in their ages… 

But everything ended well – their marriage had been solemnised in a simple way and turned out to be a success. Their only regret had been that there were no children, but they took this in their stride. 

At work too, there were problems – after all, Sarala was DK’s boss, and she could not be seen to be partial to him. It was not long before an opportunity came up in another firm that suited DK to a T, and he decided to shift to that firm as soon as he could, so that Sarala could pursue her career properly, without having to worry about other factors.

It was the unbearably sweet memory of that first memorable evening  that had brought D.K to Lalbagh. And just as on that evening, the rain had come during down, and he had to jog slowly to get to the alcoves around the lotus pond. He could not run as they had that day…

As he began searching for the particular niche that had meant so much to him, he heard a woman call out, “come quickly”, she said, “you will get very wet if you stay out in the rain”.  She spoke in English, and D.K ,  although surprised by her words, got into the alcove, after a little hesitation. She gestured to him to sit down, next to her. And without much ado, took off her dupatta, and began wiping off the water from D.K’s head. He was too surprised to resist, and let her dry his hair with little more than a murmur of dissent. He looked around, and saw that he had found the right niche, after all. There was D-i-l-p, and the heart with the arrow that lead somewhere – now eroded with time, but discernible, nonetheless…

Then he looked at her, and as they began to talk, he realized that she was a pleasant faced woman of about his own age, and that she had a nice smile and a voice that reminded him of Sarala. Had his grief brought Sarala again into his life, he thought, as they continued their conversation, talking about the rain, their families, and what had brought them to Lalbagh…