MARRIAGE

"I'm sorry to intrude Mr Kundu," the cardiologist son spoke up. "I'd like to have a private word with my mother."

It took the Kundus a while to realise that they were being expelled from their own living room. They hurried inside and closed the door after them, then gathered behind it to listen.

"Why are you punishing him? He is completely recovered now, do you not know that?" The words were bounding out of the cardiologist with fearsome velocity. That was why he looked so ill at ease, Proloy realised. 

"Ronnie, calm down and have these samosas," Brishti Bose was saying. "Now imagine them paired with your father's cocktails. This is the rage our parties have been missing."

"Any maid can do that. Maybe we should hire her?"

"Calm down, I said. She is not going to be your wife. You already have one, so busy running her dad's nursing home, you barely see her."

"You are looking for revenge, that's all. That girl." The cardiologist lowered his voice. "That girl, may I remind you, is not qualified to see the inside of a college. Think of the genes, for heaven's sake."

"May I remind you where your brother was the week his classmates were writing their final college exam? Under a sofa, at a crack den, on Ripon Street."

The uncle cleared his throat and decided to interject at that point. "May I remind both of you that we are in a one-bedroom flat, not a palace, and they can hear everything you are saying?"

By the time Proloy went back to the room, the cardiologist was waiting to leave. His hands were tucked inside his trouser pockets. "Congratulations, Mr Kundu," he said. He was slow and deliberate now, grating the words between his teeth with relish. "Your daughter will marry my younger brother. Children will be born of that union. And then, one day, they will stumble over their homework but that is not our worry now, is it?" He strode out, taking the stairs, stiff with hurt pride and a sense of injustice. 

Brishti Bose followed him, her face sullen with anger. "I'm sorry for his behaviour," she said from the doorway.

The uncle had stood up and fished out a soiled visiting card from his wallet. He gave it to Proloy Kundu, with an apologetic smile. "Should have done this when we came in. My name is Dr Debdoot Das. The phone number's there."

"You practice in town?" Proloy asked.

"No, the collieries. More money. No lack of individuals with outstanding police warrants. People like me, we are their only hope against disease and death."

"It says here you worked at a government hospital before."

"Let's say I was wrongly accused, of this or that. Or as the newspapers say, I left under a cloud." He looked pleased at his own wit. "Anyway, you come to our parts, let me know. I live alone."

 "My work is local area development," Proloy replied. "Strictly within municipal limits."

Molly, imagining the room to be empty, had come in to clear the plates. The uncle turned towards her with a kind smile. "It was nice meeting you, Komolika."

The sound of Proloy's and the visitor's footsteps died on the stairs. The taxi was having trouble, revving its engine. Molly noticed a tiny scrap of paper, tucked under the cup and saucer from which the uncle had drank his tea. She opened it. Inside, in hurried, urgent writing, was a message. "Call me. I'm lonely."

****