A Day At the Cabin

Once I was back on the busy road of Dharmatala – after collecting my salary – I checked my watch. It was 2.15 p.m. My stomach was already growling – it got worse as time passed while I was standing in the long line…after all, if you are in Calcutta, no work is done unless you are in one of those lines!

After getting up in a taxi, I quickly decided to lunch at one of the most famous restaurant -

(Jesus not a restaurant – cabin! you maggot have any idea about the difference between the two?)

Sorry, not a restaurant, but a cabin – a cabin which is situated at 9A, Jawaharlal Nehru Road, Esplanade, Dharmatala.. – yes, I’m talking about Anadi Cabin, famous for their (smacking my lips) Mughlai paranthas and ‘Kosha Mangsho’. It had been 95 years since it was established and – as expected - had firmly got embedded in the Calcutta chromosome…

It was half-past two in the afternoon when I reached there. It was semi-crowded – as always it was. You were one of the lucky ones to get in there, and that like 15% of people – the rest 85% had to either wait, or swear badly and leave the place (I could imagine the situation during the summer!)

After seating myself at Table No.3 (there were 5 tables in all), a tall waiter with a turban on his head came up to me.

‘কী লাগবে বাবু?’ (What can I get for you, Sir?)

I thought about for some time. Deciding to go with the commoners, I said:

‘ইয়ে, একটা মোগলাই পরোটা, আর একটা কষা মাংস ৷ ও হ্যাঁ, কফি হবে?’ (Um, one plate Mughlai parantha and a plate of Kosha Mangsho. Oh yes, do you have coffee?)

The waiter nodded that they had coffee. I added that too. Then, repeating my order and telling me that it would take fifteen minutes, he went away. I wasn’t so much worried about the time. I had no concerts (I was a professional singer, and sometimes a writer too), and also, no plot to think about. No, scratch that out. I think I could make a story based on this place…

‘Good Afternoon.’ A voice called out. I turned back, and saw myself face-to-face with a man sitting in the chair opposite to me. He wore a black suit which had a navy-blue tie on it. He had a thin French beard, and his absent-minded blue eyes were looking at me.

‘Oh sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Crimson. Nigel Crimson. One of the Anglo-Indians over here.’

That explained the ‘Brit’ attire he wore. I knew that Anadi Cabin had seats which would be shared by four people at once. But still, I preferred to stay alone.

‘Nice to meet you.’ I said, for it would be rude to not give an answer.

'Good place, this one, eh?' the man asked me. He looked somewhere around forty.

'Y-yeah. So, do you come here often?' I asked. I didn't know what to say, so...

The man gave a little sigh, and then said, 'Used to come over here often...'

Strange, I said to myself. Used to? What did that mean?

A light smile came up on his face. Then he said:

'Ever heard about the - what is it in your language, oh - ''Firingiya'' who passed away over here?'

I thought about it for a few moments. As a writer, you had to know a lot of things about - well, almost everything! But no, the piece of information where an Anglo-Indian had died didn't come to my head...

In the meantime, the tall waiter came in and served my food. I asked Mr. Crimson if he was hungry. After declining my request - telling me that he was full - and lighting up a cigarette, he gave off one smoke, and began saying:

'The date was 29th October, 1955. It had been only 8 years since my family left to settle down in Massachusetts. I decided to continue my business - which I started back in '45 (it was textiles) - and so I stayed back in India. That day, I had to go to a manufacturing house in Dharmatala. At lunchtime, I came over here to snack my lips on the dishes over here. While I was sitting over there (the same table where you are now sitting.), I couldn't help but notice the man sitting in front of me. He was sitting over there, head down, and appeared to be sleeping. Anyway, the waiter had bought my lunch, and just as I was about to eat it, a commotion occurred: the centre was that man, who I thought to be apparently sleeping. Well...'

He stopped for some time. Excitement was growing inside me. 'Then?' I asked.

Mr. Crimson continued:

'The waiter - after serving me - asked the man what would he want. After asking for some time, he tapped him gently, but still no answer came. He then called the Manager - he was available at that time - to check what was wrong. When the Manager lifted his head up (to wake him up and tell him this wasn't any pub to fall asleep in it) he got shocked when he saw that the man wasn't breathing - he was dead!'

'What did you do then?'

'I didn't know what to do. I had been lunching with a dead man that whole time was enough to frighten me out of my wits! Ha ha ha!!' The man gave out a laugh.

And exactly at that moment I remembered.

Yes, there was a 'Saheb' who died right over here - in Anadi Cabin. His cause of death was given as overdose due to sleeping pills...

The plates were empty now. As I sipped on my tea, the man looked into his watch, and then giving a sigh, he said, 'Well, it was nice to meet you. I hope that the report which I gave you might help you in your plots...Anyway, good afternoon, young man!' he said cheerfully, got up from the chair, and disappeared into the busy streets of S.N.Banerjee Road...

Getting up after 5 minutes - after giving up a good burp and throwing down the tea cup in he dustbin (after a long time I drunk tea in a clay cup) - I went up to the cash counter for payment and bill.

While waiting, I asked the man sitting over there:

'Um, Sir. Do you know of an incident which occured here?'

'What incident are you talking about?' the man asked me.

I told him about the death of the man. Hearing it, he said smiling:

'Yes yes. I heard it from my father. But how did you know it? Did you hear it from him?'

I got confused. 'Who is ''him''?'

The man laughed. 'Why, the man who died!'

I felt everything muddled up all of a sudden. Something wasn't making sense...

The man might have understood my feelings, for then he said:

'That man came over here, you know. Probably he was under some medication, for the waiter who had served him told that he had took some pills before he ate. Sleeping pills. An overdose did the deed. Now was it a suicide, or...anyway, Sir. Here's your bill and the change. Now please move along, for we have a few customers over here...'

I moved down to the side. 'Um, but what was his name?'

The cashier turned towards me, and said:

'Nigel Crimson. Good day, Sir!' and then he went back down to his business.

As I walked towards the exit, a cold shiver came down my spine. It didn't make sense. The man who was talking with me, who gave that report, was a...was a...

Ghost?

Before I turned towards the bus stop, a picture suddenly caught my attention. It was the picture of a young Anglo - Indian - not young, I say middle aged - in his forties. He had a thin French beard, was wearing a black suit with a navy-blue tie, and those eyes...

No, it was him...the man himself.

Nigel Crimson!

On a plaque it was written:

'DIED OVER HERE ON 29.10.1975

MAY HIS SOUL REST IN PEACE

FROM, ANADI CABIN'

I stood over there, still watching the picture - still confused about the whole affair - when I felt the man wink back at me, and said like a whisper:

'It was not suicide. Just a fatal overdose. Ha ha ha ha!!'

I turned back and briskly walked back down towards the bus stop, terrified. Was it my imagination or did the picture really...?

As I moved towards Dumdum, slightly enjoying the cold October wind, I thought to myself:

'I guess no one would ever believe my experience I had back there at Mr. Nigel Crimson's 45th death anniversary, would they?'

I don't think so!

***

M.Macabre

29.10.2020

Dedicated to: The Alienist