Privacy

She was a theatre artist.

The one who writes, acts and paints. 

Literature professor of the renowned college of the city. 

Respected by all and loved too but owned by none.

Her name was Nilanjana. The young girl of the most uneducated villages of Bengal was now a professor. When lust can make you forget what love is, why can't education make you forget where your origin is?

She owned her own villa in Calcutta. With its old green windows and doors her home carried the typical Bengali vintage touch. After the grand drawing room was an open rectangular space to cross and then enter the andarmahal of the ladies. She bought the building from one of the descendants of an old Zamindar.

The open space (uthon) could have carried you to the andarmahal of the "ladies" if you would have been a visitor before Nilanjana became the owner. Now it would carry you to the Only Lady, the Queen, the Owner - Nilanjana.

She stayed there alone with her servants. The open space of her home was of great importance because that was the area where all her dramas had their rehearsals. That was the area which saw many characters in one soul...many love stories...the one that was just the story and also the one that was more than just a story. It heard the tortured lady crying and also the women smiling and laughing. Stories that she wrote were enacted here before the final performances at various renowned halls.

Her dream home wasn't built. It was bought - bought with money. 

Her room was simple enough with the instruments of her choice - her paintings, her writing corner, and her bed. 

The preparations for her act was on the go. The concrete building was buzzing with the noise of various dialogues and had the aroma of different souls. She, in her room, was just about to throw the anchal of her saree on her shoulder when Niladri entered.

''Oh sorry sorry!! 

বুঝতে পারিনি আসলে...তুমি রেডি হয়ে নাও আমি বাইরে অপেক্ষা করছি I" (Sorry for entering the room , I didn't know you were not dressed yet. Get ready, I'm waiting outside)

She just smiled. 'আমি নগ্ন নই I আসতে পার I'

Niladri returned the smile. Such simplicity...she didn't even suspect...

(there was nothing to suspect. She knew. She knows your vice.)

Niladri was her colleague. The man of honour. His regular suit was not too coloured. A black half sleeve jacket, white pants and a white long kurta. Back-brushed hair, muscular masculine figure and his bright face gave him the authentic touch of a young professor and a nationalist. However, the name "Niladri" triggered her every single time . Why? No one knew…

Nilanjana, usually kept herself aloof and avoided any sort of emotional attachment with anyone she knew. She was a secularist.

With the course of the rehearsing days, Niladri and Nilanjana grew a good bond - a bond of friendship, only if that was the call of their destiny.

The night before the final performance, Nilanjana was undressing herself in her room, to her kaftan for a comfortable sleep. As she was about to hit the bed, Niladri knocked.

On opening the door, she said,"এক ভুল বুঝি বার বার করা মানা?" (Is it forbidden to repeat your same faults?)

''না, তাই এলাম I" (No, it's not.That is the reason why I'm here)

Leaning towards her lips, Niladri held her in his arms. However, Nilanjana backed away.

"What the hell? You still..." 

"Yes. Where's your secularity now, honey?''

Just then, the assistant Mehendi came in. She looked part-giggling and part-furious.

"সিরিয়াসলি? কোনো প্রাইভেসি নেই….এতো বড়ো বাড়ি...একলা মানুষ তুমি, তবুও কোনো প্রাইভেসি নেই?" (Seriously? Such a big home, you are the only resident here….still there's no privacy?)

" হ্যাঁ মেহেন্দী, আমি স্ক্রিপ্ট তা দিয়ে এসেছি, তুমি অনিরুধ র থেকে নিয়ে নিয়ো" (Yes Mehendi, I've left the script with Anirudha, take from him)

Swaying her head, she went away.

Turning around, she saw that he had left. She wanted to cry...oh...

But why? He had already left her.

25 years ago.

She was the eloper. She was a servant of the Raj Bari of that village. Niladri, the youngest son of the Raj Bari, visited his village on the occasion of Durga Puja when he fell in love with Noyona, now Nilanjana. The cast-bound society can never accept the love story of a dalit and a kshatriya. They left the village on a dark night and came to Kolkata. He took her to the University and educated her. He discovered her love for theatre and took her to the School of Theatres too. They were leading a happy life....

Life can never be as easy and smooth as it seems. Niladri was diagnosed with lung cancer. Their destiny took a toll on them. Due to shortage of money, she had to leave her education and be out for earning. She started playing roles in different groups at the theatres...

Different directors desired for different roles. The arrogant, sharp lady was attractive - dark-skinned, wavy hair, sharp nose, an arrogant yet beautiful smile, dark brown eyes and broad red lips. Her career of desire, her theatres, was not built but was bought. Bought with money, to save none but her love, her husband, Niladri.

Nothing could save him. He passed away - 31st Dec, 1975...

The abandoned son of the Raj Bari had no one but his wife for his funeral.

She set his corpse on fire - the art she created, the art of love - was burnt by her.

No one ever knew that Niladri had mutilated a girl in the village. He said those words to her on his death bed. When she was in the state of despair and was confused by everything, he said, "What's yours is just yours. Your Privacy is yours alone. I loved you, but never allowed you to the space that is only mine. Whoever you will fall in love with and get married after my demise, remember to not let that person enter your privacy...because what's yours is just yours....and no one else's."

As the millenium turned, a quote by her late husband came floating in her ears...the very last words he spoke...

''Let the flesh turn into ash, your love into hatred but never burn the truth of the moment even if it seems a lie later because what's yours is just yours...''

Nilanjana turned around. 

Nothing. Just the lace curtains dancing around softly like phantoms in the nocturnal air...otherwise, nothing.

Nothing could break her privacy...

- Anonymous, 04.01.2021