first chapter.

Chapter 1
Amit’s Tale.
Amit Rai is a barrister. When the surname ‘Rai’ metamorphosed into ‘Roy’ and ’Ray’ at the insistence of the English language, what it lost in elegance it gained in variety . To keep its uniqueness intact, Amit endowed it with a novel spelling. So novel was it that Amit’s numerous English friends both male and female- turned it into ‘Amitt Raaye’.
Amit’s father had been an all- conquering barrister. The enormous wealth he had left behind was enough for the moral degeneration of the next three generations. But Amit, despite the cataclysmic conflict potentially present in his patrimony, had managed to stay on course.
Before he had even registered for the undergraduate programme at Calcutta University, he was packed off to Oxford.
There seven years flew by- taking and not taking exams. Highly intelligent, he had got by without much study, yet one would be hard put to spot any lack in the ultimate product. His father had no high expectations from him. He had merely wished his son to acquire the true-blue Oxonian stamp, which would remain indelible even under the debilitating distractions of various indigenous influences.
I like Amit. Excellent chap. I’m a young writer. My readers’ circle is limited, and Amit easily tops my readers’ list. The flash and glitter of my literary style has really caught his fancy. He holds that those foremost in fame in our country’s literary market cannot lay claim to style. Like the camel, with its uncoordinated, awkward gait and uncouth proportions, plodding its way through desert wastelands, our litterateurs exhibit similar traits while wandering through wordy wastelands. Here I hasten to put in a timely, personal interjection for any critic- this is not my opinion.
For Amit, ‘fashion’ is a mask. An expressive face flares with ‘style’. He hardily insists that the lords of literature, writing to please only themselves, have cornered style. Those who write to tickle the palate of others, are mere slaves to fashion’s dictates. Bankimchandra’s Bishabriksha blazes with the highly original ‘Bankimi’ style. Nasiram’s Monomohaner Mohanbaganey is just
A copy-cat version- he has totally succeeded in deadening Bankim. Under the gaudy festive canopies and bright lights, a natchwali looks very glamorous. But for that first, holiest-of-holy exchange of glances in wedlock, the bride’s face has to be framed with a Banarasi veil: the special has to be seen in a special light. The garish canopy expresses fashion, the Banarasi veil conveys style. Amit declares that in our country, people are not over-fond of style. They are nervous about moving off the well-beaten, tested track leading to easy popularity. The Puranic story narrating Daksha’s great sacrifice bears testimony to the truth of this statement. The fashionable gods, Indra, Chandra, Varuna, got invited everywhere- even at Daksha’s sacrifice. Siva had style, his inimitable originality scared off the patrons. They instinctively fathomed Siva’s unconventionality and shunned him. I like listening to such pontifications from an Oxonian, for I certainly believe I’ve got style. The proof lies in the single-edition life –span of my books –they never reappear.
Nabakrishna, my brother-in –law, found Amit’s opinions infuriating. He would often dismissively snort, ‘Hang your Oxford graduates !’ As the proud owner of a post-graduate degree in English Literature, he had been taught to grind away at learned tomes, not to understand them. Only the other day he complained to me, ‘Amit delights in elevating the small-fries of literature merely to belittle the better-known ones. His hobby is to drum up support for his deliberate insolence, and you’re his drummer-boy.’ Unfortunately for him, his sister happens to be my wife. She heard it and vociferously objected to such prejudices, much to my intense satisfaction. I have further noted her wholehearted support for Amit’s views, though she has not received much education. The natural intelligence of womankind is truly remarkable!
Occasionally though, I too have felt a niggling doubt about Amit’s opinions, particularly when he waves away even great names in English Literature- the kind whose presence simply looms over the market! One can get away with blindly singing their praises without ever opening a page! Amit also considers reading their literary efforts unnecessary for the holy act of criticism. He holds well- known authors to be too establishment-prone, rather like the waiting-room at the Bardhaman railway station. Characteristically, the authors he has discovered for himself he considers exclusively his, much like private salons in special trains.
Amit is addicted to style. This shows not just in his literary proclivities, but also in his sartorial tastes and general attitude. He is what you would call ‘distinguished’. He is sure to catch your eye in a crowd. A clean-shaven, glossily dark face sparkling with merriment, bright eyes, bright laughter, restless movements and a gift for quick repartee: a flint-like mind which emits a veritable shower of sparks at a tap. He is into indigenous clothes because no one in his social circle wears them. He sports a white dhoti, carefully pleated in the old-fashioned manner, as his age-group considers such grab unthinkable. He wears quaint kurtas, with buttons running down obliquely from the left shoulder to the right side of his waist, and with sleeves slit picturesquely from wrist to elbow. A broad, brown –and-zari- worked band encircles his waist. His pocket-watch rests within a small, patterned pouch; slug from the band’s left side. White leather sandals with inserts of red leather-strips encase his feet.
A shawl dangles from his left shoulder to his knee when he sails forth from his house. When out visiting friends, a white Muslim Fez from Lucknow completes this ensemble. I won’t call this dandyism, but Amit’s special brand of uproarious laughter. I don’t profess to understand Western Sartorial styles.
But the knowledgeable assure me that Amit’s carefully-achieved disheveled appearance is considered to be in the right mode. His eccentricities are not adopted to enhance his personal charms. but to mock prevailing fashions. You may see many who are formally classified under ‘youth’ because of their age. Amit’s youth springs from pure youthfulness, totally reckless, holding nothing back, uncalculating, sweeping all before it like a tidal wave.
He has two sisters- Sissy and Lissy, new products in the market – gift – wrapped in the latest fashion from head to toe. Complete to a shade in high heels, stringed coral and amber beads peeking from tightly- fitting lace-edged jackets, saris obliquely and closely hugging their bodies. They move clickety-click, speak in high tones, laugh in musical octaves, shoot flirtatious glances and quick, shy smiles and certainly know the value of deep, meaningful glances. They also flutter their pink fans before their faces, perch on sofa-arms where their men-friends lounge, and to their playful daring they retaliate with men-friends lounge, and to their playful daring they retaliate with equally playful scolds, accompanied by light taps of their fans.
Male hearts fill with envy at Amit’s success as a ladies’ man. He has no particular partiality for any one- indeed; his enthusiasm generously includes the entire sex. Amit is not short of feminine company, so he isn’t frantic for it. He is a regular at parties, participates in card-games, deliberately loses bets, pleads soulfully with particularly tone-deaf ladies for more songs and is mustard-keen to know, from women wearing really garish colors, the names and location of the shops they patronize. His tone takes on a special inflection for each and every female acquaintance. Yet nobody is deceived – they all know his is an impartial partiality. A person sincerely devoted to many Gods and Goddesses, elevates each secretly to the top. The divinities are wise to the maneuvers but are also but also pleased. Hopeful mothers continue hoping, but the daughters have figured out the elusive and tantalizing quality of this constantly receding horizon. Amit ponders the feminine mystique, but is unable to come to a conclusion. He can nonchalantly strike up friendships with all and sundry and remains totally intrepid while treading the dangerous path to female friendship. Because of this, he never ever runs the risk of getting singed, despite his close range to such highly inflammable material.
Just the other day at a picnic,