Read Online THE MAGICAL PALACE by Kunal Mukjerjee - Free Book Online
Authors: Kunal Mukjerjee
Tags: Fiction
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rang the doorbell.
Binesh Kaku came to the door and we saw a crowd in the background, their words tumbling towards us in the torrent of sweetness that is Bengali. Trying not to look at the woolly tufts sprouting from his ears, Rani and I chorused together: ‘Nomoshkar, Binesh Kaku.’
‘Rahul, Rani!’ a glowing Mallika exclaimed as she came running into the foyer dressed in a light summer frock, followed by her sister Shyamala.
Mallika’s hair was thick and lustrous and flowed down to her waist. She had a lovely smile, radiant and impish, that made her dimples show and her eyes sparkle. It was like the full moon peering from a break in the clouds, breathtaking every time. With her oval face, doe-like eyes—slanting slightly, like Goddess Durga’s—and soft complexion, she was the most beautiful person I knew—next to my mother, of course. ‘If I ever marry anyone, it will be Mallika Didi,’ I had once told my parents, who laughed as if it were a good joke. She was eighteen now and had just started going to college.
We entered the foyer and scattered in different directions, on different missions. In the sitting room, I was surrounded by a sea of white dhotis and kurtas, heavy black-framed glasses, tussar silk saris with red borders, clinking bangles of gold and conch with dragon heads, and an unending streamof ‘nomoshkars’. Conversation about politics, football and gossip swirled around me. The air was redolent with the smells of Priya perfume and mustard oil. I had to greet the Roy Choudhurys, the Banerjees, the Bhattacharjees, the Senguptas, the Mukherjees, the Chatterjees and the Gangulys as they entered the house for the Puja Committee meeting. Kitchen-calloused hands and well-meaning pats ruined the carefully arranged curl on the middle of my forehead as I bobbed and weaved through the crowd, trying to get to Mallika’s room.
As I emerged from the crowded sitting room, I stopped. I had to straighten my rumpled clothes. Rani and Shyamala were chatting with some other girls at the bottom of the stairs and I could hear the excited buzz. As I approached, their voices dropped to whispers.
‘Rahul, go and play with the boys, not the girls,’ Rani said to me. ‘The Sarkar boys are playing outside.’
I was fed up of being urged to play with boys and participate in their inane games of football and cricket. Being a Bengali male meant that I had to show my prowess at these games, kind of like how Indian males wear the moustache with pride. While I loved to play hide-and-seek, I hated the idea of running around on a field, getting my shoes dirty and being pushed around. The last time I played with the Sarkar boys, they let the bullies on the other team trip me several times. After that, I swore to myself that I would never play football again.
To hell with the Sarkar boys and the stupid girls, I thought as I climbed the stairs to Mallika’s room. I had Mallika to myself and could not care less about their idiotic secrets.
I entered the room without knocking. She was lying on the bed with a dreamy smile, holding something to her chest.As I entered, she jumped and thrust what she was holding under her pillow. I heard the thin rice-paper crackling.
I loved Mallika’s room. It was elegant and eclectic, just like her. I looked around, taking in the colourful posters of my favourite film stars, Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore. I lingered for a moment, savouring Paul Newman and Gregory Peck. Our ritual at each visit was to play one of the board games kept in a well-stocked old chest. At other times, a steady supply of books from the crammed bookshelves fed my voracious reading appetite.
We had a lot of fun when Mallika would shut the door and play albums of The Ventures from her collection of records stacked on top of the phonogram. We would dance to ‘ Walk, Don’t Run ’ or ‘ Tequila ’ and sing along loudly. Soon Binesh Kaku would be at the door, asking us to turn the music down because it gave
Binesh Kaku came to the door and we saw a crowd in the background, their words tumbling towards us in the torrent of sweetness that is Bengali. Trying not to look at the woolly tufts sprouting from his ears, Rani and I chorused together: ‘Nomoshkar, Binesh Kaku.’
‘Rahul, Rani!’ a glowing Mallika exclaimed as she came running into the foyer dressed in a light summer frock, followed by her sister Shyamala.
Mallika’s hair was thick and lustrous and flowed down to her waist. She had a lovely smile, radiant and impish, that made her dimples show and her eyes sparkle. It was like the full moon peering from a break in the clouds, breathtaking every time. With her oval face, doe-like eyes—slanting slightly, like Goddess Durga’s—and soft complexion, she was the most beautiful person I knew—next to my mother, of course. ‘If I ever marry anyone, it will be Mallika Didi,’ I had once told my parents, who laughed as if it were a good joke. She was eighteen now and had just started going to college.
We entered the foyer and scattered in different directions, on different missions. In the sitting room, I was surrounded by a sea of white dhotis and kurtas, heavy black-framed glasses, tussar silk saris with red borders, clinking bangles of gold and conch with dragon heads, and an unending streamof ‘nomoshkars’. Conversation about politics, football and gossip swirled around me. The air was redolent with the smells of Priya perfume and mustard oil. I had to greet the Roy Choudhurys, the Banerjees, the Bhattacharjees, the Senguptas, the Mukherjees, the Chatterjees and the Gangulys as they entered the house for the Puja Committee meeting. Kitchen-calloused hands and well-meaning pats ruined the carefully arranged curl on the middle of my forehead as I bobbed and weaved through the crowd, trying to get to Mallika’s room.
As I emerged from the crowded sitting room, I stopped. I had to straighten my rumpled clothes. Rani and Shyamala were chatting with some other girls at the bottom of the stairs and I could hear the excited buzz. As I approached, their voices dropped to whispers.
‘Rahul, go and play with the boys, not the girls,’ Rani said to me. ‘The Sarkar boys are playing outside.’
I was fed up of being urged to play with boys and participate in their inane games of football and cricket. Being a Bengali male meant that I had to show my prowess at these games, kind of like how Indian males wear the moustache with pride. While I loved to play hide-and-seek, I hated the idea of running around on a field, getting my shoes dirty and being pushed around. The last time I played with the Sarkar boys, they let the bullies on the other team trip me several times. After that, I swore to myself that I would never play football again.
To hell with the Sarkar boys and the stupid girls, I thought as I climbed the stairs to Mallika’s room. I had Mallika to myself and could not care less about their idiotic secrets.
I entered the room without knocking. She was lying on the bed with a dreamy smile, holding something to her chest.As I entered, she jumped and thrust what she was holding under her pillow. I heard the thin rice-paper crackling.
I loved Mallika’s room. It was elegant and eclectic, just like her. I looked around, taking in the colourful posters of my favourite film stars, Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore. I lingered for a moment, savouring Paul Newman and Gregory Peck. Our ritual at each visit was to play one of the board games kept in a well-stocked old chest. At other times, a steady supply of books from the crammed bookshelves fed my voracious reading appetite.
We had a lot of fun when Mallika would shut the door and play albums of The Ventures from her collection of records stacked on top of the phonogram. We would dance to ‘ Walk, Don’t Run ’ or ‘ Tequila ’ and sing along loudly. Soon Binesh Kaku would be at the door, asking us to turn the music down because it gave
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