Untold Stories

Based on a true incident.

Dramatis Personae:

Nora D’Souza , a housewife

Mr. D’Souza, her husband

Mrs. Banerjee

Dr. Doubay, a psychiatrist

 

Scene 1

Nora and her husband have just moved into an apartment in Salt Lake, Kolkata. It is a posh locality now, but the complex in itself is quite old, and still houses some middle class inhabitants who moved in more than a decade ago. The D’Souzas share the floor with a certain Mrs. Banerjee, an old schoolteacher and a widow. Nora has been busy unpacking, and hence has not found time to pay her neighbour a visit yet.

“Knock-knock!”

N: Who’s there?

B: It’s Mrs. Banerjee from right across the floor, dear. [Nora opens the door] I’m afraid I have run out of sugar. Could I borrow some from you, if you don’t mind?

N: Why, certainly, Mrs. Banerjee. [Takes the cup and goes into the kitchen] I’m so sorry we couldn’t meet earlier. There has been so much to unpack since yesterday, you see. [Comes back] But I haven’t seen much of you or anyone else around as well.

B: Well, my sons are busy with their lives, you see: one’s in Chicago, and the other in Mumbai. But I don’t complain. I have my students, you see.

N: Yes, I’ve heard that you teach in CBS. Which subject do you teach, if I may ask?

B: Well, on paper, I teach the kids Bengali literature. But frankly speaking, I only tell them stories. That’s all I have: my students and the stories that I tell them.

N: Well, that’s great, Mrs. Banerjee! I love listening to stories. To be honest, I am still like this little girl who just wants to listen to fairy tales all day long. Could you tell me some?

B: Why, yes! Do you want to listen to one now?

N: Now?

H: [From the bedroom] Honey, who’s it?

N: It’s Mrs. Banerjee from next door, dear. Why don’t you come out and meet her?

H: In a moment. [Emerges out of the bedroom, wearing formals, and carrying a briefcase] Hello, Mrs. Banerjee. How are you?

B: Well, I’m doing fine, son.

N: Mrs. Banerjee teaches Bengali literature. And she tells stories to her students.

H: Well, that’s nice. What kind of stories? The school curriculum could certainly do with tales of success of the rich and famous of today.

B: No dear, I’m afraid I don’t know much about such successful lives. My fables are more about simple lives and a simple laugh.

N: You’ll be my best friend, Mrs. Banerjee. You know what, honey? She’s going to tell me a story now.

H: How nice of her! Too bad I can’t join in: have to rush to office, you see. And darling, I will be late tonight, so don’t wait up for me please. [Leaves]

 

Scene 2

N: It’s been a while since I’ve seen Mrs. Banerjee. Earlier, she used to tell me stories every other day: some fictitious, and some drawn from her own experiences. She always told me that I was a fettered bird, yearning to fly, but afraid of failure and the aftermath. I didn’t understand what she meant by it. Or maybe I did, but could not muster enough courage to accept my Fate.

     Wait, I hear footsteps. That must be Mrs. Banerjee. [Rushes to the door]

     Mrs. Banerjee, I’ve missed you so much. Where have you be(en)....you do not look well. Take a seat, you’ll go to your room later. [Ushers her into the living room. Helps her sit.] Wait, let me get a glass of water for you. [Quickly gets a glass from the kitchen. Hands it over] Now, tell me what’s wrong.

B: Well, dear. You know what’s the most painful phase in childbirth? It’s not the nine months of carrying an oversized belly around. Nor is it the rigour of labour. The most painful moments in childbirth are those 10 seconds when the doctor snaps the umbilical cord, changing a symbiotic relationship into an emotional uncertainty. And the law of the land has gracefully snapped mine today.

N: I don’t quite understand.

B: Today I retired from my profession as a schoolteacher. Now I have no one to tell stories to.

N: Well, you have me. You’ll always have me. I have been yearning to hear your stories for a long time now. But you didn’t visit.

B: Well, I will, from now on. Because you, my darling, just made my day. Let our story sessions resume from today evening, what say?

N: I’ll be present, Ma’am.

 

Scene 3

H: Nora, you need to listen to me. You’re wasting your time behind this Mrs. Banerjee. You’re missing all those wonderful gatherings just to listen to garbage from that old crone. You’ll make someone of yourself if you attend the parties and talk with the guests there about your designs instead.

N: Since when did you start caring about my designs? You were dead against the idea of me opening up a boutique in the first place!

H: But that was a long time ago, dear. I saw how Miss Beri appreciated your work the other day. And opening a boutique is a viable proposition only when you have a few from the glitterati to endorse your creations. That’s why you must not let go of any opportunity of attending these parties. Like the one in the evening. A couple of big names from the movies are supposed to grace the occasion, I hear. This is the best shot you can have at striking gold. Give me a call when you reach my office in the evening: we’ll leave from there. And do not forget to get your scrapbook along. [Leaves]

N: Nowadays, my husband takes immense care of my interests, you see. As long as they help his cause. He makes me strut like a doll at his social gatherings, trying to partake of whatever appreciation my designs evoke. He has never really understood me or my dreams. I hate making a public display of my creations at such parties, simply because I do not intend to design for the opulent. I wanted to open a boutique for the common woman, who values art as well as her means. But I cannot muster enough courage to make him see. Hence, on every occasion, I have to conjure some lame excuse to avoid dining with his ‘rich and famous’. And listen to Mrs. Banerjee’s stories instead.

     Not that I particularly feel inclined to spending time with my neighbour nowadays. Her stories have become repetitive in theme, always having a moral tone in them. Or maybe I’m just hurt because she throws me a mirror to look at my farce of a life through every fable of hers. Her enthusiasm levels have not dipped one bit. I often wonder how one can narrate the same tales for some years with unwavering zeal. My husband thinks she’s no good to the society, that she’s just an old chatterbox who loves to frame Aesop’s fables in her own context, to preach of values which are Utopian and hence, impractical. Though I thoroughly disapprove of such comments being passed about an old lady, I must admit that I so longer feel the same excitement for my neighbour’s stories. Nowadays, I ...

“Knock-knock!”

N: Who’s there?

B: It’s your storyteller, dear. Do you have a minute?

N: [opens the door] Why, yes! I do have some household chores to complete, though.

B: Well, that’s fine. I have to rush to collect my pension as well. I just came to return something.

N: What?

B: Remember how we first met? You gave me a cup of sugar. Well, I shall remain indebted to you forever for the sugar, but I felt the need of liberating myself from the debt of the cup. [Hands the cup]

N: Oh! I had forgotten about it. Totally.

B: Well, I found it lying inside one of the cupboards today. Anyways, do we sit down for another wonderful story in the evening?

N: I don’t know. I would have loved to, but my husband’s really adamant that I attend this party which a couple movie stars are attending. He says it would help my dream of opening up a boutique.

B: Really? Well, that’s wonderful then. I’ll be so happy for you, my little bird. You must attend this party then. The storytelling can wait. Go fly, chase your dreams!

 

Scene 4

“Knock-knock!”

N: Who’s there?

P: It’s the doctor, Ma’am.

N: [opens the door] But I didn’t call for you, Sir.

P: It’s about Mrs. Banerjee, Ma’am. Could I come in?

N: Why, sure! [Takes him to the living room] Please have a seat.

P: My name is Dr. Doubay, Ma’am, and I’m a psychiatrist. [Hands over card] I would like to ask a few questions regarding Mrs. Banerjee, if you don’t mind.

N: I don’t quite understand. Why would a psychiatrist be attending on Mrs. Banerjee?

P: All in due time, Ma’am. I need some additional information to surmise my diagnosis, you see.

N: Okay, go ahead.

P: How long have you known Mrs. Banerjee?

N: Since we moved into this apartment. A year ago, I believe.

P: Hmm. And how familiar were you with her?

N: We knew each other quite well. She used to visit us often.

P: Used to?

N: Well, you see, I’ve really been busy for the last four months. Setting up a boutique is no easy task, I must admit.

P: Well, that sounds good. Anyways, you must have talked to each other once in a while even for the last few months, given that you’re next door neighbours.

N: Well, yes. We did exchange niceties when we met on the stairs and all, but the visits have somehow waned over the period. And I haven’t really met her during the last month. I figured she must be away visiting her sons.

P: Well, she has been away, but not on a visit. She is being treated in a mental rehabilitation clinic. One of her sons had visited her about a month ago, and seen her talking to herself. She was found sitting in a corner of the room, telling herself fables. She had stopped eating as well, apparently.

N: But... how did it all happen? She used to be so merry and nice.

P: From what I know, I can conclude that she went into depression once she retired, may be due to financial reasons. She wanted to latch on to her previous life as a schoolteacher, and this resulted in her disillusionment.

N: Hmm. Where is she now?

P: Well, she’s under medication and will be returning to her flat later in the day. Her sons have kept a maid to take care of her. I just wanted to let you know about her condition.

N: Is there anything I, we, could do?

P: You could do with visiting her once in a while. The maid is anyways equipped to take care of her. However, if you see or hear anything untoward, please give me a call. Thanks! {Exits. Husband enters from inside the house]

H: I was right, you see. You must thank me for helping you let go of the madwoman. She was nuts, and you weren’t noticing it.

N: Please do not speak ill of her now.

H: Fine. But I would advise you to stay away from her. You can never predict the actions of a deranged person. Anyways, I’m late for office. And you have to go meet that interior designer. Good luck with that! {Exits]

 

Scene 5

“Knock-knock!”

N: Who’s there?

H: It’s me.

N: Glad you’re back early today.

H: Me too. But what the heck is that god-awful stench outside? A couple of seconds more on the landing and I would have fainted!

N: Let me check. [Goes out. It’s a putrid smell, that almost makes Nora faint. She quickly comes bak and closes the door] It’s coming from Mrs. Banerjee’s flat.

H: What in God’s name is that woman up to now? She’s gotten so crazy that her maid’s also run away.

N: Her maid ran away? When? And why didn’t you tell me before?

H: Well, a fortnight ago. And it was inconsequential news for us anyways.

N: But what if ...

H: Honey, do one thing. Call up the psychiatrist please. He’s the one who should be handling all this.

[The psychiatrist is called. He rushes in with a team of medics. They break open the door. The psychiatrist asks the D’Souzas to lock themselves in for a while, till the team has steadied things. They go in, masked proper. An hour later]

“Knock-knock!”

[Nora rushes to the door and opens it. The psychiatrist is standing outside, long-faced. The door to Mrs. Banerjee’s flat is open. A disturbing smell of phenyl and other antitoxic sprays is coming out of it. Nora brushes the doctor aside and rushes into the apartment]

P: I’m truly sorry. She has been dead for a week or so. It’s strange how no one noticed earlier.

[His words are drowned by a shriek that Nora gives, just before fainting. As the psychiatrist helps Nora, her husband walks up to the wall which Nora had lent her gaze at before fainting. Among the many words written on the wall in red, Mr. D’Souza is interested in only the first two lines, which read:

“To Nora,

All the stories left untold ...” ]

Curtain falls.