Barely perceptible, very delicate, but unmistakable. A whiff of the star lily. He knew very well that there were no star lilies anywhere in the vicinity. The aroma had
travelled a distance of fifty years to play with his senses. No, this fragrance was permanently ensconced in his mind. That’s where it comes from. The time, the place and
the occasion when first the scent of the star lily became part of his being eluded him. Like a startled bird disappearing in the distance, the effort to remember chased the
scent away. Choudhury sighed.
We look on the past with nostalgia, we dream dreams about the future. The present? It’s a meaningless word. Which portion of the stream of time can we block off and
call it the present? Five minutes? Five seconds? One hundredth of a second? One millionth? If there is no substance to the present then what is the present? Nothing can
take place in the present because a portion of time is required for that. Something has occurred or will occur. We live either in the past or the future. Memories of the past
and dreams for the future, this is our life. Choudhury is getting on in years. There are so many things that he can no longer do nor does he have any desire to do them. He
cannot play soccer, jump around, or fall in love anymore. Dreaming about the future has become a chore.
Choudhury was leaning back in the armchair with his eyes closed. Clear and bright, he could see it once again. Many details had escaped him before this. Maybe he
hadn’t even noticed. But everything was stored in his memory. Now the entire scene appeared clearly before him.
Yes, the birds were singing that morning. Choudhury was a young man, the world in his hands bursting with confidence. Bemused and utterly charmed he was looking on.
In his fixed gaze there was unfettered joy and adoration.
It was early morning. He had climbed out of bed and opened the window. He looked out and stopped in his tracks. A girl was bathing by the well. Not another soul was in
sight. In unworried abandon the girl drew water from the well and poured it on her. As she strained at the bucket of water, the bare breasts danced in time with her
movements.
Choudhury froze, as if he had turned to stone. The window remained half open, his fingers on the bolt. His chest constricted with a mixture of elation and ineffable pain.
An unfamiliar experience! At this moment he became aware of the scent of the star lily. It became inextricably mixed with this entire incident. A totally new sensation
engulfed him. It was as if in the world of the sense she reached a new high. Breath abated he waited. The scent seemed to be a physical entity with shape and colour. It
infused his mind with joy and light. Abruptly he woke up.
"Father."
His daughter-in-law’s voice jolted him from his dream. He was piqued.
"Drink this glass of juice."
"Again? I just had some a little while ago!"
His daughter-in-law did not argue the point. Everyone knew about Choudhury’s increasing memory lapses.
Samar entered.
"Who’s this?" Choudhury asked.
"It’s me, Samar. Don’t you recognise me?"
"When did you arrive? Is the college closed?"
Samar, the second son, had arrived that morning and had already talked to his father. Obviously, his father did not remember.
But he had not forgotten distant events. The birth of his first child for instance. That was the fourteenth of January, 1931. The time was thirteen minutes after seven in the
evening. The news of Amar’s birth wiped away his tremendous anxiety. Joyous laughter flowed out of him.
Amar’s anxious questions brought him back to the present.
"What’s the matter? Are you ill?"
"No."
"Are you hurting somewhere? Can we get you something to drink?"
Choudhury retorted with some irritation, "Why do you insist on my ingesting so much food and water!"
"But he hasn’t had anything since the glass of juice in the morning," asserted his daughter-in-law.
Choudhury was no old man lounging in an easy chair. He was a young man, twenty-two years old. True to habit, he opened the window in the early morning. Suddenly, the
music stopped, the charm broke. The girl spotted him behind the curtains. Scrambling to cover herself, she ran away. The scent of the star lily disappeared with her.
The brightness around him dimmed. The world became dismal. Choudhury had a reputation as a fine, upstanding young man. He felt exposed, revealed.
The girl would tell all. No one would ask him for an explanation. They would draw their own, lewd conclusion. That his intentions were innocent – a pure, platonic worship of
beauty – would not be believed. Explanations would be futile.
A sense of guilt overwhelmed him and clouded his day.
On his way to the marketplace that evening, he saw the girl with two of her friends. As he self-consciously sidled past them, he noticed her eyeing him enigmatically.
Audibly enough to reach his ears he heard her say, "His eyes should be gouged out."
No. There was no hope of forgiveness. No way out of the mire. At least in one person’s mind his name was mud forever. He could not sleep. With a heavy heart he
opened the window as usual in the early morning. Oblivious to her surroundings, the girl was bathing. Peace and relief flooded his mind. The day brightened, the birds sang
joyfully, the scent of the star lily wafted back.
Choudhury has forgotten the incident. He has even forgotten the girl. But that perfume of the star lily remained to become a part of his being. Spanning fifty years, it added
lustre to his waning years.
