It was not yet five minutes to eleven when Sunanda stood in front of the elevator. The lift operator greeted her respectfully, and opened the doors of the lift for her. In a few minutes she had reached her room, where the office-boy greeted her with equal respect and politely held the door open for her. He looked at the wall clock briefly and switched on the fan. A few of the documents on the desk get blown away; it is the office-boy who runs about, picks them up, arranges them on the table, and places a paperweight on them. Sunanda looks at the paperweight, made out of beautifully carved white marble, in some surprise. This did not belong here; she used to have a dull old disc of lead. How did this get here?

“Where did the paperweight come from?”

“Chandrababu changed it . . .”

Mr Chandrakanta Ghosh happens to be Sunanda’s private secretary.

The wall clock rings ten.

“Call Chandrababu, will you?”

The office-boy leaves. Sunanda bites her lower lip for a few moments.

Sunanda is very dark, has small eyes and very thin brows. Her face is as round as a pumpkin. But she is a highly educated woman—an MA, PhD. in fact. She has done a great deal of research in various American and British universities. She has, therefore, not had any trouble finding a job after returning to India. She holds a senior post entirely through her own merit. She is the daughter of a mere clerk; there are ten children in all. Had she not been a scholarship girl, she would never have been able to complete her studies. Indeed, she basks entirely in her own glory. Moreover, she has taken over all her father’s responsibilities.

There are a few files on her desk. She starts looking through them. After going through them, she glances up at the clock again. It’s nearly ten-thirty; still no sign of Chandrababu. Most exasperating. At half-past-ten, an abashed Chandrakanta enters her room.

“Look at the clock and tell me what time it is . . .”

“I’m terribly sorry I’m late yet again. My wife’s not been very well; I had to fetch the doctor.”

Sunanda replies in a sharp tone, “You’re lying, because I know that you’re not married. I know that your father’s looking for a beautiful bride for you. He wants a fairy princess and half the kingdom for his son, the petty clerk. Yes, I know everything.”

Chandrakanta is mortified with embarrassment. His face looks like wet dough, his eyes look downward.

“Where did the paperweight come from?”

“It was my paperweight. I left it for you to use. Yours was so ugly that I thought you might like . . .”

“Please remove your paperweight. I’m happy with the one that the office provides. What’s that you’re holding?”

Chandrakanta is silent for a few seconds. Then, in a virtually inaudible voice, exclaims, “Cashew nuts . . .”

“Cashew nuts . . .! Are you telling me you spend your time in the office chewing cashew nuts?”

“I got them for you. I’d heard that you like cashew nuts . . .”

After a few seconds, Sunanda’s nostrils flare; her eyes glitter with rage.

“What the hell d’you think you’re up to? Get out of this room! I’m going to suspend you. What’re you waiting for, go on . . .”

Chandrakanta Ghosh starts sobbing loudly. Then he falls at Sunanda’s feet in a dramatic manner, “Please, I’m helpless. Forgive me this once, please . . .”

It is not possible to tell whether Sunanda forgave Chandrakanta or not, because about then she was woken by the bite of a bedbug. Her horrendous existence was suddenly reflected in front of her, the smelly bed, her half-naked brothers and sisters sleeping all around her, the grimy walls, the smell of the open sewer next to the house. Her mother was calling her, “Suni, wake up, love. Come on, you’ve got to light the stove quickly. It’s Monday, we’ve got to cook a meal for your father before he leaves for office.”

She remembers that Chandrakanta Ghosh had visited their house, with about ten people in tow. He had come to view her as a prospective bride. She remembers how her father had constantly flattered him. She remembers how they had spent nearly ten rupees on the high tea. But Chandrakanta had not considered her suitable. She remembers everything.

From another room, her father’s voice can be heard.

“Dear, do make sure Suni’s dressed up properly in the evening. Ramtaran Mina from my office is coming to see her . . .”

Sunanda used to be rather good at her studies. She had always been at the top of her class, and had passed the ‘matriculation’ exams with a first division. But her father had not allowed her to continue her education.

Sunanda rises and walks out the front door. And never returns. You might have seen her photograph in the ‘missing’ columns. Then again, you might not have.