2441139 - A Love Story

                                                            2441139 – A Love Story

“2 44 1139…Bela Bose tumi parcho ki shunte? Is this 2 44 1139? Bela Bose, can you hear me?

10-12 bar wrong number periye tomake peychi I’ve got you after 10-12 wrong numbers

debo na kichu tiear harate” No way I’m gonna lose you


Ach! How embarrassing, Bela thought, wiping the tears that threatened to spill forth from her kohl- lined, dark, honey colored, almond shaped eyes. She had a delightful heart shaped face with a smooth upturned nose, where you could see a small scar reminiscent of a piercing, if you looked closer, and a small mouth, forever in a pout. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, but a few strands had escaped, outlining her face, as she dug into the box of tissues, sniffling. Everytime she heard this Anjan Dutta song, she was transported back to her college days, where her then boyfriend, Kabir, had sung it to her on her birthday, introducing it as “To my Bela, by my favourite singer”, and proceeded to sing it so soulfully that she couldn’t help getting up at the end of the song and collapsing in his arms. She had imagined the whole scene as the song progressed, she as Bela and the singer as her lover, and imagined the agony and the angst of a relationship that had to be contained in cheap hotels and cabins, and the threats of marriage Bela received every day from her Mother. She had loved Kabir, their incandescent love was famous all over the college. She had been the happiest then, life was beautiful in all its glory, and there was no need to change anything.

“What are you sniffling for? Wait, I don’t care, no need to answer.” The manager of the restaurant was breathing down her back. “Table no. 7 complained of ill- attentiveness. Said you were looking through them and didn’t write down the orders. What’s wrong with you, Bela? You have been my best worker so far. I needn’t tell you to keep your personal troubles apart when you work. We have enough here. Go on, apologise to Table 7, they are new in town. Take their orders. Now go.”

Bela brushed the hair off her face, buried her nose in the tissue, trashed it, and strutted to Table no. 7, her 5’ 8 figure towering over most women around her, and smiling at the regulars. She was attracting attention from the nearby tables, men who had been waiting to catch glimpses of her shapely body and long legs, and others who wanted to place more orders. Table 7 seated a Bengali family, a husband, a wife, a kid and an elderly lady, a grandmother, most likely. As soon as the old lady saw her, she threw her a filthy look and proceeded to open her menu card. The kid smiled at her. He looked like Kabir. In the background, Anjan Dutta was crooning. "The Indian Bob Dylan", Kabir used to say. He was so interested in music. It was suddenly difficult to concentrate. Bela whipped out her waitress’s flipbook and pen and flashed her famous smile. The kid responded.

“Ice-cream khabo.” (I want to have ice-cream)

“Which flavour do you like?”

“Can I have a little of everything?”

The wife laughed. “He is a delightful boy, little Mial.” Bela could detect a hint of a Spanish accent in her voice, besides a lot of pride.

“You are from Spain, Ma’am?”

“Well, I was born in this beautiful little town called Oviedo. Ah! Bonito. But I studied in London during my school and college days. Mial misses Oviedo, don’t you? We had just been there, you know, for the past two weeks.”

"But your Bengali is quite good," said Bela.

"Ah yes, I remain a true one at heart, "the wife said, smiling at her.

“It’s my summer holidays,” Mial broke in, “I like speaking Bengali. Dad speaks it when he talks to himself.”

“Oh, Mial, how naughty!” exclaimed the grandmother. Laughing, Bela turned to the dad, who was hovering over the page containing the Chinese and Italian dishes.

He looked up at her. “Can I have a pizza? Do you have wood oven pizzas?”

Bela couldn’t believe her eyes. “Kabir?”

“Excuse me?” said the man.

“I think you have mistaken him for someone else. It always happens,” the wife said gently, looking at Bela with a bit of concern and a huge degree of curiosity.

“Ah, I’m sorry; you have got the wrong man. I’m not Kabir. I’m Milind.” He smiled at Bela.

Dam nit! Even after all these years, after all these freaking years, I still can’t get over him. Fuck you, Kabir.

“I’m really sorry. I mistook you for a college friend. I’m so sorry.”

She collected the remaining orders, a pasta and a fried rice, with the old lady refusing to speak to her, instead whispering into the wife’s ears and glaring at Bela, and left for the kitchen to relay the orders. This had been her last order of the day that had kept her quite busy. All she wanted was a beer and cigarettes, Panama, her favourite brand, and some old Bengali songs or some jazz. Years ago, just after college had ended she had had her break-up with Kabir. He, apparently, had found his true love “…exactly like in the song “Aaaiiieee found my own true love was, on a blue Sunday”. Bela, she’s the one for me. Do you understand? I have adored you, I have enjoyed every moment with you, but she is the one. In life, you will learn, love is the carrot for the donkeys, that’s us, Bela, we are the donkeys. Very few fortunate ones find their partners and stay happy. Do you believe me, Bela, if I tell you that I wouldn’t have found mine if I wasn’t with you? You have been there for me and loved me. Now it is my turn to love someone. The way you have cared for me, I need to do the same for her. She loves me too, we care for each other. Thank you, Bela. I am sure you will make someone very happy. Some day you will find your own true love. Will you remember the songs I sung for you? This is not good-bye forever, Bela. We will remain friends forever, Bela. I will keep in touch with you. Bye!”

And he was off, on his Bullet, his curly hair getting tossed crazily in the wind. Bela imagined being on a ship on a churning sea. She couldn’t believe what had happened. Kabir had called her and fixed up a meeting in the restaurant where they seldom went to, it was too expensive and offered less privacy. She had imagined a surprise. Well, it was one, Bela thought, but what a prize fool I was. I didn’t say anything to him. Two years of loving you, Kabir, and this is the shit I get in return. All those promises of living together and loving each other; everything just disappeared like you did, that day. No letter, no card and you said we will remain friends forever. Fuck you, Kabir; I let you destroy my life. I never could stop loving you.I made the mistake of believing you.


Bela cleaned up Table 7, wiping away the ice cream smudges and returned to the changing room. She got out her coat, slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped into her sandals. Grabbing her umbrella she made for the door before Manan, the manager could catch her.

“Bela!!Hey…”


She jumped into a waiting auto rickshaw , “Brook Street. Hurry.” She settled back, trying to hide in the shadows and clutched her purse tightly. She remembered the agonising hours at night she had let out her tears. In front of her family, she had pretended indifference as if she knew that love dies and she had been ready for this. Her Mother was most pleased at her maturity and had readily agreed to let her go on a trek to the mountains. She had met many people on the way, hooked up with some of them, calling it ‘rebound’, letting herself believe that the more the number of men, the faster it heals. It had indeed seemed so, as long as she stayed away from home, but once she came back, she realised Kabir’s memory had stuck in her mind and was refusing to be scrapped off. She cried, scolded herself, cursed Kabir, dated men, but kept coming back to the restaurant where he had left her all alone that day.



He had said he would keep in touch. He will come here in search of me. I have to be here when he comes back. He will realise my love for him is better than his new love and come back. He will sing ‘Bela Bose’ to me. We will kiss. He will cry. Cry a lot. Cry the whole night. Tell me he made a mistake in leaving me. I will watch him. Take his hands and hug him tight but I will let him cry. Then I will make love to him. I will tell him I have missed him. I will never let him go.


She took up a job as a waitress in the restaurant; moved out of home, telling her Mother she would continue studying, maybe go abroad. She did two more years of University, got her Masters in English literature, helped out a friend with her interior designing business, but continued her job as a waitress. That had been 9 years ago. Her new friends believed that she kept her ill-paid and ill-suited job due to family problems and she let them think whatever they wanted to while she waited for Kabir to return. Initially, she had tried all means to trace his whereabouts but he had done his Houdini act well. He had no family, so Bela was left asking friends and making phone call after phone call. As the years went by, she became more patient but kept telling herself he won’t come back.

He’s settled in Europe somewhere with his family and two kids. He forgot his promise. He doesn’t deserve my love. I’m pathetic. Waiting for so many years for some asshole who doesn’t even care for me. I don’t care if he is alive or not. I don’t care for him. I can’t let myself rot in this dirty city with this horrible job of waiting at tables and getting shouted at. All my life’s education isn’t worth this trash I’m suffering for. Do I realise what a big mistake I’m making? Kabir will never be back. He’s gone. Forever. I need to move on.

Still, she continued working at the restaurant and getting shouted at, taking orders, letting men ask her out and buy her coffee, sleeping with them when she got too lonely, getting drunk at nightclubs, but never leaving the city.

“Madam, right or left?”

Shaken from her reverie, she surveyed her surroundings in the inky blackness of the July night. The streetlamps had long been broken by the boys from the neighbourhood in a game of ‘Do or Dare’ and no one else seemed to care.

“Er, right. Then straight. The house at the end of the street.”

The auto rickshaw moved clumsily on the ill-paved road , shattering the silence and farting loudly. It stopped in front of her gate. Bela got down, paid the driver and hunted for the keys in her purse as the auto belched, stuttered and roared away. She unlocked the door and was swallowed in the darkness. Dropping her purse carelessly and forgetting to shut the door,she blindly made her way to the kitchen. Grabbing a beer from the fridge she went to the record player, set Anjan Dutta on an endless loop, lit a cigarette, inhaled and held it in for sometime. Her throat burning, she collapsed on the couch and drank, letting the cold beer trail down her throat, the dress sticking to her bosom, sobbing like a child, the cigarette forgotten on the ashtray, slowly burning away, the only light in the darkness enveloping her, making her shiver, the bottle still stuck at her lips while she drank away her pain.


"Halo? 2 44 11 39 ?

din na deke bela-ke ektibar                        Please can’t you call Bela once?

Meter jacche bere ei public telephone-e      The telephone meter is running

jaruri khub jaruri dorkar                              Need her urgently, very urgently"