The lane where he lived reminded Anirban of the TV serial, Nukkad, which he loved because of its street characters who were so real-like that he at times he even talked to them while watching the show. The lane— the corporation address qualified it as a bylane leaving Anirban trying to figure out the difference— was grandly named after Raja Harishchandra or Harishchandra, the King; whether it was a tribute to the first Indian talkie or the King himself, nobody was quite sure. There were rows of shops jostling for space on either side of the lane which had just about enough room for a rickshaw and a small car to pass through together and there was talk among oldtimers that when the going was good and the world was not such a bad place to live in, neighbours actually exchanged teacups and banter across windows of different flats. And wives, drying their wet, bathed hair, chatted one-to-one on balconies separated only by a partition wall.
Anirban lived alone in a tiny one-roomed first floor flat but what he liked most about his home was the small, squarish balcony that overlooked the dirty, dingy lane below. He did not socialise with any of his neighbours and, anyway, he was hardly home, leaving at nine in the morning and returning late at night, sometimes not at all. The neighbourhood was somewhat wary of him; old men looked at him with disdain, the middle-aged refused to acknowledge him, and those who could have been his friends had Anirban given them some hint that he was willing, gave him various names behind his back. His only communication was with the local stationery shop-owner, Bihari, who gave him cigarettes "on account" and never bothered about prompt payment and some local boys who lived on the small, lean pavements and escorted him up the stairs when he came home late at night, obviously too drunk to make it to his flat. Anirban was a sub-editor with the fastest-growing English daily of Kolkata, a job for which he slogged, sometimes double-shifts a day, and which, at the end of the month, gave him just enough money to eat a little and drink a lot. Most of the time, Anirban drank with willing colleagues who, like him, had nowhere to go, but his preferred regimen was drinking alone. He drank only rum which he bought from the store just next to where the bus dropped him, and he made it a point to open the newspaper wrapping and carry the pint of rum in full view of the conservative neighbourhood as he walked down the lane to his flat. At times, stopping at Bihari's, he even opened the cap and deliberately took a swig or two, lit up a cigarette and then proceeded on his brisk walk home. He loved to shock Raja Harishchandra Bylane.
The locality hated him. But nobody told him anything either. He didn't bother. This lane in North Kolkata had seen drunks for two centuries. As long as you didn't make a pass at any of the daughters or sisters of the locality, you were just mere garbage. Nobody bothered.
Not even when Anirban and Kaka played antakshari from the balcony. A game of songs in which one player took his cue from the other, beginning his version with the last syllable. It was a game vastly popular in India but not a game which was played in the dead of night across a balcony and a still pavement. It was also a game, naturally, of music where defeat came when any of the players failed to continue the strains with a new song. It was, also obviously, a longish game with no set time limit.
Anirban and Kaka played this game every night.
