Anirban was on the balcony. Kaka fished out the old Victoria from his box which reminded Anirban of a wrinkled magician who used to sit on the pavement outside New Cinema theatre near the huge media house Ananda Bazar Patrika with a black box, persuading people to buy con cards. The Victoria was a copper coin which Kaka had got from where even he did not remember but it shone under the moon and had a face of Queen Victoria on both sides. For both of them, the coin was a "She'' and the name, simply Victoria. Unknown to even them perhaps, it gave their game a sense of royalty and pomp. Victoria, as well as the moon, was their mistresses of the night.
Kaka always tossed. And Anirban always let him win. For both of them, this was a ritual which needed to be played out in the darkness. As the coin went up to come down with a silent whir, and Anirban smilingly, confidently lit up yet another cigarette, the moon changed sides. Like a beautiful, sleeping wife. The game had begun.
Kaka began singing. His voice, as Anirban reckoned, was not all that bad but he never got the words right. The pitch was high, sometimes he went totally tuneless, but the tuneless mirth left Anirban asking for more. The level in the bottle went down with every song, Kaka swayed like a merry ghost.
Even the moon was in full splendour; Anirban, his fingers tapping the balcony railings, his feet moving noiselessly with Kaka's music, was convinced that the moonlight was happy too.
Suddenly, he cupped his hands and drank some moonlight. He took a deep breath. The balcony moved. Kaka seemed to come near. It was as if he was on a swing, moving towards Kaka and then swaying away as quickly; never touching each other. Like Satyajit Ray's Charulata and Amal. On the garden. One singing, the other in bliss. A permanent visual image for the Kolkatan. A point of reference.
The moon changed sides again. Anirban squinted. Kaka knew the rules of the game. Anirban never sang. Kaka would go on and on; one after the other, he sang the songs. Mostly popular Hindi RD Burman numbers, sometimes a Salil Choudhury thrown in, to keep alive the Bengali tradition, as it were. This was a one-sided antakshari. But with two players. Always. Like the Victoria with the same face on both sides, like the moon-wife which changed sides, like the moonlight which happily gave herself up in Anirban's cupped hands.
Anirban poured another drink. The measure was now going awry; it was time he got rid of the stainless steel, he thought. The moon was a speck of delight in the red, unseen, deep rum. Anirban drank.
It was then that the first window flung open.
