It hit him like a first orgasm. Inexplicable, misunderstood, just the moment remaining forever etched in your mind like a Pissarro painting. Only the points making up a whole, not all of them visible, waiting to be touched.
Everything was in place like the last time he left it at night. The lane was flooded with currency notes, like a carpet neatly stitched for royalty to walk on. Anirban didn't believe his eyes. Even the coins were all there, some even neatly placed on the rupee notes to prevent them from flying in the wind. Small, round paperweights. The small, dingy bylane littered with money. This, Anirban thought, as he tiptoed on the road, trying to avoid smudging any rupee, was the ultimate fantasy.
And then, something else hit him. More potent, more incomprehensible, more mysterious. Raja Harishchandra Bylane was indifferent. Everything was as should be; nobody even as much cared for the money floating around. There was fat, pot-bellied Chandu walking quickly to the market, jute bag in hand; Mr Mullick trying hard to maneuver his huge, anachronistic Ambassador car out of the lane; the wives, already in deep chatter across balconies; Bihari, welcoming him with his packet of Wills Filter, noting down the date for his account to be settled later when Anirban got his pay packet.
A breeze blew. The rupee notes went flying, like pigeons in flight all over the open sky. The boys, the only ones who seemed to care, rushed in, like those peons you see in government offices, placing paperweights quickly on files so that the babus could turn the fans to full speed.
One by one, as if picking rags, they got the rupee notes back in place, placing the coins on them, fixing the carpet in order.
Not one of the boys, Anirban observed, was even vaguely interested in putting away some of the cash. He saw Rupa, the college girl who stayed next door and looked like Juhi Chawla, that year's Miss India, but who never ever gave him a serious look, pass by without, yet again, acknowledging his presence. She was walking faster than usual, trampling the notes as if they were dirt which would go off the leather-soft sandals she was wearing once she returned home and brushed them against the doormat. Like him, she was late too. Bihari handed him his packet of cigarettes with the same daily question, "Matches...?" Anirban, in a daze, walked past. He saw one of the rickshaws which had still not got a passenger. There was money strewn all over the arm-rest, the seat, on the ground; the rickshawallah himself was busy mixing his khaini. Unmindful.
Chandu-da was returning. "Aaj kissu pelam na bajarey, bujhley? Not even potatoes in the market... And there's a shutdown tomorrow , as well. Have you heard, Mr Reporter? " Chandu, for whom all journalists were reporters, smiling, the good neighbour suddenly, had never ever talked to him before. Here he was discussing potatoes with Anirban. And tomorrow's shutdown. Not a word about the money carpet. Wasn't anybody interested in money any longer?
There was something seriously wrong. Anirban thought he was Alice. He looked at the sky. May be, it would rain. There were clouds, dark, ominous. Did it rain in wonderlands?
