Chronicles of a small town. Chapter Four. Pen friend.

After Diwali, Nilu returned, but he was taken straight to the hospital from the rail station. We heard the bad news: the surgery failed to fix his broken bone and the surgeons at Howrah orthopaedic hospital had to operate him again after two months. On the second occasion, they used some bone chips from his waist to bolster the patch-up so that the errant bone, which so long was playing truant, could finally be put back together. Apparently, it was due to the primitive and obsolete technique adopted by Dr Samanta on the first occasion that had botched NIlu`s chances big time. Nilu whispered the story to my ear for fear of retribution because now he was transferred to Dr Samanta`s care again, albeit with fresh list of instructions from orthopaedic surgeons of Howrah.

I found he looked paler and thinner than before, and a faint blue line had appeared above his upper lip, like rest of us. I went to the hospital alone, sneaking in just on time, few minutes before the visiting hour was over. I met Nilu`s full family on the hallway, Batulbabu in the lead followed by his wife and five boys like the gander being followed by the geese and the ducklings, but quickly skirted the main corridor and climbed up a narrow staircase. A blue-uniformed attendant, who was walking past ringing the hand-held bell to announce the end of visiting hour, tried to shoo me away; but the podgy nurse, recognizing my face, allowed me for a while. Almost half a year in exile had cost him one academic year, and when I told him that we were going to write the final exam in December, he chuckled sadly. When I asked him to take leave, he told he had something interesting to share.

“What`s that?” I asked.

Nilu took out a bundle of blue envelops, one end open, that seemed to have been read quite a number of times judging the grease and finger marks.

“Read this” He took a letter carefully out of its envelop.

“Whose letter is this?” I asked.

“My pen friend.” Nilu said. His eyes lit up in bright sparkles.

I never heard about pen friends, I didn’t know how they were made, so I looked at his face like a half-wit expecting him to elaborate. Nilu laughed a knowing laugh as if six months of exile in Calcutta, though it was only in a hospital, had made him smarter than rest of us, who by default stayed back.

“Pen friend is somebody who writes letters to you whom you write back.” He said.

“But what will you write to somebody you don’t even know?” I asked.

“You get to know your pen friend slowly through the letters and that`s where the charm lies.” Nilu said.

I didn’t find the whole concept much interesting, but because I didn’t want to hurt his sentiments, more so because he had been bed-bound for half a year, I agreed to read the letter. But one paragraph down, I became glued to it and read it in bated breath fast like a fascinated lover as if this was a love letter, for the sheer joy of reading well written prose. I felt goose bumps while I was reading and began to like her instantly. Suddenly I recognised if I ever had a girl friend she should be capable of writing like her though I didn’t know how she looked like. But I saw her in my mind’s eye; a dainty thirteen year old, who wore her hair in two thick braids. I came to know from her letter that her name was Banochaya Sen, and she lived in 6, Sadananda Road in Calcutta.

Not only she wrote well but her handwriting was also beautiful, matured enough so as to pass easily as that of a post graduate student, but what set her apart was her use of simile and metaphors. She had an enviable knowledge of both English and Bengali literature. I had read few Bengali classics but her repertoire at such a young age was unbelievable.

She wrote Nilu`s plight reminded her about Jem Finch, the elder brother of Scout Finch, also a thirteen year old, who had broken his left elbow in a book called ‘To Kill a Mocking bird’ written by one American writer Harper lee, who had written only one book in her life. I hadn’t read English novels, though I could name some of them because my father was fond of reading Bengali translations of English crime thrillers and borrowed them from railway institute library. Authors like James Hadley Chase, Arthur Halley, Agatha Christie, and Sidney Sheldon, all translated and hard bound in boring maroon covers featured on our dining table. Nilu`s pen friend was in class nine like us and she went to a school called Loreto Convent, a Christian missionary school in Calcutta, unlike ours, where the medium of teaching was English.

When I returned the letter to him, Nilu said,” Impressed?”

“Yes. She writes very well.” I said. With my limited knowledge of literature, I could make out the girl was well read and was few notches above us.

“Where did you find her address?” I asked.

“I got it from newspaper.” Nilu said.

I didn’t know what to say except praising his luck to have such an intelligent pen friend, but he said he wanted to dump her. I was shocked.

“Why? She writes so beautifully!” I said. But soon realised perhaps Nilu was suffering from inferiority complex for he knew he would have to repeat class nine. Or maybe there were some other reason he didn’t want to divulge.

“Have you seen how she addresses me?” Nilu said.

I missed out the opening lines for the excitement of discovering a thirteen year old girl`s writing brilliance, but when Nilu pointed it out I noticed it. She had addressed Nilu as Nila, a female name.

“She doesn`t know that I am a boy!” Nilu said.

“How is that possible? “ I was surprised.

“I enrolled myself as a girl. I am Nila to her.” Nilu smiled mischievously.

“Why?” I almost shouted.

“Because the rules say only girls can write to girls.”

“Oh, you wanted to befriend a girl and know her secrets?” I burst out laughing.

Nilu assumed a funny face for I caught him red-handed. Then he turned sombre, “Not really. I wanted somebody to share my pain. I wanted someone whom I could tell what was going on with me, how I was suffering!” Nilu`s face looked suffused, “There was none in that hospital who knew me – no friends, no acquaintances. I lay on the bed all through the day with plaster on; hardly anybody spoke to me. I was so depressed! The day somehow passed but the night seemed never-ending because I couldn’t sleep a wink. I took to reading books, magazines and whatever I could lay my hand on to. I read the newspaper every day, each word of it until I was tired. One day I noticed a small advertisement given out by a Pen-friend club inviting interested people to become member. So I wrote to them and became a member. They gave me a list of names and addresses and advised boys to write to boys and girls to girls. I don`t know what struck me, maybe I liked the name ‘Banochaya’ and decided to write to her. I could only write her as a girl. So I took my pen-name of Nila.” Nilu paused. “Once I thought of telling her that I was a boy, not a girl. But she was the only friend I had. I couldn’t afford to lose her. I had a feeling that she might stop writing if I told her the truth. So I carried on.” Nilu said.

Oh, God! I thought. I never thought that way. It never occurred to me to consider Nilu`s plight, his frustrations. Seating across him while he lay half-reclining on the bed I put myself in Nilu`s position. What I would have done if I were to face a similar situation? Apart from opening my bleeding heart to a girl for sympathy? Nilu did the same, but he hid his identity. He had to, because the rules said so. I felt bad for him, the poor boy! It must have been terrible to be in a hospital, unable to move about, asking the ayahs and chowkidars all the time to give you pots to pee and shit.

Nilu said Banochaya was a sympathetic listener. On her subsequent letters she wrote about her worries, about her own world, about authors whose name sounded Greek to Nilu and at one point Nilu felt he wasn’t able to keep pace with her. His initial curiosity was gone and he was convinced she would remain a pen friend only. But now Nilu was convalescing; the doctors said in few months Nilu would be able to walk. With the promise of return to his normal life he didn’t require a friend who existed in letters, he wanted his real friends back. Besides, he was tired of his fake identity.

“I had enough.” Nilu said. “If I continue further I might get caught. After all how long you can fake yourself? This girl is too intelligent; I am no match to her. I want you to take over from me?” Nilu said. I felt proud of myself for being judged intellectually superior by my own friend.

“You want me to pose as a girl?” I asked.

“Depends. “ Nilu said.

I suspected Nilu to cook something weirdo again. The boy had a head-full of loony ideas!

“You can tell her that you are my elder brother, or a senior from school if you don`t want to pass for a girl.”

“But what reason should I put forward for writing to her suddenly? You said, only girls can write to girls; in that case I`ll be breaking the rule. What guarantee is there that she won’t stop writing for good?” I said.

“See, in any case I am not going to write to her. If you are interested you can take it from here. You can try. If it works fine, if it doesn’t, let her go to hell!” Nilu seemed peeved about his little genius pen friend. I understood the once sweet relationship now had lost its meaning for Nilu, but I was baffled how to introduce myself in Nilu`s place as a boy.

“Kill me in a road accident.” He said, “Tell her I met an accident, a speeding truck crushed me and I died instantly, or some other kind of drama, in your first letter and introduce yourself. I can guarantee she will reply.”

I was dumbfounded. The little rascal seemed no less a creative genius than his pen friend to me.

“Whoa! What an idea!” I said, happy to see my job now was just a cake walk.

“Now, write a nice little letter, kind of condolence, telling her that after my death, you found out this treasure of mine and felt it was your mighty good duty to inform her about the heartbreaking news and so on etcetera.” Nilu bundled up all the letters and dumped them on my hand.

I watched the bunch of letters curiously wanting to read them immediately but didn’t show my eagerness to Nilu as if I were not so interested in this pen friend business, but only not to upset him, I was accepting this offer.

“You have to update your literary knowledge frequently. The girl reads a lot.” Nilu finally warned.



On my way home, holding the bundle carefully, so that I don`t drop any loose sheet, I felt like a hero who had returned home victorious. I almost wrote the introductory letter in my head but discarded few lines which sounded too sappy.

Later when I reached home, I climbed up roof and in the shadow of the gable read the letters. I read all of them, ten in total, twice over and knew few things that stupid Nilu didn’t tell me.

In one letter, which must be in reply to one of Nilu`s, she wrote she wouldn’t marry ever because she felt she was incomplete. It seemed a mystery to me; I wasn’t sure what that word ‘incomplete’ meant, but she didn’t write anything about it, leaving the reader to guess, the inner meaning of her cryptic statement.

She wrote if there was any character in any novel she wished to resemble, then she would like to be lady Chatterley of DH Lawrence`s ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’. I hadn’t read the book, but wondered how it was possible to become Mrs Chatterley without getting married to one Mr Chatterley, but later, when the writing bug had bitten me and I devoured all the books that DH Lawrence wrote, understood what was going on in her mind when she wrote that.