(Not) a Love Story

                                                        
I am nervous as I dress: I am seeing him again after all these intervening years. I thought I had successfully blotted out that whole painful episode of my life. I still remember our final parting. He was charming as usual, wanting to say how much I had enriched his life, but that, all things had to come to a natural conclusion. I could only nod numbly and found just enough voice to tell him how, on the contrary, he had left me feeling…impoverished, depleted. In my heart I promised never to cross his path again.

And yet here I am, hurrying to meet him. The moment I see his suave figure, old sensations come rushing back, the same sense of panic, the palpitations. I want to turn back and flee. But he moves forward and, as always, takes my hand and brings it to his lips, as elegant European social courtesy demands. You haven’t changed a bit, he assured me as he leads me into the room. I allow him to push me gently into the comfortable chair.

Is that Vivaldi in the back ground that I hear as he begins to lean over me. Suddenly I relax. There is no point fighting the inevitable. I was fated; I sigh as I slowly open my mouth and allow my Dentist to commence his initial probing.

Well, I told you, didn’t I? Anyway, here I am, back in the clutches of one of the finest, most expensive , and most charming dentist in Rome. My husband disagrees in part to this description.  He agrees vigorously that my dentist is certainly one of the most expensive dental surgeons in town, and says that for the kind of money he charges he better be fine at his work too. I am content that he is one of the most charming dentists I have ever allowed to get fresh with my mouth, definitely the only one who kisses my hands at the beginning and end of each session. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! That robber does this to every lady patient, and each time the man kisses your hands you kiss your money goodbye, my husband says darkly. Oh! Please! What would he know about dentists, this husband of mine who has never had a cavity in his life! There should be a law against people like that.

I happen to be a woman who hides a history of failed relationships with dentists and dentistry behind her flashy smile, because I loathe going to dentists, (unlike others). Or, as someone once said wisely, ‘You see I am not like others, I hate pain.’ Then, I found this magician of a dentist who uses a drill as gently and subtly as an artist uses a brush, or as my hubby adds ‘as a pick-pocket removes your wallet.’

At any rate, only my dentist can make a woman, lying with her mouth gaping like a freshly caught carp, feel like a fragile Camille languishing in the sofa. Such a sensitive man! No matter that I have a tube bubbling away my saliva and that my eyes are squinted at all times trying to ccheck whatever the hell is going on inside my Novocain numbed mouth, he treats me like the most ravishing woman getting her eyebrows plucked in a Beauty Salon.

‘Am I hurting you?’ he asks ever so gently. Of course he is not. ‘Lo,’ I respond through the drool. ‘A bit to the right,’ he suggests tenderly and I obediently turn my head and catch sight of my madly grinning gummy profile in a mirror. I scream in horror! My chivalrous dentist is beside himself with grief at causing me agony. ‘Lo lo’, I struggle to protest that I look like a hideous skull. Later, as I sit up and try to locate my dead tongue and smile through my bloated lips, my dentist has already bowed over my sweaty hands murmuring Bellissima Signora. Till the next time.’ Sigh! You see, you see!

Ten years ago, after a protracted six-month treatment, I had come out of my dentist’s office with a new lease of life, a free woman. I was also a walking showcase for all his dental skills:  I had every third tooth root-canalled, bridged, treated, excavated, pulled out, restored, gold-mined or porcelain capped. I thought that was the last I would see of the inside of a dental studio, until that first nagging ache reminded me that we smile on borrowed time and that once you let a dentist near you  he gets his teeth into you. It’s for life.

Well, I have just returned from my visit and now that the minor matter of a loose filling has been sorted out, I think I’ll break it up with my Dentist. It was an unhealthy relationship. I mean, now that my teeth are healthy, who needs him? OUCH!

Oopth! Ith  thith a looth tooth?

Rip Van Winkle

 His grandfather had moved with the capital from the pre-partition days where, five decades later he was born. He grew up in a family that believed in traditional Bengali values from both parts of Bengal. His career later demanded a change of capitals. But the desire to visit his roots remained with him. In fact it grew stronger with the years.

 Now when his work had brought him to Bangladesh he was overjoyed.  This trip would be a culmination of all that he had heard and learned about it. For the next four days he would live his dreams. He would imbibe the very essence of Bangladesh first hand and carry it back for his eager parents.

What he hadn't bargained for was the looks-the peculiar, furtive glances that he received from all those around him the minute he opened his mouth. The liftman and the bellboy grinned at his obvious idiosyncrasy. The receptionist gave him a once over and did a quick mental assessment –must be one of "those" and continued with his job.  Not one word of that dialect would part from his lips. Their unspoken words questioned the level of his sanity-what could have gone wrong with him?

This perplexed him more. All his life he has heard his parents speak it. In fact they had two different sets of dialects at home- one that everybody spoke and the other reserved for their parents. Nobody even attempted to infringe on their domain. It was a language that belonged to ”the previous generation". But their frequent reminiscence and strong urge to hold on to that tradition had left its mark on this young impressionable mind. Unknown to him he had picked up the nuances till one day he could speak it fluently. Unknown to him too he had quietly but surely slipped into a time warp.

But things were not working out as planned. The wide roads, the swanky cars and the bright neon lights were contrary to what he had in mind. And the rows of concrete and certainly the language had forced him to think otherwise. The first food joints and innumerable Thai and Chinese restaurants also contributed to it. He had thought and brushed aside at the airport came back carefully to him. Bangladesh had changed, evolving with the times to become another metropolis of the world. He needed to grow up and fast.

Next day over lunch the rest of his dreams were shattered. An incongruous plastic box bearing the name of a Thai restaurant was offered to him. "It will be a working lunch"-he remembered having said that but why Thai food that he could also have back home. But the exigencies of work pushed aside all thoughts of mouthwatering Bengali delicacies  that he desired so much-streaming rice hilsa in mustard sauce the succulent prawns, that he had heard were better this side of Bengal.

Things were going wrong horribly.  Attitudes change; habits also die a death but monuments? They stand as sentinels guarding the progress of time. Sadarghat seemed a safe bet. It couldn’t have changed much- a few launches perhaps. And the "river"-no, it couldn’t have changed course! But the events of the past few days made him cautious- he no longer ruled out the slimmest of possibilities.

The few phaetons that piled on the road pleased him. At least there was something that he could relate to. But he had not bargained for the chaotic traffic of old Dhaka. And the crowd was maddening. After a hurried look he went back to the safety of the car. The countless launches waiting to set sail brought home the truth-he couldn’t place a finger anything in Dhaka. Everything was just beyond his reasoning. But he had only wanted to take back memories with him?

The faint fish smell that emanated from the hilsa in his suitcase reassured him. He had salvaged some of his dreams after all. And what better way to celebrate this. Sweet memories.