Romance and Ms. Bonoshri Ghosh

What do writers write about? Writing, of course!

When did this happen to her? When did she lose touch with reality and get absorbed in writing to such an extent that she had nothing left to write about except writing ?

Reality is one thing; one’s inner world is another. That world has so many realms – the realm of thought, the realm of emotion, the realm of imagination, the realm of the spirit, the realm of memory, the realm of insight, the realm of inspiration…… Had she lost touch with herself as well ?

Perhaps not, but certainly that perennial spring which used to keep her busy trying to catch glimpses of its uninterrupted flow and translate them into words did not have so facile a flow anymore.

Toying with the dal- besan pakoris that the cook had left for her to snack on, Bonoshri stared into the middle distance , willing new ideas to swim into her ken, but she drew a perfect blank . Fancies are delicate creatures which do not spread their gossamer wings under the harsh glare of brutal self- analysis, she thought. Keat’s Lamia , she reminded herself, could not survive invasive questioning and attempts to fit her into a conventional societal framework or role.

So this is what the notorious “ writer’s block” is all about, Bonoshri admitted to herself with a sigh. Just sitting around sipping tea and munching dal- besan pakoris is not going to earn me my bread and butter though, so I’d better shake myself out of this non- productive impasse and get on with the task at hand. She thought of Anthony Trollope , who produced a huge body of widely read work by the simple expedient of sitting down at his desk at a fixed hour everyday and writing for a fixed period with no excuses and no holidays. He certainly had no time to waste on thinking about such fanciful luxuries as “ writer’s block “. He had a task to perform and a living to earn by writing, so he just got on with it, with no fuss.

Spurred by such thoughts, out came her trusted Olivetti from its case and down sat Ms Bonoshri Ghosh, to write a short story on the general topic of romance for a forthcoming competition. The submission deadline was only two days away and she had not written even the first word , what to talk of having a plot for the story in her mind. But what was this? The typewriter ribbon was stuck and she could type nothing at all. Loosening the ribbon did nothing to make it move. In a panic, she called up the repair shop. They promised to send someone over within the hour.

Bonoshri resigned herself to waiting, but took out her notepad and began to doodle in the expectation of inspiration striking somehow. She thought of her own cussedness in not taking to computers, and leaving behind the old custom of longhand writing , thus getting trapped like a fly in amber in the vanishing typewriter era. She recalled that it was her father’s journalistic background that ensured that the sound of the typewriter tapping away late into the night was at first a lullaby to her in her early childhood, and when her father gifted her one of his old, slightly damaged typewriters when she was about 9 years old, it became her favourite toy and led to her first forays into writing.

As nothing worth putting down on paper was making itself felt, to pass the time, and to woo the Muse, Bonoshri switched on the electric kettle she kept in her study and added some herbal tea leaves to her little ceramic teapot, to brew another cup of tea for herself.

Waiting for the water in the  kettle to come to a boil , she recalled the little pieces of “news” and tiny tales she would type out to show her parents, who were delighted to see what a fertile imagination their daughter had, and how eloquent she was in the expression of her ideas. It was her father who encouraged her to send her some of her stories for publication to children’s magazines. Small successes in this field encouraged Bonoshri to enter her work for short story competitions where she won a few prizes as a teenager and also won fame in a select set of readerships due to publication of her work in special issues of newspapers and magazines.

So why was she unable to concoct something on the subject of “Romance” for this silly little competition, she wondered, in some exasperation. Was it – could it be – because even at the ripe age of thirty, she had never really known romance in her own life ? What a sad state of affairs for a writer – and a woman – she thought, and suddenly she felt a surprise tear drop from her right eye, straight into her cup of fragrant chamomile tea! Plonk, went the tear, and Tring went the doorbell, almost immediately after it, as if on cue !

Rubbing her teary pink eyes quickly with her type- writer ribbon- stained fingers, Bonoshri rushed to answer the doorbell, and was taken aback to see a tall distinctly foreign – looking gentleman, in denim jeans and an open- necked blue-checked cotton shirt, with blue eyes to match, and a sunshiny smile under an unruly crop of blonde hair, carrying a briefcase , standing on her verandah. “ Hi “, he said cheerfully , “ I’ve come from the typewriter repair shop ! May I come in and have a look at your machine, if it’s okay ? “

As the gleaming blue eyes of the visitor smiled hopefully into her hazel- brown tear- washed ones, waiting for an answer, Bonoshri suddenly realised that she had been frankly gaping, wide-eyed and open- mouthed, at this sudden apparition on her doorstep. She blinked, snapped her mouth shut and remembering her manners replied, “ Oh, hello ! Well, you’re certainly not Tuku from my friendly neighbour typewriter repair shop, but do come in. “

And so saying she ushered her visitor in and indicated her comfortable armchair for him to be seated in.” Thank you,” said her visitor, “ I’m Bruno Rossi. What a cosy study you have here, if you don’t mind my saying so! And I’m delighted to see the Olivetti occupying pride of place on your mahogany desk. What seems to be the problem, may I ask ? “

Just as Bruno Rossi ended his question, the kettle hissed and whistled again, and let out an unmistakable cloud of steam from its spout, reminding Bonoshri of her manners.” I’m Bonoshri Ghosh,” she said, putting out her hand, which was at once taken into a warm firm grip, and then let go .” May I offer you a cup of tea? You may choose out of Darjeeling, Green Tea , Jasmine or Chamomile. “

“ Oh, yes please, thank you, Miss Ghosh . Darjeeling with no milk but one sugar, if it’s no trouble.This is really very kind, “ said Bruno.

“ No trouble at all, Mr Rossi. And do call me Bonoshri ! How did you land up in Ronojit Vishwakarma’s shop this morning ? I’m curious,” said Bonoshri as she went about the business of preparing a cup of Darjeeling tea for her visitor, and Jasmine tea for herself.

“ It’s quite a tale,” said Bruno. “ Ah, lovely, thank you ! Nothing like a hot cup of tea, and that too pure Darjeeling, just the way I like it. And do call me Bruno, by the way. Now for the story. Your lovely little typewriter, Bonoshri, is an Olivetti Lettera 22 and it was designed by my late maternal grandfather Marcello Nizzoli in 1949. This typewriter was very popular in Italy, and it still has many fans. It was awarded the Compasso d’oro prize in 1954. In 1959 the Illinois Institute of Technology chose the Lettera 22 as the best design product of the previous 100 years. I’m an employee of the company’s current owner,  Telecom Italia.

“ We are trying to profile those of our customers around the world who still use the Olivetti Lettera 22 in the era of computers and printers, which, by the way, we also manufacture on a large scale now, alongwith tablets and IPhones. To honour the currently active users of our vintage typewriters,we offer an all – expenses- paid trip to our headquarters in Ivrea, a town and commune of the Metropolitan City of Turin in the Piedmont region of northwestern Italy, from anywhere in the world . Three such valued customers are chosen by our Board of Managers from among the profiles of such users submitted before them by our dealers, every year since we started the scheme in 2020.

“ Here is a form for filling in your profile, in case you are interested, “ said Bruno, pulling out a form from his briefcase and handing it over to Bonoshri . “ I do hope I am not boring you with these details.”

“ Not at all,” replied Bonoshri, taking the form from Bruno and glancing at it perfunctorily.” This is all so interesting, and exciting. I’ll fill in the form as soon as I can. But perhaps you’d like to have a look at the machine first .”

“ Oh yes, absolutely. Now that I have been reinvigorated by your lovely Darjeeling tea, I feel fit to tackle anything that comes my way. Lead on, Macduff,” smiled Bruno.

After having a good look at the typewriter, and removing the offending ribbon, Bruno said, “I’m afraid this requires opening up at the workshop and may need some parts to be replaced. If you don’t mind, I’ll take it with me and have the whole thing sorted out. It may take a day or two, but I promise to bring it back myself, as soon as possible. I can see that you were in the middle of writing something. May I lend you my portable Olivetti in the meantime? “

“ That would be wonderful, if you’re sure it won’t inconvenience you. I have a deadline to meet within two days, and I haven’t even started yet, “ said Bonoshri. “ Are you going to be in Kolkatta for a few days ? I do hope you are enjoying your stay here.”

“ Yes, indeed, I love what I have seen of Kolkatta so far . This is my first time here though I have been to Delhi, Agra and Jaipur before, with my parents when I was younger. You know, the usual touristy stuff. I’m going to be here for a week on business and then in Bengaluru before I head back home. Now, if you’ll give me the typewriter case, I’ll drive this beauty down for repairs and bring you my typewriter to use. I’m addicted to it too, by the way, and I’m trying to keep a log of my travels here. I do miss Italian food though. Is there any place you can recommend where I can get some decent pasta without having to pay five star hotel prices for it ? “ asked Bruno, as he packed Bonoshri’s Olivetti very efficiently into its case.

“ Oh, there are lots of good affordable Italian restaurants in Kolkatta ! I usually go to La Trattoria just around the corner of Russell Street nearby. I’ll try and fill in your form while I’m waiting for you to come back”, said Bonoshri, ushering Bruno out of the front door.

At the door, Bruno turned back and said, “ I know it might seem presumptuous, Bonoshri, but I wonder if you’d take pity on a lonely Italian visitor to Kolkatta and join me for dinner at La Trattoria this evening ? I’m curious about your writing project and about what you’re going to fill in your profile. I come from a large family and being the youngest, and still single, I still live with my parents , with my siblings, their spouses and children are breezing in and out. There’s always a full table at home at mealtimes, so I’m not at all used to eating alone. “

“ That is very kind of you, Bruno,” said Bonoshri .”I’ll be ready by the time you return , seeing that it’s already six o’ clock. I am used to eating alone, being an only child, since I lost both my parents in a car accident five years ago. I enjoy company at mealtimes,  though, so I can understand where you’re coming from. See you again, soon, then.”

“ Thank you , Bonoshri ! You made my day. I’ll be back within the hour. I did wonder about the silence in your bungalow, because we Italians think of Indian households being as busy and noisy as our own. But we’ll talk about all that over dinner. Ciao ! “, said Bruno, as he started his Fiat 800.

As Bonoshri turned from the front gate of the bungalow, and walked back into her room, there were stars in her eyes. As she sat down to fill the form Bruno had left for her , and entered “Female, Single , 30 years, Journalist and Writer” after her name, her thoughts wandered to the subject of her latest project : Romance. And suddenly she realised that some door had opened, some scales had fallen from her eyes, and life was full of endless possibilities. Whatever be the outcome of the coming evening, she could now imagine herself typing out a whole story on Romance on Bruno Rossi’s portable Olivetti later that night or the next morning.

What Bonoshri did not know was that Bruno had omitted to tell her that his father Sergio Rossi was the current chairman of the Board of Directors of the Telecom Italia group of companies and a highly respected and influential political economist of his country, that his mother was English and that he gone to college in London, which accounted for his fluency in English, and also that he, Bruno Rossi , had fallen head over heels in love with her, Bonoshri Ghosh, at first sight.

What both Bruno and Bonoshri did not know as yet was that Bonoshri would win the Romance story competition and a handsome cash prize , that Bonoshri would be visiting Ivrea as a selected valued customer of Olivetti within the next six months, that Bruno’s family would fall in love with Bonoshri as well when she visited them in Turin, that Bruno would be sent to Kolkatta to head the India operations of Telecom Italia soon after Bonoshri and Bruno got married in a beautiful white church wedding in Turin , and that both would be living in the Ghosh Bungalow as man and wife within the year.

What they also did not know was that they would soon be raising a beautiful brood of four Ghosh-Rossi children shuttling between the Ghosh Bungalow in Kolkatta and the Rossi Mansion in Turin to the utter delight of the Rossi family as well as Bonoshri’s aunts, uncles and cousins scattered all over the globe. All thanks to Romance.

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