I can hear the faint ringing of the telephone downstairs. Startled, I get up from my bed, immediately wanting to rush down to answer the call. Fumbling in the dark for my spectacles, anxious that the telephone would stop ringing before I pick it up, breathless with all the effort of raising myself, I suddenly realise the loneliness surrounding me. I steady myself against the bedpost, slipping my feet into the soft slippers Jolly had gifted me last Pujo, drape my sari around my shoulders, adjust my spectacles, and slowly turn towards the staircase. The telephone is silent now, but I decide to climb down the stairs, and wait in the hallway, in case the caller dials again. My knee joints are paining at this sternous exercise, I can hardly see anything in the dark, and I try in vain to locate the light switch on the wall. But I am hopeful of receiving a call. The very thought that someone wants to speak to me, Supriya Dasgupta, a sixty eight year old widow, cheers up my spirits. No one bothers to gossip with me anymore, I know. It must either be a piece of news they want to pass on, or a monthly ritual, a 'how are you' call. Still, I feel happy. I have passed the age when any news, good or bad, affects me any more. I am awaiting my end. I have seen it all.
Floundering my way down, I am finally able to locate the switch, and turn on the light. The room is flooded with a strange yellow glow, shocking me in the suddenness of its appearance. Slowly, my eyes grow accustomed to the brightness, and I position myself in the black oak arm chair by the window. This chair has been Jayanta's company ever since we moved to Purulia and he started teaching in a school. I can still see his outline imprinted on its green fabric. Invariably, every evening, before tea was served, I would find him dozing off here by this window, spectacles perched atop his forehead, a book lying open in his chest, eyes closed, lips parted, as if gaping at a distant wonderland. Ah, what a life that had been. Mornings simply breezed past, full of chaos. Shubhro and Jolly had a school bus to catch, Jayanta had to leave for work. I would get up at 5 every morning, cook and clean, and get everyone ready for the day. Utter mayhem, I would say to myself, as I looked around for their handkerchiefs, or fished out his umbrella from under the bed.
"When will I get rid of this hectic life", I would say to myself ruefully, "not a moment of peace. It will be on my death bed that they will leave me alone."
When the last one left the house, I would exhale in pure relief, make myself my cup of sweet milk tea, and sit down with the newspaper. Today, sitting in an empty nest,when my mornings are empty, the housemaid, Minoti's Maa, brings me my cup of sugarless green tea, I enjoy the memories of the bygone days, my days of chaos. The peace, the quiet, suddenly hurts my ears.
Filled with nostalgia, I turn around to look at framed photographs on the walls. My eyesight fails me, and everything appears to be a mesh of gray and black. Resting my weight against the armrest, I get up, and go closer. There she is, the demure and petite 18 year old Supriya, basking in the glory of her newly married husband standing by her side! Strange, both of us have the far away look in our eyes, as if we can actually foresee the life ahead of us. Only if we did, I wonder how our expressions would have been.
Shubhro, probably a year old, wearing a girl's frock, sitting on that round woven garden chair, his kohl lined eyes having an expression of bewilderment, his mouth twisted into an expression caught between a laughter and a bawl. We had desperately hoped for a girl child, and someone (was it Bula? Or Tutul? I can't recall) had gifted us with this frock. It is still there, wrapped up and tucked away in my cupboard, in the faint hope that my grandchildren would wear it some day. Rumi, my granddaughter, turned three last month. But I have never met her, let alone passing any gifts. When Shubhro calls me, I always ask for her, but most of the times she is either asleep, or busy somewhere else. Once, when she was in an impeccably good mood, she had called me Thammi, and had crackled with laughter at the sound of the word. Maybe she had forgotten the incident almost immediately after she let go of the receiver, but her voice, the way she called me Thammi, lingers with me still. My child, how I wish to hold her in my arms and shower you with all the love! Nah, I will definitely learn how to operate this computer now. Shubhro
said I could actually see him on it, and, what more, I could even
converse with him at the same time. He says it would give me a feeling
that he has not gone far, that he is right in front of me, in this
house. I smile at the thought. Innocent boy. Only if he knew that the
day he was admitted to a fellowship program in the US, deep down in my
heart I had said my goodbyes to him. I knew my little bird had wings of
its own now, and it wanted to test them. Greener pastures, clearer
skies, steeper mountains.
Tomorrow, I will take out Rumi's recent photographs from the trunk, and give it to Minoti's Maa for getting it framed. And I will hang it here, right next to this photograph of Shubhro. Or should I replace it with this colored frame, with Shubhro and Mili standing glued to each other, smiling and confident? Why do I hate my daughter-in-law so much? I don't know. We have never had any conflict, in fact,we seem to agree on everything. But that is probably because we have hardly stayed together. Whatever little time I have spent with her, something in me told me she is fake. Her politeness is a garb for her hidden cunningness. When she pretends to take care of every small need of Shubro, she tries to tacitly imply that she controls my son, that she is the empress now, that I have moved to the sidelines. And strangely, she seemed to have bonded very well with Jayanta, who would never stop praising her at the slightest pretext. Even Jolly was very fond of her 'Boudi'. Well, before they got married, even I had liked Mili very much. She was known to a family friend of ours. And so, when Shubhro had come back to India after 2 years, on a month long break, we happily married them off . Days had whizzed past, and before we could bat an eyelid, it was time for the newly weds to return back to their new home in America. At the airport to see them off, for the first time I felt a dull ache in my heart. Distress? Cannot be, because till then I was used to the idea of Shubhro staying far away. Jealousy? Hard to believe since he was my own son & I was happy for him. But that day, the way Mili had waved her goodbyes, the flutter of her dupatta, the way her eyes sparkled as she went towards the lounge, her hands entangled with Shubhro's, had stung me.That feeling never went away, rather it grew over the years. I thought I would draw solace from Jolly, but that was not to be.
Jolly, ah, there she is. In her red-checked pleated skirt, sitting on Jayanta's lap. Both of them looking adoringly at each other. Every inch her father's daughter, never tired of fussing about him. "Baapi, here's your paan", "Baapi, you'll catch cold, keep the windows closed", "Baapi, come I'll oil your hair!"
Extremely naughty as a child, and a very difficult adolescent, she had given me nightmares. Our opinions were so opposite, that sometimes I thought that she deliberately intended to contradict everything I said, both in letter and spirit. Some days, she would behave mysteriously , fueling my suspicions that she is having an affair. At other times, she would simply clam shut, not uttering a single word throughout the day, except for answering my questions in a yes or a no. On other days, she would chat continuously about anything under the sun, even silly things like how blue is her new blue dress. In short, I failed to comprehend her. And then, the day Jayanta passed away, my twenty year old daughter suddenly grew up. Grief stricken, I had taken to bed, weeping continuously, my days passing in disillusionment. I think I cried less because I missed him, and more because I was scared about Jolly. How would I find a groom for her? Would I be able to fund her marriage? What would become of her if I died instantly, too? And there she was, my Jolly, standing like a rock. Cremating the body, handling the incessant questions about why Shubhro could not make it to the funeral, attending a bereaved mother, answering Shubhro's frantic phone calls, worrying if everything was alright, if we were alright, telling him it was fine that he could not make it for the last rites, that we understand his predicaments about taking leave in a new job, and that she is managing things somehow. Not a single drop of tear did she shed. Not only did she become my best friend overnight, but she took charge of our lives. She helped me with the household chores, ran errands, took tuitions, finished her studies, and found a groom for herself. And then, on the day she left for her new home in Chennai, she hugged me tightly. And cried.
This photograph is the one I love the most. My beautiful daughter, draped in her fine red Benarasi sari, holding hands with my adoring son-in-law, Himanshu. He takes care of all her needs, she tells me, and gives her no reason to weep at all. However, when they visited me last summer, something seemed to be amiss. I have asked her so many times but she simply smiles and says, "Don't worry unnecessarily, Ma, everything is just fine. Just that you're growing old and imagining things". But I simply cannot stop myself from worrying that they don't have a baby even after 3 years of marriage. Is Himanshu having an affair with someone else? Is Jolly unable to conceive? No, I can't take this tension any more, I tell myself.
Tired, I come back and sit in the armchair. How I wish Jayanta was here with me. I would have asked him to fetch me a glass of water. A faint breeze blows in through the window, bringing with it the mild smell of Beli. The plant must be in full bloom. Tomorrow, I must ask Minoti's Maa to water it properly. He had so lovingly potted this plant, and every time it bloomed, he would be happy and child-like in his excitement. This is a scent that lingers in my nostrils every time I think of him. On our wedding night, I sat on a huge four-poster bed, in pleasant anticipation, and he strode in, the young groom, a garland around his neck, and held my hand. I made a new beginning, and this fragrance stood testimony, wishing me well.
When they took his body away, on that fateful night, they covered him in flowers. This fragrance, so known to me, so loved by me, cried with me. They have all gone, one by one. But this fragrance, the memories, the moments, the photographs, all stayed back. They humor me. They talk to me. They console me. They put me to sleep. And they don't hurt me. They are my best friends.
A loud ring. I startle again. This time, it is the doorbell. With sleepy eyes, I look out of the window, at the broad daylight. My back hurts terribly as I try to get up. Nuances of falling asleep on the armchair. I answer the door. Minoti's Maa reporting to work. Another day begins.
Tomorrow, I will take out Rumi's recent photographs from the trunk, and give it to Minoti's Maa for getting it framed. And I will hang it here, right next to this photograph of Shubhro. Or should I replace it with this colored frame, with Shubhro and Mili standing glued to each other, smiling and confident? Why do I hate my daughter-in-law so much? I don't know. We have never had any conflict, in fact,we seem to agree on everything. But that is probably because we have hardly stayed together. Whatever little time I have spent with her, something in me told me she is fake. Her politeness is a garb for her hidden cunningness. When she pretends to take care of every small need of Shubro, she tries to tacitly imply that she controls my son, that she is the empress now, that I have moved to the sidelines. And strangely, she seemed to have bonded very well with Jayanta, who would never stop praising her at the slightest pretext. Even Jolly was very fond of her 'Boudi'. Well, before they got married, even I had liked Mili very much. She was known to a family friend of ours. And so, when Shubhro had come back to India after 2 years, on a month long break, we happily married them off . Days had whizzed past, and before we could bat an eyelid, it was time for the newly weds to return back to their new home in America. At the airport to see them off, for the first time I felt a dull ache in my heart. Distress? Cannot be, because till then I was used to the idea of Shubhro staying far away. Jealousy? Hard to believe since he was my own son & I was happy for him. But that day, the way Mili had waved her goodbyes, the flutter of her dupatta, the way her eyes sparkled as she went towards the lounge, her hands entangled with Shubhro's, had stung me.That feeling never went away, rather it grew over the years. I thought I would draw solace from Jolly, but that was not to be.
Jolly, ah, there she is. In her red-checked pleated skirt, sitting on Jayanta's lap. Both of them looking adoringly at each other. Every inch her father's daughter, never tired of fussing about him. "Baapi, here's your paan", "Baapi, you'll catch cold, keep the windows closed", "Baapi, come I'll oil your hair!"
Extremely naughty as a child, and a very difficult adolescent, she had given me nightmares. Our opinions were so opposite, that sometimes I thought that she deliberately intended to contradict everything I said, both in letter and spirit. Some days, she would behave mysteriously , fueling my suspicions that she is having an affair. At other times, she would simply clam shut, not uttering a single word throughout the day, except for answering my questions in a yes or a no. On other days, she would chat continuously about anything under the sun, even silly things like how blue is her new blue dress. In short, I failed to comprehend her. And then, the day Jayanta passed away, my twenty year old daughter suddenly grew up. Grief stricken, I had taken to bed, weeping continuously, my days passing in disillusionment. I think I cried less because I missed him, and more because I was scared about Jolly. How would I find a groom for her? Would I be able to fund her marriage? What would become of her if I died instantly, too? And there she was, my Jolly, standing like a rock. Cremating the body, handling the incessant questions about why Shubhro could not make it to the funeral, attending a bereaved mother, answering Shubhro's frantic phone calls, worrying if everything was alright, if we were alright, telling him it was fine that he could not make it for the last rites, that we understand his predicaments about taking leave in a new job, and that she is managing things somehow. Not a single drop of tear did she shed. Not only did she become my best friend overnight, but she took charge of our lives. She helped me with the household chores, ran errands, took tuitions, finished her studies, and found a groom for herself. And then, on the day she left for her new home in Chennai, she hugged me tightly. And cried.
This photograph is the one I love the most. My beautiful daughter, draped in her fine red Benarasi sari, holding hands with my adoring son-in-law, Himanshu. He takes care of all her needs, she tells me, and gives her no reason to weep at all. However, when they visited me last summer, something seemed to be amiss. I have asked her so many times but she simply smiles and says, "Don't worry unnecessarily, Ma, everything is just fine. Just that you're growing old and imagining things". But I simply cannot stop myself from worrying that they don't have a baby even after 3 years of marriage. Is Himanshu having an affair with someone else? Is Jolly unable to conceive? No, I can't take this tension any more, I tell myself.
Tired, I come back and sit in the armchair. How I wish Jayanta was here with me. I would have asked him to fetch me a glass of water. A faint breeze blows in through the window, bringing with it the mild smell of Beli. The plant must be in full bloom. Tomorrow, I must ask Minoti's Maa to water it properly. He had so lovingly potted this plant, and every time it bloomed, he would be happy and child-like in his excitement. This is a scent that lingers in my nostrils every time I think of him. On our wedding night, I sat on a huge four-poster bed, in pleasant anticipation, and he strode in, the young groom, a garland around his neck, and held my hand. I made a new beginning, and this fragrance stood testimony, wishing me well.
When they took his body away, on that fateful night, they covered him in flowers. This fragrance, so known to me, so loved by me, cried with me. They have all gone, one by one. But this fragrance, the memories, the moments, the photographs, all stayed back. They humor me. They talk to me. They console me. They put me to sleep. And they don't hurt me. They are my best friends.
A loud ring. I startle again. This time, it is the doorbell. With sleepy eyes, I look out of the window, at the broad daylight. My back hurts terribly as I try to get up. Nuances of falling asleep on the armchair. I answer the door. Minoti's Maa reporting to work. Another day begins.
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