The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  Dwita’s conscious acquaintance with the outside world began at age three, when she was sent to Mrs Bolton’s Nursery School on Elgin Road. She went in Bhushan’s car, accompanied by Mahama. Sometimes Nirupama joined them for a breath of fresh air.

  Parna was now working for a publishing company. The post was initially offered to her by Meenakshi’s father – Brojen Halder. Meenakshi was one of her remedial students from Ascension School. Parna began as an administrative assistant at the Superior Publishing Company, but she hoped to be groomed to become a sales representative as the company had indicated at her interview. She worked hard, leaving home early and returning late; as time passed Dwita saw little of her except on holidays when they were both at home. Somehow this did not matter to her too much as school was fun and home was all care and indulgence. Dima always waited to welcome her, peering anxiously through the bedroom window, half-visible through the networked leaves and branches of the leaning jackfruit trees. Dhiru would always be ready with his incredibly good stories. But Mahama always seemed to drag her away at undesirable moments for a wash or a shower, and further discussions were not permitted until she was cleaned of school dust and grime. Mahama would run after her with her slippers, but she loved being barefoot. It was so cool to walk barefoot and sit on bare floors. “Dima, no table lunch today, tell Mahama,” she would plead with her grandmother, “I will sit on these steps and you sit on that mora. You feed me today and tell me all about the naughty girls from that big school where you worked before.” Dima would comply whilst Dwita ate her luchi, begun bhaja and tomato chutney. Dima knew which were her favourites, though Ma always objected to her eating fried food – she said it was bad for the liver.

  Dwita’s afternoons were very busy. She had to speak to all her dolls, change their clothes, feed them in between her exchanges with Mahama who usually snored away on a cool bamboo mat beside her. Dima called her occasionally from her bed where she read or slept lightly, taking her siesta, “Dwita, my pet, why are you silent? What are you up to now? I think I can hear you near the medicine chest…” Her guess would be right. Dwita was fascinated by all those coloured syrups and mixtures, pills and capsules in the chest in the boxroom. She was sure that her children could do with some – poor Molly had a bad cough. She was about to decide how best to reach it as the chest was fixed to the wall at a considerable height when Dima would intervene – then she would return to her corner soundlessly and resume her seat on the embroidered mat. She wanted to sit on the tiled floor, it was so much cooler, though she would remember Mahama’s warnings on chilled bottoms, insect bites and the like – they always worried so much. She blamed it on their age.

  Ma returned from work tired and unsmiling, but in the course of the evening she relaxed and looked happier. Dwita often returned from the park to find Ma looking into her school bag or making her a new doll’s dress for one of her thirty-odd children. It all depended on Ma’s moods. She found Dima and Mahama much easier, but Ma made her a little ill-at-ease. One never knew for certain how Ma felt on a particular day.

  Dwita also noticed that Dima was concerned about Ma’s timely return from work. They often spoke of strange things like bombs and mortars, of people running away or people dying of gunfire. She also heard sounds of marching feet outside and was asked not to peep. Ramu would say “Gurkhas!” in a hushed voice and they then shut all doors and windows. The windows had newspapers and black cloths stuck on them – Dhiru said that they did this to black out lights inside the house. Some nights they all trooped downstairs to the drawing room or the dining room and spread their bedding on the floor. She slept under the dining table though she really wanted to sleep on the top. Those days were very exciting for her, but the grown-ups did not seem to find them so.

  Little did Dwita know then that the whole world was on the brink of disaster and holocaust. Brothers fought brothers, enemies were made and unmade without conscience or scruple, and the insane ambition of one man and the immorality of a few others were leading the human race to damnation and senseless destruction. She did not know that this would tear the world apart, nor that in her own country, in her immediate surroundings, the seeds of separation had been sown and were about to erupt. Her own small world, peaceful and uninterrupted so far, would come apart, would be invaded, and her friends would die or disappear. She was not old enough to understand whether what she beheld was a spasm of catharsis, expiation for the sins of a few, or a nemesis for the uncalculated errors of an entire civilisation.

  In her quiet, exclusive home, Raj was no longer a popular word. It was bandied about in the evenings when Dima’s friends visited them, particularly Uncle Bimal, grandfather’s old friend who used to tell her a lot of stories about him. They said that the firengis would have to go or more blood would flow. They said that some of them were already leaving and others would soon follow – they were afraid of the Indian youth who were now laying down their precious lives uncaringly to see the firengis out. They could not possibly continue to run an empire with corpses for ammunition and hatred for support. Aparna would sometimes ask, “But Ma, is all this bloodshed and sacrifice of Young India worth the cause? Who will be left in the end to fly the flag?”

  Nirupama would always retort, “Why, Gandhi, Nehru, Patel and so many others.” Uncle Bimal would then interject, “If all of them perish in this fire, their ghosts will survive – we shall find others among our millions, but we shall not permit one profligate of the Raj to enter the sacred precincts of our country or our administration. We shall live with our own failures, our own deficiencies and learn from our own mistakes – but we are not going to be dominated by aliens a minute longer than necessary. Foreign greed and foreign power must leave us. Freedom at all costs – can you not see that, Nirupama?”

  Those evenings were long and exciting, even if somewhat disconcerting and well beyond Dwita’s total comprehension. She also managed to get a cup of tea out of Dhirubhai’s kitchen with Mahama’s connivance. Ma did not normally allow her to drink tea, though it flowed freely in their house. She could have sweets such as sandesh, or rashogollah made out of notun gur which were deliciously fragrant, she even got an occasional samosa, but tea? That was different business altogether. Ma would say, “Tea is bad for little girls, have a mug of cocoa instead.” She really hated milk and the smell of cocoa reminded her of those chocolate-coated calcium tablets, which she had to chew regularly to have good teeth.

  *

  In later years when Dwita remembered the events of 1947 she would try to blot them out, but the nightmares remained in the deep recesses of her memory, monstrous and indelible. She remembered with horror the trails of blood that flowed with the rainwater; the bodies that floated in the monsoon floods and got stuck in hydrants and at people’s doorsteps; wild screams from the throats of victims perishing in this carnage; the sky a vivid red with the fire of burning homes and estates; fanatical and inhuman shrieks of ‘Allah-ho-Akbar!’ mingling with ‘Bandemataram!’ and ‘Hindustan Zindabad!’ She remembered them all. She also remembered the faces of their sweeper Kaushalya’s boys, their ears cut off by Muslim knives; the horror in little Munia’s eyes as she saw her father Iftikar’s throat slit in revenge for Hindu deaths. They had all lived together until then – what could have happened to change things? No one had any real answers. Jinnah’s dream of an independent Pakistan blessed by Islam and the Koran had turned into a nightmare. Gandhi’s efforts to keep India united had failed in the face of the Raj’s duplicity and Jinnah’s ambition. Cruelty and bloodshed were everywhere. Dwita’s generation had lived to see a dual holocaust – the irreparable loss of lives and human dignity in the Second World War and the unforgettable, unpardonable murder of human conscience in the sub-continent thereafter.

  Peace had returned to the world, so they had declared – but for how long? Brother had betrayed brother, the tryst of co-existence had been tampered with, the ultimate sacrilege of murder and assault had been committed, seeds of mistrust had been sown.

&
nbsp; Dwita celebrated with others the emergence of a free India on 15 August 1947. The saffron, green and white sail of rebirth and regeneration flew full mast. A man called Mountbatten had bowed out ceremoniously on behalf of the Raj and colonialism, and the multitude of liberated men lay at Mother India’s feet worshipping her, forgetting their past crimes and present sorrows. Their tears of bereavement mingled with the now dominant tears of joy and freedom.

  India was independent; people breathed deeply, inhaling the unpolluted air of precious ownership. The smell of death and decay would be blown away in the wake of new life and ambition, new feelings and friendships. Long live India – Bharat Zindabad – 15 August 1947! Dwita mouthed it proudly, along with those others celebrating in the streets of Calcutta. It was wonderful to be alive, even if still too young – to be alive at the dawn of free India.

  The days of awakening and growing up had begun for Dwita.

  *

  Dwita was to grow up further when she returned from school one day to find her eight-year-old world shattered completely. It was a cold January afternoon which felt colder without Dima peering out of the window through the familiar foliage of the jackfruit tree. Their courtyard was full of people, some she knew and others whom she had never met. Ma’s office car was parked outside which was an unusual sight. “Bhushandada, what is wrong? Why are all these people here?” But Bhushan was silent. She rushed into the house, ignoring the others, calling, “Dima, I am back from school – where are you? Mahama-aa…” She stopped in front of a strange, black tableau, frozen with fear. Dima was lying on her bed, her eyes closed, hands still, crossed together on her bosom. Ma’s head lay buried at her side. Mahama spread her arms to enclose Dwita, tears streaming down her face. Others stood around silent or weeping. Dwita was confused, cold and afraid. “Dima, wake up, speak to me. I am back,” she whispered helplessly and flung herself on Nirupama. For the first time in her life there was no response from someone who had never failed to respond. So Dwita met death again – but this time it was different. It was a personal and close encounter with mortality, finite and irreversible.

  Although Dima had obviously thought of death, she had never made it clear to Dwita that she would have to obey its summons as well. Dwita now remembered those evenings so clearly when she and Dima sat together and hummed their favourite songs. Dima would sing, ‘Din to galo, shyandha holo, paar karo amay’ (‘The day is done, the dusk is here, now take me ashore’). Dwita would join in as she liked the melody, but Dima always objected. “No, my love, you are not old enough to sing this song.” She now realised that this was the other shore, to the safety of which Dima had been finally taken – alone and unescorted as she had desired.

  Nirupama’s death should have brought her mother and Dwita closer, but it did not. Instead, Dwita disappeared further into the protection of Maheshwari’s simple and undemanding love. They surrounded themselves further with the impenetrable rustic density of the mysterious Santhal Hills. Parna once again withdrew into the realms of her own grief and loss, leaving Dwita outside it. She mourned her mother deeply, and not quietly. She cried for long periods, alone and inconsolable, first asthmatic spasms of distressed weeping, then dissolving into low drawn-out moaning sounds – it was both depressing and frightening to hear her. Dwita was too young to fathom this traumatic emergence of a new personality in her mother. This led her to thoughts of her father whom she knew had no real presence in her life. He was a shadowy image on the mantelshelf like her aunt Alpana, and now Dima had taken her place beside them. But because Dima was no mere figment, her father too seemed to acquire more substance. He became more of a person, a probability.

  At school most children spoke of a father who seemed to be permanent in their lives. She was once asked by her classmate Chandni where her father was. But Mrs Brown had intervened and asked Chandni to mind her own business. Why? What was wrong with her being asked a question like that? All this had happened a long time ago when she had just joined her new school.

  She also remembered the argument that had taken place between Dima and Ma about the choice of a school. Dima wanted her to go to the Sacred Memorial School, a combined Brahmo-Christian foundation, run by European and foreign educated Indian women. Ma had wanted her to go to a Roman Catholic Convent, reputed for its high academic standards. Dima won as usual and Dwita joined the Sacred Memorial School. Headmistress Mahamaya Roy was Dima’s friend, who handed Dwita over to Mrs Brown’s safe-keeping. Miss Roy was very kind and had allowed the child to do the entry test sitting on her lap.

  Dwita settled into school very easily. Mrs Brown was tolerant of her, even indulged her to some extent. She had not realised then that she was particularly anxious to protect the posthumous girl from the inadvertently harsh questioning of other children, who obviously came from more fortunate backgrounds of dual parenthood.

  Dwita had subsequently asked Dima about her father. Nirupama was completely taken aback by the sudden gamut of questions. But she knew that her granddaughter was not going to be put off easily. They should have perhaps spoken to her earlier about Monmotho. Dima was always so reassuring. She always held up the world for her when it was about to crash or disintegrate.

  It was a long story and the afternoon had rolled into evening. She told Dwita everything, hiding nothing, making it as simple as she could for a five-year-old. Dwita found out that her father was dead, that he could not return to earth as he was with God in heaven. He was not a ghost as she had feared, but he still lived in Dwita and in all those who loved him. He died not because he wished to leave them, but because he was very ill and the doctors were not able to cure him. Dima also told her how much her father wanted her to be born, so that he could love her and look after her. When he had to leave them he left Dwita in their care and continued to love her from a distance. She also added that she was very special to them and they would always take care of her in the way her father would have wanted. She was told most firmly that she must never feel deprived or lacking in anything. Dima had then continued to speak of Dibendra and how she had brought Parna up without him.

  As time went on Nirupama had made sure that she spoke more and more about Dibendra and Monmotho to Dwita, until they became part of her everyday existence. These hours of exchanges stayed private – only Mahama knew of them. Parna was not made party to these confidences. She could never have understood nor have handled them without emotion. But they helped Dwita settle into the life of the school, never expecting concessions or special privileges. The teachers respected her detached confidence and she was absorbed into the anonymity of an ordinary existence.

  CHAPTER IV

  After Nirupama’s death Brojen Halder became a regular visitor to the household. Dwita did not like him, nor did Mahama. She felt that Bhushan, Ramu and Dhiru disliked him as well, but no one expressed their opinion to any of the others as they knew that this would upset Ma if she ever found out. They also knew that he had found her the job she now held, which supported and supplemented the family income. Mr Halder was the General Manager of the Superior Publishing Company (UK) Ltd and Gerald Downe was the Managing Director.

  Uncle Halder, as Dwita was asked to address him, did not like the old guards either and what Dwita resented most was that he tried to rule the roost in Dima’s absence. So there was increasing tension between Ma and Mahama. But Uncle Halder knew enough not to offend Mahama openly. He not only visited Parna often but took her to his house after work, pleading more work and official discussions. He was a married man with several children and an ailing wife. He said that Mrs Halder enjoyed Parna’s company.

  Dwita was unconcerned or at least unaffected, until he suggested one day that Bhushan should bring her to his house in the evenings so that she could play with his children and they could all do homework under Parna’s supervision. Being conscious of Parna’s weakness as regards Dwita’s academic welfare and her pride in her daughter’s performance at school he said to please her, “She will set a good example to my brood who n
ever seem to manage examinations or homework.” Parna was indeed pleased as he had expected, and agreed to his suggestion.

  Dwita did not like the idea at all as she was happy playing with her own friends and in any case she preferred her little study adjoining the bedroom, where she kept all her things, and in her spare time wrote comforting long letters to Dima and her father. She did not want her activities tampered with, nor her private world invaded by Mr Halder and his children. She liked him even less after that and decided to drop the ‘uncle’ from his name except in her mother’s presence.

  His children had nothing in common with her, except that one of his daughters had recently joined the school with Parna’s help, at Mr Halder’s insistence. This had already upset Dwita, as she was subjected to sharing transport with Bina, his daughter, when Mr Halder’s car failed to turn up, which was quite often. His children were also far too noisy, loud and badly behaved. She could not understand why Parna had not noticed all this when she was so particular about Dwita’s personal conduct and behaviour.

  Dwita wanted to speak to Parna about her reservations, now that she was older, but her mother was always busy and preoccupied. Whenever she had time to spend with Dwita, she devoted it to checking her schoolwork. She was pleased when Dwita scored well and very hard on her if her marks were ever low. Dwita found her mother very demanding and unsparing and dreaded her sudden appearance at school to discuss Dwita’s progress and performance in class. Dwita wished to be left in inconspicuous anonymity and not pushed out of her privacy into the public eye or to be discussed or appraised.