The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  After the incident, Parna also never entered Brojen Halder’s house again, nor was he invited to theirs. They only met officially at the Superior Publishing Company as colleagues in the same organisation. Parna’s iron claws were out, but being covered in velvet gloves Brojen was not quite able to see or feel them as they sank into his entrails slowly but surely. It took nearly three years for her to get rid of him. Brojen’s brother was sacked and he was banished to a smaller subsidiary company in the distant Far East, as second or third in command. He needed his job to support his brood, so he could not resign but accepted the decision of the board rather meekly for Brojen Halder. Parna was promoted. Dwita often wondered if Parna had truly sought her revenge so consciously and systematically, but Dima always said that her mother was well-known for her stubborn patience and perseverance. She had perhaps resolved to pay out Brojen Halder for his numerous faux pas, both personal and professional.

  Years later Parna had still not relented. When Brojen Halder, old and infirm, deserted by his large family, had sent a message to Parna to come and see him, she had ignored his plea and not responded to the invitation. Later she had read the entry in the obituary column of a Calcutta daily without any obvious display of emotion or regret.

  After the garden incident, there was one further development – her surveillance of Dwita now became a neurotic obsession. She saw ravishers and rapists everywhere and all young males were regarded as marauders and undesirables whose company was most definitely to be avoided. Though she had no knowledge of the extent of Dwita’s predicament, she imagined the worst.

  Dwita’s academic performance was consistent – the new headmistress Irene Bose and her class teacher Stella Smith sent encouraging reports to boost Parna’s morale. Though she was delighted with her daughter’s progress, she could not resist driving her hard. Dwita was allowed to participate in all extra-curricular activities, but she was not permitted to man stalls at school fêtes or visit the homes of friends with older brothers, as the apprehension of male misbehaviour permeated Parna’s waking hours.

  When Dwita finished school at sixteen with distinguished results, she turned down all offers of places from high-prestigious institutions as they were mostly coeducational, instead she chose carefully the only Roman Catholic establishment, run by caring Catholic nuns of all ages and sizes, interests and shades of Catholic drive and conviction.

  In fact Parna had misconstrued slightly as St Cecilia’s College was not exactly a retreat for girls. The nuns, though recluses themselves in principle encouraged all possible contact with the outside world, both academic and cultural. Jesuit priests and their male students freely moved around the campus pursuing nuns and female students for a variety of reasons, some of which were no doubt purely academic. But it was also true that no languid, socially improper inter-sex exchanges were permitted on the campus or within easy visibility of the clerics or parents.

  Parna thought it was a suitable prison for her daughter during her dangerous years and Bhajan Singh heaved a sigh of relief as his multiple missions of accompanying Dwita everywhere were considerably reduced. He was an old man and his advancing years were telling upon him. Maheshwari was happy for Dwita, she so obviously enjoyed her university life and Parna had less time these days for interrogation.

  Parna had miscalculated the guile of youth and the vagaries of fate, both adept at playing their own games of fortune. “Who is she to manage and manipulate other’s lives when she has failed so utterly with her own?” Maheshwari was often heard to mutter to herself, whilst shaking her head and sighing deeply.

  CHAPTER V

  Dwita was eighteen. A voice had suddenly cut across her literary communion with Browning’s Grammarian, “By Jove, you are stunning! They had said so and what is more, they were right.” Standing on the green lawns of Calcutta’s National Library, waiting for Mother Marie-Michael and others to emerge, she had been addressed by a young man. “I am Barun Mitra, in case you wonder, a humble student of Economics in my final year at St Augustus,” he added with mock humility. “And I know who you are – Adwitiya Roy Chowdhury, Dwita for short, brilliant, beautiful, incomparable and champion of all you attempt to do! You probably do not know me, but I have known you for a long time – from a distance of course. Well, I fear distant it will remain, for the time being in any case, as I see the Holy Mother with her divine charges approaching us.” He vanished as quickly and efficiently as he had appeared, leaving Dwita in a certain state of euphoric confusion. Who was Barun Mitra? What right had he to leave her in an aura of mystery and excitement? She went over his words – stunning, brilliant, incomparable – was she? She had never seen herself in any one of these possible roles, nor been led to believe this of herself by any of her friends and family. Only Mahama sometimes said when she was exasperated with Dwita that she would be more presentable if she spent more time looking after herself, instead of reading for ever in the bath. This was usually thrown at her when Mahama grabbed hold of her on Sundays to rub cream of milk and turmeric paste on her.

  Mother Marie-Michael’s voice cut through her reverie. “Dwita, my dear, here you are! I have been looking for you everywhere to hand over this critique to you – you will find it useful for your essay on Robert Browning. Ah, I see, you have found one too – good!” She continued to speak whilst Dwita’s thoughts wandered, trying in vain to chase away Barun Mitra’s lingering shadow and generous compliments.

  Chandni, who was still a friend and classmate muttered, “Saw Barun speaking to you – why did he beat a retreat so quickly – was it Mother’s emergence or your usual ice-water treatment? But, my dear friend, Barun Mitra is not thwarted so easily, he will reappear in time, I warn you! Will the iceberg melt? He is quite terrific you know.”

  “Maybe – but who is the iceberg?”

  “Don’t you know? That is your nickname, lovingly donated by the boys of St Augustus – and all the others corroborate, those who have seen you in the course of your cultural pursuits – ‘The Miss Dwita Roy Chowdhury, actress, debater, sportswoman, stunning and beautiful, a brilliant iceberg’,” Chandni mimicked, to Dwita’s annoyance. Then she concluded by saying, “But Barun may now report otherwise –”

  “Don’t be absurd Chandni – I have never even met him until this minute – and in future, in view of our long and undying friendship, I hope you will be kind enough to report proceedings more promptly. Or is it too much to expect in the face of your equally-undying loyalty to some others?”

  They went on in this vein though Dwita’s mind was still preoccupied with Barun and his hasty shower of compliments. It was a strange feeling for Dwita at eighteen to be made aware of herself. Apart from her brief encounter with Brojen Halder her sheltered existence had predominantly been crowded with past and present shadows of women. In her life she had known only three men – Dibendra, Monmotho and Brojen. Two of them inhabited her recreated world of illusion and intangibility and the third was the remnant of a bad dream, unwholesome and distasteful.

  She returned home in the evening after a disturbing, thoughtful day at college. Mother Marie-Michael’s lectures on Browning’s poetic spirituality had not registered very well. The French lessons at the Ècole Française, which she was attending these days to fill her free hours in the evening had also been less absorbing. M. Armand had commented upon it. “Dwita, my gem, where are you today? What are you busy thinking? I have been calling you all of five minutes.” Maheshwari had also complained.

  “Oh, sorry Mahama, very sorry, have I been ignoring you today?” she said, bringing herself back to reality – she embraced Maheshwari’s minute, withered form affectionately as a gesture of apology.

  “No use flattering me now – the last few hours I have really been speaking to a spirit – where have you been wandering? Who and what are you thinking of?”

  “Nothing and no one.”

  “You can deceive your mother, my own, but not your Mahama.”

  “Tell me something then – do you like my face?
What do I look like?”

  “What a question to ask – I have been caring for that face all these years, rubbing cream and olive oil on it – why should I do so if I did not like it?”

  “Mahama, what I meant was, would you call it nice or even say pretty?”

  “What worms have been eating your young head lately?” Maheshwari asked her suspiciously.

  “Worms? I have none left in my head, what with your constant brushing and combing!”

  “Something has been worrying you, come and sit here, tell me all, whilst I comb those wild tresses.” She put Dwita down on the nearest seat, and ran the comb gently through her hair, separating each strand to disentangle the dark, thick mass that covered her head, wild, knotted and unmanageable.

  “It has grown too thick and long, what a tangle, we must trim it soon – no wonder the thoughts are unable to escape – now tell me, girl, what is it that worries you?”

  “But you have still not answered me – am I pretty?”

  “Oh dear, what can I say to this madness of yours? Yes, my child, you are pretty, you are growing more beautiful each day. Why do you think your mother guards you like an Alsatian?” She laughed as she finished speaking. She also grabbed a black pencil from Dwita’s dresser and put a dot on her chin with it.

  “What’s that for, Mahama?”

  “To keep the evil eye of the devil away.”

  *

  Barun Mitra was probably a devil, Dwita had mused later, for he had not appeared again for some weeks, until she found him one evening in the corridors of the Ecole Française, outside her classroom.

  CHAPTER VI

  The friendship between Barun and Dwita developed – they were similar people in many ways and liked doing the same things. They met often at the library, at debates and other alumni events, not to speak of the French classes, which M. Armand thought Barun had joined to enjoy Mlle Dwita’s company rather than to learn French. Barun was a lively and vivacious companion, popular with St Augustus and St Cecilia students; through him she met many other students and together they formed a large group which was involved in multifarious social and academic activities.

  Parna was not aware of Dwita’s extensive circle of friends as she never brought them home, except for the few her mother knew from Sacred Memorial days. Dwita was well aware that any change in her routine, conduct or relationships would lead to unnecessary trauma and increased vigilance on her mother’s part.

  The tip of the summer sun which Barun had brought into her limited horizon had only touched the edge of the iceberg; it had not melted it. He had made her aware of herself and she was now more conscious of others’ eyes upon her. She even paid more heed to Maheshwari’s beauty aids and had begun to choose her own clothes and do her hair more carefully.

  Barun was different. His feelings for Dwita had grown into a deep attachment. He felt an increasing need to be near her and became more possessive of her and their relationship. This began to concern Dwita – to her Barun was a very special person, a dear friend, towards whom she vibrated with warmth and fondness, but not love. Barun was senior to her at university. He had completed his post-graduate studies ahead of her and was poised to advance further into academia outside his country. He watched Dwita’s progress with patient interest as he continued to weave plans for their future together.

  Dwita graduated in time with good results and Parna was delighted with her performance, but it was Mahama who said wistfully to her, “I wish Dima were here today, she would have been so pleased, and proud of you. She could have found you a handsome prince.”

  “Mahama, these days handsome princes don’t grow on trees, nor do I need one. I think the worms have now moved from my head to yours.”

  But when she met Barun to give him the good news, he had looked at her strangely and then asked, “What comes next? What are your plans, do you wish to continue?”

  “Yes, of course. I wish to continue for another two years with English and then try for the Union Public Service Examinations.”

  “Why Dwita – why that? You know that the women in our public services are not allowed to lead a normal family life.”

  “What do you mean by that? What is normal family life?”

  “Marriage, for instance,” he ventured, looking straight at her.

  “Ah, marriage – but who said I was interested in marriage? I wish to work, travel, breathe – marriage is the last thing on my mind.”

  “Is it? But you can equally do something else – for example, read law, be a barrister. How about that? Let a few colleagues and criminals faint in court watching beautiful Dwita Roy Chowdhury, please,” he carried on, with an imposed lightness in his voice.

  “Why should they?” Dwita said irritably. “If you have not fainted all these years–”

  “Have I not?”

  “Not that I have noticed.”

  “Unfortunately, you seem to notice very little.” He gazed into her eyes warmly and meaningfully.

  “Please, Barun, no – not yet anyway, give me time. We have been very good friends, let us keep it that way. We must not think of other ends for this wonderful relationship – it means a great deal to me. We both have a long way to go, a lot to do, places to see, people to meet.”

  “But can we not do this together? Why must it be important for you to keep our journeys separate, our goals different? I too value our present relationship, but I have never thought of you as just a special friend.”

  “Don’t say ‘just a special friend’ so lightly.”

  “I see the iceberg refuses to melt –”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Barun. Friendship like ours is not to be taken so lightly. There is a certain commitment in it, you cannot dismiss it with sarcasm.”

  “All right, Dwita – I accept your decision for the time being. But Barun Mitra does not give up so easily.” She remembered what Chandni had said once about him.

  Although they parted amicably and Barun had been entirely civilised about it, evidently he had found it difficult to swallow defeat. He had returned to the proposal some time later. She had smiled, shaken her head and sent him away without making any promises. He paraded his friendships with other girls seeking to make her jealous; she kept quiet or, when provoked, complimented him on his choice. He then threatened to stop seeing her. This hurt her enormously as Barun was indispensable to her lonely existence, but she was too proud to show it. She had merely said, “It is your choice, Barun, but my feelings for you will remain the same, come back when you like.”

  In the end Barun relented. “All right, Dwita, you win. But I shall keep hoping, maybe one day, when you have grown up.”

  “Yes, when I am sixty.” They had both laughed at the prospect and Barun knew that only time would tell.

  However Barun made up his mind to leave Calcutta and accepted a place at Harvard to read Economics. He went soon afterwards; his father could afford to send him at short notice. He was a wealthy businessman, who had made his money in scrap. He was in a hurry for Barun to get on with his academic pursuits so that he could put him into the harness of the family business in due course.

  Dwita and Barun parted with promises to keep in touch, to write to each other frequently and to meet up perhaps at some point – Barun was more optimistic with the hopes of Harvard ahead of him, but Dwita knew that Barun’s absence would be hard to bear – he had left a gap in her life. She carried on with her post-graduate studies with public service as a future objective.

  However, Parna, as expected turned down out of hand her choice of a career in that field. “You cannot possibly opt for home or foreign service – working and living alone all your life is absurd, unthinkable!” She was visibly agitated.

  “But mother, you have managed to live alone and before you Dima – what’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything – we had to because of our circumstances, not because we wished to or planned it.”

  “Is it not better to plan it, than be forced by circumstances?” s
he had blurted out without thinking of the consequences. Parna went into one of her outbursts.

  “Yes, it is easy for you to taunt me, and criticise my decision. I accepted my way of life for your sake, to honour my sacred commitment to your father. What have I got in return? Love? Consideration? Nothing – only ingratitude and threats of desertion.”

  “But what would you like me to do? You wanted me to read English. I did not disagree, but where does that lead to now? Teaching or something equally without any objective of interest as far as I am concerned? Even for teaching, to qualify well, I would need to specialise overseas.”

  “But that cannot be for long. I can even arrange to accompany you – the company can offer me something in London for instance.” The last thing Dwita wanted was for her mother to remain a permanent shadow in her claustrophobic existence. She wanted freedom and air to breathe. That is when she began to think of ways of escape.

  *

  Dwita was not yet twenty and the desire to escape was becoming stronger by the hour. She was tired of Parna’s nagging remonstrances and her constant interference in every sphere of her life. She questioned every movement, interrogated every action, checked every piece of correspondence – it was a life of inquisition, close and airless.

  Once, she had decided to probe her about Barun when she discovered his existence for the first time – she had seen a letter Dwita had received from him from America.

  “Who is it from?”

  “I can only tell you when I have opened it,” Dwita said, knowing full well that it was from Barun.

  “Then go ahead and open it,” her mother said curtly.

  “Do you really want to know Ma? You won’t like it – it is not from a girl friend.”

  “Who is he, Dwita? There is no use hiding it from me.”