Dwita drowned herself in her books. Parna rushed around shopping, appointing decorators and caterers, preparing guest lists, printing invitations, ordering flowers and organising everything involving the wedding arrangements. The ceremony was to be held on the lawns of the Shammilan Brahmo Samaj. Dwita stood to one side as a spectator, complying with Parna’s wishes, falling in with all her dictates.
Nishith returned after a fortnight, looking distant and tired. They hardly saw each other alone. He said now that the wedding was imminent, he wished to be correct in his social behaviour. It seemed as though he was avoiding seeing her alone. They were always attending public functions in company arranged by friends and relatives on both sides. Even the engagement was a sizeable social occasion – two hundred people watched them exchange rings. Nishith’s mother blessed her with a necklace of nine gems, with matching bangles and earrings; Parna blessed him with diamond studs. Prithwish participated with an air of aloof friendliness. Dwita wondered why Ashish, the other brother, had not come, but the two sisters were there. She had in fact never met Ashish so far. Nishith had said that he looked after the family estates and hardly came to Calcutta, but surely he should have been present for an occasion like this? Did he have anything to do with Prithwish’s warnings?
She wanted to ask Nishith about him. But he looked so far away, sitting solemnly in his special dhoti and punjabi, with the red and gold bordered chaddor neatly folded around his shoulders. They were all part of the religious ceremony – the choir sang Tagore’s Brahmasangeet, the priest offered prayers and sermons. Dwita felt like a helpless puppet in her pink Banaras brocade saree, and the intricate gold filigree jewellery set with pearls and rubies. Friends and relatives surveyed her, touched her, congratulated her – it was all unreal, like being in a dream that was not hers.
An elderly cousin of Nirupama’s came up to her, holding Maheshwari’s hand. “Put a black spot on her so they will not devour her with their eyes. It is God alone, who can protect her Mashima – who are we, after all?” Mahama declared. Even she looked detached from the events surrounding her. Finally everything came to an end – everyone left, only Nishith stayed behind. He suggested a drive on their own.
“It is rather late, Nishith,” Parna said. “Go, however, but bring her back quickly. Dwita, take off your jewellery before you go out. Do not be too long.”
They drove silently for some while, during which he often took her hand, kissing it gently. Then he said, “You look beautiful, Dwita.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish I could extricate myself from this intoxication, but I am a prisoner of my own weakness.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Not like me.”
Is this the moment to ask, to find out the secret, she wondered to herself. She decided to face him.
“Nishith, why do you say all this? Do you now regret our engagement?”
“Regret it? Never – that is not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing really – I was just carried away by the mood of the moment.”
“Nishith, why did your other brother not come?”
“Ashish? He could not get away.”
“I have never met him, you know.”
“I am sure you will one day. Well – we are only four weeks away from the day. You will soon be mine. By the way, I shall be away quite a lot in the next few days. I want to tie up all the loose ends in the office so that I can take some leave. I hope we can get away for a week or two after the wedding.”
“Yes, that would be nice,” she said, without enthusiasm.
The drive had ended already and they were back near the gates of her home. He stopped the car suddenly, as though he had not realised that they had arrived. Then he took her in his arms, kissed her roughly and said, “Goodnight Dwita – I won’t come in now. But I’ll see you soon.”
“Dwita – is Nishith with you?” Parna’s voice called, as she entered the house.
“No, Mother. He did not come in. I am going to bed.”
The next four weeks passed very quickly. Nishith only came twice – he was travelling, he said. His mother and Parna often communicated on the telephone on various aspects of the wedding arrangements. Dwita was fortunately left out of all this most of the time except when Parna wished her to accompany her to select sarees, toiletries or furniture. The items of jewellery were all heirlooms – they were merely being cleaned and polished to make them presentable for the occasion.
Nishith telephoned her sometimes at night – he seemed always to return from his travels too late or too exhausted to visit. Dwita felt that the urgency was less now that he knew she was a bird in hand. Perhaps he was less in love now, perhaps he felt let down by her lack of spontaneous feeling. Who could blame him for that? But why was he then going through with it? Social obligation? A matter of pride? Or generosity to Parna? He had said he was intoxicated by her. Maybe he was just busy and she was doing him an injustice. She plunged herself into her books more than ever to control her thoughts and to forget the future that rushed towards her.
CHAPTER VIII
The day came and with it all the rituals of marriage, the ceremonies, and multiple customs of formality and superstition.
Dwita was woken up by the wailing strains of Bhairavi playing on Majid Ali’s shehnai. She wanted to cry, but tears eluded her. Young cousins and aunts who had stayed away from her family all these years had suddenly appeared and taken over – she was conducted to the ceremonial wooden platform, which was exquisitely painted with multicoloured designs of leaves and flowers made out of a mixture of rice paste and artificial colours. She was oiled, touched with turmeric and sandalwood paste dutifully sent by Nishith’s mother, and then given a ceremonial bath. She put on a red-bordered white cotton saree, also from the Dutta family. She was only allowed a cup of tea and warned that fasting was now to begin. It did not matter – somehow nothing really mattered any more. She merged with the current of instructions and activities and allowed it to carry her along.
Soon a long line of people arrived from the Dutta home bearing trays and trays of presents – clothes, toilet articles, shoes, bags, linen, fish, sweetmeats – a complete melange and display of domestic necessities and luxuries. Naibmashai, the manager and book-keeper of Dutta estates handed a case personally to Parna; it proved to contain gold mohurs and items of jewellery. He bent low to greet her as a sign of respect.
She remained a silent participant in all this – she performed according to instructions issued at regular intervals by those who knew what they were saying or doing. Parna was not one of them. In fact Dwita was going into marriage with little knowledge or advice. For instance, no one had spoken to her about the proceedings or expectations of a wedding night. It seemed they all thought she knew, or each one expected another to have briefed her. She felt like an unrehearsed understudy in a theatre company who had been pushed into the limelight to play a leading part – yet she knew no lines, and had to extemporise throughout the performance. Someone should have told her something, she thought – perhaps her mother, though she had had very little practice herself where marriage was concerned. Mahama’s matrimonial experience was equally limited. She had initially thought of Chandni, with whom she was still in touch. But when they met Chandni was not her usual friendly self. “Congratulations, my girl,” she had said, adding pointedly, “I hope he is a thousand times better than Barun or he does not deserve you. What is it that Nishith has, that Barun did not?”
“Chandni, let us not remember things of the past. Barun has always been a friend and will remain so. He has his life and I have mine.”
After this Dwita had not been able to recapture the intimacy of their youth to ask for marital information or advice. Instead she had picked up a few books and women’s magazines, scanned the pages haphazardly and left the rest in the lap of the gods. The managing team of aunts and cousins had advised a short afternoon siesta as an important aid to beauty. Then more baths,
pedicure and manicure, painting of nails, smearing of feet with alta, the red dye – the family naptani, a barber’s wife, had perpetrated all this deftly and collected money and the red-bordered white saree as a matter of unquestioned practice or right. Dwita’s long hair had been made up into a bun intertwined with zari ribbons and strings of fresh white jasmine flowers. She was draped in a red and gold Banaras Tanchoi, wrapped in a tasteless assortment of jewellery of both families, with a transparent veil of red and gold tissue covering her hair and half her face. She could hardly lift her head for the weight of all the gold pins that held her hair together.
Dwita had lost all count of time, she moved through each stage in response to the voices, some strange, some recognisable. She was now being driven to the Brahmo Samaj, and the sound of conch shells and the sad refrains of Shehnai were seeing her off – Majid Ali was playing the Piloo Thumri to mark the moment of sadness involved with the departure of a bride.
She grew ever more dazed as hundreds of faces surrounded her, the choir sang, the priest prayed and gave his sermon. She knew Nishith was there, but could hardly see his face through the red haze of the veil. They had exchanged vows, rings and garlands – in what order she could not recall. Parna had insisted on giving her away. Nishith’s mother had stayed away as custom demanded. The registrar had come forward after the religious ceremony and they had signed whilst others had witnessed, and now it was all over. Someone tied a knot with the corners of her veil and Nishith’s chaddor. “Now you are joined for life,” an unknown voice informed them, “in the old days not even death could part you.”
“Depended on who died first – did men commit sati as well, Dida, in your day?” That was Prithwish behind her.
“Don’t be facetious, young man,” the old lady retorted, “marriage is not a matter of jest, you will find out.”
Moments later she heard the same old voice telling the priest “You should have forbidden Mrs Roy Chowdhury from giving away her daughter. A mother must never perform this function, and at that a widow too. It brings bad luck.”
“I tried but she said no one else deserved the privilege or had won the right.”
Dwita thought at least her mother had the courage of her convictions. After all she was the architect of her destiny and it was for her to lead Dwita to the door even if she had no right of entry. The rest of the distance had to be covered by her alone.
They returned home after all the feasting was over. The newly marrieds were permitted to break their fast with a glass of fresh lime juice and sandesh. Nishith had later eaten properly with his usual appetite, Dwita had hardly touched anything. It was well past three in the morning when they were allowed to retire. Privacy still seemed to be beyond reach as they could hear the hushed voices of curious relatives in the background. She had seen all this before at other people’s weddings. She knew that it was all part of the tradition –though the elders made a show of shooing away the young, they really did not mean it.
“We must wait for their surrender,” Nishith said lightly.
The eavesdroppers had given up in the end, but not before the newly-weds. Dwita had fallen asleep with her head on the bed-head, while Nishith dozed in the armchair he had occupied earlier. She was shaken out of her slumber by agitated bangings on the door. She was stiff, every joint ached. Nishith was still asleep. She touched him gently to wake him up. He looked up with far away eyes, as though glazed with drink as well as sleep, and suddenly shot out of the chair, saying, “I am sorry, what a mess of a wedding night! It must be the stuff I had–”
“What did you take?”
“Oh, nothing, just something for – for a headache.”
“I am sorry, I should have let you sleep but as you can hear, there is an invasion outside.” She opened the door and a multitude of young women poured into the room.
“Nishithda, our bakhsheesh. It better be good.”
Nishith seemed to know all about it. “What bakhsheesh? For keeping us awake all night? Go away – get lost!” He pulled a face. The bantering went on for what seemed ages to Dwita. Finally he handed a wad of notes to the leader of the gang, which seemed to be a satisfactory settlement of all scores.
They were pulled into the day’s further rituals and activities. It was soon early afternoon and the time to leave – leave forever Ma, Mahama, home, childhood memories of Dima, the make-believe of non-existent paternity, her dreams, her past – everything that she knew and had inherited. Now the moment was here, a future of strange encounters lay ahead of her with all its mysteries and challenges. Was this the escape she had visualised? Or was it just a different prison she had devised for herself – one crowded with new faces and demands, a new whirlpool in which to drown her aspirations?
*
At the time of departure relatives who had known her little and seen her less wept copious tears – it was perhaps infectious. The Shehnai had once again wailed the sad notes of farewell, the conch shells had heralded the leavetaking. Mahama standing alone in one corner, had embraced Dwita closely – she could hear the spasmodic beat of her warm heart and see her eyes, tears welling behind them. Parna had hugged her firmly and had not shed a single visible tear, but she looked white and exhausted, worn out by hard work and self control. Dwita too did not cry, but her muscles ached from forced restraint; the Chowdhurys and Roy Chowdhurys had once again emphasised that feelings must be hidden, not demonstrated in public – it was regarded unnatural and shocking to be seen yielding to one’s secret emotions.
Nishith had taken her by the shoulders and led her to the waiting car, bedecked with garlands of marigold and roses – Prithwish was driving and Maya, the older of the two sisters, sat in front with him. There were others too who followed in several cars. It was a strange feeling to be driven through the crowded streets of Calcutta, dressed as a bride, an object of curiosity. Faces peered into the car at traffic lights, beggars tried to stick their bowls through the windows, but despaired as the glass separated the have’s from the have nots – the flower girl too tried unsuccessfully to push her roses and jasmine behls. They took a longer route on less frequented roads, and finally entered the gates of the Dutta homestead, standing in its large sprawling garden, tucked away behind coconut palms, deodars and neem trees. Multicoloured canna lilies grew carelessly up and down the pathway, pink and magenta bougainvillea climbed the latticed walls, thick and strong; roses bloomed in the untrimmed hedges.
The car drove through a melee of people, objects and confusion and stopped under the portico of the house – the consistent blowing of the horn had warned the reception ‘committee’, headed by Nishith’s mother who stood with a group of resplendent women, holding a silver thal on which several little bowls were parked, containing dhan-durba, sindoor, sandalwood paste and rose petals. Rosewater was sprayed on her, rose petals were scattered in welcome, her feet were washed in milk. She was blessed with dhan-durba and taken into the inner parlour where there was a small embroidered rug. She was invited to sit on this beautiful hand-woven seat of honour, while the others sat around her on the clean white sheets covering the floor and the carpets. The elders, both men and women, came and went, touching her head in blessing, handing her a piece of jewellery or a mohar and she touched their feet in return as was the custom. Nishith’s younger sister Mahua sat by her side with a pencil and notepad, taking down every detail of the presents given to her and the name of the donor. The younger members of the audience sat and stared, whispering secrets into each other’s ears. Dwita sat still, her head bent and aching, jaws stiff from courteous smiling, clad in yesterday’s attire.
She suddenly heard a crackling old voice erupting in her ears, “Nishith in his forties is a discriminating cradle snatcher – what a prize, my dear boy! Ha, Ha, Ha!”
His forties? But that was not what she had been told, so he must have hidden his real age. A moment’s thought told her why – even Parna would not have approved of the match had she known. Still, it was no use taking up such issues now, no use
building sandcastles of accusation. Her new life had begun with deceit and mystery, perhaps more would follow – but she could not present her case yet in the law courts of life. She did not have all the evidence in hand.
After the ceremonies she had not seen Nishith until the next morning. Her sisters-in-law had fed her and helped her undress and she had gone to bed in her mother-in-law’s bedroom. Tradition dictated that the newly weds had to be kept apart after dusk, as it was the kalratri the black night when Savitri had lost her husband Satyaban to Yama the god of Death. Dwita however had slept soundly.
The day dawned quickly for Dwita. It was the day of Bou Bhat – the wedding reception – when the family would receive their eleven hundred or so guests. Majid Ali’s Shehnai party had changed venues. He was now playing his dhuns from a specially erected platform with a canopy over his head, in a shady corner of the front garden. There was also a twenty-piece band bursting into modern refrains, according to an agreed programme. A great many requests from the family were made to the musicians, which were honoured and included according to convenience.
Dwita now had some brief moments to herself as she was left alone in between visits from numerous friends and family, none of whom she had met before. Nishith came in several times, patted her gently on the back as though to reassure her and disappeared quickly as if he did not wish to be seen or found out. He still looked rather listless and uncertain of himself.
Prithwish avoided her altogether until lunch, when they all sat together eating an elaborate meal prepared ceremonially for the newly weds, to be eaten from silver plates and bowls, the rose-scented water drunk out of silver tumblers. A great fuss was made of how to tackle every delicate morsel – Dwita was not hungry but knew she had to eat to drive away the dizzy spells that seemed now to cloud her mind at intervals. Prithwish had followed her into the room afterwards with a little bowl in his hand containing the traditional narcotic paan, each wrapped in a silver leaf, folded neatly into a cone and pinned with a tiny clove, gently fragrant with cardamom seeds. She had eaten one. “You must clean your teeth afterwards,” he had teased her, “or they will say ‘the bride is beautiful, but have you seen her teeth?’” Then he looked embarrassed. “Dwita, do you mind if I do not call you ‘boudi’? Though as Dada’s wife you are in principle older, in fact you are much younger than me – much too young to–” He had not continued, but pulled a blue velvet box from his pocket, saying, “A small present from me. And I would like you to wear it and not put it away in the family vault of forgotten treasures.” It was a watch with a minute silky dial, studded with minuscule diamonds of rare beauty. The strap was a platinum bangle inset with diamonds and seed pearls.
The Onus of Ancestry Page 10