The Cursed Inheritance

by Sutapa Basu

  Creeaakk! Dunk!

  I lifted my head.

  Creeakkkkkkk…thump. It was coming from above. Who was walking on the roof? Could it be the monkeys? Do simians explore at night?

  Squeekkkk! Chirrrrr! Thunk!

  It sounded more like wood rubbing against wood.

  I lay back on the pillows and mused, this is an old mansion. Don’t old buildings grunt and groan with the vagaries of weather and time? I had read somewhere that over time old buildings lean and bend creating all kinds of sounds. Apparently, the noises occurred all the time but were more audible during the night due to the silence. Was Sarkar Bari speaking to me? Telling me that its existence and my fate were interwoven? Maybe…the thought comforted me. I sighed, turning into a more comfortable position as slumber settled in. My last thought was, tomorrow…must go back to the room….

  8.

  I was watching Lokkhi mashi expertly flip over the mamlette, when a portion of the mansion caught my eye. Perching on the terrace roof of the opposite block was a quaint structure. From the kitchen I could see a white wall with overhanging eaves of a red-tiled sloping roof. ‘What’s that?’ I pointed a finger.

  Lokkhi mashi looked up from the pan and replied, ‘Oh that! It’s the chilekotha.’

  ‘Chi…chi…le…kotha?’ It stumbled awkwardly on my tongue.

  ‘Yes, a room on the roof,’ she explained.

  ‘Oh! An attic,’ I translated.

  ‘Built to be a storeroom, but Ashish Babu liked to spend his time there. So, it used to be his room,’ she added, flipping the egg-pancake on my plate.

  I hardly looked at it. ‘Dad’s room? Can I see it?’

  She nodded, adding, ‘Why not? It is quite dusty and dilapidated. Nothing in there but you should see the room your father spent so much time in.’ Carefully, she arranged small bread slices in the mesh toaster.

  ‘Now? Can we go now?’ I was too thrilled to eat.

  ‘Annadidi, first eat your breakfast. It is fresh and hot. We will go after you finish,’ she instructed me, as if I was a little girl. I smiled at her and attacked the egg with a fork. Charged with two cups of Lokkhi mashi’s special, syrupy tea, we began climbing the curved stairway.

  Crossing the paved terrace, I looked down into the patio. From here, it looked like a gigantic chessboard. The neem waved its branches at me from the other side. Huge swathes of the cityscape were visible on all three sides. Sketched on a clear azure canvas was the iconic Howrah Bridge built by the British. As we approached the attic…no, chilekotha, I noted it was a square structure with whitewashed walls. The wooden door facing us was unlocked and swung open to Lokkhi mashi’s touch. With a large window to one side, the room was small. Glass shutters were bolted but yellow sunlight fanned over the room. A study desk was pushed against the opposite wall. Its matching chair was at a slant for one leg was bent. A woven grass mat was askew on the floor. Other than a thick coating of dust, the room was barren.

  ‘See! I told you there is nothing in it,’ Lokkhi mashi spoke through a sari corner masking her nose and mouth.

  I took a few steps to the desk and rubbed a forefinger across the dust. This was Dad’s table. Did he study and do his homework here? A sepia picture crept into my head…lanky, awkward, Dad in shorts and open-neck shirt, a teenager frowning into the camera… It was from the old album at home. What did he think as he sat here? Did he write a diary, poems, or draw as children do? I wish I knew.

  ‘Come, Didi. This dust will make you sneeze,’ Lokkhi mashi declared from the door. ‘Let’s go down. I have to pay the vegetable vendor.’

  Reluctantly, I turned around and something fluttered on the ground beside the chair. I bent down and picked up a folded paper half-buried in the dust. The sheet was crimped into a paper boat…just like the ones Dad used to make for me. When I was small, we would often go to the park behind our house. There was a pond there with goldfish. I sailed Dad’s paper boats on it for hours…happy hours. My fingers curled over the filthy paper boat… Dad must have made it…I am sure….

  Later, I dusted the paper boat and made it stand on the table in my room. Blue marks stood out inside its hull. Slowly, I unfolded the creases. Unformed, stained with ink blotches, yet I knew that it was Dad’s writing.

  He had written a poem about Sarkar Bari!

  I read the four lines again…they were simple but love for his home radiated in them.

  Sarkar Bari

  Home is where the heart is

  And Friendship is a guest

  A book, a fire, a handclasp

  A place where souls can rest.

  I leaned back in the armchair. Dad had not shown his feelings too much, but he used to talk a lot about India, Kolkata and his home.

  Now the reason was in front of me. He had loved them all so much. He had missed them all so much. A lump rose in my throat as I thought about Dad’s yearning.

  Yet, he had never returned here. I wonder why? Was it because he felt his English wife, our mum, may not be accepted by his family? However, this revelation about Dad’s poignant bond with Sarkar Bari made me uneasy about the decision that Robin and I had taken. Was it a cavalier renunciation of Dad’s sentiments? Simply because we were too remote in time and space to comprehend the depth of his attachment to a family heritage, were we being too hasty in doing away with it?

  Voices floating up from the patio made me peep over the balustrade. Gonuda had arrived but he was alone. The customer had not come. I was surprised at the relief surging through me. I observed the estate agent as he finished speaking to the housekeeper and strode towards the stairs. If he is the culprit, he appeared quite unperturbed that his perfidy had been discovered. Probably planning to dupe me with some airy explanation or feigning ignorance if I bought it up or…or…I was barking up a wrong tree.

  I decided to keep my cards close and be more assertive.

  ‘Where is the customer?’ I demanded, the moment Gonuda plonked on the armchair. Wiping his pate with a damp handkerchief, he waved the hand-held palm leaf fan over it. Breathing hard after climbing the stairs, all he managed was, ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who wants to buy this mansion,’ I replied, irked at his laxity.

  ‘Oh! He?’ Gonuda, replied, ‘Travelling… right now, he is in Bhubaneshwar.’

  ‘But you had mailed me that he would be in Kolkata this week. That is the reason I decided to come at this time. And now, he has gone off. Did you tell him I was arriving to complete the formalities?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course, I did.’ His quick affirmation hinted at just the opposite.

  ‘No. You didn’t,’ I snapped.

  ‘I did, Anahi…Anna, as soon as you called me from England,’ he nodded vigorously. ‘But these builders, you know…they run here and there for business.’ He explained. I did not believe a word, but I could do nothing about it.

  ‘Builder? What does he build?’ I asked, grumpily.

  ‘Builder…you know, he buys land, builds apartments on it and sells the property,’ explained Gonuda.

  ‘Oh! A real-estate business,’ I elucidated. ‘Well, you better call him and tell him to come here tomorrow.’ The man nodded. I added, ‘Now, Gonuda, now.’

  Realising it was not up to him, the manager called the ‘builder’ stating my request. Nodding a few times, he put down his phone, announcing, ‘He will come the day after. But are you sure you want to sell Sarkar Bari? Does your brother, uhhh…Robin…yes…Robin also wants to sell it?’

  ‘Yes, Gonuda.’ I did not want to let him into my dilemma. ‘Both Robin and I have decided it is the best course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well…this mansion has been your family’s for generations. It is your inheritance. Mansions like this are not found anymore. Karta Babu had maintained it with my father’s help. We…my family can continue doing that. Whenever you or your brother feel like it, you can visit.’ He smiled at me, ingratiatingly.

  I was annoyed. I strode to the window and gazed unseeingly at the shanties. I did not
like this man’s toadying or doling out pompous advice. Everything about him reeked of duplicity. I was sure that he was the one who had broken in. Why is he so keen that this mansion should not be sold? Because he will not have a free run of it once it belongs to someone else. Because he will not have the opportunity to seek what he wants. Does that mean that he has not yet found it? Nevertheless, I was determined to foil his bid. Not only will I get to the bottom of this mystery, but I will also not let this charlatan take anything from this mansion.

  ‘Do you want to go anywhere today, Anna…like sightseeing?’ he asked, unaware or unconcerned of my irritation.

  ‘No, no,’ I shook my head. I need to pin him down. I took the card out and thrust it under his nose. ‘Do you know this person?’ This should throw you. I narrowed my eyes and focused on his face.

  He took the card, read it, looked at it carefully front and back. His face displayed nothing other than curiosity. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, at last.

  I sidestepped the question. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Who? Birendranath Sarkar? No…no.’ He shook his head. ‘It appears he is from the Sarkar family, but I have no idea how he is connected. As far as I know, Karta Babu never mentioned anyone by that name,’ he declared and asked, again. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Uhhh….’ I was not letting on. ‘Is there anyone else who would know about this person?’

  He flipped the card with his index finger, thinking. ‘Maybe Baba knows…’

  ‘Baba?’ Now I was thrown.

  ‘My father…Kedarnath Raha. He has been Karta Babu’s manager for fifty long years…he knows everything about the Sarkar family.’

  I felt a strong urge to know more about this Birendranath Sarkar. I couldn’t fathom why but knowing about him seemed compelling. ‘Can I meet your father?’ I asked Gonuda.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? He is at home. I will call him to say that we are coming,’ Gonuda said.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, snatching the card from his hand. It went into my sling bag along with my wallet, phone and power bank. By the time, Gonuda had got his bulk out of the armchair, I was flying downstairs, calling out to Lokkhi mashi, ‘Going out. Lock the gates.’

  9.

  Traversing several narrow lanes, the cab halted at the curb. Emerging, I gaped at the Raha residence. It straddled a corner block, rose loftily for two floors with wide balconies and several windows nestling on its freshly painted walls. Tall grille gates gave peeks of a small but well-laid out garden. This is a villa! Definitely didn’t look like a house of a retired estate manager and his hardly employed son.

  ‘It’s nice.’ I gestured up at the structure, walking up the paved path to the front door.

  Gonuda rang the bell, remarking, ‘Baba came into some inheritance when I was still a child. Then he built this house….’

  An elderly man opened the door. Garbed in a grey kurta and white pyjamas, the lower part of his face was hidden under a white beard and whiskers.

  ‘Please come in.’ He spoke surprisingly well-articulated English though his hands were folded in the traditional Indian greeting. Inside, the house was prosperous like the outside. Mr Raha preceded us into a sunny sitting room. Gesturing to a sofa covered with plum-coloured tapestry, he said, ‘Please sit.’ While his words were amiable enough, I sensed a reticence in the man.

  Despite his aged appearance and professed ill-health, his eyes were sharp as he regarded me. ‘I am Kedarnath Raha, Karta Babu’s manager for many years…before either of you were born,’ he said with a low chuckle.

  I nodded. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Mr Raha.’

  ‘Please don’t thank me, child. Karta Babu has always taken good care of me and my family. I am obliged to do whatever little I can for his granddaughter,’ he paused, before adding, ‘I hear you want to sell the mansion.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Hmm…Sarkar Bari is your ancestral property. That kind of property is inherited not sold, child.’

  Here it is once again…now from the father…this imposition to not sell. It only serves to convince me that both of them want control over the mansion. And over me?

  ‘What do we do with the mansion, if we don’t sell it?’

  ‘Live in it, child. Houses are meant to be lived in,’ replied Mr Raha.

  ‘But I do not live here. My home is in London where I work. And Robin, my brother, lives in New York,’ I explained with a patience that was getting on a short fuse.

  ‘You can come here during vacations. Stay for some time. This is your country, you know,’ he said while Gonuda nodded.

  I looked downwards, pretending to think. It was becoming so explicit; Robin and I would be distant owners while Sarkar Bari will be in the grip of this father-son duo who would use it as they wished. What a scheme! Do they take me for a fool? Have they forgotten that I descend from the Sarkars who have held on to their heritage through centuries? Nothing enraged me so much as patronising contempt.

  A woman entered noiselessly. Wrapped in a widow’s white cloth, her head covered, only an unsmiling face was visible. She put down a tray with glasses of orange juice, plates of sweetmeats and fritters on the table. Mr Raha waved a hand. ‘This is my sister, Kona.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you,’ I murmured but the woman did not even look up. Pulling the sari corner down to cover her gaunt face, she slipped out silently. I stared at the food that I was in no mood to eat. Instead, I could play the cat to some mice.

  ‘Actually, Mr Raha,’ I began, ‘I had something to ask you.’

  The old man glanced at his son before murmuring, ‘Yes, of course.’

  I handed him the card. ‘Who is Birendranath Sarkar?’ Did he flinch or did I imagine it?

  Mr Raha took his time to examine the card while his face retained a bland expression. Stillness weighed down the room. Finally, he spoke. ‘Biren Babu was Karta Babu’s younger brother.’

  I knew it…, was my jubilant thought, I knew Birendranath Sarkar is family. I glanced at the son, but he looked surprised. So, Gonuda does not know.

  ‘He left home long ago,’ went on Mr Raha. His voice sounded hard.

  ‘Why did he leave?’ I asked.

  The elderly man spoke hurriedly. ‘That I don’t know. It happened very long ago…something between the brothers.’

  ‘But you were Dadu’s manager. You must have known what happened between them,’ I persisted.

  ‘No, no. I know nothing. Karta Babu never told me, and I never asked. I was only twenty-six years then, but old enough to know what to say to whom. All this happened long ago. Gonu was only a toddler.’

  Oh! That is the reason Gonuda does not know. ‘Well! Do you know where Birendranath Sarkar lives in London?’ I asked.

  Mr Raha shook his head. ‘After he left, we heard nothing from him. I do not know if letters passed between him and Karta Babu, but none went through my office.’

  This is frustrating….

  ‘…except a few years ago…,’ murmured Mr Raha.

  ‘…a few years ago?’ I latched on. ‘What happened…a few years ago?’

  ‘A letter came for Karta Babu. The return address had Biren Babu’s name….’ The old man looked out of the window. I held my breath. Even Gonuda stared at his father. But Mr Raha did not speak.

  I had to know. ‘The address? What was the address? Do you remember?’

  ‘Yeesss,’ Mr Raha said slowly, as if recalling. ‘Uhh… 29B, Jatin Das Road, Lake Town, Kolkata….’

  ‘Kolkata?’ I squeaked. Mr Raha nodded. ‘And what was in the letter?’

  Now the old man’s eyes focused on me. ‘I don’t know. Karta Babu did not tell me. It was just that one letter. No more letters came after that. But I remember the address. It mystified me because I knew he was out of the country. However, the letter was from Kolkata. Even this card mentions London.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he had returned to India…maybe his letter to K
arta Babu was about that…maybe…’

  ‘Did you go to Biren Babu’s house, Baba?’ Gonuda interrupted his father.

  ‘No. Never. Karta Babu was my employer. He did not ask me to. I would never do anything behind his back,’ declared Mr Raha.

  ‘But I will go,’ I announced.

  Both men gave me startled looks. ‘Will you please repeat the address, Mr Raha?’ I took out my phone and saved it as he spoke.

  Now, I was in a rush. Grandfather’s brother…my granduncle. Maybe he would be the key to…whatever was in Sarkar Bari… I didn’t know but I had to find out.

  I stood up, saying, ‘Thank you, Mr Raha for your help.’ Going towards the door, I remembered my manners. Turning back, I said, ‘I am sorry that I could not eat or drink.’ And caught the father nodding meaningfully to his son.

  Mr Raha quickly made up for the flub, flinging instructions at his son. ‘Please see that Karta Babu’s granddaughter is safe, Gonu. Be with her wherever she goes.’ Sure, I added silently, don’t let her out of your sight.

  As the cab sped towards South Kolkata, I felt suffocated with Gonuda beside me. Father and son are in cahoots. They know something…some secret connected to Dadu and the mansion. They must have stolen Dadu’s papers… searching for clues to the secret. However, it is clear they had not found them…not yet. Or else, they would not be spying on me…maybe they expect I would lead them to it… I gave a sidelong glance at Gonuda. He was looking thoughtfully out of the window.

  Well, I can flip the script, too.

  ‘Jatin Das Road,’ announced the driver.

  We embarked at the mouth of a narrow lane. Gonuda directed the driver to find a parking slot nearby and wait. We began walking down the road scrutinising house numbers and located 29B. At the door, a maid informed us that Mr Sarkar’s apartment was on the floor above. The winding stairway ended at a grille gate with a wooden inner door. A short wait after the bell tinkled a woman in a nurse’s uniform queried through the grille. ‘Yes? Whom do you want?’ she queried.

  ‘Is this Mr Birendranath Sarkar’s home? Please tell him Anahita Sarkar has come to meet him,’ I stated as authoritatively as I could.