Kajori
A S T O R Y
By Sramana Mitra
1955, PURI. Five boys, scattered across the long second floor verandah, played Piggy-In-The-Middle. Each barefoot in shorts, their torsos dark chocolate from sun. Sweat glistened their skin as they pursued each other, darting in and out of the pillars.
The vacation house of Debendra Narayan Basu chattered with the entire Basu family, along with the family of his friend Surjo Shankar Ray.
The shrieks rose to a climactic scream as Ajoy jumped and caught the ball. The other boys collapsed on the floor.
“I’m going for a swim.”
“Me too,” chimed the other four, though none moved from where they lay.
A servant, Ramapada, in only a white loin-cloth, brought them a basket of shingara and jilipi. Another brought a bunch of green coconuts and a large half-moon katari knife.
The parched puffing boys waited for him to chop off the head of a coconut.
Ajoy walked over to the other side of the verandah and held up a coconut to his older sister, Kajori.
Surjo Shankar’s grand daughter, Kajori and Debendra Narayen’s grandson Shekhar sat on the floor surrounded by five younger boys and girls. They discussed a play the family was rehearsing, to be staged at the end of their vacation.
“Maloti needs to be very soft, understand Abha?” asked Shekhar.
“Dada, will you stop? Maloti has one line to deliver!” complained Abha, turning her attention to the coconut. She taunted the lines to spite her brother. “Agun jalai kano dibe nashi …?”
“Yes, but understand,” intervened Kajori, “the queen is about to burn down an entire village for her momentary pleasure. You are the only person who questions her!”
Shekhar laughed. “Kindness isn’t her strength!”
Kajori smiled, whispered into Shekhar’s ears.
“What?” queried Abha. “You two and your secrets!”
“You want to be the queen, not the maid, right?” asked Kajori.
“She can’t be the queen,” cut in Shekhar.
“Of course not Dada! We know who’s fit to be your queen.” Abha retorted, looking at Kajori, and walked off, further taunting her lines.
On another corner of the verandah, a group of six women sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, watching Kajori and Shekhar’s easy camaraderie. They were childhood friends, confidantes, accomplices.
Abha grabbed a jilipi from her mother’s plate and walked away.
“I couldn’t keep match-makers away in Kolkata. Now, they followed me here,” complained Shekhar’s mother, Radharani, wiping the sweat on her forehead with her sari.
“What does Shekhar have to say about all this?”
“I don’t understand Shekhar these days. Doesn’t want to talk about marriage … looking after Baba’s textile mill. Even makes his own money. Doesn’t like the work, it’s boring. But ...” Radharani put a piece of batter fried potato in her mouth.
“May be, he’s in love with someone!” conjectured Sudha, laughing.
“Have some sweets.” Radharani held out a plate.
“And Kajori’s wedding, Damayanti?” asked Sudha. “Ambitious girl. I worry about her.”
“Kajori will go to college,” responded Kajori’s mother, Damayanti.
A few yards from the gates of the house, the magnificent waves of the Bay of Bengal lashed on the sand. The boys ran past Kajori and Shekhar and splashed into the water. A group of jet black Nuliya boys stood waste deep in the water, watching over the women and children.
Kajori looked at Shekhar, smiled. Shekhar smiled back, but did not look away. “That sari will come off in the water …,” he said.
“It won’t!” Her cheeks felt hot as she struggled to tighten the sari around her waist.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “The Nuliyas will find out what a mermaid looks like.”
Kajori sped, caught up with the girls in the water. Shekhar followed.
The Nuliyas bobbed on the surf, keeping vigil.
Kajori’s wet sari clung to her body. Her long hair came loose. She was not used to wearing a sari in the sea. Until a few years back, it was okay to wear a salwar. But now, her body was changing, and all the aunts kept reminding her that she needed to cover it as much as possible. The waves, however, had a way of disarming her.
Feeling Shekhar’s eyes on her made her all the more awkward, as she struggled to keep herself together. The anchol of her sari tangled up between her breasts, the blouse underneath covering them became translucent.
She gave up, waded out of the water, sat down huddled on the sand.
Shekhar, laughing, fervently gestured her to come back in. She stuck her tongue out, and looked away.
That evening, the six women were in the kitchen, supervising dinner preparations. The kitchen was large. The three clay ovens humongous. The woks such that you could cook an entire goat in them.
Kajori stood at the door, watching.
“Baba ordered a diamond necklace for Shekhar’s bride,” said Radharani.
“Really? When does it arrive?”
“What design, Didi?” asked Sudha, taking her nose close to the wok to smell the goat curry, into which the Oriya cook stirred in a blob of red chili paste.
“Didi, how many brinjals?”
Kajori came into the kitchen to watch Radharani launch luchis into the oil. Radharani picked up a hot, puffy one with her fingers, “You want?”
But from nowhere Shekhar came in and snatched the luchi that his mother held up.
“Look who’s here!” Sudha called out. “We were just talking about the necklace for your bride.”
“Kakima, I’m sure it’d look great on you.” Shekhar retorted.
All the women laughed.
“I know you’re dying to marry me, Shekhar,” quipped back his aunt.
Shekhar gestured Kajori to follow him outside with his eyes.
It was full moon. The silver surf glistened. The thunder of waves lashing on the shore became louder as they walked closer. They went some distance in silence before Shekhar stopped, turned to her. “Kajori …”
She looked up at him curiously and saw a slight frown on his normally joyful face. The strong wind blowing from the sea sent some of her loose hair flying around.
Shekhar hesitated.
Kajori waited, trying to manage her sari in the wind.
Shekhar raised his hand to touch her face, but held back.
Surprised, she held her breath, afraid to ask what was going on.
AT THE END of the holidays, Kajori returned to their Bhowanipur house in Kolkata. The Darwan who kept vigil over this house was a big, heavy man with an ear-to-ear moustache. He came upstairs, called from outside: “Didimoni, Mastarmoshai has arrived.”
The house was relatively modern, influenced by the British Colonial architecture that was often built in Kolkata in the early 1900s. Driveways led to porticos with marble staircases, which led to foyers with wooden staircases covered with rich, thick carpets.
Kajori arranged a shingara and a sandesh on a plate, poured a glass of fresh watermelon juice, and went downstairs to the study, where her tutor waited. This was her routine every evening.
“Meghnad Saha is aging …” Mashtarmoshai said, taking the juice from her, drinking half the glass in one gulp. “I hope he doesn’t die soon.”
Kajori looked up, concerned.
“End of science for Kolkata. Satyenbabu focuses on the wrong issues. Obsessed with teaching science in Bengali.” He took two books out of his bag, arranged them on the table. “Worked with Einstein, but doesn’t understand why Science should be taught in English!”
“Did he really work with Einstein?” asked Kajori, pushing the plate in front of
him.
“Of course. In Berlin. Imagine, Bose and Einstein talking in Bengali!”
Mashtarmoshai laughed out aloud. Kajori smiled.
“Did you have a class at Presidency?”
“Yes.” He opened his notebook and sat down. “I hope you will join soon. Dr. Bose is planning to retire next year. May be, Dr. Saha too. Who knows what will happen.” Mashtarmoshai pondered aloud with a frown. “But, if I have anything to do with this, you will take their place.”
Kajori lowered her eyes.
“But first, you will go to Oxford. Then Princeton.”
“Why Princeton?”
“Oh, you can go to MIT if you prefer!” He smiled, adding softly, “Then come back here and teach.” Eating his Sandesh, he continued, “… Princeton because Einstein has trained so many people there for 20 years. You will find good guidance.”
Kajori opened her Physics book, but looked up. “Mashtarmoshai, does a free Electron have finite mass?”
He looked at her gently. “The quantum theory of radiation predicted that a free electron should have an infinite mass.I will bring you Dr. Lamb’s Nobel lecture next week …”
The first time Mashtarmoshai took Kajori to his Presidency College laboratory, she was twelve. He gave her a specific gravity bottle which she broke. He took her to the hospital, got her hand stitched, then returned to the lab and showed her how to measure the specific gravity of water.
Kajori had worked in his laboratory ever since. He answered her ever-active questioning, resolved her dilemmas, argued with her. Most importantly, he asked new questions of her. The uncut diamond of Kajori’s mind was thus polished for years. There was hardly any aggression in her personality. Only precision.
Darwan interrupted Mashtarmoshai’s story. “Didimoni, Kartababu is back from Hazaribagh. He wants to see you.”
Mashtarmoshai sighed. “They’re trying to marry you off, Kajori.”
Kajori, leaving, turned and declared, “Mashtarmoshai, I’ll go to Oxford. Marriage or not!”
Outside, in the portico, two servants unloaded baskets from the car. Her grandfather had brought them back from his fishing trip. The carps were large and dead, with blank round open eyes and silver scales. The two servants salivated.
As she walked up to him, Surjo Shankar held his arms out to his grand daughter and drew her up the staircase.
“I did something …,” he looked at her uncertainly.
“And what is that, Dadu?”
“I didn’t ask you first.”
“You always ask for my permission on everything, Dadu!” Kajori laughed.
“I didn’t ask your father either.”
“Dadu.” Kajori stopped. “Enough suspense!”
“I promised Deben I’d marry you to Shekhar …”
“Dadu!” She was stunned.
Kajori refused to turn around and look at Mashtarmoshai, who had come out to the foyer. He watched horrified from the bottom of the staircase.
KAJORI AND SHEKHAR were married in a grand ceremony celebrating the union of two of Kolkata’s oldest families.
An exquisite veiled Kajori in a red Benarasi sari sat on a four-poster bed sprinkled with rose petals, adorned by fragrant tuberose strings that took the place of the mosquito net, on the night of their phoolshojja.
On her neck was the famous necklace, a gift from Shekhar’s grandfather. Her slender wrists and fingers were bejeweled with gold ratnachur, a gift from her grandfather. Diamond earrings hung from her delicate lobes, heirloom jewelry given to her mother-in-law, Radharani, by her father, at her own wedding.
Shekhar locked the sixteen feet high frosted glass door of their bedroom.
As he turned around, a playful smile crept to his face.
Kajori too was smiling shyly, but refused to meet his eye. Instead, she watched the swaying ends of Shekhar’s elegantly crafted knochano dhuti.
He walked over to his piano, started playing a song from Tagore.
Kajori listened from the bed.
“Sing it,” she said, softly, watching the lines of his shoulder.
“You are a cloud in my empty twilight sky, my long cherished dream…”
As he stopped, turned, she dropped her eyes again, smiling.
He walked over to her, cupped her face in his hand, raised it, forcing her to look at him. He smiled, watching the kajol in her eyes. “So what do you want to do all night?”
Kajori laughed, looked away, then looked at him again, his mouth.
At dawn, in his arms, her head on his chest. He hummed the song again, watching the vermillion and sandalwood mess on her forehead.
“What did you try to tell me in Puri last summer?” Kajori asked.
“Ma was asking me to get married. But I was in love with you.”
Kajori arched her head to look at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure if you loved me.” Shekhar
“How could you not know that I loved you?”
“You could have loved me like a brother.” Shekhar teased her girlish surprise.
“I did.”
“Liar.” Shekhar laughed.
“Why?” Kajori sat up. “We were always close like brother-sister …”
“Well then we just committed incest.” He looked at her breast not far from his mouth. “And enjoyed it.”
“I thought this was an arranged marriage,” she muttered against him. “Did DebDadu know? Is that why he asked Dadu?”
Shekhar rolled her over and took a good look at her.
“I don’t think so. Dadu was in love with you independently,” he finally said mischievously.
“I am happy he asked.” She said, looking away, blushing.
KAJORI STARTED AT Presidency College. Shekhar resumed looking after his grandfather’s textile business. The Pathuriaghata house pulsed with women, children, servants sliding in and out of rooms, colliding, laughing.
Durga Pujo. On Bijoya Dashami, Kajori woke early to shower. She came out of the bathroom wearing a white sari with a dark red border, wet curly black hair loose, reaching down her back to her knees. Shekhar watched her from the bed.
She sat at her dressing table. Her head bent to the left, her arms reaching up and over. The water from her hair dripped on the floor. She put vermilion in her parting, as married women did, to keep evil away from their husbands.
Shekhar came from behind, tilted her head back to kiss her, but she arched away from him.
“I have to go,” Kajori laughed. “Ma wants me downstairs in the Thakur Dalan.”
Shekhar buried his face in her breast, didn’t let her go.
“I have to …” she said gently, trying to untangle herself.
Shekhar started kissing her neck, but Kajori tore herself away.
At the door, she turned to look at him, where he watched her from the floor. He saw the lust in her eyes, but the sound of Radharani’s conch outside announced the auspicious hour. Kajori fled the room, leaving the doorway empty.
Downstairs, the idol of the goddess was hoisted in the Thakur Dalan, a household temple. Victorious over the demon Mahishashur who had the head of a bull, the goddess drove a trident into his chest. The goddess with ten arms, each carrying a weapon. She rode a lion.
Sounds of dhak drums filled the fresh morning air. Women in their red bordered white saris, hair partings bright with vermilion, performed the Dashami rituals. Seven women, each carrying an offering, took seven rounds around the goddess. Annapurna carried water in a brass pitcher. Meera a conch. Maya carried betel leaves. Radharani and Sudha, the elders, guided Kajori, the new bride, who carried fire. Smoke blended with scents of oil, incense, camphor in her nostrils. Her ears pounded with the bellowing of conches.
They hugged the goddess, whispered adieus in her ear, smearing vermilion on her forehead. The moist vermilion on banana leaves traveled from hand to hand, and in the courtyard in front of the Thakur Dalan, they smeared each other’s foreheads in red. Maya chased Kajori, who chased Meera; the thre
e together chased the plump Annapurna. The whites of their saris were marked with vermilion, the courtyard ground red, red air hung over the morning.
Shekhar watched from the upstairs balcony, smiling.
Kajori exchanged a glance with him that made her blush from head to toe, before Meera came from behind and smeared a fresh round of vermilion, dragging her back into the fray.
SHEKHAR’S ANGLO INDIAN friend, Joseph Braganza, whose father owned the Piano shop on Free School Street, was in Shekhar’s music room with his trumpet. The two experimented wildly, the sound ricocheting through the Pathuriaghata house.
The house was architecturally much older than its counterpart in Bhowanipur. It also differed in customs. The family lived in the inner wing, where outsiders were not allowed. When Mashtarmoshai came, he had to wait outside in a small study, while Kajori was summoned by a servant.
Kajori was working on Calculus with Mashtarmoshai, the sound of Joseph’s jazz careening through the hallways. Mashtarmoshai, irritated, covered his ears with his hands and shook his head.
College exams were near. When Shekhar burst into the room, she looked up, alarmed.
“Mashtarmoshai, Baba wants to see Kajori within five minutes.”
“This is no way to learn Calculus,” complained Mashtarmoshai.
“Sorry, Mashtarmoshai … you know how it is. If Baba calls, she has to go.”
“Yes, go … go.”
Kajori looked at him apologetically. “Can I go?”
“I told you … Go.”
“Come on, Kajori, hurry,” Shekhar prodded from the door.
As soon as they reached the Billiard room, Shekhar grabbed her hand, dragged her in. He pinned her against the table, his thigh between her legs. “We’re going to Joseph’s house. He’ll take us to a Jazz concert.”
“Not right away?”
“Right away. Get dressed.”
Kajori let him kiss her, but protested, “He’ll be very upset.”
“Joseph and I will be very upset,” said Shekhar, as he slid his fingers under her sari and ran them over her breasts. Kajori’s breath quickened.
Kajori (Kolkata Memoirs) Page 1