Again, the electric current shot through Dipa. But she hardened her heart once more and retorted, ‘I do not like the cinema.’ She began to climb the stairs.
Debashish looked up at her and said tonelessly, ‘I am going over to Nripatida’s house. I’ll be back around eight-thirty.’
Debashish pulled open the front door and stepped out. His Fiat stood outside. When he returned home from work, he had left it waiting there. He had assumed Dipa wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of a movie. His heart was seldom given to bitterness, but today he couldn’t help feeling the way he did. How could she continue to distrust him so? She had been living under the same roof with him for the last two months. Never, under any pretext, had he tried to touch her or claim his conjugal rights. Why then had she humiliated him in that manner today?
Debashish got into the driver’s seat and started the car. The garage was located behind the house. He parked the car there and set off on foot. Nripati Laha’s house was five minutes away. Every evening, it was the venue of a tea and chat session. Debashish went there quite often.
Dipa went upstairs and flopped into her armchair again. Her mind and heart were in a flutter and she felt restless and edgy. She reached out, as was her habit, and turned on the radio. Some lady was wailing away in an attempt to do justice to a modern melody. After a few minutes, Dipa switched off the radio and sat in silence, her eyes shut. But within her heart, the storm continued to rage. She rose and began pacing the floor restlessly, muttering to herself, ‘How long can this go on?’
If Dipa had been an empty-headed bit of fluff, her life would have been far simpler. She had been born into an old, orthodox family. Once upon a time, they had enjoyed immense wealth and power. But now their circumstances were greatly reduced. Still, the roar of an ageing lion could be quite terrifying. Although their wealth and power were significantly diminished, their conservatism and sense of family honour betrayed no signs of bowing to circumstance. Dipa’s grandfather, Uday Madhav Mukherjee, was still alive. He was the family patriarch. At one time, he used to be the principal of a famous college. But the sudden onset of paralysis had forced him into retirement. He was confined to the house and from within its four walls, ruled the family with an iron hand.
Apart from her grandfather, the other members of her orthodox and highly educated family included her parents and her older brother. Dipa’s father, Nil Madhav, was a college professor and past his prime. Her mother was a simple soul who kept to herself and silently went about her household chores. Dipa’s brother, Bijoy Madhav, was five years older than her. He had obtained his master’s in Sanskrit and was now trying to get a teaching job. Both Dipa’s sibling and her father had forceful personalities. At home they obeyed Uday Madhav in everything and shamelessly flaunted their family pride to the world at large. Dipa was the only girl in the family. She had passed her Senior Cambridge exam from a girls’ school. Then her academic career was put on hold permanently. The quest was initiated for a good match for her—from the same caste, it went without saying. Given the mores of the time, she could not be put in purdah, but she wasn’t allowed to step out of the house unaccompanied. If she needed to go out, either her father or her brother would serve as her escort.
Dipa stayed home and helped her mother with the domestic chores and in the kitchen. In her spare time, she read novels and listened to the radio. But her heart surged with rebellious thoughts. Her mind was her own and so were her opinions. She did obey all the rules of the house without complaint but her heart remained despondent. Would she never enjoy independence just because she was a girl born to a Bengali family? Women in other countries could certainly claim more than that!
Perhaps because of his lack of mobility, Grandfather Uday Madhav enjoyed the company of visitors and loved to wine and dine them. He would invite his elderly friends over on the slightest pretext. Nil Madhav and Bijoy Madhav’s friends were also welcome. The geriatrics would get together on the second floor, the elderly professors hovered on the floor below and the youngsters kicked up a ruckus on the ground floor. Such gatherings were a familiar feature once every two months or so.
Dipa was allowed out in the presence of all the guests. Her grandfather’s friends cracked jokes with this young girl whom they regarded as their own granddaughter. Her father’s friends loved her as they would a daughter and her brother’s friends accorded her the same respect as they would to one of their own kind. They never looked down on her just because she was a girl. She was even free to speak to them if she wished. When they sang or played, Dipa often stood at the door and watched them. She thrilled to such activities, though she hardly ever expressed her feelings. For Dipa was shy.
The days were going by smoothly when, suddenly, a strange thing happened to Dipa. As was natural for someone her age, she fell in love. The object of her affection reciprocated her feelings in full measure. But what came between them was the Great Wall: their families belonged to different castes.
In the afternoons, when the house fell silent, Dipa would sit by the telephone in the drawing room downstairs, the door ajar and the glow of anticipation lighting up her eyes. The instant the phone rang, she would answer it. A few words would be cautiously exchanged, after which she would hang up. No one ever came to know about it.
At dusk, Dipa would stand by the window. As her lover walked by, he would gaze up at her. This was how they continued to see each other. But for fear of being discovered, there was little chance of them ever meeting.
Meanwhile, the search for Dipa’s prospective bridegroom was under way. But the negotiations were making little progress, for if the castes of the two were compatible, the boy just wasn’t eligible in other respects. And if he did pass muster, their horoscopes did not match.
One winter afternoon, Dipa had a secret conversation with her lover over the telephone. Then she went upstairs to her grandfather’s room, her heart in her mouth. Dipa was a brave girl, but her courage was shot with a streak of stubbornness. Her relationship with her grandfather was rather unusual. She loved him more than she did anyone else in the family. But she feared him too. The very thought of being the cause of his displeasure terrified her. Her knees shook ever so slightly as she walked up the stairs.
In his old age, Uday Madhav Mukherjee had slipped on the stairs one day and had had a bad fall. The serious spinal injury he had suffered as a result had paralyzed him from the waist down and turned him into a cripple. But in all other respects, he enjoyed good health. He was well-built and his broad-jawed face gave no hint of his powerful personality. Even at the age of seventy, his mental faculties were unimpaired. The force of will with which he had ruled the college once remained undiminished. It had always been his habit to address everyone in a voice that sounded like a roar and he had maintained it to this day.
Dipa stepped into her grandfather’s room on the second floor and found him half-reclined on his bed, reading the daily. He read two newspapers every day, the English one in the morning and the Bengali one when he had woken up from his afternoon nap.
He noticed Dipa, put the paper down and roared, ‘There you are, Dipankari! Why don’t I see you these days? Where have you been hiding yourself?’
Dipa’s name was just plain Dipa, but Uday Madhav chose to call her Dipankari. Her fears were allayed slightly when her grandfather addressed her by this familiar nickname. She sat down at the foot of the bed and said, ‘You saw me this very morning, Dadu. Didn’t I bring you your tea and medicine?’
‘Oho, is that so?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t notice. So, what brings you here now?’
Suddenly, Dipa found herself unable to speak. She sat there, hanging her head in a paroxysm of apprehension and self-consciousness. The things she’d come to say did not trip easily off the tongue.
Uday Madhav stared at her for a while, then emitted another of his characteristic growls: ‘What is it?’
Dipa gathered all her courage and strength before turning to face him squarely. She looked him in the eye and said
with slow deliberation, ‘Grandfather, there is someone I wish to marry, but he belongs to a different caste. Do you have any objections?’
Uday Madhav was stunned into silence for a few moments. Then he sat up in bed and shouted, ‘What did you say? You wish to marry someone? What are things coming to these days? You’re going to choose your own bridegroom, are you? Where do you think you’re from—a rootless family from some alien part of the world with no lineage to speak of?’
Dipa sat in silence, staring down at her feet. Uday Madhav continued to roar and growl as he delivered his sermon. The sound of his unrelenting rage brought Dipa’s mother and brother running. Some of the servants also peered in out of curiosity. Dipa sat there, still as a statue.
Half an hour later, her grandfather ended the harangue with the words, ‘Let me not hear you utter such words ever again. You are a daughter of this family, my granddaughter. And you will marry the man I choose for you. Now leave me alone.’
Dipa went downstairs, Bijoy following her. She was about to enter her bedroom when Bijoy glared at her and said sternly, ‘Come here and tell me who it is you wish to marry.’
Dipa turned around to look at him, her eyes blazing. In a subdued hiss, she said, ‘I shan’t tell you, not even if it kills me!’ She went into her room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Thereafter, Dipa became a prisoner in her own home. Earlier, she had occasionally been allowed to visit a friend or two. Now, even that came to a stop. Every one seemed to be keeping a vigilant eye on her at all times, their senses on red alert. In the afternoon, however, she would savour her freedom for about an hour or so. Her mother would be taking a short nap in her own room, while her brother went out in search of a job. Her father, Nil Madhav, left at ten every morning for college and her grandfather was confined to his room upstairs. No one could, therefore, keep an eye on Dipa’s movements at this time of the day. She too betrayed no signs that might arouse suspicion.
To all intents and purposes, everyone at home was convinced that her grandfather’s lecture had brought Dipa to her senses and she would cause no further trouble. Nobody knew that in the afternoon, the telephone came to life.
Then, one day, Bijoy came home earlier than usual. He had been unable to get in touch with the person he had set out to meet that day and so was back early. When he was approaching the house, he noticed Dipa stepping out and heading towards the station at Ballygunge. Bijoy’s eyes blazed with fury. Where was she off to on her own? To her friend Shubhra’s house? But Shubhra’s house lay in the opposite direction. No other friend of hers lived in the area Dipa was headed for. Bijoy quickened his pace in an effort to catch up with his sister.
‘Where do you think you are going?’
Dipa stopped short as if struck by an arrow. Her brother stood right in front of her, blocking her way. He asked in a stern voice, ‘Where are you going on your own?’
Dipa remained silent. She swallowed. Bijoy raised his voice a trifle: ‘Who gave you permission to go out unescorted? Come home right now.’
Now the words emerged from Dipa’s lips: ‘No, I won’t.’
There weren’t too many people about. The few who were, were beginning to turn and stare. When he realized that Dipa wasn’t about to follow him, Bijoy asked, ‘Will you come along with me or do I have to drag you home by your hair?’
Dipa stifled the urge to burst into sobs. What a humiliation this was for her, that too in public! Anyone known to them could witness the scene if they chose to. She swallowed her tears and walked back home like a fish ensnared on a hook.
Bijoy stepped into the house, called out ‘Mother!’ twice and walked into the drawing room. Dipa didn’t pause. She ran upstairs to her own room and shut the door.
Bijoy stepped into the drawing room and his eyes fell on a piece of paper tucked under the telephone. He picked it up. On it was written: ‘I am leaving with the man I wish to marry. Do not look for me. Dipa.’
This was an outrage that even the wildest flights of Bijoy’s imagination hadn’t been able to anticipate. He took the letter straight up to his grandfather. His parents too came to know of it. But the matter had to be kept from the servants and the staff. Uday Madhav was stunned into silence and forgot to roar or sermonize. Dipa was subjected to several furtive rounds of inquisition: Who was the man she had wanted to elope with? What was his name? But Dipa’s lips were sealed.
During the secret family discussions that took place, it was decided that Dipa’s marriage was now a matter of the highest priority. An eligible groom from a compatible caste had to be found—from the ends of the earth, if necessary. They could not afford any further delay.
Of all the members of the household, Bijoy was the one in the greatest hurry. He was a truculent man and felt the shame of his sister’s aborted elopement with a stranger more keenly than anyone else. His hunt for the right groom now began in real earnest.
We have already mentioned that a tea and chat session used to take place in Nripati Laha’s house. Bijoy was a member of this circle and he was friendly with all those who belonged to it. He was particularly close to Laha.
Laha’s lineage was a distinguished one. But at present, he was the only scion of his family. Around thirty-five years old, he had lost his wife even before she could conceive. He had not remarried. Highly educated, with a string of university degrees to his name, Laha spent his days in the company of books. After sundown, it was the tea session at his place that kept him busy.
One evening, Bijoy Madhav came to see Nripati. The evening session of social chit-chat was yet to get under way. Nripati was reading a book in the living room downstairs where his friends gathered for tea and conversation every evening.
It was a large room that resembled a conference hall. In the old days, this room would serve as a concert hall for the entertainment of male guests. The room had since been redone and was furnished with sofas and chairs, but a vast expanse of mattress dating back to bygone days still reposed regally in a corner of the room. There was also a harmonium, a piano and a radiogram in the room which was equipped with packs of cards, chessboards and chess pieces, a carom board and counters, and sundry other indoor games.
Bijoy entered the room to find Nripati alone. He said, ‘Nripatida, I need a word with you in private. That’s why I have arrived a bit earlier than usual.’
Nripati shut the book he had been reading and studied Bijoy for a while. Then he patted the place next to him on the sofa and invited, ‘Come, sit down.’
When Nripati noticed Bijoy’s hesitation in broaching the subject he wished to bring up, even after he had sat down to do so, he asked, ‘What is the matter?’
Bijoy spoke up. ‘Nripatida,’ he said, ‘we are looking for a groom for Dipa. But we can’t seem to find anyone suitable. You are acquainted with a lot of people. Could you help us find a suitable match for her?’
Nripati reached out and drew a cigarette from the tin, held it between his lips and asked, ‘Hmm, how old is Dipa now?’
‘Seventeen. In our family …’
Nripati was about to light a match ‘I know about your family customs,’ he interrupted. ‘You believe it is best to marry off the girl before she attains adulthood. So, what kind of groom are you looking for? Educated, well-off and handsome, right?’
‘Yes,’ Bijoy affirmed, ‘but you forgot the most important point—he has to belong to the same caste.’
Nripati lit his cigarette and as he blew out the smoke, a faintly sardonic smile played on his lips. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘The family tradition must be perpetuated. Since you are Mukherjees, a Chatterjee, Banerjee, Ganguly or Ghoshal would do. Right? Would a sub-caste do?’
‘I’m afraid not, Nripatida. You are aware that we still faithfully abide by the old family traditions.’
‘I certainly am. The lot of you belong to the cockroach class of living creatures.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The cockroach is an ancient species that originated millions of years
ago. Since then, the animal world has gone through many evolutions, but the cockroach has retained its original form and character. As a result, it doesn’t command much respect these days.’
‘You might feel differently about the issue, but I believe in the sanctity of castes. In the Gita, the Lord has said that the four castes …’
Nripati’s attention wavered. Perhaps, he was making a mental short-list of the eligible young men he was acquainted with. He finished his cigarette and said, ‘There is one young man I can think of, but I must find out if he is from the same caste. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
Bijoy left.
Nripati checked his watch: It was five o’clock. He put his cigarette tin in his pocket and went out. His destination was close by, just a five-minute walk from home.
He rang the main doorbell of Debashish’s house. Nakul answered the door. ‘Is Debashishbabu at home?’ Nripati asked him.
‘Yes, sir,’ Nakul replied, ‘he has just returned from the factory …’
At this moment, Debashish came down the stairs. As he neared the front door, Nripati smiled at him and said, ‘You wouldn’t know me, but I was acquainted with Subhashishbabu, your father. I’m Nripati Laha.’
Debashish returned the smile. ‘I may not be acquainted with you, but I have heard of you. In fact, I’ve even seen your home. Do come in.’ He was ushering Nripati into his living room when he stopped short and said, ‘No, let us go to the dining room instead. It’s time for tea.’
‘Sure, why not?’ Nripati concurred.
The two men entered the dining room and sat down at the table. Debashish said, ‘Nakul, please serve us some tea and snacks.’
‘Just tea is fine for me,’ Nripati added.
As they ate the snacks and sipped their tea, they talked. Nripati had met Debashish’s father nearly seven years ago. At the time, Debashish had been studying in Delhi. One day, while walking past Nripati’s house, Subhashishbabu had slipped and fallen on the street. Nripati had taken him in and applied first aid. Thereafter, Subhashishbabu had gifted him a whole lot of hair oils, soaps, cold creams and similar products. He would often come by to ask after Nripati’s health. Two years later, Subhashishbabu had died. Nripati hadn’t come to know about it until three months later. Such was the cold-hearted city of Calcutta. There wasn’t a soul to inform Nripati about Subhashishbabu’s demise.
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 22