We were in the middle of reciting our mantras with a priest on express speed, when I decided to steal a glance. Sukanto looked like an apparition, a handsome one -- not connected to the physical world, where we lived our petty lives. He looked into my eyes but I could feel it even then, he saw nothing. His wife didn’t stir him, even on the day of his marriage. He reminded me of someone I had seen but vaguely remembered and found it hard to believe in — my long-dead father.
We had spoken a couple of times over the phone, before we were to be arrange-married, but we hadn't become intimate. It was a forced-and-polite kind of chat, always. I felt Sukanto called me because he was asked to, not because he wanted to. And my thoughts were proven right, when even after hinting that my brother has a new laptop and a phone to which he is hooked, he never once suggested video chatting. Maybe he didn’t want technology to force fit intimacy into our relationship, where quite obviously there was none.
I sent him a Facebook request which he accepted after a month or so. I found his page contained old pictures -- not updated much and posts limited to a bare minimum, quite like my own. I just wanted to find a little more about him so I looked at his friends list. It was quite proportionate – not too many women… or men. Mostly Bengalis, with a spattering of indigenous Tripuris. You know when you are attracted to someone, you are naturally curious…
Atanu: How was Sukanto as a husband?
Kalpana: You mean how was our sex life?
Atanu: Partially…
Kalpana: Hmm… I can never forget that night…That night the insects buzzed, playing music for the newly married couple. The large teakwood bed sat right at the centre of our moss green wallpapered bedroom. The large French window which faced the bed was closed and the golden yellow curtains stood motionless -- like they wanted no interruption. Every item in the room appeared calm and composed. Except that woman looking at her reflection.
Sukanto stood still when he walked in and caught me standing right in front of the dresser. We both stood in our worlds, mercilessly caught in a reality that we couldn’t deny. And I am certain, that night—in those hours, more than any other night, when our flesh jointly rebelled against the stillness of Bhattacharjee Bari, we were together, truly together…
“It’s going to rain today, heavy rain... umm... Are you going out?” I said waking up in the morning and finding him dressed. He was startled but quickly recovered and smiled his cool smile, not the lascivious smile that I had morning-dreamt of. “Yes, I will see you later. Take a look at the house. We’ve renovated it recently. A lot has been changed." He said walking out of our room.
"I will do that. Do come in early. Bujhle...” I shouted.
Humming my favourite Tagore song, "kothao amar harie jawar nei mana, mone mone”, I went around the large Bhattacharjee Bari. But I dreaded meeting my mother-in-law just like any other daughter-in-law would, the day after her marriage. I told myself, it will be alright and even if it's not -- I will be patient. You see…when you don't have a mother, you become your own counsellor.
I found my mother-in-law sitting in the veranda, in front of her room, knitting a sweater with navy blue balls of soft and glossy wool for someone… probably a man… Her sweater was half done and she appeared happy and content. I stood there uncertain for a while. I didn't want to intrude…
She seemed to have heard my approaching steps because she stopped knitting and looked at me. "Kalpana, where's my tea? Aren't you supposed to make it today?" She tried hard to hide a chuckle. I should have disliked her -- at that very moment. The bullying mother-in-law trying to intimidate the new girl and establish her authority and latent hierarchy in the household, early on, before she learnt to defy her elders. But that childish grin and the impish mind hidden behind an ageing but attractive face, pulled me back. Instead I noticed, the thin creases on her hands and neck. She wore the markings of age and as some may say of wisdom – rather proudly.
“Boroma”, that’s how I was politely asked to address Mrs. Bhattacharjee, “I can get it right away”, I nervously retorted.
“Then please do.” She chuckled again and stuck the knitting needles into the blue woollen balls and placed the half-finished sweater, gingerly on the floor. She rearranged her sea-green tanter sari and looked straight at the garden, which appeared pretty and colourful and smelt divine.
I love her tanter saris, which are mostly in the lighter shades of blue and white. She leaves her large forehead bare, to ensure everyone looking at her solves her marital status puzzle. Married but husband is dead so that makes me a…?
You guessed it right, a widow. Boroma is the kind of person you will be forced to listen to and probably obey--depends on how weak or strong willed you are, simply because you will not want to displease her. And trust me, you don’t want to cross Mrs Bhattacherjee. A year was time enough to study her, through the bad and the good and the bad-good.
Her above average height, large built, a non-smiling demeanour--she rarely chuckles; yes chuckles, instead of gracing her face with a generous smile, makes her an intimidating person to behold. She likes to remain barefooted inside the house and she prefers her own company, even though no one can accuse her of being rude, impolite or unsocial. How she manages this, is an art in itself.
A week after our marriage, when guests barged in on the pretext of blessing us and probably looking for free lunch or snacks and gossip, boroma complained to everyone present about how Sukanto was treating her badly--lately and even avoiding eye contact. “Why Sagota di, why is he behaving this way, with his maa?” Someone asked.
“Oh, a newly married couple need privacy. It’s not like how it used to be earlier, in our days. Nowadays, it’s different. I told him clearly though. Stop blaming your poor mother. She only occupies one room in this gigantic house.”
Within a day or two most of the relatives who had stayed back on some silly pretext or the other disappeared. So did the snoopy neighbours. The remaining fraction of unsolicited visitors were curbed by the highly effective and not-so-subtle locking mechanism.
I know she is my mother-in-law, my boroma and I’m surprised that even though I should be frightened of her, I'm not. In fact, I find her interesting in a queer sort of way.
Anyway that morning-- the day after my marriage and the day before my twenty sixth birthday… I got her tea, carefully handed it over and sat next to her for a chat, on the old teak wood chair. The piping hot cup of ginger tea smoked out in different directions, adding its distinct aroma to the morning air.
Early mornings at Agartala in the month of October are pleasant. Less humid, much cooler, with a mostly-present breeze that turns fragrant from the shiuli flowers blooming on ubiquitous trees and acts as a natural tranquiliser. It's also one way to gauge if Durga puja is around the corner or whether it's over and you missed it, not because you were working or vacationing in some exotic or dreary part of the world, where no one cared about maa Durga and her grown-up kids visiting her parental home, but because your mind played a trick on you.
It told you, it's going to get better and definitely more interesting this year--and it simply did not. It was just like last year or the years before that. Except for the one, when your parents died and you were forced to find shelter in your uncle's house, whom you barely knew--but met without fail in all the family functions. At an age, when you had just started to get accustomed to something called school.
The sprawling garden, couple of steps away, held our attention. I found a few bright red hibiscus flowers, peeping behind the lush guava tree that bore no fruit. Maybe it was not the season or maybe it was a lush but barren tree. Taking a cue from boroma, I too sipped my fragrant tea as noiselessly as possible.
"Is Sukanto happy?” She said after sitting in silence for a while. It was a simple question but I was confused. You know quite often, the answer to a question, lies within the person. In boroma’s eyes however, I saw weariness, like she hadn’t slept for months.
“ Ki hoeche?” She said again.
It took me a while to string the words together. I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to hurt. I didn’t want to sound uncaring. I didn’t want to sound too keen to please…
"Isn't it a bit early to say?" I managed to say, finally.
"No, Kalpana. It's never too early to be happy."
Atanu doesn’t get to meet Proloy. Instead, he gets a letter from him.
Dear Atanu,
I glide in and around Bhattacharjee Bari and I observe its residents. Yes, that's what I love most, to go around unnoticed, undisturbed by anyone. None to rain on my parade, none to colour my thoughts with their conversations or commands.
But there's one person I love to talk to, to be commanded and requested from. Sagota. She is the reason I exist, the very reason I live in Bhattacharjee Bari and make myself available at the shortest of short notice. For Sagota, I can do anything. I think she knows that too, but she chooses to ignore it. But she can't get beyond an hour in a day, without talking to me. Sometimes I find her jittery, sometimes in pain, quite often angry, but I calm her down. I can calm her down.
This house is like that. There's something about this large bunglow-esque house, the spirit of which carries the history of its predecessors.
Sukanto has renovated it no doubt, but to me, he has succeeded so much as putting old wine in a new bottle. And retained the vulgarity inherent in the opulence and newness of a possession.
Sukanto was like a son to me. I know he detested me, but all I felt for him was affection. He never called me uncle, not even once, but I knew why. Being his mother's closest friend would have been easy on him and even highly welcome, if I were not a man.
I know a son will always be loyal to his father. But what I regret is his obvious indifference towards Sagota.
She didn't deserve his silent rebuke, his absolute disrespect, and his wavering dedication. She deserved better from her only son. He could have at least tried to fill up the gargantuan gaps that her husband had created, within days of their marriage.
Chandrasekhar, could never connect with her. They were like two people on the same boat rowing in different directions, without mouthing a single word, but vibrating with animosity.
He must have been deeply in love with that tribal woman, to be so indifferent to her. Sagota must have been a bitter reminder of his own cowardice to stand up to his strong-willed father, who blackmailed him into marrying her – a poor and beautiful village girl. The lure of money is a dark force. And years of living in luxury can become an inexorable habit.
The soulful bond of love can be broken--sometimes quite easily. But the memories of regret, and frustration spread like a cancer inside, growing every day, visible only to those who caused it or to those it will ruin. Every time you want to get on with living a normal life, of picking up the pieces, of undoing the damage; the cancer will spread a little more and pull you back, prostrating you--so you never dare try--to live fully.
Sagota needed me and I came into her life when Sukanto was in her womb. It happened one rainy evening in 1980. I clearly remember the year. That year, Tripura was fighting insurgency in its idyllic and tiny districts. News of genocide caused by tribal insurgents, who mercilessly gunned down, axed or burnt Bengalis, made it to the front page of all the local newspapers with appalling visuals of the experienced brutality. Bengalis who until now, had taken their position of dominance for granted, woke up to an altered reality. The tribals, the indigenous people of Tripura—the natives; the ones who were known for their peaceful, passive nature; who resided mostly outside the city, were at war with the state. And they wanted it to pay heed to their demands.
Within a couple of years, Tripura became what all insurgency-hit places become--unsafe, jittery and divided. A small sleepy village-town of laid back residents, transformed into a cauldron of repressed fear, reeking of dried fish and new-found enmity.
The only bright side for people living in Agartala, the city's capital, was the aspect of relative safety. The insurgents left the Bengali-dominated capital, which was also the state government's headquarters, alone. Everyone I saw and heard, cried in false relief: The city is safe. Nothing will happen to the city dwellers.
This belief did not seem to make its way to Sagota though. The day I found her, she was all alone in her husband's home. He was out at his shop working and late for his dinner. I could read her worried and frightened face. Her mind just couldn’t stay calm. She was walking on the long veranda, lit by two not so bright lanterns, panting in fear. There was no electricity in Kunjaban that sultry evening.
I caught her unawares. "Who are you", she cried, as if waking up from a nightmare, her red-rimmed eyes haunted by a palpable danger, only she could fathom.
"Proloy." I said.
"W-who?" She said trembling.
"Proloy, your school friend. We used to be neighbours?" I said.
"Proloy! You're here?" She cried.
"Yes." I whispered.
"Are you alright?” she asked with concern, as if I was the one on the edge.
"Yes, I am. How are you?" I said.
"I don't know. I don't know, Proloy." She said.
"Will you stay? Will you--- “She said like her life depended on it.
"I will." I said without a second thought.
"F-for how long?" She mumbled.
"We will see." I said.
“ Your w-wife will worry?” She said.
“ Yes, when I get married.” I said smiling.
“ W-when are you getting married?” She asked.
“ Not tonight.” I said laughing.
So I stayed, with Sagota. It never occurred to me that I could leave and I didn't want to. Sagota chose a room for me in her home. It was painted in white and later into blue and during renovation, Sukanto was not allowed to change the colour of the paint. He for once in his life, obediently, wallpapered the room in blue. That's how much Sagota cares for me. She remembered that my favourite colour was blue, like the sky, the endless sky, filled with floating clouds shaped into things, into people, into animals we liked or feared -- by our minds, by our unshackled imagination.
That’s what I told her when we were eight, sitting one sunny afternoon near that green pond, brimming with fish, ready to be caught, cut and turned into a hot aromatic curry with potatoes, for the hungry families in the village that encircled us.
PROLOY
5 NOVEMBER, 2015
Next day, Atanu meets up with Shayantika – Sukanto’s paramour, in her parental home – Shorgo.
Atanu: How are you?
Shayantika: Do I know you?
Atanu: I knew Sukanto…
Shayantika: Is it? I’ve met most of his friends. I don’t remember—
Atanu: I knew him as a kid. I left Agartala after that.
Shayantika: Oh…
Atanu: I’ve been talking to the Bhattacharjees…
Shayantika: Why?
Atanu: To help find his killer.
Shayantika: Did you talk to those women?
Atanu: Which women?
Shayantika: Kalpana and Sagota Bhattacharjee.Those women are not bad, they are evil. Not all women are bad though. My maa isn’t…neither is my babu. They have always been good to me. And I've been good to them in return. They wanted me to study hard and make them proud, I did. I studied medicine and got a job in a government hospital in Agartala--in the capital, not in the godforsaken districts or its subdivisions, and that too within five years of service-- a month before my thirtieth birthday. A miracle some would say.
But then something happened. My life which was perfect started to become fuzzy, particularly when babu asked me to get married. I’m closer to my father. We don’t talk that often but when we do, we connect -- instantly. He listens. He sees.
I wanted to marry like any other girl; pursue my career, like any other urban married woman; but certain things I believe are not meant to be. I was deeply in love with a boy I knew from school, my class mate, but he was not ready, because he was in th
e middle of realising his dream. And what a dream! Rebuilding his home -- the very place where he spent his entire life. Like he hated every memory and everything else that happened there -- including his family.
Aren’t your childhood memories mostly about your kith and kin? But he… couldn't wait to break it down, inch by inch. He wanted to create a new structural present…and bury his past. Well, as buried as killing your dreams or nightmares can be, until they show up unexpected, one night...
You know, Sukanto and I were the couple in school. He was handsome and spoke only when he was spoken to. He never cracked jokes or tried too hard to impress anyone. He was content and self-assured. Or not. But who cared. Girls loved him. And the boys loved me.
I topped at school. I was pretty, rich and I belonged to a well-known family in Agartala. And to my credit, I must say, I listened more than the other girls. Now, how can you not love a listener?
I waited like any other good and understanding girlfriend. I didn’t push him. He had to make the move; he knew I would marry him at a day’s notice. But he just…delayed. The more I waited, the more frustrated and helpless I felt, but I didn't show it, because he didn't want to see me that way.
He saw me as an educated, polite, beautiful, intelligent and independent woman. Who was I to break that perfect image? Didn't someone rightly say that if you want to know about yourself, ask your friends or loved ones and I say, even your enemies, and they will tell you about you. But bear in mind, you may or may not like the way the world sees you. Got to admit, I loved the way Sukanto saw me and I wanted to do anything and everything to keep it that way.
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 4