I waited for him for a year and then another, and then when he finally spoke to his mother, she put her foot down. She wouldn't have me as her daughter in law! I tried to placate her -- by listening, talking, gifting, pretending—but all in vain. She had made up her mind already. And that conniving wretch did everything to change his mind. Of course, she couldn't convince him to stop loving me, but she did succeed in getting him married to that orphan from West Bengal.
"She has a degree in mathematics—Kalpana. She is so elegant and cultured”, she beamed -- the day I went to their house to eat prasad, like every other year, on Saraswati puja. Her face had that smirk of victory, of confidence stemming from the belief that she will have her way with her son and I will not. Even though I may have been intimate with him as a man and woman ought to be, but I will be rendered helpless by the pull of the over-rated umbilical cord, or worse, by the pull of money.
She had pulled the right chord, huh? Telling him that he may not inherit his father's fortune, if he refused to marry against his parent’s wishes, nonchalantly. Sukanto was bemused by her indifference; he almost respected her for being so brutal. I saw it in his eyes when he recounted her cruel stand towards our marriage.
As far as I know, his father never conditioned his will. He could not have. I don't remember his father much; he was mostly absent from home -- must have been busy with his shops. I think I saw him once or twice, when I visited Bhattacharjee Bari as a teenager. He was reticent and self-contained, didn’t speak much… He couldn’t have put a clause like that; it was all her doing.
I hate that woman, god, how I hate her. But I remained silent. I realised those moments of silence would only further my cause in Sukanto's eyes and make him see his mother, the way she is--a Janus-faced senile vixen.
I know he doubts her threats and her resolve to carry them out. But then, he never told me why his mother who was not even close to his father, would be made the sole heir. Why he would be left at her mercy? And why he would not marry me.
My father is not poor, we Majumdars have mullah to spare. My grandfather was one of the first paediatricians to come to Agartala after completing his education in West Bengal. He became popular in no time, establishing his practice in the heart of the city and becoming the go-to "bachharar dactar”, when it came to children's ailments.
I admired my soft spoken dadu, who conveyed more by being silent at the right time. Once, I fell terribly sick due to a bad bout of chicken pox. I was only four then. My mother was all worked up about my condition. “Will it leave marks on her face? What should I do? My pretty Shayan...." She wailed. My dadu was blasé about it. His doctoral experience coupled with his attitude kept him calm. He held my hand and sat silently beside me, every day, for almost a month, till I recovered. He never believed what I said. He always had a way of looking beyond words. He read the other signs, more than words. We fancily call it body language nowadays, but back then, it was called wisdom. And wisdom can’t be learned by reading a book or by attending sessions or workshops on how to improve your body language. It can only be gained with eyes that see the hidden and the un-hidden.
My dadu, it was my dadu, who else would it be... He inspired me to become a physician and I opted for paediatrics. Just like him.
His son, however, chose a different route when he decided to study law. He didn't regret it, not even once, even though apparently my dadu was apprehensive about his career choice. When Tripura got its very own High Court in 2013, my father became one of its venerable judges.
How we celebrated! Ma went berserk with pride and joy. She invited about a hundred guests to our home – Shorgo – named by my late grandma, but we were not crammed by the large crowd--our house is that spacious.
Atanu: Yes, I can see that.
Shayantika: We have three floors. And did you see the large patch of land, right in front of our house?
Atanu: It’s a spacious home.
Shayantika: Our home is fifty years old but see how good it looks -- without renovation or whatever. Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I didn't need Sukanto's money. We wouldn't need their money, if we were to get married. Sukanto could embark upon any business venture, if he wished to. My father would always support his son in law. And I would support him.
Atanu: Did you tell him that?
Shayantika: I did.
"But it will be your father's money", he gravely said.
"Is that your excuse to get rid of me?" I asked.
“Nonsense. You know better, Shayan."
5 November, 2015
Later, after lunch, Atanu goes back to Bhattacharjee Bari to meet Jewel – Sukanto’s friend.
Atanu: You live here…?
Jewel: Yes.
Atanu: Why not in the Bhattacharjee Bari?
Jewel: This is Bhattacharjee Bari too.
Atanu: Why not inside Bhattacharjee Bari?
Jewel: I’m not a Bhattacharjee. And I like living here…next to my flowers. I’ve everything I need – right here.
Atanu: How did you come to live with them?
Jewel: That’s a long story.
Atanu: Tell me…
Jewel: When I accompanied Mr Chatterjee away from my home in Amarpur, on the banks of the Gomati river, I cried inconsolably. People in the city of Agartala don't care much about Amarpur. And if they do, they talk briefly about it to impress upon you there awareness of the state they live in, and move over to discuss other interesting subjects; like films that the tribal directors are making these days-- which are tax-free. That discussion invariably ends up with a unanimous conclusion though-- tribals have it easy.
Thanks to reservations, thanks to state support, thanks to our forefathers who came from the hills, many of whom still live there and overall thanks to our dim wittedness as compared to the genetically blessed, fish-eating-hence-sharp Bengalis.
Our house had been burnt by the fire that night, which spread like a flaming spider's web from the hut nearby -- the one which was set on fire by angry men with covered faces; who came in late at night--to do as they were ordered, by their influential leaders. Each and every bamboo hut in our tiny pristine village was burnt to ashes.
The tribal leaders had instructed their malleable men to frighten and drive the Bengalis away from our land and build a place, where we would have access to land and other facilities. That night their mission was to burn only the Bengali huts. But when violence spreads, it forgets to discriminate. It gobbles up every other thing in its way. So it did. It killed them, it killed us. And it destroyed our family.
My father escaped unhurt but my mother was too sick to run out and my father could only carry me. I don't remember much of what happened. I was about four years old, I guess. My parents never registered my birth and I was born in no hospital, so forgive me if I fail to tell you my right age. Sukanto's father told me about what happened later, when I was able to feel again. It seems my father was worried about me. I had stopped laughing and crying for months. I guess he wanted something better for me, better than the bloody mess around. So he approached Mr. Chatterjee, the Sub Division Officer who was in charge of that area.
My father's ashen face, his dry mouth are a blur. I’m guessing he was sad and needed a glass of water. But his words ring clearly in my ear still… And strangely, I remember Mr Chatterjee the same way you are bound to remember the hangman who hangs you. He was a fat, not-that-young man, with red, unsteady eyes. But he was a good man. That’s what everyone said. He had done more than any other Bengali officer to help tide the turmoil that marked those years in Amarpur and its adjoining areas.
"Take my son, sir. He can work. He is a strong boy. I have nothing to give him." My father said.
"But what if he feels homesick? How old is he?" Mr Chatterjee remarked.
" Almost four... Please sir, take him."
The sound of my father crying loudly like a young hapless widow, as black clouds floated in the sky-- like large nest-less crows, many, many of them, filling the grey sky, bra
ving the thunder with an indestructible spirit--still unfurls in my mind. That vision was my only pot of gold when I came here...
Mr Chatterjee, who was a good friend of Sukanto's father brought me to Bhattacharjee Bari on a whim. He had plans of employing me as a helper in his quarters in Amarpur. He had come to the city to collect his newly born daughter and wife and take them back to Amarpur. I carried nothing, when I first entered Sukanto's home. No luggage or money-- not that I had much of that anyway.
I was an orphan who was in dire need of a benevolent family and my tragic past appealed to Mrs. Bhattacharjee, who got an opportunity to show the goodness of her heart and I got shelter, food and clothing.
With time, Sukanto became my friend. He and I were always together. We played together, ate together, swam in the nearby pond together. We never spoke much. I learnt Bangla later through chotoma’s help. The only language I knew until then was my mother tongue-- Kokbodok.
His mother, taught me to call her chotoma. She was never harsh with me in words or in action, neither did she chide me for being his equal in everything. She taught me to read and learn at home so I never went to school. Her education which had never been appreciated till now, was put to good use. And to be fair to her -- she made an honest effort to help me learn.
She even encouraged me to read by lending her Bangla classics. I struggled in the beginning, but slowly I started to get the language. My room, which chotoma coined as the guest room, built outside Bhattachrjee Bari -- a relatively large room, comparable to the rooms inside Bhattacharjee Bari in area but not in comfort, or intimacy, filled with big and large, old and new, thick and thin literary works of Saradindu Bandopadhyay, Sunil Gangopadhyay, Tagore, Saratchandra, Bankim and many, other illustrious Bangali writers.
So I was living, doing what everyone expected me to do, saying what everyone wanted to hear, and I never got into trouble. I helped with keeping the garden neat and pretty. I helped in the kitchen whenever the cook needed me, which was mostly when guests came over or stayed. I helped chotoma with the chores. When no one in Bhattacharjee Bari needed me, I read or went out with Sukanto. He always introduced me as his friend to people outside.
Everyone in the house was happy with me. No one minded my presence. I was a living piece of furniture -- like those in the animated film Beauty and the Beast. In that film, the tables and chairs sang and danced. It was Sukanto’s favourite film for some reason, and he watched it many times, earlier on a VCR that his father had gifted--with me, and then alone on his DVD player in the living room--downstairs, or on his laptop in his study.
Once on Kharchi puja, which is our Durga puja -- I was about fifteen or sixteen then and I had just started to shave on Sukanto's insistence with his shaver -- he handed me a two hundred rupee note and asked me to go visit my father.
Atanu: Is that so?
Jewel: Yes.
Atanu: Then…?
Jewel: I asked him, why he wanted me to go. I should have been excited, but I felt uneasy, threatened in some way.
"I just thought you would like to see your father. He is alive… baba tells me, and he may wish to see his eldest son." He said.
"I don't want to go." I said, relieved to hear that my friend didn’t want me gone.
"Okay. Why?" He said.
"I don't know." I said.
Sukanto said no more. He never asked me about my family again. He went and told his father about our chat -- I believe, because his father didn't send me away and chotoma started to speak to me more often, like I was some kind of stray dog, homeless and without a master.
I didn't want to tell Sukanto that day how frightened I was of my past. What's the use of opening a wound?
Atanu: Hmm…Wounds heal with time you see…
Jewel: Right. But some cuts should be left unopened, unhealed, throbbing… so it can act as a reminder of who you are, what made you and why you should not be--them.
Whispers from the
past
Late one autumnal night, Sukanto received a call from Shayantika. He was with his wife Kalpana, getting ready to sleep. He stepped out of his room and whispered:
“No, Shayan. I can’t meet you tonight. Why do you think I am whispering? Let’s talk tomorrow. W-what…? You sound upset? No-no, tell me. I-I have time for you. Why not on the phone?
Ok, then let’s talk tomorrow -- when we meet?
Yes. Right, bye… Bye.”
When he joined his wife after attending the call, she asked:
“Do you love her?”
Sukanto: What’s love Kalpana?
Kalpana: I don’t know. Never experienced my share of it…Why did you marry me? Because of boroma?
Sukanto: Maybe… Or maybe because I liked you. I am not a very strong person, you se--
Kalpana: None of us are. Strength of character is overrated. We are like infinities-- limitless, profound and contradictory.
Sukanto: Can you get me a glass of water…please?
Kalpana: T-there’s a bottle, next to you…
Sukanto: There’s a water jug in the study. Please.
Kalpana: Here.
Sukanto: Thanks.
Kalpana: She’s a doctor?
Sukanto: Mmm…
Kalpana: Her father is rich. Not too difficult to become doctors and engineers, for rich kids.
Sukanto: She got through merit.
Kalpana: But, unless you’re experienced or reputed, you don’t…earn much.
Sukanto: Maybe.
Kalpana: Sukanto?
Sukanto: Yes?
Kalpana: How do I sleep every night? Beside you?
Sukanto: Y-you are my wife.
Kalpana: And she…?
Later that night, when Kalpana found it difficult to sleep, she stepped out and decided to walk. She didn’t notice the shadow lurking behind her.
“I need to talk to you.” The shadow said stepping out from behind the guava tree.
Kalpana: Goodness Jewel! You scared me.
Jewel: Sorry. Just wanted to catch up.
Kalpana: On what?
Jewel: Sukanto.
Kalpana: What has he done?
Jewel: Why do you think he has done something?
Kalpana: Just asked. What do you want?
Jewel: Do you know about Shayantika?
Kalpana: Who is she and why do I need to know about her?
Jewel: She is the woman he was supposed to marry.
Kalpana: But, he didn’t.
Jewel: He still spends time with her.
Kalpana: Really?
Jewel: If you don’t believe me, ask him.
Kalpana: Hmm…How do you know?
Jewel: She told me.
Kalpana: You talk to her?
Jewel: Sometimes… He loves her. Always has…
Kalpana: Hmm…Look at those dahlias, you planted…
Jewel: I can’t see much. It’s dark.
Kalpana: How do you know it’s there, then?
Jewel: I planted those.
Kalpana: So did I…I planted. I may not see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there…
Jewel: What did you plant?
Kalpana: Love…
Jewel: What about trust?
Kalpana: It’s the same.
Jewel: Why are you walking…now?
Kalpana: Couldn’t sleep.
Jewel: Why?
Kalpana: Why are you awake?
Jewel: I was reading.
Kalpana: Mm, you have made this garden beautiful, Jewel.
Jewel: You think so?
Kalpana: Yes.
Jewel: But I need to go out now. See what lies outside Bhattacharjee Bari.
Kalpana: Are you sure, you want to see what lies outside?
Jewel: As sure as I can be…with doubts and questions pulling me back.
Kalpana: Have you spoken to boroma?
Jewel: Yes, but she refused to help.
Kalpana: The Bhattacharjees have been generous to you.
Jewel: Have they? Y
ou are an orphan too, Kalpana. I have never seen your brother or maternal uncle visit, even once. You don’t visit them either. We are alike in many ways.
Kalpana: So?
Jewel: That can make us friends…?
Kalpana: Really?
Few days later, one rainy evening, when a furious Shayantika met Sukanto in a café, she asked:
“Why can’t I talk to you any time I want to? Is she around -- all the time?”
Sukanto: Shayan…
Shayantika: What? What happened Sukanto?
Sukanto: I don’t know…I feel something is terribly wrong. I know it has never been right, all these years... But now I feel its veering out of control.
Shayantika: What’s out of control? I, I…don’t understand.
Sukanto: I don’t understand it either. I just feel something is going to snap. Shayan, you remember the Beast?
Shayantika: What beast?
Sukanto: Beauty and the Beast? You know why I liked that story, I always felt the beast is wearing a mask. The mask of an ugly creature. Like us. We wear these scary masks, and hide our softer sides, our vulnerabilities and become beast-like so we can save ourselves from getting hurt. But then, what if we are our masks? There’s nothing hidden behind the mask, no beauty?
Shayantika: Sukanto, are you alright? Is there something you want to tell me? Say it straight. Don’t tell me stories. Ok…?
Sukanto: That’s the problem, Shayan. I can’t tell you.
Shayantika: Why not…?
Sukanto: Because you don’t see.
Shayantika: Trust me Sukanto, you couldn’t be more wrong. Show me. Help me see? S-Sukanto, look at me. Is-is someone trying to hurt you? Are you in danger?
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 5