I’m hoping to do an MBA in Finance with the money and save the rest. It was because of her that I got to complete school and college through correspondence.
The business and the house, this is what remains of the Bhattacharjees. And I’m glad that by a sudden twist of fate, I was chosen to look after both.
I am nervous. I don’t want to fail chotoma...Or Ajanta…Or me. And I’m excited. After living with only a handful of people, I will finally make my debut in the other world.
Rudro kaku was here yesterday.
“Ki, Jewel, ready?” He said sipping a cup of hot ginger tea -- the recipe now mastered by Malati.
“ He is ready, Rudro da. He got thirty five years to ready himself”, chotoma confidently quipped.
“Then let’s get started tomorrow. This old man needs help.” He said smiling at me.
Chotoma talks about Kalpana sometimes. How she happily sang Tagore’s songs, loud and clear -- convinced that no one could hear. But we all did. She had a beautiful voice.
She is gone. She left last month, after the case was officially closed. I don’t know where -- no one knows. I drove her to the airport on a Saturday, in one of Sukanto’s black SUVs. He has two. The white one is parked in front of the Jewellery showroom in Kaman Choumuni and the black one, which was earlier parked in front of our hotel, now stands right next to the garden here -- under a cemented shade. I changed the parking arrangement so that chotoma could have a car at her disposal. And we’ve appointed Malati’s husband as our new driver. That fellow was looking for a job.
Kalpana was silent, like always, as I drove her to the airport. I kept hoping she would tell me why she was going -- a hint perhaps. But she didn’t say a word. Sitting next to me, she looked out of the window, soaking everything in, like a tourist -- happy to return home.
I don’t know if she was returning home to her uncle. I doubt it. Chotoma was always comfortable with Kalpana, she was her choice. Not that we are all comfortable with the choices we make. But chotoma didn’t regret it. She tried to play the role of a mother in law, pretending for a while, but I never saw her become one. Why else would she ask me to go to the bank with Kalpana’s bank account details and cut a cheque in her name? A six figure sum for her journey.
I don’t think Kalpana pressured her into giving money. Chotoma had two options, after Sukanto’s death. She could keep her son’s widow for company -- play mother-in-law – daughter-in-law and force a smart young woman to spend the rest of her life in an alien place with no friends or prospects or…let her go -- like a guardian, friend, relative -- who loves truly.
She was combing her long salt and pepper hair, when I went to give her the cheque, a week before Kalpana’s departure. She lives in Sukanto’s room now.
“ Do you know what freedom is?” She asked nonchalantly.
“No?”
“Expensive. It always comes at a price.” She said.
“ You are paying the price for her freedom?” I said taken aback.
“Yes, baba…”
“ From whom…?”
“ A bitter present and a painful past.” She said.
“ Bitter present? We are her present.” I said.
“ You know bitterness does strange things to people… Call Malati. She needs to clean Sukanto’s study. It must be cleaned twice a week. Opened only during cleaning…from now on.”
“Chotoma, no one will enter Sukanto’s study without permission, ever again. Shayantika is getting married.”
“ Are we invited?” She said.
“ No.”
“ Oh…I didn’t stop Sukanto from marrying her. He didn’t want to marry her. Yes, I wanted him to marry Kalpana because it was time. He was thirty four years old and lost. I thought marriage would change him. I was wrong…” She said wringing her hands.
“ It wasn’t your fault.”
“ Sukanto is gone. Kalpana went away---”
“ I-I will stay, chotoma”, I said taking her hands into mine.
Shayantika
When the man you love goes away -- you’re either liberated – or you get married to someone who proposes in all honesty.
A man. It all started with him. The one I loved. But, then did he…love me? Then how could he judge?
Our minds are like the universe. How do we know what’s hidden in some corner of that space? Beyond the galaxies we know. To places where light doesn’t travel…We feel, write, think and argue about what we see. But the unknown exists and sometimes, makes an unexpected appearance. I experienced a part of that unknown through a man.
And now, I want to be with the right man. I think he is – the right one. We meet every day. On time. At the decided place. No last minute cancellations, no excuses, no stories…no secrets. He is simply there, at the promised time, at our favourite place. Yes, we’ve a favourite place that we both love. Nothing fancy. Just a regular café. Filled with regular couples. And ordinary food.
It’s almost boring. Maybe in a couple of years I will get desperately bored of his punctuality, his ethics, his love, his hands…
But right now I love it. I had forgotten, what it felt like to be taken care of, to be pursued, to be told you are going to be my wife.
I’m going to walk away Sukanto…with him. And I want to see my ma and baba smile teary-eyed -- not in relief but in anguish over losing a part of their beloved daughter, forever.
2 MAY, 2016
KALPANA
Tripura. I wanted to see it before I left. Maybe because I felt guilty of not being interested in the place, I was destined to spend my life in. Guilty of not even faking interest in its people, places, or food.
So I decided to see it all. I wanted a few options for my mind to play around with, apart from technicolour visions of boroma, Bhattacharjee Bari and Jewel. Or Malati and Shayan – I saw her pictures on Sukanto’s mobile after Mr Malakar gave it to us. It felt right to hand over his mobile phone to Jewel. He may need the business contacts or…not. Anyway, I don’t need it. Anymore.
“What do you want to see? I’ve seen a few places, ages ago. Sukanto’s father took me. Just after our marriage. I saw the tribal girls dance on plates, or vessels, or something of that sort. It was good. But all the time, I was wondering if they would fall off and embarrass themselves and us. Let’s ask Jewel…?”
“ Boroma? Let’s all go together.”
“ Me?” She said.
“ Why not? You must come.”
“Chol, tahole, dekhe ashi...” She said.
We went to the typical touristy places. Ujjayanta Palace – named by Tagore, white and pristine, lush and carefully crafted. Neer Mahal—the water palace right at the middle of the large Rudrasagar Lake. Sepahijala sanctuary – filled with tall trees, animals in cages and spectacle monkeys freely navigating the trees. And Matabari – a quaint temple dedicated to the worship of goddess Kali. At Matabari, we fed the Bostami turtles, which were two hundred years old and a rare species.
Feeding those peaceful, complacent creatures with boroma was my favourite part. She got more than two kilos of puffed rice from home, packed in a large Tupperware box bought especially for this. Milli mashi—her neighbour and pushy on-the-side plastic ware seller had been jubilant on the sale. She sent us her special thurer ghonto, the very next day.
Throughout the trip, Jewel supervised from the side lines. He sat next to Malati’s husband, the new driver, rattling names and directions using his smartphone. Stopping the car once every hour for toilet breaks. Or, for lunch, tea or snacks. Boroma found out she had motion sickness and vomited twice. But recovered soon enough. She looked like an introvert kid, awfully excited about the school picnic but not sure how to express it.
So did Jewel.
Standing on the partially immersed and slippery stairs of Kalyan Sagar Lake, Jewel smiled, probably for the first time in his adult life. We saw his reflection, having a jolly good time. A family standing next to us with too many daughters and very few sons, as Boroma put it, were happily taking
groupies and turtle selfies. Suddenly one of the young saree clad girls, tripped. The entire group stopped their photo capturing business. And jumped into action in record time. Like pros -- straddling a happy and poised world and a goofy and realistic one.
In between all this, Boroma’s shaky reflection smirked for a second. Right next to the turtle, which ate like the fourth dimension was a man-made joke.
On our way home, I nudged myself. I had to do this. So when Jewel dozed off, after rattling the last set of instructions to our seasoned driver who needed no instructing – he could drive around Tripura with his eyes closed, I took the plunge.
“ Boroma?”
“ Yes?” She said looking out of the window.
“ I want to teach Mathematics.” I said.
“ Why?”
“ Because I like to teach.” I murmured looking at a sleeping Jewel.
“ Only because of that?” She said as our eyes met.
“ No, not only…because of that.”
“ Hmm…Where Kalpana?”
“ China.” I said.
“ Go.” She said pursing her lips.
“ Boroma?”
“Go, Kalpana. Write to me sometimes. I love receiving letters.” She said looking out at the darkness.
That was by far the easiest conversation of my life and the most important. She gave me money to tide over things for a while-- without any condition, expectation, or condescension. She simply handed over the cheque, one morning, without wasting time over a pretext.
They say, death in a family is like a sleeping snake. It can bite, anytime -- destroy bonds that a family creates through years of love, understanding and compromise.
Utter nonsense.
Death can be good. It can silence a lost mind, free the troubled soul and be a boon to distressed lives.
Sukanto’s death did just that. It made Jewel independent and gave him a chance to flourish. He is the right person to take the Bhattacharjee business forward -- the true heir and a good son to boroma. A sensitive woman, pushed into the confines of a mental disorder by an insensitive husband and a self-centred son.
I calledher, couple of weeks ago in the evening. She was sleeping. I had completely forgotten about the time difference. So I left my address and phone number with Malati. On a bright summer morning, when I was about to leave for school in a white and blue sari with geometrical patterns that she had gifted -- I received a letter from her.
Dear Kalpana,
13th April, 2016
I had a daughter -- Mahashweta. I named her after my favourite writer. She died when she was one year old. I don’t know how. One morning, I put her in the cradle and went to get flowers from our garden. She was sleeping then. So I took my time and sat in the garden with the large intricately woven bamboo flower basket, on my lap -- enjoying the pleasant morning breeze. The roses, the red ones, were so lovely. I felt like I was in my village, happy, like a child…
I got up after some time. I must have sat there for half an hour, because my shadow pecking at my toes had changed only a tiny bit.
I don’t know why, but I ran towards my room. You know that room…
She was sleeping, like she was born to sleep. And Sukanto was standing next to her, like a monk… He was eight years old, then.
Everything appeared right, like always. My children… so calm and lovely. Only the bottle green and white flower-designed pillow in the cradle was out of place. I always put baby pillows in her cradle. Those large pillows were for us.
I told myself, she must have died before Sukanto came in. Was she dead when I put her in the cradle? I didn’t check her heartbeat… Why did I not put my finger under her nose and check if she was breathing?
I had never seen Sukanto’s baba cry. But then, I had never really looked at Sukanto either. Then, I may have known. His baba just asked me once. Ki kore holo? But I knew, he had made up his mind already. He blamed me. The careless mother. And till his dying day, he believed what he had not seen.
When they took her away, I stopped looking at those red roses, until yesterday, when Jewel invited me to come and sit in the garden and have pineapple with him.
We sat on the yellow cane mora that Jewel got from the guest room, before I came in. He stays in the Blue room now. Malati and her husband have occupied his room.
And I live in your room – yours and Sukanto’s.
Malati says, her husband is a changed man. He doesn’t drink any more. She says, he fell on the road one night in a drunken state and broke his finger. He cried for help writhing in pain. But there wasn’t a single soul around. A night spent in pain and desperation made him realise something. I don’t know what. It was his realization. Not mine. His finger has not healed though.
Jewel and I chatted for a long time that morning, like teenage school girls. We recalled Sukanto for a while and then we talked about you. And how much we loved to hear you sing. I hear Shayantika is getting married to a rich and powerful man. Of course, we didn’t make it to the guest list.
How is China?
Boroma
My students look at me like I’m a new animal in the zoo. Dusky. Brimming with energy. Proficient in Mandarin. Non-Chinese. Sari-clad. A few girls even know it’s called a sari. I think some of the teenage boys fancy me. They often try to outsmart me by asking questions on Trigonometry or geometry -- hoping to make an impression. They hate it when I don’t respond to their queries, mostly because I’m busy working on the not-so-sharp minds.
Boys and men – two sides of the same coin. One young, one not so young…
On those days when I feel less challenged by school work or life, I think of Sukanto. I loved him, maybe briefly, but I did love him. I gave him my all. He didn’t.
I found out about his weakness for tribal women when I went through his browsing history. Blind dating tribal prostitutes wasn’t his only flaw though. He was weak willed as well —incapable of living without drugs. And highly indecisive. He couldn’t marry Shayan but wanted her, nevertheless. He couldn’t lose his mother’s love so he married me. He couldn’t antagonise Jewel or Shayan so he sheepishly tolerated their relationship.
Sukanto cared about no one but himself. In a world where a mother kills her child, fending for oneself is not a crime. But being an impediment to someone else’s freedom, is. Living with him, loving him, cooking for him, looking pretty for him, rearing his children – in future, again, for him -- was my dream for a year. Then, monotony set in.
Even though I knew he loved other women, honestly, it didn’t matter much. What mattered was his absolute disregard for my wants and desires. I was always on my own--must blame my dead parents for this, but to be with someone and still remain well, on your own was outright disgusting.
I never knew I had it in me to hate someone. Hatred is an amazing weapon. It’s anger’s sister in look and feel and can really help when you want to do something, but lack courage to steer forward. Get angry, focus on the one you hate and voila! You will do it. You will be free.
After finishing my Masters and self-sponsoring my Bachelors in Education, I still had enough money and time to go to China. China was my dream land. Not the US of A or Europe, but China. Their philosophy, ancient culture, music and language fascinated me. Ever since, I started reading those beautifully illustrated folk tales that we managed to get for pennies. Thanks to Bengal’s political affiliation and state control by the communists, earlier. Those magical books had these fair, svelte Qi Pao clad damsels, who sat playing instruments or waiting for their knights in lush green mountains and glacier white waterfalls.
Once when I was in college, an all-girls group from our class decided to go clothes shopping in New Market. After hanging around with the girls for some time, I decided to take a metro and check out an area that piqued my interest, the New Chinatown or Tangra. Over a bowl of delicately spiced Chinese noodles, bland to my Indian tongue which was more accustomed to inauthentic Chinese food -- I chatted for hours in Mandarin with an old Chinese co
uple -- who owned the place. They thought my Mandarin wasn’t bad. In fact, it’s better than our son’s, who speaks Bangla fluently not Mandarin.
I was motivated. I had only taken Mandarin classes on Rosetta, using my brother’s laptop. Two hours daily for a year.
Not all of us are late bloomers. When I was twelve, I was hit with two profound realisations. One, bleeding is not always bad for your body. Two, most people in this world are frightened of something. You just need to figure what they are afraid of.
Based on my findings and analysis of human behaviour, I created a detailed business plan that would fund my travel to China. I gave my business five years. Not to break in. But to pay off. Here is how it worked.
Stage 1: Find out what frightens your neighbours, friends and relatives. In other words, their I-will-take-to-the-grave secret.
Stage 2: Become their shadow. Watch them. Follow them. Tell them how lonely you are. How unfortunate. You’re an orphan, after all. People don’t have much trouble trusting a twelve year old innocent kid. Or letting her hang around. Invest a month or two to learn about the hush-hush act.
Stage 3: Devise a way to let them know that you know. Not you. But an anonymous friend who accidentally chanced upon their secret.
Side note: Usually, a letter with a short and succinct message conveying the same, neatly printed on an A4 sheet paper, placed on the most frequented object -- at the right time, worked wonders.
Wants and Desires: A Psychological Thriller Page 11