The Letter

Aaja Tujhko Mitti Pukare,

Pukaare chand sitaare.

1937, Tulsipur, Bengal Province.

"Chithi. Chithi." The ring of the cycle bell on the relatively quiet afternoon alerted the gardener busy tending to the bushes with his clippers. He looked up, adjusting his now-soiled white dhoti and removed the Gamcha from over his head while walking down the garden path towards the gate.

"Whose is it Dada?" He asked the postman who waved at him.

"Trilochan Roy Chowdhury." The man read. The gardener let out a gasp. "Are you new in Tulsipur?" He almost snapped. "Nobody calls him by his name, he is our Jomidar Babu."

"I apologize." The postman bit his tongue "I assumed this was the Jomidar Bari but I didn't know…"

"The Roy Chowdhurys have been our lord since my great grandfather's time." The gardener said with a hint of pride. "My father used to work here. I work here after him." He offered the postman water from an earthen pot kept just beside the gates. It was the least he could do in the arriving summer.

"Heard there have been some riots in the bazaar today." The gardener enquired.

"Oh yes, the youth revolutionary group were holding a rally and shouting Vande Mataram and the Angrez Police beat them up."

"Those Angrez!" The gardener claimed. "I don't know why the rich people like them."

"How is your Jomidar?" The postman enquired about taking the water. "Does he like them too?"

"Not at all. He is the most kind-hearted, patriotic and religious man there ever is. He even supported the Swadeshi Movement." The gardener looked at the envelope and his eyes lit up. "I better get this to him. It looks like someone has written from abroad." He looked in a haste.

"Wait a while, Dada." The postman searched his bundle. "There is another letter addressed to this house." He held out a postcard. "Bondita Das?"

"Dugga Dugga." The gardener exclaimed. "You are so new, you don't know anyone. You are taking Choto Malkin's name." He gasped again.

"I thought someone wrote the wrong address. Her surname…"

"Wait here. Let me give these letters inside then I will tell you about them." The gardener rushed towards another man coming out of the house. "Bihari Babu!" He called "These letters just came in."

The gardener rushed back to the waiting postman who now seemed intrigued by the vastness of the property. By the looks of it, there was a lawn, a fountain, mango orchards, gardens and pathways, a private servant quarters, a jheel and a temple all within the same boundary walls, the centre of attraction being the colonial-style two-storey building with huge pillars and windows. He had assumed the village of Tulsipur was a small province. He didn't have an idea about how influential their zamindar could be.

"Where was I? Oh yes!" The gardener drew his attention back to himself. "The Roy Chowdhury family. Our zamindar babu is the eldest of the siblings. Then they had a sister. She probably died young. The youngest is Binoy Babu. He takes care of the textile business here and has an office in Calcutta. He is friends with the British." The man explained. "But not Jomidar babu. He protested against the raised taxes last year."

"I see. The brothers don't get along?" The postman enquired.

"Just the opposite. They are like roshogolla and sugar. Can't do without one another. Binoy Babu has three sons. The eldest is in London, Aniruddha Babu. The second is Somnath Dadababu. He goes to study in town, and the youngest is Batuk Dadababu. He studies here."

"And the girl?" The gardener smiled at his words.

"Who? Choto Malkin? She is..." The gardener was about to speak when he was called.

"I have to go." He said, "Jomidar Babu will punish me if he spots me chattering about."

"Aree." The postman suddenly realised he was standing there for a long time. "I better be off delivering these letters." He waved at the gardener and took off in his cycle.

Bihari Babu, the chief domestic help of the Roy Chowdhury family was a man in his fifties. He took the major decisions in the housekeeping and kitchen of the zamindar bari. He had been in the Roy Chowdhury house since he was a small boy. This house seemed like home to him now. He ran inside with the letters. Although he couldn't read he knew the different colours of the envelope meant it came from abroad.

"Boro Malik. Boro Malik." He stopped at the sight of his master.

Trilochan Roy Chowdhury was sitting in the Thakur Dalan and preparing lamps at the feet of the Durga idol that stood there.

"What happened, Bihari?" He sounded almost irked. " Why are you shouting like that?"

"Malik. Letter." Bihari managed as Trilochan Roy Chowdhury turned.

He had the looks of a zamindar, with his golden framed glasses on a gold chain hanging around his neck, the zari worked Punjabi and Dhuti that looked more white than the pigeons he fed every morning, and his fingers had rings of gold, with gems studded on them. He put on the glasses and took the letter. His eyes fell on the postcard.

"Whose is that?" He asked.

"Choto Malkin." Bihari smiled.

"Where is she?" He frowned. "I haven't seen her after the morning prayers."

"I will go find her." Bihari insisted. "She must be off playing with the village children somewhere."

"No." Trilochan shook his head. "I will find her. I have told her many times not to mingle with the commoners. When will she start listening to me without an argument?" He sighed.

"Are you scared because you will again lose to her Jetha Moshai?" His nephew Somnath looked amused. "Did Dada write?" He asked excitedly. "What did he say?"

Trilochan smiled and handed his nephew the letter to read aloud.

"Dear Jetha Moshai, my regards to you and Baba and love to Som and Batuk. I miss home terribly. You should have come for the graduation ceremony. Many of the Indian parents were here. You missed watching your Aniruddha take the cape and hat and graduate as a Barrister from Kingston. I finally fulfilled Baba's dream. I know Baba wants me to settle here. But it's been years since I saw the faces of my loved ones, or tasted homemade food. So I decided to come home. My ship will dock in Bombay. I will take another voyage from there to Calcutta port. Do send me the car on the date mentioned in the copy of my ticket below. You don't need to make the tedious journey to take me home. See you soon. Regards, Aniruddha."

"What does he mean he wants to come home? He won't stay back here, will he?" Somnath's smile faded as his father spoke. Binoy had stood in silence as he read the letter. He was in his English-style pants and shirt today, perhaps again going to visit the ambassadors of the Queen in Calcutta. "There is a reason I spent a fortune to make him a Barrister there." He spoke, caressing his moustache. "So that he stays there."

"The child wants to return home, Binoy." Trilochan snapped. "He is homesick."

"But Dada…" Somnath knew it was the right moment to slip away from the conversation before the brothers wanted his opinion.

"Where is Bondita?" Trilochan enquired dismissing Binoy's rant on the amount of money he had invested in his firstborn.

"Let me go find her."

Words:

Chithi: Letter

Angrez: English

Dada: A common call by which Bengalis often summon each other

Index: Rishta Tera Mera

Comments

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RAABTA

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