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Festivals in the Bhattacharji household had always been a grand display of our once-established Zamindari. Now, the tradition continued, and all the relatives, cousins and friends whose forefathers once stayed in the village came flocking back for each and every one of them. The only people absent from the family gathering were my Dadu’s first wife’s children. We didn’t know much about them except that Thamma was his second wife; he was initially married to her own eldest sister and had four children with her. The children, angered at the sudden decision of Dadu to marry a second time when they were all grown up, stopped contact as soon as he died. From the information I had gathered, I believe Thamma used to stay in this house long before her sister passed away and had been an emotional support to him ever since he was widowed. Yet he had waited for his children to reach a certain age before finally marrying her. Somehow, that still affected them. Thamma never tried to go out of her way to make them fond of her either. She had too many people around her who immensely respected the last Malkin of the land, and let’s just say Thamma loved the attention.
I remember when Ma used to light up the house with oil lamps, and the Thakur Dalan had its own hundred-and-eight lamps that we helped set up. She was a petite woman, a typical housewife, a happy mother and a rather intimidated wife married to a man almost a decade and a half older than her. Their worlds were vastly apart. She dressed simply, drawing a perfect round sindoor Tip on her forehead every morning and evening, her shakha pola making a typical sound as she moved around the house and instructed the maids around. She wasn’t well educated, but her recitation was the best. Every evening of the Durga Puja or the Janmashtami, we would flock around her for stories. She would read aloud, while Thamma sat listening on her reclining chair, and we sat lined up on the floor, cousins who met only on festivities and bonded over fun and games, eagerly holding our breath while Vasudeb crossed the flooded Yamuna with little Nanda Gopal over his head. We had heard the story a thousand times over, yet every time, the uncertainty of the event would reflect on Ma’s voice as she recited aloud the verses.
Sitting closest to her lap would be Lata. Her eyes did not leave Ma’s face even once. She was an eager seven-year-old, filled with emotions we probably didn’t understand. Abandoned by her father’s sudden decision to leave, and the untimely loss of her mother and little brother, while she was kept at our place, away from the infectious fever at her place, she used to follow Ma around the house; if you saw Ma, you would see Lata, in her red ribbons, oiled and neatly braided hair, and printed frocks borrowed from Bibha who grew out of them, holding on to her anchol for dear life. She would help Ma around the house, something none of us siblings ever offered her. I often saw her dusting Dada’s desk, arranging my books with Ma, tying Ananta’s shoelaces as she cycled to school with him sitting behind her, and braiding Bibha’s hair in a new fashion every now and then. Everything Ma did, Lata imitated. She wasn’t able to do everything properly then, but in the three years that she had with Ma, she was probably her closest confidante. Lata’s habits around the house, even into her teens, were thus a shadow of whatever Ma had taught her. She spent afternoons following my mother, learning to knit, sew, cook, garden or even learn to make Alpona designs at the threshold. All my relatives knew her as part of our family, Ma’s foster daughter.
The first time I had seen her hold on to Ma’s anchol cluelessly was the dreadful day her tearful Kakima came into our house and whispered something in my mother’s ears. She shrieked in disbelief. I had never seen her that petrified as she rushed to interrupt Baba in the Khajanchi Khana. Lata, followed by all of us siblings, holding on to my mother’s saree, had walked into their humble home’s small courtyard to see the lifeless body of her mother and brother. The relatives cried, and some wailed. Her Kakima kept repeating that it happened within a matter of hours, first her brother and then her mother. I saw my mother take her near them, holding her hand tightly. I didn’t know what the child understood about death.
And me? I had witnessed my grandfather's lifeless body like that when I was probably of Lata's age. I didn’t understand much either. Just that Baba said he had become a star among the billion twinkling spots in the endless blue. Lata, however, shed silent tears as Ma clutched her close to her chest. She didn’t come back home to us, where she had been living with us since her younger brother caught a fever a month back. For days after that, I kept peeping through my window, worried about the Chattopadhyay house, which had suddenly been silenced. The next time I saw her, she was helping my mother put the books in the library to order, following her instructions about it. Her visits increased, as did my mother’s affection towards the suddenly orphaned child.
I remember Baba leaving the day Daima said my mother would deliver soon. I remember him touching Thamma’s feet and nodding at my mother while he explained certain paperwork to Dada at the threshold. He was supposed to attend a teacher’s son’s wedding in Shantiniketan. The Zamindar in him decided to run his car there. I had had an argument with him the previous day over why the abolition of Zamindari was a good move, in my opinion. He had in his gruff voice dismissed my opinion, saying I was too privileged and protected to realise how harsh life could be. I said it was my life, and I could handle it fine without the protectiveness of privilege on me. When he didn’t come back the next day, I regretted never telling him that I looked up to him despite our differences. Dada reminded me a lot of him. It was as if fate and he were laughing at me, hiding him somewhere, as he tried to prove his point to me. I was no longer protected. I don’t remember shedding a tear. Men didn’t cry and lament over losses. They are supposed to be strong and practical. So, hiding my approaching tears and heavy feeling, I held on to Ma, who wailed. I remember Lata walking up to her that day, her face horrified. Perhaps she was reliving bad memories. Perhaps now we knew what it felt like to be in each other’s shoes. She took Ma’s hand in hers as I let go of her shoulders. Ma responded by hugging Lata close. I stepped back and walked up to Dada to do the most practical thing. Talk of the arrangements of the last rites. Thamma sat on the step of the portico, surrounded by relatives, holding Ananta’s hand as Bibha sobbed beside her. I glanced over my shoulder to see Lata wiping Ma’s tears, her own eyes teary.
Childbirth was the most painful part of a woman’s life; as a man in his teens, I was quite ignorant and unaware of the risks it had. I had not been much aware of when Bibha or Ananta was born. But when the house turned upside down as Ma’s condition deteriorated, a mere three weeks after Baba’s accident, I was scared. I prayed and prayed harder still. Ma always said the purest prayers were answered. Mine was simple. I can’t lose her. My faith in the Almighty standing in a stone-cold posture in our Thakur Dalan decreased a little that day. Thamma held us all close and told us what was expected of us. For Dada and me, it would be to be responsible parent-like figures to the younger ones, and for Bibha and Ananta, it was that they were suddenly expected to grow up faster, not act like the children they were, but like mature adults. After all, Thamma had her hands full. She had to direct Dada into the real estate deals, and she had to take care of the house and us. She had very few options to be protective of us. As we stood silenced in her room, hearing her speak, Lata stood at the threshold, clasping the curtain, teary-eyed. She was called in as my siblings dispersed. Thamma placed her hand over the poor girl’s head as she hugged Thamma and cried out. She had lost her mother twice over.
We missed Ma’s presence in our lives, her warm hugs and words, smile and teachings. But every time we walked into our rooms, our books were in place, Ananta still didn’t know how to tie his own shoelaces, and Bibha still didn’t do her own hair. As for me, when I lost something around the room, I used to look for Ma. Now it was Lata who came in quietly and pointed at the things that used to be right under my nose. She shook her head, like Ma did, at my ignorance. Thamma still heard the stories at the Thakur Dalan, while the younger children flocked around Lata for the recitations. She imitated the way Ma did them. But absurdly, the four of us had grown out of stories of miracles.
