Now with a degree in my hand, another day more at Calcutta seemed too long for me. So I did what I always wanted; to be brave enough to do. I packed my bags overnight, putting my college degree carefully in my suitcase and walked straight into Dada’s chambers to have this difficult conversation with him.
“Dada, I wanted to…” He didn’t look up. People say we look almost like twins, although he is five-odd years older than I am. His rimless reading glasses were down on his nose as he was going through some paperwork and seemed engrossed. So I stopped. The thin moustache he kept nowadays reminded me often of something Dadu used to say.
“A Zamindar is as manly as the thickness of his moustache.”
He didn’t live to see the Zamindari system get abolished, the protests and anguish of the Lords who ruled their little kingdoms and of course, the struggle and uncertainty that followed it. If he did, he would be proud of how Baba, then later Dada and Thamma, handled our properties and estates, to make sure our standards of living didn’t deteriorate. That was until Dada got married to the girl in the city. Boudi wouldn't live in the village. And Dada wouldn’t dare to displease his in-laws, who helped him set up his firm. So they left for Calcutta.
“Dada.” I cleared my throat again. He had taken me under his wing, made me study Engineering at IIT Kharagpur, and wanted me to join his firm in Calcutta. And here I was, just a day old in the new city, about to tell him I was going back home.
He looked up finally, his brows curved like ripples.
“I am going home.” I tried not to fumble. He kept down his papers and straightened himself. I gulped. His gaze pierced through me.
“What do you mean you are going home?” His voice was gruff. “You just came here yesterday.”
“I don’t like the city. I don’t want to stay away from home.” I managed. I could see Boudi peeping in through the curtain of the door behind his chair, gasping at my words.
“And what do you plan to do there? Harvest fields?” I was quiet. There was no point in angering him by answering his rhetorical questions.
“Tell me. What will you do there?” He asked again. This time, I cleared my throat.
“I… can assist Thamma to look after our estates and properties. She is getting old and… someone needs to be at home.” I shot an involuntary glance at Boudi while saying that. She walked in, appearing nonchalant, pulling the curtains aside, holding a tray with a cup of tea for Dada. Her footsteps made him turn.
“Look what he is saying, Koni.” He looked up at her as she pretended to be quite clueless.
“He wants to go back to Punya.”
“But Thakurpo, it's only been a day.” Boudi frowned. “Stay a few days, play with Khoka, and have a look around. You will like the city.”
“He is not here to play and roam about,” Dada spoke almost rebuking her as she pulled her saree closer, looked away and grew quiet. “I paid for his degree so that he could join the firm.”
I will pay you back each and every penny. I wish I could say that out loud.
“But he is not a child, if he wants to…” I looked up at Boudi.
For the first time in my life, I was glad she ran her mouth. Don’t get me wrong. She is quite likeable. But in a fashion that I find testing my nerves.
Dada sighed as he picked up his pen. Rudrajyoti Bhattacharya was hard to convince.
“When is your train?” I heaved a sigh of relief.
I remember as a child, the second one in the family, Baba always reminded me to follow in my brother’s footsteps. His guidance was supposed to be the compass of my life. Maa, who had no knowledge or care for the outer world, would try to indulge all of us equally and treat us the same. She expected us to share our thoughts and fears with her, even though those were quite alien problems to her. And Thamma? She picked her favourites, perhaps the day we were born. She doted on Dada, for he was the firstborn, heir to the family. She doted on our only sister, for she was the daughter of the house. And I, the ignored middle child, had to work my way up to become her favourite. But soon, as I grew older, my days and experiences, in years more than actually revolved around the sun, I discovered that I was probably more different from Dada than I thought I would be. First, I felt guilty, as any child would, because we all try to fit in. Then, I was frustrated as my efforts to fit in were overlooked by my flaws. Then, I rebelled. First, it was Baba who tolerated my different outlook on life. Taken after your mother, He often said. Then, it was Dada. This was my very first of many rebellions against him. But I guess when you are family, you have both the right and the security to speak your mind to them before you do so out in the world. Dada was no less than a father figure to us, and as much as we respected and feared him, I was glad I spoke up that day and perhaps gladder that he gave in to my plan, even though I am pretty sure he didn’t understand me.
