“Janen ki kando!”
Lata’s Kakima, Lolita Debi, would often stroll into our living area, saying this one line she kept repeating, where Thamma sat on the couch, her feet up, holding her Silver Paan Box close to her, almost like a prized possession. She would proceed to either sit at Thamma’s feet, massaging them while she gossiped about neighbours or have tea sitting on the opposite couch, her topic of discussion being the same. She would often talk of the spoiled children of the neighbours praising Thamma and indirectly herself at how every one of us turned out fine. Especially Lata. She would stay for an hour or two before suddenly remembering her children would be back from school and rush home. Thamma liked her company for some odd reason. She gave her home remedies and often sent something special she cooked herself to their place. In return, Kakima would do the same, feeding us Bangal delicacies which were spicier than ours. The first thing I remember was that I was intrigued by how the same food tasted differently due to topographical differences. Boro Kakima, Lata’s mother, often came by with recipes for Ma to try. I remember Boro Kakima also helped Ma with the Ranna Pujo. It was no feat for one to cook so many delicacies in one day, comprising at least fifteen types of Bhaja, ten types of curries and so on. Thamma didn’t allow any of the cooks around during Ranna Pujo. The relatives who came helped out. But that also meant the food was to be made in large proportions.
The first time we had Ranna Pujo without Ma, Thamma was very worried. She was not well enough to do it by herself, but who would? That was the first time Kakima offered help. She humbly agreed that their cooking was quite different from ours, but if Thamma helped with the proportions, she would do it, and Lata could help. She, like Thamma, felt it was a bad omen to stop traditions. That was the first time Lata entered the kitchen, at our place, to help her Kakima around. She was thirteen when she began learning to cook properly. The year after that, Thamma ordered her to make the sweet dish, even though Boudi was there to help Kakima out. Boudi was intimidated by the grand affair. Lata made Narkel Kumri, a sweet dish specifically attributed to us Ghoti Bengalis and unknown to them. She surprised us all with how well she blended the coconut, white gourd (Chalkumro) and Nalen Gur in accurate proportions and made perfect sweet balls with them. They were given to us towards the end of our meals, and the small balls of Naru-like delicacies oddly reminded me of Ma. She smiled faintly as Thamma said the same. Unknown to us, Ma had handed her a diary of hers, with the recipe of every single dish written in it. Thamma decided that from the next Ranna Pujo, Lata would always be in charge of the sweets.
My interactions with Kaku Kakima were limited. The man, who worked as a clerk in the Tax Department of the government office, only came by to meet Thamma to hand over some money he had lent or when he had to pay for his daughter’s tuition. He was quiet, withdrawn, and still looking for his brother. Once or twice, he would suggest that he was at Kashi or Haridwar. How he got that information was still a mystery. Thamma would often suggest that he stop chasing after ghosts. He would nod, take his leave after sipping on the tea and again come back in a month or two with his theories. Sometimes he would say his brother had renounced the world and taken to sainthood, at others, he would wipe his sweat with a handkerchief nervously, telling Thamma that he feared he was a Naxal. Thamma, after a while, just nodded and agreed to all his theories. The poor man was looking for his brother till his last breath, hoping to find him somewhere and give himself the closure he needed.
Kakima would often be spotted on their roof, drying pickles or Bori or putting washed clothes on the lines. Her voice was loud. And often when she called her daughters or Lata, I could hear it from my open window. She didn’t finish her schooling, but knew enough to understand the need for her girls to be educated. She would often come to me, asking about Lata’s progress. Although she often blamed Lata’s father for their misery and the responsibility he had shoved on their heads, she did love Lata as much as she possibly could love an orphan. She had often lamented, in my presence, how Kaka struggled to manage a dowry for the girls, and how important it was, especially for Lata, who had inherited very little from her parents. They had lost everything in the partition and started afresh, including her mother’s inherited jewellery. I had once put forward the idea that Lata should work. If she managed a teaching job after securing a Master's degree from a good college, she would be of help to them financially. Her Kakima had first seemed interested in the idea. Then she shook her head.
“No, Deb Babu.” She said to me after pondering over it briefly, “She will be almost twenty-four, prompting us to marry her off soon after. If she started working like you suggested, she would be of no help to us, but to her in-laws. We can’t take her money then. Everyone would say we are asking you to pay us back for whatever we did for the poor girl. Worse, if someday her father comes back, how will we face him?” I was astonished at her words. She thought more of what others perceived of her rather than what she and her daughters needed.
“Besides, we can hardly pay the school fees. How can we pay for college for three of them?” She shook her head. “Dadabhai made the house; we now have to maintain it as well.” I was a little disturbed. I wanted to tell her that I could pay for their college fees, but I knew quite well that she wouldn’t take it as nicely, thinking I was sympathising with their poverty. So I kept my mouth shut as she took my leave.
It was right after Lata’s seventeenth birthday (which we mostly came to know from the Paesh Kakima brought to us and Lata touching everyone’s feet in the morning) that the incident happened. Kakima walked into the house, rather agitated, lamenting in tears, that her pride was shattered. Lata had managed to shame the family after all that they did for her. What would she tell her father if he came back? What would she tell Boro Kakima when she met her on the other side? She had failed to mother the orphan or discipline her. Her laments grew into sobs when I was forced to leave my work and go into the hallways where she stood facing Thamma. Behind her stood a pale and scared Lata in tears.
“What is happening?” I eyed Thamma’s rather grim face as I noticed the letter in her hand.
“Deb Babu, you wanted her to study and teach, right? Look at this girl’s deeds at such an age.” She tugged at Lata’s braid, making her shriek in pain. I tried to raise my hand and stop her. “She is exchanging letters with god knows who!” My mouth opened, but no words came out of it as I frowned. Kakima now pulled her ears as she cried.
“Stubborn girl isn’t even telling us who this man is.” Kakima slapped her as she raised her hand in vain to defend herself. At that, I realised what exactly this was about. I looked at Lata. I needed to know if Kakima was making mistakes. Thamma sighed, giving the letter back to Kakima, remarking, “There are no names of either of them here.” Lata ignored my glance and looked away. Sometimes, silence is a sign of guilt. The Lata I knew would tell me the truth if it wasn’t what Kakima suggested. A sudden rage took over me. I had hoped for her. I told her to stop reading those books. Now, this! I was disappointed in her. She sobbed, with her head low, making her guilt quite obvious. Kakima was about to hand the letter over to me when I stepped back and shook my head. I didn’t want to know what intimate conversation she was having with a stranger. I suddenly felt disgusted as I turned and walked back to the Khajanchi Khana, away from her presence. Lata was growing up, but I never wanted to realise it this way.
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