I wasn’t as close to Baba as I was to Ma, and I can say the same for Ananta as well. Baba was a figure to be feared; his booming voice rang through the corridors and kept the house in a very disciplined order. The moment he stepped into the house was a very strict rule, and people rushed about their work, and nobody chattered or ran across the corridors. Even the servants knew how to tiptoe around him, and often in the Kajanchi Khana, he would argue with farmers, workers and tenants, while we stayed alarmed in our rooms upstairs. The only time we ever needed to interact with Baba and not keep out of his way was when our results came and he would put on his reading glasses, stare at the paper and back at us, so coldly that a shiver ran down our spines. Ma would often advocate for us, and he would rebuke her for spoiling the children. He was, however, not so intimidating towards Bibha or Lata. He agreed to keep Lata at home the moment Ma sobbed about the fever that had caught Prabhas, without second thoughts. He had even offered monetary help, which the Chattopadhyays declined. There wasn’t much time between Boro Kaku moving away and his own demise, yet often when Ma urged Lata to bring him his tea, or supper, he would look up at the intimidated, shy girl, with the kindest smile he possibly found and ask her about her health or studies. Lata would be quiet and nod most of the time. He doted on Bibhabati a little more than the rest of us, and hence Bibha always had her way. Unlike us, who were too scared to reach him, let alone ever get a pat or a hug from the man, Bibha often ran to sit on his lap while he read the morning newspapers and complained about the government.
Thamma had decided to pay for Lata’s tuition fees, seeing how bright she was at her age. Baba, of course, had no voice over his mother’s wishes. But one day, as I walked into the Baithak being ‘summoned’ by him, scared that he might have come to know of things he shouldn’t, he had looked up at me and then at Ma, who stood beside his high chair serving him tea, and cleared his throat to speak.
“The Chattopadhyay girl…” He looked up at Ma as she whispered her name. “Right, Snehlata. She needs guidance for her studies.” He looked up at me and back at the newspaper. “Rudra is busy with his college studies, and you help Bibha anyway. So I told them she can study with Bibha, and you would help.” It wasn’t a question, it was an order. Lata had recently lost both her parents, and she was quieter than usual even when she went around the house following Ma. I didn’t know how I could help the girl. If anything, her problem wasn’t studying. I just nodded to see Ma smile happily. She went on to inform Thamma, who was pleased that I was helping out in my own way.
Back in those days, you had siblings, friends and cousins in close units of family. Most of the time, we were taught to ride a cycle, fly a kite or even swim by the ones older than us. And it automatically fell on us to pass the lessons on to the younger ones. Dada learnt to fly kites from one of our cousins who visited during festivities, a friend of his from the village taught him to swim; he, in turn, imparted those to me. He taught me to cycle, and when Ananta turned three, he was given his first bicycle, with a balance. The much-excited child wanted to learn, but Bibhabati was adamant; she wanted a cycle too. Thamma rolled her eyes and reminded her to not try to do everything her brothers did.
“If you have cuts and bruises that leave a mark on your face or ruin your facial features, nobody will marry you.” Thamma had scolded her. But Bibhabati was stubborn. Despite Ma’s warnings, she ran to Baba, asking him whether she could get a bicycle. She argued that she could go to school on her own and be independent. Baba frowned a little, refused at first, but eventually gave in to Bibha’s requests( I would call them nagging). That was when Ma decided to bring in two, instead of one. Lata, who had just got back to her daily routines after her father left, was pleasantly surprised. She looked up at Ma, her eyes sparkling a little as Kakima reminded her to be grateful, and she hugged Ma. That left me with the rather impossible task of teaching three children to cycle. Ananta had his balances on, which made it easier, as Baba said his balances should stay till he is older, and he shouldn’t be out on the streets. That left Bibha and Lata’s training to me. Lata was perhaps more scared than Bibhabati. At first, when Bibhabati offered her a salwar kameez, something the non-Bengali women in Calcutta often wore, and Baba bought it for her, Lata was awkward with it. She perhaps felt embarrassed, being used to the saree all the time, especially around me. Then she managed to grasp the attire but was scared to pedal the cycle without balance. Bibha was more determined to prove she could do what Ananta or I could learn quickly. But Lata? She surely hoped that someday I would stop teaching her and give up. But I was also a determined teacher. Every day, around four in the afternoon, they would cycle around our lawn under my watch.
“I am not ready, Deb Da.” Lata almost pleaded as I pretended not to hear her when I detached the balances. She kept murmuring as I held on to the back of the cycle.
“Okay, look ahead, don’t look back, and you won’t lose balance. I am holding on to it. I promise.” I lied to her, and she trusted me with a nod. I held on to the end of her cycle, reassuring her that I was there. Lata started paddling slowly. I commanded her to pick up the pace. When she did, concentrating on the garden path ahead, I subtly let her cycle go and was satisfied that my trick worked. Lata must have felt something, for she glanced over her shoulder, in the most horrifying look she possibly ever granted me, and her cycle ran out of the garden path straight into a bush. Ananta laughed as Bibha rushed to her rescue. Twigs were stuck to her braid as she sat up, rubbing her elbows and the dirt off her borrowed kameez as she stared at me, rather disapprovingly. I smiled, faintly, before Bibha helped her up and brushed her Salwar.
“Look, you did it.” Bibha made her frown. “You cycled on your own.” The realisation dawning on her innocent face was indeed satisfying to see as she looked at me again, this time, perhaps a little less disappointed.
The next day, she had come with the cycle without the balance as Ananta cycled on the lawn, and Bibha had gone to the temple with Thamma. I stared at the cycle and back at her, before pulling the cycle onto the garden path.
“Everyone lies to me.” She said almost in a complaining tone. I frowned a little as I sat down to check the chain of the pedals, and absent-mindedly asked what she meant.
“Ma promised me she won’t leave, Baba promised to be there. You promised to hold on, Deb Da!” I looked up at her innocent face, fighting back tears as she took the handles of the cycle and chose to look away from me. A sudden guilt hit me that day. I had unknowingly hurt where she was wounded the most. I didn’t know how to make things right. There was a sudden empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was anything but insensitive or unkind; Ma was always proud of that. I let both her and Lata down, perhaps. I feared the repercussions if she complained to Ma. But surprisingly, Lata never mentioned it to anyone, not even her beloved Didi, who claimed she shared everything.
I had gone to the Rather Mela the next day with Dada and Baba. Being the Zamindar family meant we didn’t roam about freely in the mela like the villagers. We were invited to inaugurate it every year. I came back home to find Lata and Bibha being helped by Ananta in the inner courtyard to set up the rath for our Jagannath idol. I had heard stories of how, during Dadu’s childhood, the Rath that is now beside the Natmandir of the village actually belonged to the house, and it would be taken around the village in a great procession. Now, Ananta and Bibha would drag the smaller version around the neighbourhood with their friends, and Lata would tag along with Ma to the threshold with the conch shells and bells.
Lata was making garlands as Bibha put them up. Eyeing my arrival, Bibha rushed to inform Thamma, who had the tradition of Horir Lut of Batasha and Kodma on an auspicious day at our Thakur Dalan. We always fought over who got the most Batasha or Kodma, and Ananta, who usually lost, ended up winning because Lata would give up her collection to please him. Ananta ran after her, excited, the same. Lata didn’t look up. She sat fixed to her spot, making garlands as I knelt down to see the Rath being decorated.“Sorry.” I had probably murmured the words for the first time in my life. Zamindars never apologise, my Baba often said. My male ego never made me apologise in my life. Lata’s hand stopped at the garland as she looked up at me with a confused stare. “Bhul hoye geche kal.” I shook my head, acknowledging my mistake as she stood up abruptly and left on the pretext of finding Bibha.
Never again, in my life, did I promise her something and not follow through. I had learnt my lesson and was in a way very intimidated by how blindly she trusted each word I said. Nobody in my family, or even in my life, ever gave my words the weight of so much importance. That day, I probably felt more responsible for my actions and words toward her.
The first time she came over, with her books and boxes to study, in a printed frock she had again inherited from Bibhabati, her hair done into two braids tied with blue ribbons, I noticed that Lata was a sincere learner. She was too shy to ask questions when she had doubts, so I had to keep an eye on her mistakes very diligently but once I explained something she would understand and practice till she got a grasp of it, unlike Bibha, most of whose study time involved staring at the clock hoping it ticked faster. I had to remove that clock from the study room with Baba’s permission later. Yet, Bibha never got a scolding. Thamma would often in the afternoons call Lata to her room, and make her cut her betel nuts; Ma taught her fabric work on handkerchiefs or embroideries. Thamma would also share the stories of her own childhood, something none of us ever heard from her. She would scold Lata if she made mistakes, and in the next moment, offer her a Naru or Moa from the jars she kept under her bed. If one got a Naru or Moa from Thamma, they were definitely her favourite. She used to make those in the kitchen herself and often kept the jars under her own bed. She didn’t eat those, nor offer us, but kept them safe for when anyone would visit her.
One day, while I was studying for my school finals, determined to score enough to get into a good college to make my parents proud, unaware that I would lose them soon, Lata tiptoed into my room. I didn’t look up because she would often walk in to keep things or take them to Ma. Ma was in her first trimester then, and she was advised not to move around much. I didn’t understand much of the complications, though. Baba had brought a doctor from Calcutta to check on her, much to Thamma’s detest. She still relied a lot on Kabiraj's Ayurveda. But Ma being on bed rest meant Lata would spend more time around the house, cleaning our rooms, and taking care of Ananta and even Thamma when she was barely nine. She would taste all the food before they were served so that Ma only ate healthily and Baba never complained. Ma would often laugh, doting on Lata and her ways, saying she had absolutely no doubt that wherever Lata went, she would make the house a home. Thamma would agree, and Lata would smile, unaware of what they meant. But somehow all I could see was a parentless child doing things she wasn’t supposed to do. Lata had hovered around my room for a while, fixing things and straightening curtains, enough to make me realise she had no work there. So I half turned on my chair with a frown as she disturbed my concentration to ask, “What do you want?”
It startled her a bit as she looked up at my face, trying to figure out whether she had upset me. She then slowly walked up to my desk and held out a piece of cloth. I took it from her hand and opened it to see that it was a tablecloth, fabric coloured with little roses around the corner. I looked up at her with questioning eyes.
“Jethaima taught me this, so I made Ananta and Didi handkerchiefs. I thought…” She eyed my study table “This will be good for…” I had to smile, for she had actually thought of getting me the only thing missing from my otherwise equipped room. I looked at the not-so-perfectly drawn flowers around the edges and smiled. She waited for my verdict, so I lied; it was the best fabric I have ever seen. Lata’s smile reached her eyes as she was satisfied with the compliment. I went back to my authoritative mode and added that all these hobbies shouldn’t hamper her studies. I wanted her homework on my desk by evening. And with that, she ran off in a hurry to do the needful, as I removed the books from the table and laid down the tablecloth properly before putting them back on it.
When Lata came by in the evening with her work and doubts, she eyed the tablecloth with a smile, which I duly ignored as I continued to check the copies.
“Deb Da, you know a lot, right?” She asked as I nodded my head without looking up from her copy.
“Thamma said Daima can tell if Jethaima will have a boy or a girl.” I looked up at her words with a frown. She seemed to be thinking aloud. “Didi asked how it was possible, and she got scolded for questioning Thamma. She also asked where children come from and…”
I was suddenly awkward looking at the innocent rant of the nine-year-old. She somehow felt like she could confide in me.
“Enough with the chit-chat.” I scolded as she frowned, “You have your attention everywhere, except where it should be.” I pointed at the book in my hand. “Such things are not for your age.”
Years later, I had seen one of the books we were ‘prohibited’ from reading go missing from the library. I had frowned as to who could take that up, and one day, as I walked in, to my utter horror, I found Lata placing it back. When asked, she fumbled that Didi had taken the book up, and she assumed Bibha had finished reading, so she wanted to put it back. I reminded her not to read adult books, at least till she was seventeen. She nodded, agreeing to it, but I was sure that if Bibha knew things, she would definitely feed Lata’s mind with what she had gathered. A part of me was scared of them growing up fast, and another part of me was concerned about half of the knowledge they would gather from it. But back then, I wasn’t in a position to tell my little sister to confide in me with her questions. It was way too awkward. I didn’t know that my concerns were, however, justified until much later.
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