“Thakurjhi doesn’t need to come around. I will manage.”
Koni Boudi had more often than not subtly put forward to Thamma or even Lata, in sugar-coated words, that the way the neighbour’s girl was around, commanding the kitchen for Bhog or looking after the rituals despite their Bangal heritage being very different from our Ghoti one, was unnecessary when she, the daughter-in-law of the house, was around. She made sure Lata got the message that Koni Boudi didn’t like her. She always thought Lata was deriving privileges from us for her presence around the house, making Boudi’s need for it less, and she most probably eyed Ma’s jewellery, to which Boudi had the rights over. Thamma, however, dismissed her rants as silly, as her opinion held very little accountability, given that she had the privileges of being a guest at her in-laws' place. Many times, as I sat in a corner of the living room couch, subjected to this conversation in loops, I wondered if Thamma’s partiality towards Lata had to do with what most Shasuris did to establish the difference between the daughter and the daughter-in-law of the house. In her presence, “Obarir Lata'' turned into “Amader Lata,” in Thamma’s words. Whether it was because, through the years, Lata made that place in the house, or because she wanted Boudi to know Lata was family, I could never tell.
I also had a Pishima I hardly knew, who visited only when tragedy struck and eyed her shares of Thamma’s jewellery before leaving again for years, whom Thamma doted on, knowing well that she was of no help to the house. Every time her letter came, Thamma made Lata read its contents again and again till she had perhaps memorised it all. Lata obeyed, keeping her opinions to herself while she read the boastful words of the stranger, mostly about her husband and children, their success and achievements.
Once or twice as she went about my room, arranging the heaps of paper that kept stacking up every now and then, I would peek from behind the newspaper or put my cigarette out on the ashtray before eyeing the door and asking in a low voice about Pishi’s letter. Lata’s voice would be amused as she narrated some parts of the letter, telling how easily Pishima boasted of things she thought were meant for everyone with a little privilege. Her children’s jobs and enrollment in college, and her husband’s promotion. Lata often wondered aloud why she never asked about the others.
“Thamma should let her know of your results, too, Deb Da.” She said once while folding a newly washed bed cover, standing by the window. I looked up with a frown as she shrugged, “She should know only her children aren’t intelligent around here.” I smiled faintly, then shook my head and, almost in a scolding voice, rebuked her, “Besi peke gecho.” On my disapproving comment on her growing up, she grew quiet and careful henceforth.
One day, I walked into the courtyard looking for Khoka, for whom I had got a replica of the vintage car belonging to Dadu, which stood on our porch. He was fascinated by it, and that made me think it was a perfect gift for him. There he was, sitting on Bibha’s lap, clapping his hands gleefully, clad in a half-sleeved khadi shirt and half pants as Ananta rolled on the floor laughing. Eager to know what was happening, I sneaked up to the threshold quietly. Lata stood with her back to me, her braid falling carelessly below her hip; she looked much of a woman from her silhouette now. Her anchol was tucked into her waist as she held the ruler up, making herself sound as manly as she possibly could as she spoke.
“What is this, Ananta?” I raised my eyebrows at her tone. “Such silly mistakes! When I was your age…” Wait, did I sound like that all the time? I frowned slightly as she continued swaying the ruler like I usually do. “Look at Bibha and Lata, they aren’t as troublesome as you have become.”
“I will imitate Boudi now.” Bibha quipped as soon as Lata finished, and Khoka clapped. Ananta managed to compose himself and wiped his tears as he felt breathless from laughing. Lata was quick to turn as Bibha froze at my sight. Amused as I was, I tried hard and managed to hold my rather disapproving glance as they froze.
“Kaku got my car!”
Unaware of how scared his playmates were of me, Khoka came running as I knelt before him and handed him his toy car. I looked up once, as Bibha and Ananta exchanged glances and a flushed Lata ran past me, back into the house. I perhaps embarrassed her. Or even scared her. She avoided me for a good two days after that, even while catering to my needs. I didn’t bring it up either. She was fifteen. Innocent, playful and easily intimidated. Rarely did she laugh freely or do things like others her age. I often smiled in between my stacks of paperwork or scribbling notes into my diary, when I eyed the scale she left on my writing table. She observed people well. Even when they were quite unaware that she did.
Janmashtami was celebrated throughout the night at our place. The Kirtan group came from a nearby village, Math, and songs in praise of the Lord, born in the shackles of Kansa’s Karagar, to his carefree, naughty days in the house of Jasoda were sung. The night often ended with villagers joining in the chorus of “Hari Hari”, piercing through the otherwise silent night. Once or twice in between, when the Kirtan dal took a break, the women sang bhajans of Radha Krishna’s eternal love. Everyone was awake through the night, even after the fact that the entire day had gone in preparation for it. The idol of Gopal in a swing was washed with the holy water of Ganga and then smeared with sandalwood and turmeric. Then they dressed him up in the seasonal blooms of Jui, Bel and Rajanigandha. The swing was decorated too. The Chappanno Bhog is meant to be cooked by someone outside the home, but a Brahmin woman was made by the Chattopadhyay Ginni, Lata’s Kakima. Her cousin sisters although small. Took part in the puja too, as Lata taught them to make garlands the same way she taught Bibha, too. Kheer, Malpoa and all of the Lord’s favourites were placed before him in offerings before the kirtans reached their zenith at midnight.
Somewhere amid the frenzy, I always remembered my mother. Her active participation in the pujas was dearly missed, even by Thamma, who barely spoke of her lost son or daughter-in-law in front of us. Many times, I looked at Boudi, trying hard to blend into the crowd of women, trying her best to fit in with strangers, yet standing out almost outlandishly, unlike my mother. She was in no way close to that. Yet, she was a lot more. She was educated, wise, smart about her ways, fashionable like the city girls, a sweet talker and perhaps a good mother too. Yet in some ways, she could never be what we wanted of her. She never had the motherly feel we missed in her aura. I don’t blame her for it. Yet somehow I hold her accountable. Especially on the days, she would blatantly accuse Lata, who tried her best to keep this house a home.
The first time Boudi stepped into our humble home, Thamma was hopeful of good things. Lata, under her instruction, had taken out my mother’s jewellery from the chest in Thamma’s room and promptly reminded her that Ma wanted her eldest daughter-in-law to have her Navratna-studded Sitahaar. We were all present there, Bibha, Ananta and I, as Boudi looked confused at who Lata might be. Lata had held her hand reassuringly, reminding her that if she ever needed help, Lata knew everything around the house, like the back of her hand, and Ma had taught her all that herself. Boudi had not liked her since.
“Bouma, if you are so concerned about someone robbing us emotionally as if we are mere fools, why don’t you come live with us, do all the things she does, that you are supposed to do?”
I would never forget that line Thamma spoke, in front of her parents, as she once again lamented how emotionally silly we were to let others run our house and order our servants around. Times had changed, and we should be more careful, her mother had added. That one line from Thamma had shut them out completely. Her father shifted on the couch a little uneasily as an awkward silence filled the room. That was when I heard her bangles. I had turned to check on Lata, who was probably at the threshold, unaware of the conversation until she heard it. But her red saree-clad silhouette was gone. I tried to look for her in the crowd gathered in the courtyard in vain, as people approached me to share pleasantries. She at seventeen, needed to understand that not everyone could possibly like her and that it was okay. I hoped she wasn’t hurt. But I never managed to ask.
