Dawn was my favourite time of the day back in the village. The cuckoo or magpie would often chirp as the first light of the sun hit the dew-wet grass, and often shone like diamonds. I remember Ma used to get up before everyone else, and often after a bath, with her wet hair hanging from her shoulder, she would take a walk on the dew-wet grass, urging Dada and me to do the same. She was the first face I saw every morning, as she either walked into my room to open the windows or stop the alarm, urging me to wake up and study. Her ever-smiling face made my mornings.
"It keeps you healthy." She said once, making Dada laugh. Her words had no scientific logic. If anything, it gives you a bad cold, Dada would reply before he walked away. Ma wasn't pleased with him being an exact replica of our father. Whether it was because my mother's idea of the world was different or she wished her children wouldn't grow up to be like the husband she only knew from a distance, I can't tell. All I observed, being the person I am, is that every time Dada let her down, she would turn to me. She looked at me with hopeful eyes that I'd understand her the way Baba or Dada couldn't. And I somehow always quietly gave in. A part of me agreed with Dada, but not everything you do for your loved ones is for the sake of logic. After she was gone, I would often go down at dawn and walk on the lawn barefoot. The dew felt cold under my feet, yet somehow I sensed it would make her happy.
Usually, the house would still be asleep for a good thirty minutes more before I heard Thamma call her caregiver, Malati Di, who would help her to the pond on our premises. Despite adapting to many modern-day amenities, this was a habit Thamma couldn't let go of. Then, when I heard her blow the conch shell for the morning Pujo, I knew it was exactly half past six and I walked back to my room to get ready for breakfast. Often, through the Singhadwar that overlooked the road outside, I could see the milkman cycling to the neighbourhood from the village or the neighbours going to the station for work. Sometimes I could hear Kakima on the verandah or roof, putting wet clothes on the line as she shouted out instructions to Lata. That is how I knew they were early risers. Sometimes the gardener came by to water the plants and trim the bushes, but he stayed quiet and did his job almost like he was invisible to me, perhaps considering that I wanted to be left alone. I didn’t encourage early morning conversations unless absolutely necessary. Sometimes I would see him bring in shrubs or seeds, and go across the street to get them approved. Lata was really taking her hobby of gardening rather seriously.
Occasionally, there would be a cart or two coming from the village and going towards the main road, where you could occasionally hear cars honking. Other than that, the rustling leaves, chirping birds and fair silence of the dawn pleased me. Unlike cities, village life was quieter and closer to nature. The only birds that woke me in the mornings of Calcutta were crows and sparrows. Sometimes, occasionally, there were a bunch of Indian Mynas, but I was used to seeing them more in the village. Even their calls sounded harsher in the city. Bibha would say it's in my head. But it's somehow true that everything in the village sounded sweeter.
Lata inherited from my mother her strangest of superstitions. I am not sure if either of her parents had those, but my mother definitely did. One day, I was out on the lawn, about to take off my slippers and walk on the grass, when I spotted Lata tiptoeing towards a bush. I frowned a little. She wasn't usually at our place until breakfast or even afterwards. What was she up to so early in the morning? I observed her, fixed to my spot. She pushed the bushes a little and looked disappointed as she turned around and was startled to find me there. Aware of my presence, she quickly pushed her wet hair back over her back and was about to walk away.
"What are you looking for?" My question made her stop. She glanced over her shoulder with a sheepish smile as I waited for her answer. I inquired again, this time in my authoritative voice.
"Err… you will laugh." She shook her head. I assured her I wouldn’t.
"I was out on the roof." She pointed at their terrace," And I spotted a single Shalik here." I narrowed my eyebrows at her words. She could understand I was rather clueless, so she added, "You know how the day goes bad if you see one of them and goes really well when it's two?" She looked away as I was visibly amused. "I was looking for the other one." She stopped as I laughed, shaking my head at her rather silly logic. Lata immediately frowned. "You said you won't laugh, Deb Da." I tried to control my laugh as I nodded.
"You are being silly. Nothing of this sort happens. Believe me." I reassured her. She was definitely not convinced.
"If I have a bad day, it's your fault." She frowned a little as I accepted my fate just to prove her wrong. I diverted the conversation to the flowers she had planted. She eyed me rather judgmentally as I had noticed her flowers only after she had pointed them out. She, however, proceeded to explain to me how the different flowers need different fertilisers and soil, and the amount of water needed to be regulated. She picked up a pink rose from one of the trimmed brushes filled with buds and smelled it.
“Here.” She turned to give it to me and smiled, “This is the best quality one from Kashmir.” I didn’t ask how she knew that, but listened to her interesting facts on flowers instead. For the first time, I wasn’t annoyed with someone’s conversation ruining my morning. I took the flower from her and smelled it. I had carelessly put it down on the study table in my room, and later, when it started to dry up, I put some water in the glass and put the rose in. It survived a good number of days on my writing desk.
It was around noon that day when I returned home to find Bibha looking agitated and explaining something to Thamma. Lata would follow her home after school, but she wasn’t there, so I enquired about it. Bibha shrugged and said, "Lata fell off the cycle on the way back home. She must have broken her leg or something. I just came from there." I was a little taken aback as Thamma looked up at my face.
“Don’t just stand there, go and see.” She almost scolded me. I nodded as I walked out at the same pace I had walked in a moment ago, and went across the street to her house. Kaku wasn’t home, and I found Kakima scolding her to be careful. Lata was teary, as she held on to her injured leg, and her white uniform saree was soaked with blood around her right knee. Her younger cousin, who was barely five, was home, and she stood close to her mother, who was by then trying to find someone to call on Kaku. She stopped at my sight at the threshold.
“Deb Babu, can you please send one of your servants over?” She looked puzzled. “I don’t know what to do,” I reassured her, with all the calmness I could find, and called Kanai to fetch the doctor before going back home in a hurry to dial Kaku’s office. Kaku was out on official work, and the Peon reassured me that he would inform him as soon as he came back into the office. I went back inside to find that Kakima had helped Lata lie down on her bed, while she winced in pain. I stood at the threshold, a little confused, when the knock on the door made her cousin open it for Kanai Da and the doctor. Lata felt very conscious of my presence when the doctor told her to lift the saree to her knees to show him her injury. That prompted me to turn and leave the room. I was pacing the living room when he came out and informed us, much to our relief, that, fortunately, nothing was broken. Her bruises would heal in a day or two, and she needed to rest until then. I nodded a small thank you, offering him his fees before Kakima could protest as Kanai showed him out. Kakima wouldn’t let me leave without having tea, so I told Kanai to inform Thamma at home that Lata was fine.
When I walked into her room again while Kakima fried some Beguni to serve me tea with, Lata was half seated on her bed, having changed into a green saree. Her eyes were sore, and she tried hard to not show the pain on her face. I asked her if she was alright, to be met with a rather cold stare.
“I told you one Shalik was bad luck; I needed to see the pair.” I was taken aback by her words. I inquired about what happened and forbade her from even trying to get up and work, let alone come over.
“Who would do the chores?” She sounded worried. “Ananta’s books need to be covered and Didi…” She had stopped at my cold stare. I reassured her that they would be fine without her, although I knew otherwise.
I had spent the rest of the day covering Ananta’s books and listening to Bibha rant about a book she read, patiently. I even tied Ananta’s shoelaces for the next two days without a complaint. But no matter what I did, I wasn’t good enough.
“Didi does it this way.” Ananta would frown at the slightest difference.
“Why aren’t you talking? Lata reacts when I tell stories; otherwise, how will I know if you like it or not?” Bibha complained. Two days later, they were relieved to have Lata back, and so was I.
The first thing she did, however, entering my room, was to eye the withered rose still in the glass. I must admit it smelled foul by then, yet I was too lazy to clean up or let a servant help. She eyed me disapprovingly as I sat on my bed. She picked the glass up and exited the room, murmuring to herself and came back with a fresh glass to keep by the water jug.
“Where is the flower?” I asked as she frowned.
“It withered. I threw it away.” She shrugged.
“Fele dile?” She frowned at my words, cluelessly. Why would I be interested in keeping a withered flower?
“If you like them so much, I can place some in a vase somewhere.” I shook my head at her offer, suddenly conscious of her. Lata didn’t know why I enquired about the withered flower. I had no answers for her if she asked. So I carefully changed the topic to her bruises. As for my opinion on omens, I realised that some things perhaps look better in pairs.
