.jpg)
My siblings expected a gift from me every time I went out of town for work. Usually, it started with something like sweets, candies or a famous souvenir from where I went, but when it came to going to Calcutta for a week or so, they would hand me a list. Especially Bibha. I had to spend an extra day running about the busy, noisy streets of Calcutta getting her things. After I decided not to stay in Calcutta, I was afraid to go back and face Dada. But Thamma had other plans. To teach me the ways around our work, she insisted I must visit Calcutta over the weekend and meet her lawyers. I should know their office, and they should become familiar with my face. That meant Thamma called up Koni Boudi, informing her that I was going to stay. Not even six months had passed by since I left Calcutta, and I was back in the crowded city streets, with a small piece of luggage, pushing my way through the crowd at Howrah Bridge to find a transport that would take me to Dada’s North Calcutta house.
I had arrived to be greeted with a glass of chilled water from their newly bought refrigerator, which Boudi flaunted that her father had gifted her on their wedding anniversary. She told me of irrelevant details of their work, her parents' journey to Haridwar, didn’t fail to mention Konkona’s studies and finally went to fetch Khoka as I took out the toy elephant Lata had packed for him. The list Bibha handed me fell from my pocket as Boudi inspected it.
“What is this, Thakurpo?” She laughed, a little amused. “Bibha expects you to shop for sarees for her?” I shrugged sheepishly. She was well aware of how I couldn’t say no to my sister. She took the list, much to my relief and offered to shop for her. I met the lawyers the next day. Dada had accompanied me, but he didn’t care to walk in as he showed me the office, murmured an excuse and left. Calcutta was still intimidating to me. I didn’t understand the city, as it didn’t understand me.
On returning home, I eyed the things Boudi had bought. She had gone out of her way to buy things for Thamma, Ananta and me as well. I eyed the five sarees she got for Bibha, instead of one.
“If you need to buy anything else, the driver can take you to Hogg Market tomorrow.” She offered. I nodded. Some things were not on the list. Like my rolls of paper, a fountain pen, ink, and perfume, I eyed one of the advertisements in the newspaper. I decided to go shopping the next day, with the driver in tow. I somehow had a more hearty conversation with him about his village and family than I did with my brother or sister-in-law.
The moment my car entered the porch, Bibha and Ananta came running, almost snatching the extra packages from my hand before even greeting me properly. Thamma walked up to me as I touched her feet and informed her about the work being successful. She was happy that I was learning to do things alone. Her attention was then diverted to Bibha and Ananta, offering to show her the things brought from Calcutta, including a saree for her, which, of course, Boudi sent. I stood there, with my hands in my pockets, as Kanai took my luggage to my room upstairs and Lata came with a glass of water. I nodded at her, indicating that the work went well, as she smiled faintly, watching me drink the offered glass of water. She asked if I wanted more, to which I declared I would take a bath and have an early dinner and retired to my room.
When I walked out of the bath, feeling rejuvenated as I folded the sleeves of my Panjabi, I eyed Lata, who had now opened my luggage and was putting things back in place. Separating out the used clothes that needed to be washed. She placed the brown paper packets down on my table, not curious about their contents as she continued to empty the luggage.
“Boudi gave them a lot of things, more than I bought,” I spoke up as she nodded in silence. I cleared my throat. I picked up the larger brown paper bag from my desk and held it up to her eye level, making her stop arranging my things.
“I got this for you.” She looked surprised at the package.
“For me?” She looked a little taken aback. “Why?”
“Yes, Janmashtami is around the corner,” I said as she opened the package to find a red saree peeking out of it. “You always wear Kakima’s sarees for such occasions. I think you should have one of your own.” She looked back at my face in utter disbelief that I knew that ever since she wore a saree, even when she was now sixteen, all the good sarees she wore weren’t really hers.
“I…” She was at a loss for words. “Thank you, but… I don't wear red.” She looked unsure as to whether she had offended me. I smiled.
“You should try it then,” I said as she held on to the saree, a little in disbelief. I didn’t tell her the entire truth, though. I had just gotten my first remuneration for working for Thamma and the family business. I wanted to get everyone something. She was part of my family.
That Janmashtami, while I was late for the Arati and dashed down the stairs to mix into the crowd so that Thamma didn’t spot me, my eyes travelled in the crowd of known faces to her. Lata was wearing the red saree I had gifted her, and I heard Boudi compliment her on it. She smiled, without giving any details of where she got the saree, much to my relief. Dada was standing beside me, making me care enough not to let my eyes wander to her, as she held the Pancha Pradip and walked around the crowd for everyone to take their blessings. She walked up to Dada, who smiled in courtesy, taking the blessing before walking away towards someone in the crowd. She turned to me, holding the Pancha Pradip up in between us. My eyes were fixed on her face, as the reflection of the lamp danced in her pupil. I took blessings, prompting her to frown and ask “Ki?”, making me shake my head, consciously, looking away, realising that I was staring. She cleared her throat and was about to walk away when I almost murmured.
“I told you red will suit you.” She heard it, for she stopped, glancing over her shoulder and giving me a shy smile before she walked away. Did she see me blushing slightly at her sudden warm smile? I hope not.
I had my ways of pushing her, and she had her own. The day she took me to meet Kalikinkar, much to my resistance and Bibha’s hope, was a summer afternoon. She tiptoed into the library, announcing that Thamma was having her afternoon siesta and Ananta was off with some friends, when I frowned, asking where we were going. She placed her index finger gently on her lips and whispered that it was in the forest. I resisted as hard as I possibly could, reminding Lata that Bibha had lost her mind if, amidst the uprisings and turmoils of the Mukti Morcha, she met this man alone, inside the forest. Lata eyed me and inhaled.
“If you want to reject someone, at least make Didi believe that you tried to give him a chance and like him.” She shook her head. I frowned. Was Lata being diplomatic or simply persuading me?
“Besides, she told me that she feels safe with him.” Lata bit her tongue the moment she spoke. I looked at her, first in disbelief, and then I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Grow up, both of you.” I shook my head. “Life isn’t one of your novels.”
“What is there to laugh about?” Lata looked disappointed. “We do feel safe around some people more than others.”
“Like?” I crossed my arms as she grew impatient.
“Like I feel you can save me from Kakima’s beatings.” She said in a hurry. An instant pang of guilt hit me. I had stayed quiet, watching Kakima hit her, not once but twice, the day she found the letter. Did Lata hate me for not speaking up?
“Hurry up now.” She jolted me from my thoughts as she tiptoed out to the porch to fetch her cycle.
I hadn’t cycled in many years, but I was once good at it. But that day, my hands wobbled a little through the soiled forest, perhaps aware of the fact that Lata sat behind me, holding on to the edge of my Panjabi, careful enough to avoid touch. It's strange how easily, when she was small, I would hold her palm out right in front of me, to give her the tidbits I bought for her and Bibha, or even while scolding her with the scale. As she grew up into a woman, she distanced herself quite naturally, and I wasn’t home around the week to pay much heed to these changes around me. That day, she was wary of holding on to me, even when she was scared of falling off the cycle. On the way back, however, I had scolded her to hold on to me; otherwise, she would break her neck. She reluctantly held my shoulder firmly with her hands. I realised how her touch felt different from what it used to be years ago. It was strange. We were the same people we used to be, yet we weren’t. She was conscious of her femininity, and I of the secret in my heart.
It was no surprise that I didn’t like Kalikinkar. On the outside, he was a timid, polite, skinny man, in an oversized Panjabi, a little intimidated by me, while Bibha introduced us. However, I noticed how he avoided eye contact, much like thieves do, and often contradicted his own words when pressed. Bibha gushed that he was looking for a better teaching job in Calcutta. When I asked the same, he fumbled, murmuring how tough it was to find a job in the city and that his ancestral home at Bardhaman had farmland. Surely, Bibha didn’t want to marry a farmer. He was aware of that. So, upon pressurising further with queries, he said he would teach children there. A man with such an unsure future was never good enough for my sister. He was not a man of his word. Then I saw how he influenced Bibha’s choices. He took a great deal of effort to hide his dominant and influential side, but I had an eye for it. I could sense that meeting in the forest, despite knowing the danger, was his idea. He was too feeble to protect even himself if under threat, let alone my sister. I also gathered that it was Bibha who had hurried to settle with him, while he made his excuses at least in front of me, that he needed a fixed income.
I had promised Lata I would be polite, and I was; otherwise, I would have held his collar, shaken the soul out of his being and made him realise that his temporary salary and heavy-worded feelings weren’t even enough to sustain the Bhattacharya daughter even for a day. I wish I had said it that day. I regretted it soon.
