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I remember coming back from school to be greeted by Maa’s smiling face. She would let Kanai take my bag as I undid my shoes and tell me what she had cooked for lunch. I hurried up to get fresh, and when I was at the dining hall, she would be sitting there, feeding Bibha and Lata with her own hands, while Lata in turn fed Ananta. I would sit a little further away from them, eating my lunch as Ma often persuaded me to have more. I would often ask Bibha and Lata about their classes and examinations and offer my help. Dada was away in college, and he came over the weekends to be doted on some more by Maa. Pondering over those moments, I now believe that I was perhaps her most ignored child. Dada was always favoured for being the eldest. He was exactly like Baba from the very beginning. Baba always considered talking to him, especially when it was decisions involving us. Bibha was the only daughter and was extremely pampered by both Thamma and Baba. And Ananta, being the youngest, always got favoured by Ma. I, the middle child, with not much talent, no huge ambitions, and my introverted nature, was always the one both my parents and Thamma took for granted. I didn’t mind. Neither was I as good a student as Dada, nor as ambitious as him. Thamma often said, out of all my siblings, I was the most average-looking.
Taken after the mother’s side in look and habit, she would say, wrinkling her nose, right in front of Ma. Lata’s bonding with Ma didn’t help either. But for once, I saw that someone besides my siblings respected me, and someone besides my family cared.
I remember the afternoons when Thamma would take her afternoon siesta and Ma would be in her room, reading or knitting, sometimes with Lata, and most times alone, humming a tune to herself. We would all be sitting in the backyards overlooking the orchards. Back then, Ma took a great deal of effort to keep the orchards and gardens prim and proper. I would most of the time sit with a book, in charge of supervising my siblings as they played under the scorching sun, on the grass. They would play all sorts of games. Lata was probably the leader of this troop, giving them imaginative ideas every day. Some days, they were warriors, with sticks for swords, fighting off dacoits of the Chambals quite bravely. Some days they were scientists, discovering new things in leaves, flowers and even the grass. They would sometimes play with Bibha’s dolls, getting them married in a ceremony where they picked up flowers from the garden, any type they found and made garlands. But most days, they would play house. Bibha, being the eldest, automatically became the head of the family, the father; Lata, by instinct, was the mother and Ananta the child. Poor Ananta sat silently pretending to throw a tantrum as Lata brushed his hair, tied it up with colourful ribbons from their own dressers and even sometimes put the kajal on him. Bibha would imitate my father, authoritatively demanding tea and food, occasionally tossing an old newspaper, and pretending to read while Lata indulged her with small porcelain tea cups from Bibha’s kitchen set. I would watch them with keen eyes and often, in my journal, which I maintained through my teens, write down what the story was for the day. As much as I loved stories, their simple ones fascinated me. How naively the children would believe that “house” was made of simple things, such as having tea and dressing up babies. One day, Bibha was tired of being the man. She couldn’t dress up, like Lata did, using a piece of cloth wrapped around her skirt as a saree. The eight-year-old would manage to make a ghomta like she saw my mother have, and even put on all the glass bangles Bibha possibly had. So Bibha decided she would be the daughter. But a house can’t run without a master. Or so they were taught from an early age. Bibha came running up to me, as I sat on the bench, my back resting on the pillar, with a book in hand, supervising them.
“Please, Dada, come play with us.” She pleaded. “You never do.”
“What about last Sunday when I taught Ananta to play football?” I frowned.
“You never play with me.” Bibha was quick to change her statement as she nagged. The sixteen-year-old Debojyoti complied with her request so that she stopped nagging.
“Alright, what do you need me to do?” Bibha clapped her hands and ran back to inform her playmates that I agreed. She dragged me out onto the grass where they sat surrounded by the kitchen sets.
“Sit here.” She patted, holding the newspaper up. “You pretend to be Baba. Ananta and I are your kids; you will scold us for being naughty.” She smiled. “Pretend to scold.” She was quick to add. “And Lata is our mother.” I eyed the girl arranging the kitchen utensils like it were a proper kitchen. I suddenly felt awkward.
“Can’t we play something else?” I suggested. “Like hide and seek.”
“No, no, no!” Lata sounded alarmed. “The last time we did that, Ananta got lost in the orchard.” She sounded worried. “There are mosquitoes all around.” She was right, in the season of Malaria, it wasn’t really a good idea to hide in shrubs and bushes. So I gave in. Lata imitated Ma well. I observed her, holding the cup, scolding Ananta and Bibha and telling me how they misbehave in a very womanly fashion.
“Umm… Lata? Is your name Lata now?” I asked, unsurely. Bibha held her forehead, frustrated with me, as Lata frowned.
“No, no Dada. Does Baba ever call Ma like that?” I suddenly grew alarmed. I didn’t know Ma’s name till I was a young boy. She was always Bouma.
“What do I say then?” I asked Bibha, “Bouma?” She shook her head.
“Ogo Shuncho?” Bibha imitated Baba’s tone. “Isn’t that her name?” I burst into laughter that day, in amusement at their make-believe play. I wish life were that simple now.
By the time we reached Bardhaman, Dada had cooled down a bit. We showed the address to a rickshaw puller who offered to take us there. No words were exchanged between us during the journey. While I was aware that I had let him down, he also didn’t like me taking sides with Lata against him. I knew that. For some odd reason, he was not in favour of us being so close to the Chattopadhyay house since Boudi didn’t like her. Before that, I never saw him having an issue with Lata being around. I wondered what Bibha was up to. Was she actually happy, proving us wrong? I shook my head. Practically, she wouldn’t be, in a month, a year or perhaps a decade from now, when she would realise her mistake and it would be too late. Before we left, Ananta and Lata searched her room. Some of her clothes and jewellery were missing. Of course, Bibha didn’t leave empty-handed. It was still a mystery to us how she left without anyone being aware so early in the morning. She must have been observing us and planning this for a long time. I had underestimated my sister’s capabilities and those of the stick-figured man with her. He seemed timider than he was. I should have slapped him when I had the chance to.
The rickshaw stopped beside a humble, small house, one-storeyed and broken down. The inhabitants seemed to be too poor to repair the falling walls. Bricks could be seen in places. A few wet, shabby clothes hung right on the front porch. There was a broken-down bench in a corner. The main door was wide open, and the curtain on it was dirty and old. Dada walked in briskly, in full confidence that he knew the place. I told the rickshaw puller to wait and followed him in. The old man on the bed was frail and unwell and seemed to be startled at the sight of strangers. Dada looked around the empty room. There was only another room in the back, where a woman sat, cutting vegetables. She looked up at us, frowning cluelessly as she approached us.
“Where is your son?” Dada spoke first. The elderly couple exchanged glances.
“What has he done now?” The man spoke in a tone of rebuke. “Wouldn’t let us live in peace, will he?” Dada frowned. He was not here. The parents were genuinely clueless.
“What had he done before?” I couldn’t help but ask. He shook his head. The mother asked us who we were. We had to tell her that we were looking for our sister. The man gasped.
“He stooped too low. I promise you, if he ever comes back here, I will inform you. Take him away and beat him to a pulp.” The man coughed a little in between his agitated words. The woman went to calm him down, teary-eyed. “He is dead to us.” The man added.
“But what did he do?” Dada asked again.
“He stole all our savings and ran away when he was in college. We thought he had joined the Naxalites. He never wrote to us or sent any money, fully aware that his father is sick and out of work now.”
“Wait, you don’t have farmlands?” I opened my big mouth and made Dada look at me, shocked.
“We are poor workers, Babu, how will we have farmlands?” The man folded his hands. Dada grunted under his breath, “You fool!”
We left Bardhaman quite clueless about where we might find her. Dada telephoned Boudi from the station. I overheard him tell her to send one of his trusted “men” to the police with Bibha’s picture. If they were in Calcutta, they would be found. But where else could they be?
“They boarded the train to Bardhaman.” I frowned once we were seated on the train.
“And they can get off anywhere and go where they want.” Dada shook his head, “It was well planned.” He looked worried, especially after what we heard from the parents. I was worried about Thamma’s health. It was one thing knowing where she was, and another having absolutely no idea whatsoever. She left the letter for Lata; she didn’t want us to know.
For a good few months, there was no news of Bibha. Dada returned home, staying only two days at Punya, deciding to continue the search from Calcutta. Nothing was the same at home anymore. I kept to myself. Ananta often asked about Kalikinkar around the school, hoping to find a trace of his Didibhai. Thamma looked sicker and sicker. In a few months, she was bedridden. The thought of losing her loomed over each and every one of us. Kakima came by in the afternoon to read out the Ramayana to her as Thamma sat on her bed and listened. The entire estate work came to me, and I got too busy to stay home for long. Dada decided we would tell everyone that Bibha had left to study in Calcutta. She was with Boudi. The Saraswati Puja grandeur was reduced to just family members, citing security issues around our village. The relatives in the cities were hence too scared to come by.
Ananta was studying under Lata’s supervision. She tried her best to keep him occupied and Thamma fit. She took care of Thamma through the day, but for some odd reason, perhaps in guilt, she avoided me. She continued to cater to my needs and occasionally met me with a greeting in the corridor, but we never had a conversation about Bibha. Her final examinations were over, and the results were awaited soon. I didn’t find that an excuse to bring up a conversation either.
Every night, I returned home to see her sitting alert at Thamma’s bedside as she slept, and I would quietly check in on Thamma. She felt my presence without me making her aware of it. She would often offer me dinner or tell me how Thamma improved or deteriorated. Then she told her to leave for the day. I wanted to talk to her and ask what was running through her mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to have a rational conversation about Bibha. I still had no idea where my little sister was. This was all my doing. If something happened to her… the thought never left me. I think Thamma had the same fear, as she lamented that her illness was just the curse she had brought upon herself for failing to look after us properly. She wouldn’t be able to face my parents in heaven. Lata would protest feebly at her laments. While all of us blamed ourselves for the situation, I couldn’t help but wonder what Bibha was doing. Did she even think of us? Especially Thamma? How selfish could she be?
I had to go for the inspection of farmlands before the start of Spring. That meant the Munshi arriving one morning and taking me around our properties, even in the nearby villages. I always wore my Dhuti Panjabi for this occasion. The villagers who still treated us as their overlords would perhaps be more respectful if I were a spitting image of what Baba was when they bowed to him. To my utter disappointment, I found the button had come off after I wore it. I heard Lata in the corridor and called out to her. She walked in, rubbing her wet hands on her anchol and looked up at me with questioning eyes. I gestured at the button. She sighed.
“Give it to me, I will sew it after I finish the work at hand.” She said, turning her back to me, about to walk away.
“I need it now.” I made her stop. “Can’t you sew it in, without me removing it?” She frowned, glancing over her shoulder slightly.
“You can get hurt.” I shook my head. I was already late, and the car had honked twice. She ran back downstairs to fetch her sewing box.
She walked into the room, a little breathless from running about, with little drops of precipitation appearing on her forehead. She stretched her hand out as I placed the button on it. She put the string swiftly in the needle and warned me to stay very still. She held the thin cotton cloth of the Panjabi in between her hands and started sewing it, looping the string through the four holes in patterns. Her forehead was sweaty from running around, and her small Kajol Tip appeared slightly smudged, unlike her neatly drawn eyes. Her blunt nose had a small nose pin on its left, her freckles were reddish, and her lips appeared to quiver from the heavy breathing. She held the needle in between them as she placed the button, and took the needle back in her right hand. Her bangles made a faint sound as her hand moved over the button, and she moistened her dried lips with her tongue. I sighed. Perhaps a little more evidence than I intended to. The round shape of her blouse had ruffles around the neckline, where the saree hung over her bosom. She was still breathing a little heavily. I stiffened as she lowered her face, unaware of my senses and put the end of the string in between her teeth and cut it short, before knotting the ends up tightly.
“There you go.” She looked up at me as I sighed again, and her cheeks appeared red. She looked away, a little consciously clearing her throat as the car honked again, jolting me from staring at her.
“I… Thank you.” I managed, buttoning my Panjabi and heading out, cursing myself for letting my thoughts wander. What if she misunderstood me?
“Wait…” She called after me as I stopped on the stairs. “Take this.” She handed me a shawl to wrap around. “It gets cold in the evening.” She managed. I looked up at her face and nodded before I hurried out.
A few weeks after I read the letter from her father, the twenty-one-year-old Debojyoti was confused and conscious of how to act around Lata, even though she had been around me ever since I could remember. I brought home candies and handed them over to Bibha, instead of her, to distribute among the three of them. I consciously avoided being alone with her and called Ananta on some pretext every time she came into my room. I even avoided talking to her about the family, Pishima’s letters or anything except her academic doubts. It was Kali Puja that year that I realised how much my small and otherwise insignificant actions affected her.
Lata was always scared of crackers. For some odd reason, she held her ears, shut her eyes and stayed away while we indulged. That year, Ananta was forcing her to come and watch while he bravely lit the cracker all by himself. Lata refused. He kept insisting and pushing her as she kept refusing. I was already irked by the sudden change I felt around her. I wanted to be myself again, and somehow I felt things would never be the same. Worse, I had subconsciously started comparing her to Ma. I became aware of my own thoughts. Lata suddenly turned to me, as if I were her saviour, to help convince Ananta of her fear. Instead of taking her side, I jolted away as if she repelled me. I knew I had overreacted, but her sudden faith in me took me off guard. I wasn’t responsible enough to take care of her. Was I? Lata was suddenly flushed at my behaviour.
That night, she came into the bedroom to keep the book she had borrowed. I didn’t look up as I half lay on my bed, the way Lord Vishnu lies on his Sesha Naga, my eyes closed as the record player played a patriotic song. I had stopped listening to romantic ones over the last few weeks. They made my stomach feel empty. I was startled by Lata’s sobs. I glanced over my shoulder at her face, teary, as she hid it with her hands. I sat up, asking what was wrong.
“Why are you doing this to me? What have I done?” Her words choked in her tears. I opened my mouth to feign cluelessness.
“Do you think I am stupid? I can’t see how suddenly you hate me now, Deb Da.” My heart skipped a beat. Silly girl. She thought I hated her? I stood up as she wiped her tears with the corner of her saree. She looked at me, disappointed and walked away. No words came out of my mouth. That night, for the first time, shutting my door tight, I had smoked at home. My nervous tension was too much for me to handle alone. I needed to make amendments to the innocent soul I hurt. I never knew my behaviour would impact her like that. How could I tell her that I never hated her in the first place?
I called her into the room the next morning, and she appeared reluctantly at the door. I told her some of my clothes needed to be ironed. She looked up at me with hopeful eyes. In the past few weeks, I had made sure Kanai da took care of the things she did for me. I also gestured at the Panjabi that hung from the clothes hanger in the corner. “There is something for you in there,” I said. She reluctantly approached the clothes and put her hand in the pocket of the Panjabi I pointed at. I had bought Bibha and her earrings for Kali Pujo, but I didn’t have the right mind to give them to her before. She stared at the box as I murmured that Thamma told me to buy it. Which was partially true, only I chose hers. Her eyes fell on the packet of Cigarettes I had kept in the same pocket and forgotten about. She gasped. It ended with a fifteen-minute lecture in her motherly tone about the kind of example I would be setting for my siblings and me, pleading with her not to tell Thamma about what she knew. And just like that, we were back to our old selves, with each other.
I remember the first time, on the Dol Utsab, that I realised that my thoughts about Lata weren’t as holy as I thought they were. Dol Jatra at Punnya was hosted by my grandmother, and apart from the villagers and relatives, our friends and business associates were also invited. I was actively playing host on the grounds beside our house, where I spotted Ananta teasing Lata and Bibha, in a corner, who were annoyed with him. I walked up to them.
“Look, Dada.” Bibha complained, “Ananta is throwing coloured water at us; we can’t get wet.” She shook her head. “We keep telling him to use Abir, but he…”
“Why can’t you get wet? All my friends did.” Ananta frowned, clueless, holding the bucket up.
“Because we are women.” Bibha frowned. "Unlike you, we are aware of our surroundings and our dignity. We don’t roam around half-naked.” Bibha seemed amused as Ananta failed to understand how it was supposed to look bad on a woman’s dignity if she played with coloured water in front of the guests. Lata stepped in to stop the rather awkward debate.
“We will catch a cold, Ananta. Please don’t.” She said rather politely. Before I could even speak up on the matter, Ananta had flung the bucket of red water at Lata, as Bibha scolded him. Lata, who was splashed with red from head to toe, dripping wet, her saree clinging to her skin, suddenly looked aware of her surroundings as she rushed back, towards her house across the street, alarmed. I looked around to see the busy crowd, but nobody had spotted her. Bibha scolded Ananta and pulled his ear as they scuffled a little with Abir. I suddenly thought that Lata felt bad about the whole thing. So I stepped away from the crowd and walked up to her porch. There was a tap meant to water their small front garden at the porch, which was running, and Lata used the water to wash away the red, in vain. I stood at the gate, a little alarmed.
She stopped, as she looked up at me, her pink saree, almost semi-transparent in the wetness, revealing the outline of her orange blouse.
“What are you…” She managed suddenly to hold her arms up defensively against her chest, aware of me. I looked away awkwardly.
“I just came to apologise on his behalf…” My voice sounded strangely different. I stopped, hoping that she didn't notice it. She eyed me through the corner of her eyes as water trickled down her hair.
“It is fine, he is a child.” She managed. “I will get cleaned.” I didn’t know what I thought as my eyes involuntarily travelled to her neckline, her curved waist and her hips. For the first time, I realised that fifteen-year-old Lata was a grown woman. She was not the child in a frock prancing around our house anymore. She was aware of her dignity and femininity, and I suddenly grew more conscious of staring at her like that. I had a sudden rush of possessiveness take over me. What if someone saw her like that? Like the way I did. I walked up to her promptly, as she stood there, a little confused still, shivering as the spring wind blew, and I removed the shawl from around my shoulder and placed it gently on hers, wrapping her in it. Lata looked up at me, surprised.
“Your shawl will get ruined.” She protested. I moved back when she was wrapped and warm.
“You will catch a cold.” I managed as she nodded, murmuring her thanks and walked into the Chattopadhyay house.
That night, as I lay with my back on the bed, watching the ceiling fan whirl over my head, with a cigarette in hand, I suddenly felt an urge. I eyed the dark balcony from my window and sighed heavily. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see her, her lips trembling when she shivered, her saree hanging around her hip and the outline of her blouse. I sat up and drank some water in a futile attempt to stop my thoughts from running into the deep corners of my fantasies that I didn’t know existed. I felt uneasy about what those thoughts did to me physically. I was disgusted by my own imagination that day. Then slowly over the years, I had learnt to live with them and accept them as they were, probably the most primitive of human emotions. I was attracted to Lata.
