The winter after Boudi had persuaded Thamma to consider her sister for me, she came back with Khoka for his vacation. And to add to the disasters, she brought Kankana along with her. At first, I avoided them, but I saw Bibha and Lata slowly befriend her. Boudi had organised a get-together one evening, with Dada’s friends and their families. Out of courtesy, I put on the blue Panjabi Lata had laid out on my bed, and went to socialise. Many of Dada’s friends here were not from Punnya nor from our childhood. They were eminent people from different fields. Dada happened to befriend them through business and pleasure, the various elite clubs he was a member of in Calcutta and so on. More than non-judgmental friendships that we knew of back home in Punnya, theirs was about showing off, mostly Boudi’s will to show the ladies of her Kitty parties the mansion she often talked of, which they ‘owned’. I understood that, seeing the kind of preparations that were being made for the evening, dishes that Boudi brought the recipes from Calcutta and the instructions to be on our best behaviour. Dada dragged me to a group of middle-aged men sitting on the couches, smoking pipes. No wonder he didn’t show any interest in involving Thakuma in any of it.
“So, he is the brother you often talk of?” One of the men, whom he introduced as Justice Mukherjee, spoke and removed his pipe from his mouth. The man was too old to be called Dada’s friend, but then, he was influential. I was a little surprised that Dada had, in fact, praised me. I took a seat in a corner, refusing a smoke offered to me by one of the owners of a clothing house, eyeing Dada carefully and awkwardly as the men resumed their conversation.
“It is tough to be politically correct nowadays.” One of them spoke.
“Absolutely, you call something what it is, and others are offended.” The people nodded in agreement. The Justice smiled.
“There is a saying among us, you can’t call a black man black, a Santal man tribal or even a Muslim man as Muslim! People get offended.” The men rolled in laughter. I cleared my voice.
“I think it is because of who calls them that.” Suddenly, all eyes were on me, Dada’s glance of disapproving frown, and the others were eager.
“Why do you say that, young man?” The Justice asked me.
“Well.” I ignored Dada’s glance and continued clearing my throat. “It is the oppressors who name the oppressed; it is the differences of religion that cause prejudice.” The man sat up from his leaned-back posture and eyed me intently. I was intimidated by speaking up.
“Explain.” His voice sounded like an order.
“Oh, he reads too many books!” Dada interrupted with a chuckle. “He doesn’t know what he says.”
“I beg to differ, Rudrajyoti.” Justice Mukherjee smoked his pipe again. “I think this young man has a distinct opinion and individuality different from ours.” Was his voice one of admiration? “Speak up, lad. Explain what you mean.” I looked up at Dada, a little unsure.
“Err… see… It is the white people with their superiority complex who call the Black people Black. Hence, the word Black is Racist. A human is a human, not defined by Black, brown or white.” I stopped to observe their attention. Similarly, Casteism is kept alive by the oppressive upper classes and castes like ourselves. In a country that now pledges equality, where Ambedkar reformed, why do you need to divide people and look down upon them? Who decided that the Brahmins are learned and indigenous people are meant to serve others?” I eyed them, nodding slightly. “You are all learned individuals, you also serve people, the state or even businesses. Why are they looked down upon and their future careers restricted by the privileged? Who are you to decide for someone?” I stopped. The Justice urged me to go on.
“Same with religion. Hypothetically speaking, if the world had one religion, nobody would be a Hindu, Muslim, Jain or Sikh. Nobody will be prejudiced with hatred based on what they wear or eat. Isn’t that a personal choice? Isn’t religion made by man himself? Hasn’t it caused enough bloodshed?” I shook my head. “You can call a Muslim man a Muslim man as long as you are not judging him for his religion, and that, I am afraid, from your voice, you are, as an orthodox privileged man of your own religious belief. But neither the Gita nor the Quran tells you to judge others for anything but their deeds.” I heard Dada gasp. I took it as a cue to stop my ranting. The men looked at each other. It was the Commissioner who smiled at me with a nod.
“You are right, young man. We need more men like you to change this country,” he praised. The Justice was quiet. Dada looked a little intimidated.
“Well, Rudrajyoti, your brother does read too much.” He said in a lighter tone, neither agreeing to nor disagreeing with me. I made a mental note to avoid conflict and resort to silence for the rest of the evening.
In the middle of another discussion on the current political scenario and the influence of the Congress Party on the Governance, and the growth of Communism that has hit Bengal, much disinterested by the same now that I had to filter my opinions, I looked around and found Lata serving the guests along with the house help. I stared at her a little disapprovingly when she offered me the cup of tea. I reminded her in a whisper that she didn’t need to do this. The servants were enough, and Boudi’s guests didn’t need her to play host. She frowned at me slightly at my words and chose to ignore me.
As I excused myself from Dada, complaining to his college friend Amol Da about how I absolutely ruined my career because of my emotions, I eyed the woman sitting in another part of the hallway. Somehow, they seemed to flock around Kankana, curiously asking her things as if she were being interviewed, while Bibha eyed a beaming Boudi curiously. Lata was still serving them food, and none of them bothered to look up or even thank her, except Bibha. I was really irked with the evening. Enough to wait outside the hall and catch her in the corridor with the empty tray in her hand.
“Will you stop that?” I shook my head agitatedly. “Don’t you see how they are treating you? Thamma told you to come for the feast. Not to act like…” I stopped as Lata’s eyes met mine. She seemed startled.
“But I was just…” Her protest was feeble.
“If you don’t feel like sitting with them, go sit with Thamma in her room. I don’t want to see you serving their guests anymore.” I tried to control my rage, “Boudi didn’t even bother to introduce you to them.”
“Borda’s friends know me.” She shrugged. I was not in the mood for her logic as I snatched the empty tray from her hand and startled her.
“Are you embarrassed by having me around?” She asked suddenly, her voice trembling. I was taken aback. Where did that come from?
“I can’t act like them, or be like them…” She shook her head. “I am sure Kankana Didi can.” She didn’t let me say a word as she ran down the corridor and upstairs to Thamma. I sighed as I kept the empty tray down on the marble side table along the corridor. I was in two minds about whether to go back to the frenzy or go after her and explain myself. Ananta interrupted my thought.
“Dada, Borda wants me to sing, come along.” He tugged at me while I nodded. He said he was looking for his Didi. I looked up, telling him she might be with Thamma. By that time, Bibha had walked out into the corridor looking for Ananta. Ananta told her to go and fetch his Didi. After all, who else would clap the loudest even if he missed the notes of the song?
He sat down on the grand piano as everyone gathered around him. Dada dragged me to the piano, reminiscing about how when we were children, Baba would often play that, and though none of us was trained in music, we hummed along. Ananta, who sat at the piano, refused to sing till his Didi came by. Dada looked around at the waiting guests a little awkwardly and, to my utter surprise, announced that I would sing first. Ananta was too surprised that I could actually sing. I could, but let me be modest here. I wasn’t trained to like him or Lata, nor did I ever sing in public. I understood Dada’s awkwardness as I nodded and sat down beside Ananta.
“Sing, Thakurpo.” Boudi urged, dragging a reluctant Kankana up to the front row. I was suddenly very conscious. Were they going to judge me? I eyed the arched doorway one last time. Where was Lata? Why wasn’t Bibha back with her yet? Was she that upset? Ananta was playing the piano, so I cleared my throat.
It is strange how some songs, lyrics and music become personal because of one memory, person or incident. Every time you hear the song, you have an involuntary smile on your face because you know exactly what the song means to you or the particular place, person or happy memory it reminds you of.
“Borne Gondhe Chonde Gitite” will always be that song for me.
I had a habit of closing my eyes when I sang. That way, I could feel the music and avoid the judgmental faces staring at me while I was exposed to their criticism. By the middle of the song, I was quite sure that Lata had perhaps gone home. She misread my intentions. But then, strange as it may sound, among the crowd of murmurs, the music of the piano and my own voice, I could still hear her anklet approaching the hall, perhaps being dragged by an adamant Bibha, as I imagined the scene in my head.
“Chomoke dekhinu amari premer joaro tomari majhe
Hriday dolay dolao amare, tomaro hiyaro majhe…”
I didn’t know why I opened my eyes, and the entire crowd was staring at me. But? My eyes were fixed on the rather reluctant girl standing by the archway, holding onto Bibha’s hand, half hiding behind Bibha. I smiled involuntarily. She looked away as though she knew I was staring at her. I finished the song, people clapped and praised me, and Boudi awkwardly asked Kankana, “He sings well too, doesn’t he?” My smile faded as I eyed Lata being dragged by Bibha to Ananta, who insisted she stand there while he sang his song. She nodded a little reluctantly, looking at me and looking away.
After the guests had left and everyone retired to their rooms, I was pacing the library with a book in hand. I couldn’t smoke in any part of the house with Dada around. Perhaps the book eased my mind. That was when she walked into the library, thinking it was empty. She stood at the threshold, a little aware of me, placed a book on the side table and turned to leave. I had to stop her. I didn’t know what to say. So I asked if she liked my singing. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh. I didn’t hear it entirely, I am sure the one you sang for liked it.” She walked away, and I was a little surprised. Was Lata jealous of Kankana to that extent? Did it mean… I shook my head. I was perhaps overthinking and reading more into her behaviour than I should have. I mean… I did upset her by scolding her. She was innocent and childlike. She was just upset.
I don’t know what she felt, but for the next few days while Kankana was here, she avoided me carefully. My room was a mess, my things weren’t in place, and Lata hadn’t come up to fix anything. She was busy teaching Kankana my mother's recipes. Irked at last, after three days, I told Ananta to call her to my room. The excuse was that I couldn’t find a particular Panjabi she kept away. I knew Ananta would go and say that in front of Kankana, and I was well aware of the fact that Koni Boudi would not like it. But I just wanted Lata to stop avoiding me. Talk about it, at least. She didn’t come up; Kanai did. He said Lata Didimoni had told him where it was kept. Ananta said Boudi had taunted Lata that she should let go of taking care of me, now that Kankana was here. Lata smiled, nodded, and walked away in silence.
Unknown to me, Boudi had told Lata, in the rudest possible way she could find, which I suppose wasn’t difficult for her at all, that she shouldn’t come home anymore. If Thamma knew it, she would have stopped Lata; if I knew it, I would have asked Boudi who had given her the liberty to say that to someone. But Lata, being who she was, quietly slipped away like nothing had happened. She didn’t tell a soul what Boudi had told her. How did I come to know? Years later, in a conversation, angrily criticising Boudi, she shared this piece of vital information that had become unimportant and not so trivial then. I was still furious, though. But I realised that sometimes I had to own up to my words with actions because of that incident. She didn’t come home the next day or the day after. I grew restless, as did Thamma. She didn’t trust her daughter-in-law with the medicine doses, she didn’t trust the guest around our kitchen, and Ananta definitely needed his didi to cater to his every need. But my only concern back then was: Where was Lata?
