Ananta giving his school final exams was no less than the war of Kurukshetra at home. If I said that out loud, his Didi would give me her most disapproving glance. When Ananta started preparing for his examinations, he took up more of my time than Lata or Bibha did with his doubts. I was almost scared he was not going to make it through. He was the weakest of us all. But then there was Lata. If you came to our house during his examinations, especially during lunch or dinner, you would have found an annoyed version of me, waiting at the dinner table being ultimately served my food by Kanai, while Lata was in Ananta’s room, with the plate of food on her left hand, feeding him morsels with her right one, while Ananta studied. He was badly pampered by her and dared anyone to tell his Didi that. Since Thamma was unwell, and Lata had to attend to her, all the time Ananta took was from my share of her time. Was I jealous? Maybe a bit. Perhaps more annoyed. Because Dada, Bibha or I did everything on our own, and never had what he had, from Lata. The motherly affection. When Dada and I gave our school final, Ma was still here, yet she was too sick and occupied dividing her time among all of us to care for one of us, especially. I remember my examinations growing up. I used to touch Thamma, Baba and Ma’s feet, then lastly Dada’s before running off nervously to school. Thamma would kiss my cheek, embarrassing me, Baba would gruffly ask what examination it was that day, Dada would suggest some dos and don’ts that he spoke of from experience and Ma would always inevitably stand by the main door, asking me if I took all my stationary and feeding me a spoonful of sweet curd, before blessing me. I stopped the ritual of taking curd altogether when she left. If I were superstitious, I would have thought that would affect my results like Bibha did, but I wasn’t. Neither did I believe in miracles anymore, nor in superstitions, after she left.
On the day of Ananta’s first examination, Lata was probably more nervous than him. She forgot to give me my breakfast, among other things. When I held her hand to make her stop fidgeting, they were stone cold. I was amused, but dare I admit that? I reassured her that he would be fine and that all of our efforts would be fruitful in his results. She nodded and ran out to make sure Ananta had eaten before going, not even caring to ask me about my morning tea. The next time I saw them, Ananta was running about his room gathering his documents, stationery and things and struggling with his tie while Lata ran around behind him, plate in hand, stuffing morsels into his mouth as she reminded him of things he needed to take. He ran out, touching my feet almost like a feather as I blessed him, he had no time to hear instructions, late as he always was, Lata ran out of the kitchen behind him, feeding him a spoonful of curd before he ran out to the car, and the driver ran behind him. I sighed, shaking my head, eyeing Lata on the porch saying soft prayers. The same scene followed the day after that and the one after that. Looking back, perhaps both of us were admittedly more indulgent in spoiling Ananta than we were to our own children. There were times when my children complained when Ananta told them stories of his childhood and how their mother spoiled him.
You, sitting in your living room, some fifty years later, must be wondering where the romance is in the story that I focus on Lata. Now let me be clear about something here. Back in our days, romance wasn’t much about going out to dinner and movies, giving flowers to express our love, or even talking explicitly about our feelings, for that matter. The romance was subtle. Hidden in the layers of our responsibilities, care and understanding, romance was never about the need to express ourselves but to understand the unsaid and respect our differences between the layers of chores and responsibilities of being children, parents and grandparents; much like you would probably end up reading between the lines of my writing and analysing my character. So do the same for romance too, bring out the words non-existent in the rather monotonous narrative I have in life. You may even read much more into me than I ever was or ever will be. I won’t correct you. I would just lean back on my chair, watch you discuss my shortcomings like you know me, and my life and let it be. Much like that, romance in the Unsaid had its own charm. We didn’t often read each other right, but that never gave either of us any doubt about our love. Now, I won’t go into denial of what once Sarat Chandra or Rabindranath Tagore wrote about the indulgences in Porokriya, a very interesting layer in Bengali literature if I may say so, and I won’t claim that such things as extramarital affairs and attractions towards certain red light areas never happened in our days for it did hide under the wrinkles of the bed sheet or the curtains of Kothis never happened, I can just say neither of us, ever fell out of love or attracted to another person.
Our romance was limited, first to our nights confined in the bedroom of the old house in Punya, then, perhaps more limited to our small place in Shantiniketan, especially when the children arrived. We Indians have a rather awkward relationship as partners in front of children. We often let our definition of being parents take over our partnership in its entirety. Life becomes about being someone’s mother and father, paying their school fees, looking after their need, and helping them through, till one fine day reality hits you that they are grown up, ready to leave the nest or even find a partner and you are stuck in that loop, where you forgot to be partners while being parents. Then, perhaps when you get old, lonely and finally free of parental duties, you start discovering each other all over again. Times change, your individuality changes, and at times, you find it difficult to be with the same person you were with for the last thirty-odd years. But that’s how life is. Our first fights used to be about Ananta’s studies, much before we were together; our first marital fight was about how I never keep things in place. That was odd, coming from Lata. She had practically ruined my habit by picking up after me, then all of a sudden, Mrs Lata Bhattacharya hoped I would magically learn to be organised. Our old-age fights would perhaps interest you more. But I will keep that for later. What I gathered is that it is always safe to accept your mistake, admit you are a fool even before they say it, murmur an apology and move on. I avoided most conflicts with her like that.
I remember things were not very different since childhood. Lata somehow always knew what upset me without me uttering a word of it. I always knew what hurt her by one look at her face. Either her face was extremely expressive, or I was extremely attentive. Either way, we never had a serious altercation, something I can’t give myself credit for. It took me a rather long time to accept that things were going smoothly at home without Ma. Unlike now, when I talk of how Lata handled the house, at such a tender age, so fondly, I was disturbed by the idea that she did. I was scared that Ananta would eventually forget his mother because Lata never let him miss her. I was afraid that someday Thamma would stop shedding tears when she mentioned her at every festival. Somehow, I could never say my fear aloud to anyone. I wasn’t much of a sharer. It would sound silly coming from a twenty-year-old.
It was Boudi’s Sadhpuron when Dada and Boudi arrived at Punnya for the festivities. I had my examination breaks, and it was rather odd to be home for such an occasion where ladies flocked to the house, and you weren’t even invited, in your own home. Back then, such festivities were strictly restricted to women and children. Men were awkward among women and vice versa. So, although present in the house, I refrained from going out of my room for any kind of festivities where the ladies flocked to the hall, room or courtyards. Ananta, however, being the youngest, was part of everything. Let's just say he liked the attention. I had heard Thamma call Bibha, Boudi and Lata to her room early on the morning of the festivities, but I made nothing out of it. The old lady was always in panic before such events. She wanted to be the perfect host. Especially when Boudi’s parents arrived, she wanted to make sure they got a taste of our Zamindari ways.
A while later, while I stocked my room with some books from the library for the day, Bibha walked into my room, gushing.
“How do I look, Dada?” She made me look up at her. She was wearing a blue saree that looked familiar. My heart sank a little. It belonged to Ma. I had seen her wear it a million times. Suddenly, I realised how similar she looked to Ma in that. She had even made her hair up in a bun like Ma did. Was it purposefully done? It made me a little uneasy. But she was in childlike glee, wearing what belonged to Ma. Perhaps she felt closer to her in that way. She showed me her jewellery and eyed herself in the mirror of my room. So I faked a smile and a compliment to make her stop. She gushed about how Thamma gifted Boudi a saree that belonged to Ma. Then she and Lata. I looked up with a little frown. Why was Thamma giving away my mother’s memories? It was okay that Bibha wore it. Why Boudi, who would perhaps never value or wear it again? She hadn’t even seen Ma. And Lata? I was suddenly irked. She took over Ma’s roles in the house. Now her things too? Was she trying to be like Ma? Bibha, unaware of my chain of thoughts, gushed about how she dressed Lata up.
“She was reluctant, you see… I forced her to wear some of my jewellery… where did she go? Oh, Lata? Why are you hiding?” She ran to the curtains at the threshold and dragged a reluctant Lata to me. I eyed her once. She looked rather awkward being dressed up by Bibha. All I could see was Ma’s saree. I had so many memories of her in it. I was suddenly upset. Whether it was because Thamma gave away Ma’s saree or because someone else was wearing it, I couldn’t tell. I always imagined Ma’s things smelled of her. Now they wouldn’t anymore. Perhaps my face gave it away. She looked up at me, lowered her eyes and consciously walked away as Bibha followed her out.
Later in the day, Lata came by, serving me lunch in my room as Kanai helped her out. She didn’t glance at me, and I didn’t look up from my book.
“It will get cold.” She said at last, as I looked up from my book, at her. She wasn’t wearing Ma’s saree anymore. Perhaps this one belonged to her Kakima. Her hair was still done up in a bun like Bibha had done it, and she still wore the jewellery Bibha had forced her to wear. Lata looked away as she placed the dish and bowls in order and stepped back. I kept my book aside and went to sit down for the meal. She saw me taking a morsel as she nodded at Kanai and walked away.
Later that night, before dinner, as I was making notes, I sensed her walk into my room. She took the books I had stacked up on my bed after I had finished reading them and turned to me.
“I am taking these back to the library.” She made me nod without looking. I eyed her, still hovering around the room. So, clearing my throat, I managed to ask,
“What happened to Ma’s saree?” I asked her a little curiously.
“Huh?” She looked up at me.
“Why are you not wearing it anymore?” I asked, half turning towards her while still sitting on my chair. Her face flushed a little.
“Because … I have so much work around the house, I didn’t want to spoil the saree.” She looked away. “I just wore it because Thamma insisted, and I had no heart to refuse her.” She looked away. I was still observing her face, and her eyes seemed to sparkle a little. She looked grim as I narrowed my brows and looked away.
“Keep the saree safe, it’s one of Ma’s favourites.” I reminded her.
“I will give it back to Didi.” She fumbled as she started walking away towards the threshold. She clearly knew what I thought. I needed to do some damage control. In my own possessiveness of Ma’s things, I forgot about Lata’s feelings. Her bond with my mother meant as much to her as her own parents, if not more. She was hurt.
“No. Keep it, Ma would have liked that.” I managed as she stopped briefly at the threshold.
She didn’t say a word after that, nor did I see her wear Ma’s saree again. At least till the first Ranna Pujo after marriage.
I was checking some property papers when she hurried into the room, the keys dangling from the end of her knotted anchol making more noise than her anklets as she hurried to open the wardrobe and looked irked. I eyed her from the corner of my eye as she scanned through her racks.
“What are you looking for?” I asked at last as she smiled sheepishly.
“Thamma wants me to dress up before people come. Some of the ladies will arrive early.” It was Boudi’s second Sadh Puron, and Lata had insisted on taking up the task of playing host. I nodded indifferently. She was still indecisive. Lata was not a person much interested in dressing up, but especially since marriage, Thamma insisted she wear jewellery befitting of our heritage, and somehow she still struggled to adapt to that in her own simple ways. I walked up to watch her scanning through the heaps of new sarees, indecisively. My eyes fell on one of the sarees on the rack, so I took it out and handed it to her. Her eyes stopped as she looked up at me. It was the same orange saree that belonged to Ma. I was aware of that.
“This is… Ma’s.” She frowned at me. I nodded. “You want me to wear it?” Her eyebrows were raised in surprise as her voice had a hint of taunt. I smiled faintly, cornering her between myself and the wardrobe. Her face flushed a little as she realised she had taunted me very naturally. She fumbled as I enjoyed the reaction. That day when she changed into Ma’s saree, all I could see was my Lata looking gracefully beautiful. I had learnt to let go of the past and embrace the present with her.
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