Thamma’s health had not improved much ever since Bibha had left. She had ailments, one after another. First, it started with the usual fevers, and quickly accelerated to something as grave as dysfunctioning organs and with each passing day, she looked thinner and weaker. Though there were momentary reliefs in between the major illnesses, the doctors said that it was old age taking a toll on her, which wasn’t curable. Ever since Baba’s accident and Ma’s demise, all four of us had been somehow dependent on Thamma as the parent figure. She advised us on most of our major life decisions, and we sought her approval for the same. None of us perhaps wanted to realise that she was getting older and that she had lived her life taking care of us. With Lata in the house and Bibha happy with Narayan, Thamma kept saying that her only remaining wish was to see Ananta settled.
As her illness advanced through the years, Lata would often walk into the bedroom at night, wiping her tears away discreetly as she spoke of how Thamma took her hand in her feeble ones and reminded her to be there for Ananta. I had no words of false hope for her. Lata understood that. Yet, she perhaps felt at peace sharing with me, so I listened to her fears quietly. One day before going out for a vigil of our properties, I had walked into Thamma’s chambers to seek her blessing when she looked up at me, her eyes a little foggy as she appeared disoriented in her sleep.
“Ke?” Thamma looked at my face as I checked her temperature. “Shirsha Naki?” I froze, almost like a chill went down my spine, for that was what she called Baba. Shirshendu was Sirsha for his parents. She still looked confused, staring emptily at me, her wrinkled face a little pale. I cleared my throat and shook my head. She recognised me almost if she were out of a trance and held my hand in hers. Her grip was weak and her hands cold, probably from the lack of haemoglobin, the doctors had told her about. I sat down beside her on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t want to go.” Thamma suddenly started weeping, and I was taken aback.
“Where will you go?” I reassured her, “We are right here.” She looked up at me and held onto my shirt like she was holding on for dear life.
“I want to see your children. I told her… what’s her name? That girl who comes by…” She looked disoriented again as I frowned.
“Who? Lata?” I asked, as my throat went dry. “Thamma, she doesn’t come by; she lives here now, for the past two years, remember?” She looked quite clueless at my words. The nurse who was appointed for her by Dada came in for her day shift, and that allowed me to leave Thamma to her and walk out. I wore a frown on my face the entire day and couldn’t concentrate on my work. There was a sudden empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, and it scared me to death. I also wondered what else she told Lata that she didn’t tell me, which perhaps added to her worries, much like it did to me. After much contemplation, I dialled Dada’s number. He needed to be here. It’s been two years since they were home, last at Bibha’s wedding.
Dada, Boudi, the newborn and Khoka arrived the next day by train from Calcutta, and Ananta rushed to fetch them. The first time my eyes met Dada's, his face was grim, and I shook my head. He dropped his bags and rushed upstairs to Thamma’s room. Lata was there, feeding her evening soup, as she stepped away, putting the anchol over her head, as she came downstairs to greet Boudi. Boudi hugged her as I frowned at this sudden display of affection, a little. Lata took the child carefully in her protective arms and cooed at her with a faint smile. Thamma had written to Boudi at the birth of her great-granddaughter, with a suggestion of a name. To my surprise, Boudi had kept her word. Nilima was Thamma’s mother’s name. Lata’s eyes teared up in between babbling at the child as Boudi turned to me.
“Should we bring in a better doctor from Calcutta? Or ask if she can travel there?” I shook my head and repeated what the doctors had already told us. The diagnosis wasn’t the problem; her treatment was. She was too old to respond to treatment. A part of me was glad that Boudi cared. Lata took Khoka’s hand as Boudi and they walked to their room upstairs. I heard Boudi scolding Khoka for calling Lata Pishi again. Ananta was standing there, waiting for them to leave.
“Should we not call Didibhai?” He asked. I nodded. But they had recently shifted to yet another place. We didn’t have a number. So I decided to send a telegram to the Railway offices instead. Dada walked down to join us amidst the discussions and cleared his throat.
“We should also inform Dibbo Jethu.” His words made me frown. Ananta looked clueless.
“Who is that?” He asked as he heard the name for the first time in his life.
Dibyendu Jyoti Bhattacharya was the firstborn of Dadu. He and his four siblings were scattered across the country, and the last time we saw them was when Dadu died. We didn’t remember much, except that Baba had his address noted down in the family address book, and they had refused to have anything to do with Thamma or the family after Dadu left. Why bother informing them? They would be pleased to know if something had happened to her. Dada reasoned. The house, the properties and everything we had were Dadu’s, and that meant they had equal rights to everything legally. If god forbid something happened and we didn’t inform them, they would drag us to court. At first, I was irked and somehow disappointed with his practical thinking. Instead of thinking of our old and dying grandmother who took care of us like a mother would, he was thinking of the legal implications of property.
“Why should we give them anything? They never took care of anything, nor lived here.” Ananta’s harsh words died in Dada’s scolding. He was told to stay out of family issues. Diplomacy was something neither he nor I knew as much as Dada. Sometimes I feel that if one has to learn to be politically correct, one should jump into an Indian joint family and observe people. It was decided that a telegram would be sent. Many more were sent across to other relatives and to my distant Pishima.
Bibha arrived alone, two days later. Narayan couldn’t come with her as Lila had her examinations the next week. They promised to follow as soon as it was over. I went to the station to pick her up. Bibha appeared before me, dressed in a rather modern saree and simple jewellery, much like the ones Boudi wore, and the moment she saw me, she broke down. I didn’t have words to console her, as I silently picked up her luggage to take her home, and she wiped her tears with a neatly folded floral handkerchief she took out of her purse. We didn’t share a single word throughout the journey back home. It was the moment that Bibha met Lata, almost two years after her marriage, that the two hugged and cried and had a lot to share. I let them have their moment as I handed the luggage to Kanai and walked away to my room, visibly disturbed, perhaps. A little while later, Lata came to check on me, worryingly running her fingers through my hair as I lay on the bed, eyes closed. I smiled faintly at her touch to reassure her in vain. Bibha met Thamma, who was feeling a little better that day. She even ate all her meals, the nurse had gushed. She was then informed by Dada, much to my surprise, about our decision to inform the other half of the family. She seemed to keep her opinion to herself as she nodded silently. Perhaps Bibha, like all other married women, accepted that just like that, one fine day, this house, its people, and the ability to opinionate and decide for them was snatched from her by a single stroke of vermilion on her hairline.
Crisis often brings out the best and worst in people. We were shocked to receive a telegram back from Dibya Jethu, who informed us that he would come to see Thamma and seek her forgiveness. Another came from Pishima, who informed us that she was away, at her son’s newly settled home in Bombay and couldn’t come to see her dying mother because her new daughter-in-law was expecting. I was angry. I couldn’t help but remember all of Pishima's letters that Thamma had neatly saved in a box over the years. Her only surviving child was so aloof. Lata and Boudi got busy preparing the house for Jetha’s arrival. He was an old man, and that meant he perhaps wouldn’t arrive alone. I noticed that all of a sudden, Thamma’s illness made us closer than we ever were. Dada listened patiently to my words, Boudi got along with Lata, and amid the grim situation we faced, and the anxiety we endured every single day, we were a family. Dibya Jethu was an old man with a rather orthodox belief system. I was seeing him after decades, and yet I immediately recognised his face. I was suddenly disappointed. He had left, arguing with Baba, and never bothered to come back once he was gone. Nevertheless, we had to welcome him because of Thamma.
“I am not a guest.” He said scornfully at Dada when he asked Boudi to bring him tea. “I grew up here. I will ask for things from Bouma when I need them.”
Dada was worried about what perhaps made Dibya Jethu arrive at Punya. He said people were not as simple in their gestures and motives as they appeared to be, and for once, I agreed with him. It was his son, our elder cousin Bitan Da, who actually put forward their motive in a subtle way. After Thamma, the property, the house and estates belonged to all of Dadu’s children, divided equally among his sons. That meant they had a share of everything we nurtured and the house we called home. It also meant that Baba’s share would be distributed among us. It worried Dada the most, for he had always assumed everything around here was his. As for Ananta, he didn’t understand nor care much for all that. I was more concerned about the future of my ‘career’ than the property. Lata, who was devastated beyond any of us, didn’t wish to listen to any of us talk about it. On one of the nights as we lay side by side in bed, looking up at the whirling fan, I had mentioned the property issue Jetha was here for, and she stared at me disapprovingly, calling all of us selfish and shallow. I felt numb, for she was in some way, in her eyes, right about us all. Nobody cared for the old woman slipping away more than the money and future involved. It was a sad truth. On a fateful night, Thamma slipped away, and none of us got a wink of sleep. But as soon as the rituals were done, I could sense the gathered relatives whispering and gossiping about the future of our estates.
Everything that transpired after she left us sometimes still overwhelms me. They say people exaggerate that their life can change overnight. It did for us. Among the people who had arrived to pay their last respects to the lady were her lawyers from the firm in Calcutta. They had by this time been accustomed to my handling the estates. One of the partners at the firm, Mr Bagchi, pulled Dada and me aside and broke the news that turned our world upside down. Mr Bagchi talked of a will Prasanna Debi had left to be carried out after her demise. A will stated that all the property, estate and even the house were to be sold off and the money divided, one-fourth going to us, and three-fourths to Dadu’s other sons. She had, however, left her own jewellery to Bibhabati, her sarees to Lata, and our mother’s things were to be divided equally among her son’s brides. The lawyer stated that he was to carry out the process over the next six months and eventually hand over the money to us.
Though it would leave us with enough money, the implications were that we had to leave Punnya, our ancestral house, our home and my career. I had been highly disappointed in Thamma, even emotional about the memories the nooks and corners of the house held for all of us. But it left us with a life-changing question. Where will we go? What will we do? In times of crisis that are emotional and life-altering, I find women to be more stable, even in the most shocking situations, than men. As we sat in silence in Dada’s room, it was Boudi who cleared her throat and offered us to stay at their place in Calcutta if we had to leave Punnya until all of us figured something out. Dada also said his offer for me to partner in his firm was still open. Ananta, who was openly disappointed in the deceased lady for leaving him homeless now, wanted to pursue a career as a doctor and use his inheritance for it. Bibhabati lamented how Thamma suddenly left her with no place to come home to. Lata sighed, holding her hand in her own as she said, “It is not the bricks that made us family, Didi, wherever we are, you will always come home to us.” I looked up at her words. She was right. But what would I do? Go back to working for Dada?
Lata had walked into the room, wiping her hands on her anchol, looking rather tired, a few days later, as she closed the door to lament how suddenly empty the house looked.
“It is good that she decided to sell it.” She said aloud, trying to catch my attention as I paced the room, smoking. “It feels so haunting. Ananta is downstairs on his own. I asked him to move into Dada’s room. He refused.” I nodded in silence as she continued. “It is so strange to stay alone in the house the entire day.”
“Lata.” I made her stop as I gestured at her to sit down on the bed. I burnt the cigarette out on the ashtray and decided to share my woes with her. I didn’t want to work for Dada; she knew that. She was also well aware that even though Boudi made a generous offer, it could sour relationships further. I wanted to avoid that. She briefly sat in silence after I lamented about what I should do or where we should go. I was clueless, and I didn’t think she could help much with it.
“Can I suggest something?” She asked as I nodded. “You remember how I wanted to teach?” She sat calmly and explained that we could rent a place in Shantiniketan. Baba’s old teacher was still in touch with us. His family lived there. We could even buy a small house with our inheritance. She could apply to the university or school to teach there, and I didn’t have to stay in the bustle of Calcutta that way. As for me, she walked up to the desk and picked up my journal. She declared, almost like a mother, pushing her child towards his dreams, that it was time I took up writing full-time, without doubting my abilities. With the inheritance, we could even get my book published. I was a bit taken aback by her suggestion. She was implying that I depended on her salary and my inheritance to pursue my dreams. Wouldn’t that be unmanly of me? At least Dada would always say so.
Lata shook her head. She explained that this was our family. Our choice. She didn’t judge me. In fact, she wanted me to take the leap of faith. I pondered over her words through the sleepless night as I watched her sleep beside me. In the next few months, I contacted Baba’s acquaintances in Shantiniketan, looked up some small properties and bought myself a typewriter. My very first one, with which I typed each word of my first novel. It was on a Zamindar who had lost his land to the British after refusing to side with them. It didn’t sell more than a hundred copies, but Lata proudly put up my author’s copy on the bookshelf of our new two-bedroom bungalow house in Shantiniketan and encouraged me, saying she was proud and that soon, the shelf would be full of my writing endeavours. I look up at the bookshelf as I type this. I smiled because she was right. Like always, Lata knew me more than I did. She helped me through my process, and it was because of her constant faith and support that I succeeded in being the author I am, to readers like you who are reading this.
