Lata being in the house didn’t seem out of place to anyone. There were no adjustments that needed to be done, no need to let her know of our likes or dislikes or learn hers. Mere two months after my wedding to Lata, Thamma insisted we go to visit Narayan and Lila at Cuttack. Her examinations were over, and Bibha had decided to visit Dada, Boudi and Khoka for a week. Ananta was also taking a trip to his friend’s newly made garden house in Krishnanagar, and Kakima offered to look after Thamma for the next five days. So we agreed to take our first trip together, our first time, in each other’s company, uninterrupted by relatives and family. Perhaps I learnt a bit more about her than she did about me. She complained about how I am casual about important things like tickets, which I admittedly forgot to put in the bag, and she did, staring disapprovingly at me. I observed how when Lata saw a scenic beauty or had an experience for the first time, like she did with travelling such a long distance by train, the first thing she observed was the smell. In her words, the train smelled like burnt coal, the station of fresh tea and Cuttack of dew. She explained how every time she would have a similar smell somewhere, she would remember these things. I was amused like a young man in love should be, at her banter. I teasingly asked her what reminded her of me, and she frowned, saying, I was right there all the time. I was never missed. I shook my head, regretting my question as she giggled. When we arrived at Cuttack station, Narayan greeted us there and took us to his quarters.
It was a small two-room bungalow, right beside the railway tracks. Every time a train passed by, the tables, vases and windows shook at the speed. Sometimes the sudden horns of the engines made one jump. But little Lila, who was once again in the care of Ayah Mashi, who spoke Odia and bits of Bengali, seemed to be unbothered by the noise that made us jump every now and then. I don’t know whether she remembered Lata. Her age couldn't remember someone like that, but the moment Lata took her into her lap, Lila had once again taken a liking to her. While Narayan had to leave for work, instructing the ayah to help Lata in the kitchen, she took over, complaining that Narayan needed a cook. I sat by the window, overlooking the railway tracks, with my journal, and pondered over life. Lata insisted that I should write a page a day and show it to her. She turned into my greatest critic over the years, and I, the writer, in an attempt to please the reader in her. I remember when I took her to the release of my first book, years later, in Calcutta. She was intimidated by the gathering at the publishing house, smiled proudly as I read out some excerpts to friends and family and was teary-eyed. But years earlier, when I was taking small steps toward this day, I didn’t know that I would one day sit at my desk, remembering that day, when I wrote something so abstract about the train tracks that I can’t even remember. She had read and criticised it as less descriptive than what it should have been.
There was a small garden just in front of Narayan’s house, with little bushes of unattended wildflowers around, unlike the well-maintained gardens around the compound walls. It was perhaps one of the subtle signs of the residents being deprived of a woman’s touch. The nurse would place a mat in the evening when the pleasant breeze blew, and Lata would sit with Lila, often telling her stories that she didn’t understand. It was the first time then, from the porch, I had noticed Lata, in her red cotton saree, shakha pola-clad hands, and the sindoor smeared on her hairline, holding on to Lila, cooing at her, and I suddenly felt a tug at my heart. She, aware of my stares, frowned at me disapprovingly for behaving in such a manner in front of a stranger, that being the clueless nurse. I smiled, amused, sheepishly as I looked away, and she blushed slightly.
I wasn’t wrong to imagine that Lata would make a good mother someday; her instincts had grown over the years, taking care of my siblings and sometimes me, but I had no idea that being a parent was also a bit competitive. If one parent is extremely good, you can’t help but feel the heat of expectations on you, especially when your children hope that you can do whatever their mother does for them. It was the kind of peer pressure and competition I escaped from by not joining Dada’s firm. I ended up learning to braid hair and cook Chirer Polao a decade later, when my children would judge me for not knowing the things their mother did. I was happy that I wasn’t a father like Dada or Baba was. Dare we talk like that, expecting them to do chores like Ma or Boudi did? But that also meant my children were brutally honest about the uneven braids, burnt food and even my absence from their school events, not shying away from showing their mother their united preferences.
At Narayan’s place over the five days, Lata had, in bits and pieces, spoken of family, mentioning Bibha’s classes and eyeing him for reactions. I knew what she was doing, but I wasn’t hopeful. It was the last morning there that, as Lata offered us tea, Narayan cleared his throat and told me his intention to marry Bibha. I was taken aback, and Lata was extremely happy. I murmured that he needed to know things, and to my surprise, it was Bibha who had told him what he needed to know. He admitted that his transfer was abrupt, and he had to move without having a word with Bibha on my wedding night. However, he tried writing to her and never got a reply. That was Bibha; perhaps in her stubbornness, she had not even cared to open the letter and read it. Lata was sure her Didi would agree. Or she would persuade her to. And Thamma already liked Narayan.
Unlike my wedding, where a Naubat of musicians played Shehnai, and about a thousand guests poured in, Bibha’s wedding was simpler, more personal and more beautiful. Only his family and ours attended the wedding, and Bibha chose to wear our mother’s Benarasi saree that she had inherited. All I remember from my day, amidst my jitters and teasing from my friends, is when I saw Lata the first time she removed the pair of Betel leaves from her face, among the conch shell echo and ululation. She looked up at me coyly for some mere seconds before lowering her gaze, and I have never seen her look that beautiful again. People say marriage changes you. Perhaps it does. As for me, I took the vermilion on her hairline as my right to protect her, honour her and perhaps take the liberty to observe her more closely in the coming years. They say it is different knowing someone for years and living with them under one roof. I, for one, came to know the smallest details about Lata once we were married. She preferred to cool down the steaming food before eating. She had a routine of things she did immediately after she got out of bed, and right before going to sleep, she smelled the pages of a book before reading it, and she often fell asleep while reading, and smiled often in her sleep.
Our first night together was expected to be awkward, thanks to all the teasing from family and friends as I approached the room rather nervously. The room was decorated well, yet she looked so elegantly beautiful that I couldn’t take my eyes off Lata. I thought it would be rather awkward to start a conversation knowing that she anticipated where it led, and I had to initiate her expectations, and for the first time, behind closed doors, I felt exposed to her in ways I never imagined I would be. She saw through me, read my thoughts and knew my actions before I did. I had more than once in my head imagined what our first night would be like. I admit that. For once, reality turned out to be more beautiful than my imagination. And like that, we started off our blissfully eventful marital journey.
We arranged for Bibha’s low-key wedding as early as possible so that she could leave for Cuttack to be with Narayan and Lila. Dada and Boudi were relieved that Bibha found a match, even if it meant compromising in a way, because they feared that Bibha telling the truth to anyone outside our family would only result in shame. Narayan not only kept it from his family, but he never told another soul. It was like that, with Narayan putting the vermilion on Bibhabati’s hairline amidst the conch shells and Ululation, her past, her mistakes and her secret died that night. Like a nightmare, the past too didn’t exist anymore. I was happy seeing my sister smile at him. Though Bibha visited us occasionally after the wedding, mostly during festivities with Lila and later her children accompanying her, her calls and letters to Lata continued. Bibhabati travelled across the length and breadth of the country because of Narayan’s work, and she never failed to write to Lata about the food, people, language, traditions or culture. She knew how interested Lata was in that. Our daily lives perhaps prevented us from meeting each other as much as we wished to, but Lata and Bibha never grew apart with distance. Her letters gave Lata an insight into different cultures and ethics around the country that she had never witnessed in her own corner of the world.
