Chapter Three: Pedigree

The Imperial Police work was a tough job. The family had no idea what Superintendent Animesh Kumar Mukhopadhyay went through to provide for his family and their luxurious lives. Abhaya’s father never failed to let his family know that. Every time he drank down his sins. Every time he came home drunk. Every time he beat his wife. Abhaya would often sit awake all night, her pillow pressed against her ears as she sobbed silently, hoping that her mother’s begging sobs and father’s lewd language would stop. One day, she had opened the door of her room slightly and was about to step out when her sister-in-law intervened. Her face was dark as she coldly told Abhaya to return to her room. She would be punished if her elder brothers found out about her trying to get out of her chambers at night.

Abhaya at twelve knew one truth greater than others.

Men were like this; women had to tiptoe around them to serve them as they demanded. 

She was intimidated by the regular chores the women of the house did. She could see two worlds in her house.

One that was firmly disciplined, with quiet women enduring everything their men ordered, pleasing them at every beck and call till they left for work. But as soon as the men were out of the house, sometimes by eight in the morning, the women breathed, the women chatted, and the women laughed without inhibitions. The house was back to its quiet, disciplined ways when the men stepped back into it. No children ran down the corridor, no one talked, and nobody dreamt.

Abhaya was so used to this world that she never knew another could exist. She was grateful whenever her father reminded her how, unlike others around him, he would forgive her mistakes and still let her study, even if it meant for an hour every week with her younger sibling. Niranjan was five years younger than her, and he would teach her, in his little way, the things they taught him at school. She often heard him talk of his day as she fed him his lunch and imagined what school was like. But she was grateful. She could read a line or two. She could write her name and read her father’s. To the law, she was literate. It would make sure she bagged a good suitor, too. Men, especially the privileged ones in the day’s fashion, much to her father’s detestation, wanted literate women. Was that something she could not be thankful for?

She would silently help her sisters-in-law serve dinner around the table as she heard her father lewdly remark on the anarchists. These men did not even spare children and women. Her brothers would agree. Like they did every day to every word their British superior officers would utter, even if it was meant to insult them.

“What kind of men think that killing a lady and child was for the sake of their love for their country?” Abhaya was laying the pickles on the rooftop that winter afternoon when she heard her mother speak to her aunt. Kakima, a distant aunt married to her father's cousin, would come by now and then, with news of what was happening in the world outside theirs. Abhaya wondered how she had come to know these things. Kakima had made the ladies gasp today with awful news. Saheb's wife and child were murdered in a car bombing by the anarchists on their way to the hospital. In the village of Lakutiya, words spread fast. In the cities, it took time. But somehow Kakima, despite living in the town, seemed to get such news way before Abhaya’s mother did, in the lap of Lakutiya’s nature. The attack was supposed to be on Saheb, but he left in a different car, and that saved his life. A man was caught, and a woman absconded. The audacity of women to do all that. The women, with their drapes carefully placed over their heads, put the end over their mouths and gasped. The police were running around the neighbourhood at night looking for those men. They feared the hideout was nearby.

“Keep your doors locked, Didi.” Kakima would say, “Especially when the men are not home.”

“After all, Baba Shoshur Moshai works for them. So do they.” The daughters-in-law agreed.

“I heard they are also attacking Imperial police, especially those who caught them.” Her mother heard Kakima rant, worried. Her husband was one of them.

But the doors remained open, in a sense of momentary freedom. The vendors would come in with bangles, sarees and pickles, and the women would indulge with the little money they saved (or stole from their careless husbands’ pockets when they threw their dirty clothes in the laundry). The door was shut the moment the first of the cars was visible at the end of the road. It was usually Niranjan, the only man left behind, who would run down the stairs, alerting everyone at the first sight of cars. The wives would straighten their drapes over their heads, and the children would sit down to study. Doors locked. The house was stunned into an eerie silence.

“They call themselves men?” Her eldest sister-in-law rebuked. “Disrespecting women like that?” The others silently agreed.

“I heard…” Kakima cleared her throat and lowered her voice, eyeing the maids hovering nearby, drying the wet clothes on the lines. “They say the same happens to their women. The Imperial Police…”

“Enough.” Abhaya’s mother would stop her. Perhaps, alarmed at what Kakima might say in front of her daughters. Something she never wanted to hear or wanted her children to hear. Something that Abhaya could never imagine. 

“Have you told this to Nonibala Boudi?” She heard her mother speak, concerned.

Nonibala Debi was Master Moshai Upendra Kishore Gangopadhyay’s wife. He was her father’s childhood friend. The Mukhopadhyays and Gangopadhyays were neighbours for three generations. In the village school of Lakutiya back then, Upendra and Abhaya’s father had always been the best students. They were always competing with each other and barely apart. The first crack appeared in the friendship when Mukhopadhyay decided to try for the Imperial services. He would be the first in his village to join the police and serve the nation. His father, Gangopadhyay and a few others were not pleased. This was not what they meant by serving the nation. Mukhopadhyay had left home once he was assigned his job and married. Upendra had become a teacher in the same school where he studied. He spent his free time teaching poor students for free. A decade later, when Mukhopadhyay’s father was dying, Upendra informed him. A decade has changed a lot. They were now fathers. Upendra had a better job in the Zilla school, but he remained rooted in his village. The city was too expensive. His teacher’s salary was not enough, especially with his ten children. Nonibala Debi continued to help him by teaching poor women to sew so that they could earn their livelihood. Upendra always said the purpose of life was to help others. He made sure his children were all educated. The first two sons decided to be doctors, and the three girls who followed were all home-schooled and married to reputed professors and engineers in Dhaka, Faridpur and Murshidabad. The third son became a Barrister in Calcutta and stayed away, much to Upadhyay’s displeasure. The fourth one was a reflection of his father. He would often follow Upadhay around and help with his work. But despite earning a degree from the Presidency college, his mother was concerned for him, for all he did was sit at home, read books and help his father. He neither wanted a job in the city nor a marriage. What would Naw do with his life? She would often rant to her husband, who just smiled. He was finding his way. The fifth son was lovingly named Swadhin by his father. After all, his birth coincided with the first meeting for freedom his father had attended and was moved by. Freedom. A birthright. A demand and luxury in a world plunged into slavery. He wished his son were as brave as those who inspired the idea of his name, but that was not to be. Swadhin was a soft-spoken, timid boy who read books, interacted in a few words and followed his brothers’ laid-down path to be a doctor as he entered Dhaka Medical College.

Upadhyay concentrated his mind on the fourth as a prodigy. After all, once the eldest was married and had kids, they became like most other privileged upper-middle-class men in society. Until it concerned them, they were not to do anything about the problem. Often, they would be overheard criticising how their parents helped others before helping themselves, and Nonibala Debi knew that it affected her husband. The youngest two girls were yet to be married, and Nonibala tried her best to ensure her family stayed together despite their differences. Luck was on her side as the daughters-in-law would often take their in-laws' sides, and they loved their younger brothers and sisters-in-law like their siblings. Only the Barrister and his wife seemed a little aloof and visited only during vacations. The First and Second had two and three kids each, and Nonibala was now growing fond of whiter sarees while doting on the growing grandchildren. Everyone in the area respected their family as they learned. They had seen Upadhyay struggle in a single-room house, and his sons helped build it up to the three-storey one they live in today.

When Mukhopadhyay returned with his wife and kids, Gangopadhyay could barely recognise him. Mukhopadhyay had become a polished Babu of the city. He treated people based on their caste and class and said it was how they deserved to be treated. Although his wife could read and write a little, as Nonibala observed, she was a timid woman, somehow always on alert and scared of her husband. It looked like she would misspeak if she spoke at all, so she did not. Their family was similar to hers but smaller. They had four sons, two of whom were in government services, the third, unfortunately, died in a car accident in Barishal a few years back, and the fourth was the youngest, still in school. Three daughters were in between, the first was widowed and stayed in a corner of the house. Nonibala Debi barely saw her once or twice, that too by mistake. The other two were teens. Nirbhaya and Abhaya often looked like twins; however, Abhaya was older by ten months. What Nonibala Debi found astonishing was that the Babu lifestyle was only on the outside. Inside the home of the Mukhopadhays, in the guise of their suits and boots, the picture was orthodox and often problematic. The girls were not educated beyond the age of ten because their fathers thought educated women harmed society.

“You don’t know what he saw.” Once Mukhopadhyay Ginni had told Nonibala Debi. “So many girls in city colleges can even shoot pistols.” Nonibala wanted to protest, tell them her daughters were educated too, and so were her daughters-in-law. Upendra reminded her that it was useless to teach someone comfortable in darkness the value of light.

“The light would only hurt their eyes, Bou.” He would say. “They won’t appreciate the fact that they see things. They will curl back into darkness.”

Nonibala Debi also noticed something her husband often said. “Judge a household by the books they have.” Nonibala Debi had been to the Mukhopadhyay house numerous times since they moved. The younger girls often played together. The Daughters-in-law would call each other home when the Saree wala and Churi wala would come by. She had never seen a bookshelf apart from the little one they had for the education of the children. Their houses were two different worlds.

Mukhopadhyay Ginni had been married when she was nine and had her firstborn when she was fourteen. Her husband taught her to survive city life and control a household and servants. Keep the children under strict vigilance and order. She had never seen anything different. It was normal for her to watch her husband decide their every move and throw a temper tantrum if things did not go his way. He was very specific about the kind of upbringing and values he would give the sons and what jobs they would choose. He had himself travelled in far-off villages to choose their brides and grooms. The women were meant to stay indoors and indulge in the luxury their men paid for; they were supposed to breed and raise the future generation, learn to run a household, cook, clean and so on. The purpose of education was to get jobs for the men of the family. So she had a little say when her daughters were not educated, a little less in his choice of a groom for her eldest daughter.

The man he chose for his eldest daughter was ailing, and he knew that, but he also knew that he could accelerate his position to be raised to Superintendent with a single recommendation letter from the ailing nephew’s grateful uncle. So many years of career in the Imperial Police made Mukhopadhyay realise one thing. He was not to receive equal opportunities like the white-skinned Goras. “It is only justified.” He would tell his sons. “They are the masters; without them, we will have no work or opportunity.”

“We would be as good as illiterate farmers.” His sons would agree. So if Mukhopadhyay had a way of steering around for promotion, he would take it. Even if it meant a widowed childless daughter coming back home. He would often tell her that if she dared to live a life other than the one he dictated to her, she would be sent off to Kashi like thousands of others like her. There she would die forgotten. Kalyani would often shudder at the thought of it, so she would stay still in the confined room near the back of the house and boil the rice her mother gave to feed her twice a day. She would only go out to attend the Lord’s chants now and then at someone’s home.

Abhaya was the only family member who was not scared of going near Kalyani. While the others called her a bad omen and the children were scared of her appearance with the bald-shaven head and white Thaan saree she wore, her pale skin and tired arms stretching out calling to them as they ran away, Abhaya would go hug her sister when they did not look. She often told Kalyani something funny Niranjan taught her, or something annoying Nirbhaya did. Kalyani would smile at her sister. Abhaya was often concerned about Kalyani’s declining health.

“Swadhin Da is studying to be a doctor.” She told Kalyani one day after coming home from the Gangopadhyay home. “He said to Niranjan that he would treat poor people for free. I will tell him to treat you, too, Didi.” Kalyani’s smile had faded into a gasp. “Widows are sinners, Abhaya, we are not supposed to…”

“How are you the sinner when he died? Did you kill him?” Abhaya grimaced as Kalyani grew quiet. Often in the afternoon, when the household would take a fiesta, Abhaya tiptoed to Kalyani’s room and knocked. She would bring her Didi’s favourite fruit and often cry with her head on Kalyani’s lap, lamenting about the screaming and crying of the previous night that did not let her sleep. Kalyani would silently pat her head and remind her it was not their concern. But then, when Kalyani heard Abhaya’s marriage was fixed, she refused to open the door, no matter how many times Abhaya pleaded with her. It was a bad omen to stay around a widow, she would say to her little sister with tears in her eyes. She could not afford to eat away at her sister’s share of happiness.

“He is an old man with two wives.” Abhaya lamented from behind the door one day. Kalyani’s throat was dry. She thought she had the worst marriage. At least her ailing husband loved and respected her in the little time they had together. “Are you scared?” She asked from behind the door. Abhaya did not answer. After a while, she also did not come by anymore and stopped trying in vain to make Kalyani open the door for her.

Words and Explanations:

Bou: It literally means bride in Bengali and was used by in-laws and sometimes the husband to address the wife or daughter-in-law. Ginni is often an older version of the same.

Naw Da: Siblings in order of birth in Bengali households are often called Boro (First), Mejo (Second), Shejo (Third), Naw (Fourth), Ranga (Fifth). Phool (Sixth) and Choto (last), so Sharat, being fourth born, is called Naw by his family.

Thaan: A piece of white cloth which is unstitched and worn by widows.

Goras: Refers to the way natives addressed the British/European people.