“I will tell Boro Khoka to look for a spot, and we will plan a picnic without them.” Nonibala Debi watched her unsure friend from the corner of her eye. “Don’t worry, I will tell him to convince Animesh Thakurpo to let you come with us, the cars can take us…”
And so it was done, the women and children of the two houses poured into three cars and headed for the picnic spot one morning. It was a few miles into the forest and away from the town of Barishal, and had a beautiful ground surrounded by tall trees that were now bare in the winter. The sun shone on the water of a pond at a distance, and the older boys were excited about the prospect of fishing. There was a large Banyan tree right in the middle, where the women laid down the mats, books, hand fans and fruit baskets. Before anyone could sit, the newly married Mukhopadhyay bride started peeling oranges. Her husband was in the town for work, and she barely knew anyone except Nonibala Debi. The children were waiting for nods of approval from their mothers as Nirbhaya, Abhaya, and Uma ran to play hide and seek. Renu toddled behind them, forcing Swadhin, who was fourteen, to leave his book reluctantly and follow the girls to keep an eye on them. He wanted to join the older boys in fishing, but he was not allowed in. He looked around at Renu being duly ignored by the giggling, sprinting girls as he perched himself under a tree. The older sisters were at a distance, cutting vegetables for the preparation of the food, and he looked around to find Naw Da. He was not around.
Sharat, seventeen and curious, had wandered into the forest picking up dried sticks and fallen leaves and inspecting them. He heard a round of suppressed giggles and turned on his heel, straightening his suspenders as he looked through the bushes at the clearing. His older sisters were there, cutting vegetables the way their mother taught them, and with them was Kalyani Didi, as Swadhin called her. She was thirteen, with her hair braided on either side, her face oddly similar to her sisters, and looking rather awkward in her surroundings. He overheard his sister complimenting her first attempts at wearing a saree outdoors. He knew Abhaya well; she often accompanied her mother to their house and roamed around like she owned the place. Once he had bumped into her in the corridor, and she asked him who he was, in his house. He realised he had no patience for children her age, but Abhaya seemed to have taken a liking to him somehow. She looked for him every time she came home, and often went through his things like she owned them. No wonder she was named Abhaya. He knew the older boys by name, but none of them were as close to him as they were to his brothers, especially Bor Da. He watched them all, busy in groups, and noticed the women gossiping, his brothers sitting still, hoping to catch a fish or two, and Swadhin scolding Uma for bumping into Renu, making her fall over. Abhaya was asking Nirbhaya to fetch water from Didi, as she cradled Renu. It amused Swadhin, for she was only a child of five too yet somehow she acted motherly towards his toddler sister. He turned on his heel again and made his way through the forest, pushing through the bushes with his boots and the branch he had collected to act like a cane. In his vivid imagination, Sharat was on an adventure of his own. He did not fear getting lost, for he knew he would find his way back following the incredible amount of noise his siblings were making.
He approached a clearing, and there stood the ruins of a once glorious temple. The terracotta on its roof was now broken, and the sun peeped into the chambers inside through them. The pillars were protected by the roots of the sacred peepul, and the dancers, nymphs and gods on its pillars told century-old stories that did not fascinate Sharat. He walked into the clearing that could have been a Nat Mandir once and pushed open a closed door. He expected some beast inside, perhaps bats, most definitely snakes, but instead, he saw that the chambers looked clearer than the surroundings, as though someone used them. He peeped in to see nothing there that provided any sign of life, but who in their right mind would clear such an old temple out of public service? He started inspecting the floor of the Nat Mandir, where, among the fallen leaves, he spotted a matchstick. He picked it up and smelled it. It was burnt but not recently. The detective in Sharat had to retire, for Uma’s voice was heard through the clearing calling out to him. “Naw Da? Naw Da, where are you?” Sharat hurried out of the temple premises, lest his mother complain about his attempted bravery, and he lose his cycle privileges for a week like before.
“Here,” he answered, appearing from the clearing, worried about Uma getting lost, but found out that she was not alone. Kalyani held her hand firmly, guiding her through the bushes towards him.
“Maa is looking for you.” Uma frowned. Sharat nodded at her.
“They are going to cook,” Kalyani spoke as if to clarify. “Dada needs help.”
He nodded again, eyeing the timid-looking girl smiling reassuringly at his sister. They followed him back to the clearing. That was the first time Sharat remembered interacting with Kalyani.
Sharat’s vagabond nature was not well-received by everyone. While he was deemed useless by his elder brothers and looked upon with aspiration by his younger siblings, he was also the one to take his elder sisters to the market at their beck and call and his mother to her weekly temple visits, attend to students of the classes conducted by his father as well as take his mother or sisters to visit the Mukhopadhyay house. He would sometimes sit around the well-decorated living room, bored, watching the grandfather clock tick by as his mother engaged in sharing recipes, learning something or simply gossiping for an hour and a half before it was time to leave again. During this time, he contemplated looking around but remembered being forbidden by his mother to do so, answered all of Abhaya’s silly and curious questions with patience, and contemplated lying on their living room floor for a quick nap and waiting for the maid to bring him some food that Kakima or Notun Boudi had made. Once in a while, he would notice the men coming from work, the house suddenly going silent at the honking of their cars outside, and his mother bidding her goodbye in a hurry, dragging him home. The men, even if they met him at the portico or hallway, never acknowledged him. Once or twice, Police Kaka, as he called Animesh, would come by and ask in a disinterested gruff voice whether he was doing well. But that was when he touched his feet. He also noticed the lack of books around the living room. If they kept books, he would have happily accompanied his mother rather than being forced to.
It was a Thursday when his mother came from the temple straight to the Mukhopadhyay house. Niranjan was sick, and his mother oddly thought the offerings to Maa Kali would do the infant more good than the Ayurveda medicines his father gave them. Nevertheless, Sharat was once again in the Mukhopadhyay house, after a tiring day at school, contemplating his upcoming matriculation, when the sound of unfamiliar anklets alerted him. The curtains parted, and Kalyani walked out with a tray full of sweets, in a Tant Saree and pleated braids. She looked older than he remembered, with her hoop earrings and bangles, her eyes drawn with Kajal, a small Kajal Tip on her forehead and the mole on her upper left eye corner of the same shape and size as her tip, which Sharat oddly noticed right then. The last time he had seen her, she was in a saree too, but somehow looked younger. Kalyani lowered her eyes from his lost gaze and set the tray down, making him stand up.
“Please sit down, and have some sweets… Maa said you came from school…” She managed a faint smile.
“Why… where is Annada’s Maa?” Sharat enquired about the maid. Kalyani smiled again.
“She is sick, so I… please….” She gestured at the plate as Sharat sat down once again. Kalyani contemplated whether she should stay as he ate or leave him alone with the food like Annada’s Maa did. But then again, she was the maid, and Kalyani was a member of the household.
“Which class do you study in?” Sharat asked, eyeing her reluctant face briefly as Kalyani looked taken aback. She had last been to school before she stepped into womanhood. Her father did not believe it was needed for her to study any more now that she would be married in a year or two.
“I… umm…” She was unsure of what to say as Sharat munched on the Goja he had picked up from the plate. She was thankfully called by Abhaya, who sounded like it was an emergency, but before Kalyani could leave, the curtain parted, and Abhaya was in the room, with her hair messed up.
“Nirbhaya ruined my braid, Didi.” She cried. Sharat looked up at the remains of the braid on her hair and let out a laugh. Not a suppressed chuckle but a full-fledged laugh. That made Abhaya angrier, and tears streamed down her cheeks as Kalyani rushed to her.
“Let me fix it, stop crying.” She softly tried to pacify her sister.
“Your hair looks like a crow’s nest.” Sharat’s amused words made Kalyani gasp inwardly as Abhaya yelled at him, “Naw Da, you are very bad.” Kalyani, in a reflex, glared at Sharat, making him stop. She took Abhaya by her hand, shook her head in disappointment at the utter childishness of Naw Da and left the room. It was after she left, and one more Goja was in Sharat’s hand, that he realised he had stopped laughing the moment Kalyani Didi glared at him, like a teacher at school or his mother at home. He was not afraid of glares from girls, but why did he stop?
It was Kali Pujo the next year when Sharat was home from his first few months at college and Nonibala Debi insisted on taking Protima and Bimala, the newlywed sisters-in-law, to the Samsan Kali Mandir near the Bazaar. When she expressed her desire to Mukhopadhyay Ginni, she insisted on coming along with her daughters-in-law and eldest daughter. Naturally, Sharat was entrusted with the task of taking the ladies to the temple and festival grounds, where thousands of people lit lamps and made wishes, hoping they would come true.
“Last time I made a wish about finding the right brides for my sons.” Nonibala Debi smiled. “This time I will light the lamp to thank the goddess.” The Mukhopadhyay Ginni contemplated with a smile. Her husband was talking of marrying Kalyani off soon, perhaps she could pray for a desired groom for her daughter.
Kalyani accompanied Protima and Bimala, guiding them around the temple complex and telling them stories of the Goddess Kali, who roamed the crematoriums and the miracles that happened to those who lit lamps in her prayer on the auspicious day when Lord Rama returned home. Sharat followed them, at a distance, keeping an eye on them in the crowd just like his mother wanted him to, as he heard Kalyani narrate the stories he had heard from his grandmother as a child. Sharat’s life had drastically changed once he set foot in Presidency College, Calcutta. It was a very different world from the one he grew up in, with learning opportunities at every nook and corner. There, his curiosity was not eccentric but appreciated. He had met his senior Bimal Da, who was thinking of transferring to Chattogram in the next session. His mother was ailing. Bimal Da, in many ways, opened a lot of doors for Sharat, doors he did not know existed. His words often rang like guiding chants in his mind. Bimal Da strongly believed it was the youth and their voices of reason that would make India free again. The thought ran a shiver down Sharat’s spine. The first time he had attended Bimal Da’s speech, he was mesmerised. There was no doubt in Sharat’s mind that this was the path meant for him. The purpose he was looking for. But the purpose came with a lot of conditions and sacrifices. He could not tell anyone at home about his intentions, not even Swadhin or Shejda. He could not let his heart wander to any woman whose life would turn into a storm because of his choices. He eyed Kalyani, stopping to pick up some lamps for herself and Boudis. Sharat pushed through the growing crowd of the evening to reach them.
“You go on, I will pay for them.” He insisted as his sisters-in-law obliged. He took out a few pennies from his pocket to pay the vendor.
“Will you not come along?” Kalyani’s question made him glance over his shoulder at her as he shook his head. She frowned. “Why not?” Sharat had his reasons. He did not believe in prayers; he was a firm believer in Karma being God. Bimal Da said so. You need to act towards your goal, rather than sit around praying for miracles. But would Kalyani understand that? “I…”
“You are one of those…” She said almost disapprovingly. Sharat looked up at her frowning face, a little alarmed. “The non-believers…”
“Oh…” Sharat sighed in relief. “Yes…” Kalyani shook her head and walked away. He could see her from in between the rows of lamps, her face illuminated by them, as she lit her lamp, placed it down and closed her eyes to pray. Sharat did not believe in prayers, but the innocence with which she prayed made him wish that her wishes came true. He wondered what she prayed for. He had a hint of a smile on his lips as it oddly reminded him of his mother and her firm belief in miracles, even when his father said otherwise. They had these familial bickerings over it, which ended with his mother making the dishes he hated to have. Although he was in favour of his father, dare he say that to his mother? Now that he lived away from home, every time he saw someone pray like that, it oddly reminded him of home. Kalyani reminded him of home.
Nonibala Debi insisted on the Mukhopadhyay women having lunch at their place on a weekday, mostly because the women of the Mukhopadhyay house barely went anywhere. Nonibala Debi got busy preparing for lunch from early morning, and often Upendra would, in jest, remind his wife that they were friends coming over and not her daughter’s in-laws. That meant Sharat would stay put in his room, gorge on the sumptuous spread his mother made, and wish Abhaya did not jump out of nowhere asking him questions. Her new addition was questions about Calcutta and college. One day, she had asked if he had met the Boro La’at Saheb, her father kept talking of. Sharat had laughed, and she ran away, perhaps embarrassed. He heard from his mother how Police Kaka refused to educate the girls, and Abhaya had stopped going to school after she ran away from home to catch a glimpse of the fishing nets. Losing one’s privileges for education over fishing nets? Sharat wondered why nobody thought her to be as eccentric as he was.
But Sharat’s plan to stay put in his room failed miserably as Swadhin dragged him out of hiding to play with the children.
“Hide and seek across the house? No way.” He sounded firm and somewhat angry, trying in vain to intimidate the children. Swadhin smiled, amused, knowing that he had tried and failed at pestering them otherwise, so maybe they would listen to Naw Da.
“Are you lazy, Naw Da?” Abhaya’s words made Swadhin stare in amusement as Sharat looked a little taken aback.
“What a dangerous little thing,” Sharat grunted between his teeth. “Do you not know what to say and what not to?”
“The last time we met, you told me to speak fearlessly like my name.” Abhaya flashed a smile. She was seven, and her front teeth were missing. Swadhin laughed, and Sharat eyed him angrily. “Why, Swadhin is very good at hiding…” he pointed at his brother. “He will play with you.” Renu and Niranjan rushed to Swadhin “Oh, will you? Will you, Swadhin Da?”
“So you are bad even at that?” Abhaya’s words silenced the hallway as Swadhin burst into laughter and Sharat chased her without giving it a second thought. “You little devil.”
Abhaya ran down the corridor and turned towards the stairs that led up to the roof to bump into Kalyani, who was coming downstairs to fetch Nonibala Debi’s Paan.
“What are you doing, Abhaya?” She rebuked her sister. “Where are your manners?” Before Abhaya could answer, Sharat screeched to a halt in front of her, panting and eyeing Abhaya, who hid behind her sister with a gulp.
“He was chasing me and trying to scare me.”
“What… I…” Sharat opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form words, Kalyani let out a sigh of hopelessness that he had for so long heard from his family and walked away with Abhaya following behind her. Sharat walked back to the place where the children had now decided to play Chor Pulish, and Swadhin was writing chits for them. He stood there wondering why Kalyani’s disappointment in him felt different from the others. Why could he not shake off her disappointment as easily as he did with his mother or brothers? Why did he want to explain his side to her? Sharat was suddenly irked with Abhaya. If not for her nuisance, he would not have been framed. He joined the game with the sole intention of beating Abhaya in it.
“Naw Da is over-competitive.” Swadhin exclaimed as he fought over how many points his chit should get once he got “Dakat” on it. Kalyani sat a little further away from them, watching as she smiled at Swadhin’s words with an amused nod.
“So is our Abhaya.”
“No, I am not.” Sharat and Abhaya stared at each other, miffed, while the others teased their competitiveness. He watched Kalyani laugh to herself, amused as she stitched something sitting at the window of the room. A smile curved his lips. He had never seen her laugh before.
On one hand, Bimal Da spoke of sacrifices and solitude. On the other Sharat noticed his eyes light up when he spoke of a woman. A woman he had encountered in Chottogram and later on at Dhaka University who shared his dream of a free India. Sharat dared not ask more about her, her name or why Bimal Da spoke of her in such a manner, but he wondered if, in a corner of every revolutionary heart, there was a place that desired for someone to call home. Was Bimal Da in love? How could he know? What did Sharat know about love anyway? Every time he wondered, someone came to his mind. It had been happening for a long time now. He oddly re-lived the memories of every time he saw her, every time his mother mentioned her in letters, every time he saw her around his house, with his siblings. It was odd because he did not really know her, nor her likes or dislikes, nor even her age. She was Didi to his siblings, so he gathered she was probably older than him, definitely more mature… Sharat tried to rationalise with his mind that it was momentary, fleeting feelings of musing of his otherwise poetic romantic heart. He would meet some spectacular women in the movement and muse on them next. He did meet them. Some were brave, others ambitious. Some are homely and others are dutiful. But all of them, in their odd ways, reminded him of someone he wanted to forget. Someone’s hair, someone’s voice, another’s frown… Sharat did not realise that he was counting the days to the next vacation.
That winter, when Sharat came back for a week from college, Swadhin was busy preparing for his Matriculation examination. Sharat had decided to let his brothers know that he could not do a regular job as they expected him to. He would take a year off after graduation to find himself. Bimal Da had been absconding. The Police were looking for him. Sharat was sure he would contact him someday. He had met with men who thought alike, discussed the future of the nation and their course of action over and over again and decided to let his father know of his decision once he finished his examinations. He was sure his father would not like his choices. But then he also did not approve of Shejda’s choices. It was impossible to please him.
Sharat could not say why he was disappointed that his mother was busy teaching women stitching as a new hobby she had picked up. It meant that the afternoons she spent visiting Mukhopadhyay's house were now occupied. Sharat asked his sisters if they wanted to go somewhere, perhaps meet some friends. They declined his offer, now that their weddings had been fixed and they were taking grooming classes at home. He asked his sisters-in-law if they wanted to visit the temples, and they said they were too busy with everyone being on vacation. Sharat strolled the compound and the roof aimlessly till he felt restless and suffocated, and took his cycle out for a run. In a few minutes, he found himself in the portico of the Mukhopadhyay house. He was contemplating whether he should go inside when Annada’s Ma spotted him and exclaimed. “Oma, Sharat Babu, isn’t it? You have become quite a man.” He smiled faintly as she insisted on his coming inside and called on Kakima. Sharat sat down in front of a plate of sweets and Sharbat, as the children flocked around him, and he eyed Abhaya.
“How are you doing?” He asked her, sounding polite, as Abhaya smiled. Mukhopadhyay Ginni answered instead. “ I am so worried for her, she listens to nobody and has a mind of her own.” Sharat was about to praise the fact, but he did not, as Abhaya stared at her mother with a hint of disappointment on her face. He had picked up the payesh when he heard a now-familiar pair of anklets, and he stared up at the curtains in anticipation.
“Ke? Kalyani?” The matriarch seemed to follow his gaze to the threshold and smiled, “Come in, dear, look who is here.”
“Naw Da has come to see us before he leaves.” Nirbhaya quipped.
“I am here two more days,” Sharat said in a murmur as the curtains parted and Kalyani walked in, looking unsure. “Ma said I should see you before I leave, Kakima. I will not be back for the next six months…” Kalyani looked up at his words, at him, as Sharat suddenly lost his train of thought.
“Oh, you will not be here for the wedding?” Kakima’s voice forced him to turn his gaze to her. “You must come for the wedding even if for a day…”
“Whose wedding?” Sharat frowned a little.
“Kalyani’s.” Kakima smiled as Sharat suddenly felt a rush of warmth in his ears. He looked up at Kalyani, blushing a little, her eyes lowered. “It's in spring.”
“Oh.” Sharat got up abruptly and rubbed his hands on his panjabi. “I have to go… I remembered something…”
“Do come for the wedding, Sharat Da.” Abhaya held his hand excitedly at the threshold as he put his shoes on. He glanced over his shoulder to see the curtain swaying with the absence of a presence he had anticipated. He nodded at Abhaya, forcing a smile.
He had been to the wedding. Helped with the decoration. Served the guests. But he did not spare a glance at the bride or her groom. As the rituals continued with conch shells, ululation and teasing, Sharat had slipped away from it all, onto the staircase, with a strange feeling of emptiness and longing, he tried to push away. He reasoned with himself that his life was dedicated to the cause of the motherland; nobody else had a place in his heart, whatever he felt was his momentary youthful desires and that this was a sign that he had chosen the right path. He was also sure he would spend most of his time in Calcutta or Dhaka around the action and perhaps even not need to be around home for his cause. Staying away from home would help. He would never see her again. How wrong he was.
