One morning a letter arrived in the post for Rohini. She recognised the Kolkata postmark instantly and left the envelope on the corner unit to open later. Maria’s shaky handwriting was scrawled across the front—Mrs. Chattarji, Monaka Towers, 114 Park Road, Moombay. It was a miracle the letter had reached her with all the spelling mistakes. It meant Maria had not shown the letter to Indira for checking. Rohini waited until her day was nearly over to open the dreaded missive.
She needed her reading glasses to decipher the squiggly letters forming crooked lines across a page torn out of an exercise book. It took a while to translate Maria’s English. She threw it in the bin after skimming over the content. Certain words and phrases danced before her eyes, ‘I em so shemed. Forgiv me. I love you my childe.’ The burden of guilt was evident in every malformed word.
The next morning Rohini called home. Maria answered after clearing her throat loudly. ‘Hello?’ she shouted accusatorially, as though she had already repeated the salutation several times without a response from the caller. Rohini held the phone away from her.
‘Is Ma there?’
‘Are you well?’ Bhalo accho?
‘Yes. Can you put me through to Ma?’
It was imperative to speak to Indira first. Rohini had mulled over the matter the previous evening and it was the only way. Shourav need not be consulted. This was her home as well.
Indira came on the phone, sounding tired. She had had a restless night. Rohini had too, but dawn brought clarity.
‘I’ll send tickets for you and Maria to come over to Mumbai. We need to talk face to face and sort this thing out. You’ll have to buy her some new saries. I’ll transfer the money. Something from Bengal Home Industries, nice prints, some silk, some cotton. And blouses and petticoats that match! Buy some new sandals as well, and a perfume, something subtle, not too cloying. I’ll provide everything else. You two can share the guest bedroom. We have twin beds in there. Is that okay?’
Indira agreed, thik acchey, she said with barely a pause after Rohini’s offer. She only asked if her son-in-law was happy with the invitation. Rohini assured her that it was her decision and of course he would respect it.
‘Practise English with her. Her Hindi is good so that’s no problem. Help her read the newspapers, tell her what’s going on in the world in case people ask or she has to join in the conversation.’
Rohini felt she was forgetting the most important thing that would give the whole game away, but couldn’t quite recall what it was. She was not going to hide the ugly truth, just dress it up a little.
She consulted her list. ‘I nearly forgot. She needs a decent leather handbag. Go to South City Mall. Take her with you in fact. She needs to know the prices of things and brands. I think you should get her involved in food shopping as well. God knows how long it’s been since she has lived in the real world. She needs to talk about everyday things not just her prayer books and rosary beads.’
‘Really dear, you are being a bit harsh on her. Maria knows every aspect of this house. I am giving you my word; she won’t embarrass you. She wears simple clothes because she doesn’t like to show off. I buy her new saries every year, but she prefers my old ones. She doesn’t meet many people in our house, but of course if she meets your friends she must be better-presented.’
Rohini was not as confident of Maria’s social skills, but she felt more reassured.
‘I’ll book a flight for you two. Will Baba be all right for a couple of weeks? I won’t be able to put you all up in our flat.’
‘Yes, yes. No problem, dear. Bibhuti and Durga will take good care of him. I’ll bring Maria’s medications as well, but you should warn your doctor in case her diabetes gets worse or something.’
‘Oh God, I had forgotten that. Bring plenty of her insulin injections. You better tell me about her diet.’
‘You know the usual, no sugar, and not too much fat. I’ll tell your cook.’
*
Rohini rearranged the guest bedroom at least five times with Paru’s help. The maid had returned after her vacation to resume her position. Rohini preferred Nirmala’s experienced help, but Paru’s family needed the money. They put their trust in Rohini and hoped Mistress had recovered from her sickness. Paru suggested an ojha, one who exorcised ghosts. For surely Madam had been possessed when she attacked Paru? Everyone in the village believed that. Paru had come back armed with an iron key to ward off evil. She burnt a bunch of herbs every morning to rid the place of any lingering malign presence.
Everything was dusted down, beds were separated, the wardrobe cleared out. The bedside table would double up as Maria’s medicine cabinet so that she would have everything ready to hand. Every inch of the room was washed, polished, scrubbed. Fresh towels adorned the bathroom. Rohini remembered Maria’s favourite soap, Mysore Sandalwood. Her mother liked Pears. She kept both in the bathroom cabinet, along with a jar of Pond’s cream and imported Yardley’s talcum powder. A new bucket and jug were placed in the shower room knowing Maria and her mother could not manage the shower. They would bathe in the old-fashioned way. A geyser provided hot water for chilly mornings.
Rohini picked up the two women from Mumbai domestic airport. She told Shiv and Paru that Indira Madam and Aunty Maria were coming for a visit and avoided referring to the latter as her mother. They both knew the real score, but it helped to keep up the pretence. Another realisation hit her en-route to the airport. She would have to talk to Maria. There was no avoiding it now. So far brief exchanges had sufficed. Ma was there to fill in the gaps. But at home, in her territory, Rohini knew it would be rude to ignore Maria’s existence. She would have gladly effaced Maria’s ghostly presence in her life, a nagging reminder of her birth, but she remembered Ma’s upbringing.
‘How was the flight?’ she asked the ladies.
They replied, simultaneously talking into each of Rohini’s ears. It was Maria’s first flight and she had not dared to use the toilet for fear of getting stuck in mid-air. The food was so-so. The potato curry was a bit too rich and spicy. The parathas were soft and served hot! Rohini smiled at the way the two women finished each other’s sentences.
‘I was scared at first when the plane took off. Bapre, my stomach went dhophank down to my knees. It reminded me of the fun fair rides we used to go to. Remember Sister? Every puja time we went to the Big Rajgarh Mela, with giant Nakar dolnas, that swung us round and round, up and down. Coming down was scary as well. Oof! I was glad when it was over. But it’s so quick. It would have taken us two days by train, no?’ Maria’s simple chatter filled awkward gaps.
Rohini pointed out the sights—The Taj Hotel, where the terrorist attack had taken place, India Gate, Marine Drive. Maria was awed by the sea.
‘Can we go there, sister? It’s been a long-long time since I saw the sea.’
Indira agreed. ‘Yes, I too would like to see it. Is it Chowpatti Beach Rohini, where it’s very lively and there are lots of food stalls?’
It was not an area Rohini frequented preferring Juhu Beach with better crowds. But she would bring them over one day, to savour some street life. They were cooped up in a big old house for months, not stepping out of their time-warped world.
Rohini took a few days leave to be at home to help. Maria seemed at ease in her new surroundings. She and Indira took an early morning walk in the compound gardens. They stopped every few feet to inspect the plants or talk to a gardener. Rohini found it tiresome to go at their pace and finished her brisk walk in twenty minutes. By the time she completed her prayers and shower, the ladies were back, out of breath but full of chatter. Sometimes they would bring a plant cutting and offer it to Rohini for her pots in the balcony. Other times they would stay out later talking to a neighbour. Rohini discouraged them mixing with the gossipmongers, but Indira would not listen.
‘They need to get to know us normally not through gossip.’
*
Rohini let the ladies settle down in her home for a few days before arranging a tea party to meet her new friends. For once she had taken Shourav’s advice and cut off relations with the old conservative set. She fretted all day about the food they would serve and the conversation that would take place. Menus were planned and scrapped. The sofa and chairs were moved around quite a few times until she was happy with the arrangement. She shut the door to the shrine as the Rotary Club members were primarily Christians.
‘These are a new bunch of friends. I want to make a fresh start. Please try to understand and stand by me.’
‘Of course,’ said Indira ‘we’ll do everything right.’
Maria nodded her head vigorously. ‘Nuththing to worry about, my dear.’
Together the women prepared the snacks: triangular chicken sandwiches, iced cup cakes, a savoury semolina dish and a pot of fine Darjeeling Tea. Listening to Indira and Maria reminiscing about the tea parties in Shanti Niwas calmed Rohini a bit.
The party of five arrived punctually and there was a reassuring murmur of small talk as they introduced themselves to the host family. It was time for Rohini to present her parents. Her heart beat rapidly and her throat was dry as she stood next to her mothers.
‘This is my mother Indira. Maria is my real mother, but she was on her own when my father died so my mother adopted me.’ Her circuitous explanation of her circumstances seemed to baffle the tea party circle ever so slightly, but they were too polite to probe further.
‘How long are you here for?’ ‘Have you been to Mumbai before?’ they asked the visitors and Indira answered on behalf of both.
Maria shifted in her wicker stool. Rohini had wanted to seat her on the sofa next to her mother, but Maria insisted she was more comfortable on the mora.
‘It’s where I always sit, even at home.’
Rohini had relented. If something could go wrong, it would.
Paru brought in the tea tray. Rohini signalled to Maria with her eyes, forbidding her to help. Maria clasped her hands on her lap and looked out of the window opposite. Rohini served the food on delicate bone china plates. Once she had poured the tea, she relaxed. The conversation turned to fund raising activities. Indira had lots of good ideas. The group was interested to hear about her charity work. Maria fiddled with the end of her sari, straightening out the pleats, pressing them flat.
Acharna explained the role of Rotary Club to the new members. Indira nodded, understanding the Club’s range of activities encompassing the needs of the community.
‘Would you like to attend our next meeting?’ Acharna asked Rohini’s house guests. ‘We meet once a month at the Taj Hotel, where Rotary Club has met since the beginning. I can take down your names to make temporary badges. Security is stringent since the terrorist attack. We need to give the list of members and guests to the hotel before we attend. It’s just a routine matter.’
Rohini wanted to catch her mother’s eye to dissuade her. She wouldn’t be able to guard Maria in a large gathering. But it was too late.
Acharna asked her mother ‘Your good name and title madam?’ ‘Indira Roy,’ her mother answered. Acharna turned to the silent figure of Maria.
‘And your name Madam, Mrs…’ The question hung in the air like a giant mushroom cloud.
Rohini remembered what she had forgotten in her list of things to prepare. A Name. Maria looked at Rohini, panic showing clearly in her dull eyes.
‘D’Souza,’ replied Rohini, thinking quickly, ‘Mrs. John D’Souza.’
‘Maria, my name is Maria.’
‘So, Mrs. D’Souza, you are Christian like me. Are you Catholic or Protestant?’ asked Jenny, the young treasurer.
‘Catholic.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Catholic,’ repeated Maria a little louder, looking around blindly.
Rohini shared her mother’s fear, feeling the tentacles across the room.
‘That’s great! Me too. We are renovating a church in the Southern district. It’s a poor area and the church roof needs repairing. Could we ask for your support? Please aunty. I’ll take you to see it one day. It has the most amazing frescoes.’
Rohini caught Maria’s eye, a deer trapped in a headlight. She will explain frescoes to her later. ‘Of course, you can count on her support. I’ll make a donation to the Church.’
‘Good. I’ll take you there next week Aunty and you can pray for a while.’
Maria’s face softened and her shoulders relaxed.
‘I’m from Goa and a group of us go to St. Agnes’s Church in Bandra. But the masses in Goa are the best especially on Christmas Eve.’ Jenny moved closer to the elderly lady.
Rohini leaned forward as far as she could go without tipping her chair over. Archana tried to draw her attention to a leaflet published by Rotary Club. They wanted Rohini to help start a website.
‘Yes, yes, okay, let me see,’ said Rohini, grabbing the leaflet with one hand, but not letting Maria drift out of her earshot.
She was astonished to see her mother step out of the shadows. Maria was telling Jenny about the church in Rajgarh.
‘The ceiling so high, with painting on top. And beautiful statues, Mother Mary fully covered in gold… not real gold, but gold painting you know. Once a year at Christmas, Indira takes me to St. George’s Church in Khiddirpur for midnight mass. When Rohini baby was little I take her there, but she was sleeping all the time on my lap,’ Maria cackled.
Rohini could not remember these nocturnal visits to the church. She must have been very small. Jenny and Maria were chatting away like old friends.
‘Then afterwards we could go to Chowpatty beach and have some pau bhaji,’ offered Jenny. ‘You must try the local food Aunty.’ Maria looked at Rohini, as eager as a child promised a new treat.
Rohini knew Maria was trying to relieve her of an irksome duty. She could take Indira to the more classy resort of Juhu, without the oppressive presence of her socially unacceptable biological mother.
‘It’s okay. We plan to go there ourselves. But thanks for the offer. I am sure Maria Aunty will enjoy the visit to the church though,’ Rohini added as a concession.
Damn, she had said Aunty. It was difficult to change the habit of a lifetime.
Later that evening, the ladies gathered in Indira’s room to discuss the success of their soirée.
‘That went okay I think,’ said Indira taking off her gold chain and placing it on the dressing table.
Maria was completing her ablutions in the bathroom. She said ‘went well’ as an echo of Indira’s sentence.
Rohini smiled with relief. ‘Do you think Jenny was being genuine with Maria or just snoopy?’ she whispered to her mother.
The door to the bathroom was now shut. Indira held Rohini’s hand.
‘Dear, you are being paranoid. You can’t protect Maria from others all the time. You have to let her mix with people if that is what you want. In my house she likes to be private.’
‘You could have given her the status of a family friend. She was embarrassed because she felt she was a servant.’
‘Rohini dear, you don’t know what people are like! They could tell she was not our class and would have treated her as a servant no matter what we did. How do you think they would have behaved towards you if they had known? Servant’s daughter, that’s what you would have become. What choice did I have?’
Rohini winced at the s-word that cropped up so often with relation to Maria’s status and thereby her own. Unlike Indira, Rohini could not accept their social differences with such nonchalance.
Maria emerged from the bathroom dwarfed in a cotton nightie that Rohini had bought for her. She shrunk a little seeing her daughter sitting on the bed with her mother. After applying some Nivea cream generously on her face until her skin was completely white, Maria sat on a stool next to the bed. The next few minutes were spent rubbing the cream in. Rohini wished that at some point in their visit they would sit together on the same bed or sofa, side by side, all differences forgotten.
‘Have you taken your medication?’ Indira asked Maria, breaking the ice. She took the pot of cream and put some on her face. ‘We’ve been here a week and this jar is almost empty. If you’re looking for a youthful skin, it’s too late dear!’
‘Always you joke with me. The winter air is not good for skin.’ Maria rummaged through the drawer in the bedside cabinet. ‘I just need to take the injection.’ She waited with the syringe tucked into her lap.
‘I’ll go to bed soon,’ said Rohini. ‘I was just telling Ma that the evening went well. Jenny seems to like you.’
This was one of the first remarks she had made directly to Maria. It felt like a little breakthrough.
Maria nodded with her head down. ‘Nice girl,’ she replied almost inaudibly.
Rohini felt a little stab in her heart. When did she stop being nice?
‘Achcha, I am off to bed,’ said Rohini closing the bedroom door behind her.
About a quarter of an hour later she reentered the room. Maria was praying by her bedside table where an empty insulin syringe lay next to her bible. Indira was sitting on her bed, reading a book.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Indira, ‘did you forget something?’
Rohini took a deep breath. Maria kissed her rosary beads, at the end of her prayer. She rose stiffly using the corner of the table for support. An evening breeze blew the curtains inside the room almost enveloping her thin frame. Maria closed the shutters, coaxing in the unruly voile. Indira snapped her book shut. She folded her reading glasses and placed them on the bedside table with an impatient clatter.
‘Ki?’ prompted Indira, what is it?
Rohini sat on the corner of the bed furthest from her mother. She fingered the tassels of the bedspread.
‘I was thinking perhaps I should call Maria by some other name. After all if I am introducing her to people as my real mother I can hardly call her aunty. I thought maybe Maria-Ma maybe appropriate while you are in Mumbai. In Calcutta we can carry on the same.’ Rohini was looking at the mosaic floor, but she looked up briefly to see the reaction.
Maria’s cataract ridden eyes lit up. Rohini wondered how long she had waited to hear her daughter call her mother.
‘One name for people here, one name for people there, it’s so confusing. Just stick to one. Keep it simple,’ said Indira.
‘But you don’t understand. Our family and friends in Calcutta know us as we were before; Maria aunty was my nanny. I can’t call her mother there, it would be awkward.’
‘As soon as you decided to make this affair public, it became awkward. You’ll get used to it in time, and so will they.’ Indira picked up her book to indicate the end of discussion.
Maria’s sitting position had not changed at all, but Rohini thought her back looked straighter as she voiced her opinion, a rare moment of putting herself forward.
‘Do what you think is best dear. Think about it tonight. To change a name is hard. If I had to call you by another name I would find it difficult. It takes time to adjust. Maria Ma sounds so nice, but you decide beti,’ said Maria. ‘I don’t mind what you call me.’
‘Ok, Thik acchey. I’ll see you in the morning,’ said Rohini once more closing the door.
The following Sunday, Rohini took her mother and Maria to the beach. Shourav stayed at home with Kavita, giving the three ladies a chance to bond. Shiv dropped them off at the beach. The sand felt cool under the soles of their bare feet. It was late afternoon and it had been overcast all day. They lifted their saries up and let the wind play around their ankles. Paddling in the sea was refreshing after a sticky humid day. Gentle waves tickled their toes.
‘I remember when we went to Puri. The waves were sooo big. Rohini baby nearly fell over,’ recalled Maria.
‘I was really scared of the waves.’
Her heart beat at a furious pace watching the giant curls coming towards her. She was swung out over the crest by a lifeguard. Thrill overtook fear. The water receded on the wet sand, sliding underneath her feet, an eerie life force. Some day she was sure the waves would carry her away from her mother, to a distant land. She would be lost forever. They could never understand why she cried so much.
‘Yes, but once Baba carried you into the sea and swung you over the waves you laughed.’
‘Baba played with me? I don’t remember that.’
‘You were only five. After the holidays he used to take you swimming every Saturday. You would come home with a large lollipop if you stayed in the water for twenty minutes. He spoilt you!’
Until Raja came along, thought Rohini.
‘Sister, do you remember the house in Puri, with large balconies? The fishermen sold fresh sardines, which we fried up. Oh so nice, I can just taste that food now.’
Chowpatty Beach stretched behind them polka-dotted with people in all colours: purples, oranges, limes and yellow. The wind scooped up ponytails, braids, dupattas and pallus. It tossed up whispers, laughter, balloons, and kites. Bright shirts opened up like sails in high tide, saries made upside down bells. The salt air coated their tongues, and matted their hair.
A waft of pau bhaji and pakoras made their mouths water. Rohini ordered a selection of street food for them to try—toasted bread with spicy potatoes, and gol gappa crispy semolina balls filled with chickpeas and dipped in tamarind sauce.
Later, Rohini took them to Paradise Mall. The ladies from Calcutta had not seen a shopping mall of that size and grandeur. The guard at the door looked Maria up and down. Rohini knew that if Maria had come alone she would not have been admitted. They would have asked to see a credit card or something. With Indira and Rohini, she was accepted as a poor relative or most likely domestic help, someone who would carry their bags.
Rohini wanted to show them a sari shop, but Maria did not want to go in. ‘It’s too grand for me. I’d be afraid to ask the price of anything!’ she giggled nervously.
‘You can come with me. We don’t have to buy anything, just look,’ said Rohini.
She wanted Maria to see her world, where she shopped, where she drank coffee with her friends. Indira nudged Maria along. The ladies pushed open the glass door into a palace of shimmering fabrics. A mist of cool air fanned their faces. They were asked to sit. Maria sat gingerly on the edge of a stool, her back ramrod straight.
‘Would you like some masala tea?’ the proprietor asked.
‘Yes please, one without sugar,’ replied Rohini in her haughtiest tone.
Indira looked down through bifocal lenses at a sari labelled ‘Murshibad silk’ with what appeared to be disdain, but was really thinly disguised suspicion.
‘Where is your factory?’ she asked.
‘Bangalore, Ma’am.’
‘Then it is Bangalore silk, isn’t it, not Murshidabad?’ Indira directed her question at a senior lady sales assistant. ‘Murshidabad is in Bengal. I don’t think you would sell them here.’
‘Urmm, we do sell some Murshidabad. But this one’s from Bangalore, you’re right Ma’am,’ the assistant conceded, not wishing to lose the custom of a classy lady.
‘See, it is thick silk. Murshidabad is thinner.’
It was a peacock shade, an enigmatic mélange of purple and blue, intricately embroidered in silver. Rohini looked at the price tag, ‘Rs 8500.’ a bit steep for an impulse-buy. If it were close to Puja she would have bought it for herself on Shourav’s behalf. Besides she felt a twinge of guilt not considering gifts for her mothers.
‘What about one for yourself?’ Rohini asked her mother in Bengali.
‘Absolutely not! At these cutthroat prices? You must be crazy. You bought Maria a few saries already and I still have your Puja gift practically new. Get one for yourself. You go to parties and things.’
‘This is one of the cheaper ones in our range. If you want something a bit more special we can show you ones with pure zari.’
Rohini ultimately walked out of the shop with a large bag. Maria had not spoken a word during the whole time they spent inside the boutique.
‘How about a coffee?’ asked Rohini.
They walked in to Café Haven and ordered three cappuccinos. Maria marvelled at the creaminess of the hot beverage. They laughed at her milk moustache.
‘Hello,’ said a liquid voice, penetrating their laughter.
Rohini looked up. Champa stood there, resplendent in an orange georgette sari draped across her large belly, the thin material hiding nothing. Long gold earrings dangled from her ears.
‘I thought it was you! How are you? It’s been so long,’ she said dragging a chair across and sitting down. She clicked her finger at a waiter even though it was supposed to be self-service.
‘One expresso please.’
‘I am cutting down on fat,’ she said looking at their frothy drinks.
Rohini took a large swig of coffee.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t turn up at our meetings. Hope you are better now. We were genuinely concerned about your health,’ said Champa resting two plump elbows on the table.
Rohini had picked up a magazine and was staring at a page of glamorous models.
‘You must bring your guests to our New Year Festivals if they are going to be here for a while.’
‘I am Rohini’s mother, Mrs. Roy,’ said Indira folding her hands in a belated salutation.
‘Oh, acchha. Namaskar Aunty!’
‘And you Madam? Are you also related to Rohini?’ Champa asked Maria.
Champa’s bulldog tactics astonished Rohini. ‘Yes this is Maria D’Souza, my birth mother. No doubt you have heard all about the ketchcha in our family.’
‘No, no, I don’t listen to gossip. People have nothing to do, spreading nasty rumours. I don’t believe everything I hear. It is so nice to meet you all. Mrs. D’Souza, is this your first time in Mumbai?’
‘Yes,’ said Maria, stirring her coffee.
Champa studied her with an invisible magnifying glass, recording all the details to be reported to the circle later.
‘Well, I must dash. Call me!’ She sailed out of the coffee shop rustling oversized paper bags.
The waiter came out with her expresso watching his customer rush off into the crowd.
‘Let’s go home,’ said Rohini.
The others murmured their assent. Indira walked ahead with Rohini, leaving Maria behind to stare at shop windows.
‘Don’t worry about Champa. It’s a good thing she has seen us. She can tell the others what she likes. But the fact that she saw us having a coffee together proves there is nothing dirty or ugly we are trying to hide.’
‘Ma, you can dress someone in silk saries and pearls, but you can’t hide their birth. I am beginning to think the same about myself. I feel a fraud. This expensive sari I bought, is it covering up where I come from?’
‘Your snobby friends embraced you into their fold before they knew about all this. People just see the exterior. If I had dressed Maria in fine clothes and sent her to Spoken English classes to improve her accent, maybe we would have fooled people. But they would have still asked questions. Who is she? Where is she from? Why does she live with you? It was better to keep her in the background. If your friends can’t accept you, it’s not worth having their friendship or respect.’ Indira linked her elbow with Rohini’s.
Maria lagged behind, lost in window-shopping. She stopped now and then to peer through the glass, holding her spectacles away from her nose to get a clearer view. Indira and Rohini waited for her to catch up.
‘Come on, slow coach. We’ll miss Paru’s dinner at this rate!’ Indira tucked her other arm through Maria’s. ‘Did you see some nice jewellery Maria? It’s not too late to catch a boyfriend in Mumbai.’
Indira’s laugh was like tinkling bells, thought Rohini. You can’t learn such examples of good breeding.
Maria joined in, ‘Sister, you are too much joking all the time.’ Her voice cracked and she was overcome by a coughing spasm.
Rohini was afraid that Maria would need to spit beetle leaf juice and looked around for a waste bin. It had been a mistake bringing Maria to the shopping mall. It was her quiet retreat, where she met friends. It was where she had been meeting Farooq last summer. A more unsettling thought entered her head. She had worried about marrying a Musulman, giving up her religion, sharing her life with beefeaters. Had she known then that she was of quasi-Muslim descent, would that have changed her destiny? She could have been living right now with the love of her life.