That evening, after returning to his apartment in Gulmohar Park from Ronen Uncle’s house, Ronojoy felt restless. He paced up and down the flat and kept coming back to the photograph Ronen Uncle had given him. As he held it in his palm, he was struck once again by the fact that his father had been a handsome, no, an attractive man. Thin, gaunt, almost consumptive-looking. He had a bony face with hollow cheeks and in his black, thick-rimmed glasses, looked old-fashioned – almost a throwback to a man from an earlier generation. Ma was more conventional looking. Wheatish, not plump but curvaceous, seldom without a red or black bindi on her forehead and kohl lining her big eyes. In the picture, she sat wearing a floral-patterned kaftan, her hair gathered up in a bun at the back of her head. She was pretty in a Bengali way, but not uncommonly so. They made a nice-looking couple. Ronojoy kept peering at their faces, as if trying to glean something that wasn’t immediately apparent – though it was only an ordinary image of a family gathered around a tea table on a Sunday morning.
Perfectly ordinary.
It was quite late at night when Ronojoy finally gave up on sleep and headed to the kitchen in search of something to eat. He opened a tin of cashews and paused in front of the locked glass cabinet. Arranged inside were a variety of gins and whiskies. The cabinet had not been opened in nearly eighteen months. No, that wasn’t quite correct. He hadn’t touched it in that time but Sujoy knew where the keys were kept – in the drawer below – and helped himself every time he visited. He hardly ever had other guests over, so there hadn’t been any need to replenish the stock in all this time.
Ronojoy had survived a bout of crippling clinical depression a couple of years ago. The doctor had asked whether there was a history of the disease in his family; he hadn’t been able to provide a definitive answer, except to mention his father’s suicide. Ronojoy had since undergone a protracted period of medication; alcohol was contra indicated. While he was better now and the medication had been reduced, he had not resumed drinking.
‘There are no final victories in this battle, Ronojoy. You may have survived this round but need to be ever watchful. By now, you know the signs all too well. Alcohol, I am afraid, is an enemy of this condition. It is my duty to recommend abstinence, if possible. If not, then extreme moderation,’ was how Doctor Mirza had phrased his advice.
Yet today, his glance returned repeatedly to the cabinet. One drink, on a day like this, was it such a big deal? Ronojoy did not delude himself, he knew the perils. He didn’t want to go back to the place he had been in two years ago. It had been very difficult. But tonight, he craved sleep. He hadn’t slept well for many days now. That worried him, he remembered the signs.
Ronojoy got out of bed the next morning, feeling exhausted; he hadn’t slept a wink. His shoulders were stiff and his back hurt, perhaps from all the driving around. He had not had that drink finally yet there was a dull headache. Sometimes he worried that he had inherited his father’s frail constitution. Ronojoy wasn’t sturdy in the way Sujoy was, at least physically, and envied people who made light of small niggles and illnesses. His father had been quite so; he remembered his mother teasingly refer to him as a ‘wilting flower’.
He showered, made himself a cup of tea and dialled his grandmother.
‘Dida, how are you? Are you home today? I would like to come by and see you. Fine. Oh, one other thing, can you please call Reba Di over? Yes, Reba Di. I wanted to have a word with her, whenever it is convenient. Thank you. Bye Dida.’
Ronojoy’s grandmother lived alone, on the ground floor of a small two-storeyed house in Chittaranjan Park. She had a very capable cook, Manju Di, who stayed in the house and tended to her every need. Dida was eighty-five but a very firm eighty-five. Other than some chronic knee pain, she suffered from no major illness or affliction. She kept abreast with the latest in English and Bengali fiction, loved watching old black-and-white movies and took a keen interest in national politics. She had always been a strong and independent woman. Ronojoy loved her.
After their father died, Ronojoy and Sujoy had virtually been brought up by their Dida. Dadu too, of course, while he was alive, but he had been a reclusive kind of person. He stayed immersed in his books and LP records. It was Dida, with her seemingly endless reserves of energy, compassion, love and wisdom, who had become the benevolent banyan tree that shielded the two young boys from the trials and tribulations heaped upon them at such a tender age.
Shortly after the two brothers were packed off to a boarding school in Nainital, Mala had resigned from her teaching job. She put the Maharani Bagh house on the market and left to live in their hill house in Mukteshwar. Dida had been very surprised and had tried, initially, to dissuade her. Mala hadn’t been swayed by her mother’s entreaties.
For the first couple of years, the boys visited their mother during summer vacations. Mukteshwar was just a couple of hours’ drive from their new school. But soon after, Mala had relocated to an Ashram in Rishikesh and these visits stopped. The boys started spending their vacations at Dida’s house in Delhi. Mala would visit them sometimes for a few days, though not very often and less as time went by. Dida had gradually assumed the role of their sole guardian.
She sat now, on a rocking chair in her drawing room, as Ronojoy walked in. She didn’t get up, simply smiled and extended an arm towards him in invitation. Ronojoy walked up, held her hand and looked into her upturned face. Her fine, almost translucent skin and those kind pools of light that were her eyes. The beauty had faded long ago but the grace was all there. She had a way of looking at Ronojoy that seemed to say, ‘I know what you have suffered, my child. I can do nothing to take that away but you have all my love, forever.’ She was the rock in his life.
‘How are you, Dida?’
‘I’m okay, Bochka. Just a bit empty since Mala left. Don’t feel so strong anymore. How are you?’
‘Okay. Just not sleeping too well, Dida.’
Dida looked concerned, ‘Yes, I can see those shadows under your eyes. Pull that chair and come sit near me.’
Ronojoy did that.
‘Did you know about Ma’s illness, Dida?’
‘I had guessed from the last time she came to see me, about a year back. She didn’t say anything though. I felt very sad when Ronen told me the other day that she had been suffering for so many months. She didn’t even tell her own mother. Then I thought, it may have been because she knew I would have told you and Chhotku. Whatever she may have felt about it, I would never have agreed to keep it from the two of you. Never. And now she is gone. I didn’t even get an opportunity to speak to her one last time. Nor did you.’
Dida paused. There were no tears – Ronojoy had rarely seen his grandmother weep – but her face was lined with grief. Something had changed in her over the last week, she appeared distant and fragile. Ronojoy had never seen her this way. They sat together in silence, hands clasped, immersed in their sorrow.
‘I have been thinking about Mala’s last visit,’ she said finally. ‘She had seemed troubled. I don’t think it was her illness, though, that had brought it on. You know how withdrawn your mother had become over the years? I thought she had found some solace in spirituality. Yet last time she spoke of the past again, as if the wounds had opened up. She kept saying she had failed the two of you. When I told her not to be so harsh on herself she said she deserved no sympathy. “There is so much you don’t know, Ma,” she said to me. Then she left and I was never to see her again.’ Dida closed her eyes. Ronojoy lifted her palm and pressed it to his cheek. He decided to speak about something else.
‘Dida, in all these years, we have never spoken much about Baba. When I was little, you would steer me away from the subject, perhaps for fear that it would distress me. And then we never got around to it later. Today, I feel like asking you about him.’
Ronojoy paused to gauge Dida’s reaction. She didn’t seem alarmed, merely looked at him with a sad smile on her face.
‘Yes, Bochka. I may have been evasive. I do remember you asking about him often, on your school holidays spent with us. You were never angry like Chhotku was, but clearly baffled at what had happened. You could not fathom why he had done what he did. Even much later, you carried this sense of disbelief, almost as if Subir had let you down; leaving you behind alone to deal with the world.’ She paused before asking, ‘Well, what do you want to know about him?’
‘Did you ever have an inkling of what was about to happen?’
Dida’s expression turned grim.
‘No, one can never anticipate an act of such utter despair. But, the fact that there was a decline, was clearly apparent. I had often brought the subject up with Mala, but she was always evasive. Maybe she felt it was too private a space for me to intrude on. But it was not merely that things had soured between them. Marriages go through ups and downs; this was something more serious; I could sense it. I know I should have asked him to seek help, even professional help. Later, I blamed myself for not doing that. Some time back, when you were going through your problems, I saw glimpses of that same darkness in you. You will recall how insistent I was then, about you seeing someone. I wasn’t taking chances again. You know, Bochka, this thing always intrigues me – how much we are like our parents, after all. As time goes by, we see so much of them in ourselves. I don’t mean only physically, but also that.’
Then she put out a hand to stroke Ronojoy’s hair, and said with a sigh, ‘I can say this only because I love you so much. There is a lot of your father in you, the good and the bad. Remember that.’
Manju Di had quietly entered the room. She stood behind Ronojoy and spoke, almost in a whisper: ‘Dada, I cannot bear to see Ma like this. She doesn’t eat properly; earlier she would walk a bit in the garden outside, that too has stopped. She just lies in bed and stares. Why don’t you come here and stay with her for a few days?’
Dida opened her eyes, ‘Manju, go get some tea for Dada. I haven’t even offered him anything since he came.’
Manju Di walked away with a sigh.
‘Bochka, how is Chhotku?’
‘He is okay, Dida. You know how he is. Inscrutable, till a melt-down happens.’
‘Yes, I worry about him. Keep an eye on him, Bochka, as you always have.’
She stared away again, into the distance.
Ronojoy leafed through the pile of magazines and catalogues on Dida’s table. A bookmark was inserted halfway between a PD James novel; she liked re-reading those. This reminded him of something.
‘Dida, didn’t Baba write stuff, like columns and essays? I have a vague recollection of discussions at home between Ma and him, about a book he was writing maybe?’
‘Yes. Subir wrote well. I read some of his book reviews, they were quite perceptive and insightful. And you are right, he was working on a book too.’ Here, she sighed, ‘Unfortunately, this became a sore point in their relationship later. He would show the chapters to Mala but she just wasn’t convinced of the quality of writing. I remember her telling me that Subir was trying too hard and the result was a voice that came across as contrived. But you see, what Subir was looking for was encouragement and Mala’s criticism, though honest and well-intended, didn’t go down well. You know how touchy people can be about these things.’
Ronojoy nodded.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I called Reba, she should be here soon. Don’t leave without meeting her. Will you have lunch here?’
‘No, Dida, not today. But I will wait for Reba Di.’
‘I feel tired. The days seem so long now. Just this pointless waiting. But, it was nice to see you, Bochka. I don’t know…’ her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair.
Ronojoy could see that he wouldn’t have his Dida for very much longer. It was almost as if her will to live had suddenly gone out, like a flame.
He was sitting in the garden when Reba Di came in. She began crying the moment she saw Ronojoy. Once she had composed herself a bit, she said, ‘Dada, I don’t know what to say. Boudi, this way…’
‘Yes, Reba Di. But you know how it is with our family. Everything is topsy-turvy, nothing regular,’ Ronojoy said wryly. ‘Listen, Ma has left you some money in her will. I will transfer it to your account. You do have a bank account, right?’
Reba Di gaped, she hadn’t grasped the meaning of the words.
Ronojoy explained, ‘You have been with us for so long, Reba Di. Ma wanted you to have some money. It will help you. Things like medical expenses, school fees for your grandchildren.’
‘No, no!’ Reba Di cried out. ‘I won’t be able to take that money, Dada. Boudi left us this way and you think I will accept her money? That cannot be, I won’t take it.’
Ronojoy was taken aback, he hadn’t been prepared for such a reaction.
‘Okay, you don’t have to decide now, I will ask again after a few days. Ma’s last wishes, it would have made her happy.’
This triggered a fresh outburst, ‘Happy? What happiness did she ever know in her life? From that young age, to have her world turned upside down like that. I saw with my own eyes, how she was reduced, overnight, to a slab of stone. I know what she went through,’ she struggled on through her tears, ‘but who am I saying this to? Can I ever forget that day, when you – that angelic little boy – came and dragged me into that house? Dada Babu… dear god, what fates are you born with?’
Ronojoy sat silently watching this outpouring of emotion. Reba Di had always been high strung. Yet, she had been Ma’s only companion in all those months of darkness.
He probed gently, ‘Reba Di, did Ma and you talk after that incident…after Baba’s death?’
‘Talk? Didn’t I just tell you, she turned to stone. Even her tears dried up. Sometimes she would just say things like: “The mistakes I have made, Reba; I cannot atone for them in this lifetime.”’
‘Was she ever more specific? About these mistakes…’
Reba Di regarded him strangely, ‘No, but I lived in that house too, remember? I am not blind.’
Ronojoy sat up.
‘What shall I say, Dada? You were only a small boy then but children also pick up a lot of things. Surely, you could see that there was a strain in their marriage after Chhoto Baba was born? I don’t know what happened, but nothing was the same. That house was so full of love and joy and laughter and then one day it was all gone. It became like a funeral site.’ Reba Di shivered from the memory.
She was right. That was exactly how Ronojoy remembered it too, except that he knew the reason now. Reba Di did not, therefore could never fathom what provocation, what difference was so big that couldn’t be resolved even for the sake of the two little boys who thirsted for their love.
Reba Di continued, ‘What surprised me though was that there were hardly any quarrels. If things were not fine between them, surely there should have been arguments, no? There were none. Just a cold silence that filled the house. Dada Babu in one corner of the house, Boudi in another, hardly a word exchanged. Later, of course,’ here she hesitated, ‘Dada Babu spent most of his time cooped up in the room upstairs, with a bottle.’
Ronojoy looked up. This didn’t surprise him, he knew his father drank but Reba Di’s words seemed to indicate a bigger problem. He asked, ‘Baba drank a lot, did he?’
She shook her head, ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Dada. There was never any sign of drunkenness. Dada Babu was always the perfect gentleman. Actually, he became even quieter with the drinking. It was my duty to keep a tray with water, ice and a glass in the room every evening, after you and Chhoto Dada had gone off to bed. Not a sound came from upstairs after that. Sometimes at night he would call from the top of the stairs for a plate of toast but usually not. It had begun affecting Dada Babu’s health. He had lost weight, there were these dark circles under his eyes all the time and his face had become gaunt, like a skeleton. From my room, I could see that the light in his study stayed on through the night. Towards the end, he had even stopped taking care of his appearance or going out of the house. Now, when I think back, I feel we should have seen the trouble brewing, but who could have thought…’
Ronojoy stood up, ‘Reba Di, please have lunch before you go. I am going to let Manju Di know. The Ashram has sent me Ma’s things in a trunk. Come by and see if you want something from there, as a memento. I will speak to you again about what she has left you in her will. Take care of yourself.’
Reba Di muttered something, then stood sniffling in a corner as Ronojoy walked back into the house.
In the car, he thought about what Reba Di had said, the silences that filled their house. So many years had passed, yet he remembered it all so clearly.
On his way back from Dida’s house, Ronojoy drove to Noida to collect the trunk that had arrived from Rishikesh. Mamta Auntie, a fellow Ashramite whom Ronojoy had met on his annual visits, had brought it down to Delhi. As Ronojoy parked his car and stepped out, he could see her sitting on her verandah with a book in hand. She was quite a bit older than his mother had been, but with a head full of silver hair, possessed an elegance that only the elderly can have.
She heard Ronojoy opening the metal gate and stood up.
With a sad but affectionate smile, she said, ‘Come, Ronojoy. I am so sorry about Mala. You and Sujoy must be devastated. Come, sit here; can I get you a cup of tea?’
Ronojoy accepted the offer.
‘Good, I will also have a cup with you. My only indulgence, Darjeeling. Do you take it with a few drops of milk?’
‘No, just as it is. Thank you.’
‘The trunk is here, I will have it put in your car. It’s not a big one. You know how your mother was.’
She paused, before continuing, ‘If it’s any solace to you, Mala did not suffer too long. Yes, the last couple of months were difficult, but it was not protracted, as these things go. She was only diagnosed last year, as you know.’
Then she remembered that Ronojoy or Sujoy hadn’t known about her illness at all.
‘Initially, I did find it very strange that neither of you visited her over the last year. But when I asked Mala, she said that she had chosen not to let you know. That was that, there was no changing her mind. I tried though. While I cannot say we were friends – Mala had a barrier which wouldn’t let anyone in beyond a point – I was the closest companion she had at the Ashram, you know. Sometimes, we would take an evening stroll by the river, and she would talk about the two of you with such fondness. It was then I had a glimpse of how soft-hearted a person she really was, underneath that icy stoicism. We are all so strange.’
Ronojoy listened quietly, but intently. Here was a lady who had probably seen more of his mother than anyone else, over the last two decades of her life. Mamta Auntie had never married and had moved to the Ashram in her late forties.
‘Mala was very reclusive, you know. I remember, when she first arrived in Rishikesh, she seemed very troubled. It didn’t surprise me, you do see that in the Ashram. Over the years, she settled down but always remained a very quiet, private person. We would take our meals together, but in all those years she never opened up about the difficult phases of her life that may have driven her to our refuge. That was a no-go area. I knew about your father, of course, but no more than the bare facts. I understood. Some things are too difficult to speak about. But you, she did speak about; and her mother.’
This surprised Ronojoy, ‘Our grandmother never visited her there, did she?’
‘She did, Ronojoy. But only once, the year Mala moved to the Ashram. I remember meeting her, she was a striking woman. I don’t know how, it must have been feminine intuition, but she immediately figured that Mala and I would become friends. She approached me and asked me to keep an eye on her daughter. I tried in my way, to always look out for her as much as she would allow me, or anyone.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘So, what did she say about us, Mamta Auntie?’
‘Only good things, Ronojoy, only good things. Her voice would soften at the mention of your name. Once, you had come with books on her birthday and had even got a thick omnibus of crime novels for me, do you remember? You must have seen me reading one of those on your previous visits. That was so sweet of you. When I told Mala that, she said with some pride that you were a very sweet boy. She used the term boy for you, though you must have been almost thirty. When I pointed this out, she said you would always be a boy to her. Then her manner had changed. She said that the only time, after all, when you two were really close was when you had been a little boy.
‘I have been recounting snatches of such memories these last few days. I miss her a lot, you know. It’s not easy to make new friends at our age.’
Ronojoy had a sudden vision of Mamta Auntie sitting alone at a table in the Ashram, eating her dinner. He felt terrible.
‘And what did Ma say about Sujoy?’
‘Oh, I remember Mala saying, on more than one occasion, that Sujoy was more like her. She never explained it, but I suspect she meant he was more impetuous, though I can’t say why I have that idea. There was no doubt though, that you were her little darling,’ Mamta Auntie said, with a twinkle in her eye.
The tea had arrived in a beautiful china pot. Mamta Auntie poured out two cups, handing one to Ronojoy.
‘This was our morning ritual at the Ashram as well. Mala had always liked her tea.’
Ronojoy smiled.
‘Had Ma turned to religion there, Mamta Auntie?’
‘It’s interesting that you should ask, but no, she hadn’t. At all. No gods or goddesses for her. She never visited the temples around Rishikesh or participated in the religious discourses at the Ashram. But she was meditative, no actually, contemplative would be a better word for her. She spent most of her time reading, all sorts of books. That was her religion.
‘It was the Ashram’s emphasis on enlightenment of the soul through service to our less fortunate fellow beings that appealed more to her.’
Ronojoy had finished his tea. He thanked Mamta Auntie and stood up.
At the door, she said, ‘Take care, Ronojoy. If there was one thing Mala would have wished above all, it is for you and Sujoy to be happy and healthy. There was a lot of love, which she couldn’t share with you. But there was, I saw it all the time. Stay well.’
Ronojoy looked down and walked away abruptly.
By the time Ronojoy reached his apartment, daylight had begun to fade. The trunk wasn’t very large but Ronojoy still needed the security guard’s help to lug it up the stairs to the first floor. As he studied the black metal box, he was amazed at how little his mother’s possessions added up to.
All her belongings fitted inside a box, about three by four feet in size. Just as her ashes had barely filled a small urn, the one they had cast into the river.
Ronojoy opened the lid. A faint whiff of sandalwood floated up from inside. On top, was an old, well-thumbed copy of Tagore’s Gitanjali. Next to it, a small flat piece of stone with dried sandalwood paste on its edges and a smooth chunk of sandalwood. The fragrance.
The Gitanjali rested on a cream-coloured, neatly folded shawl with a very slender border of exquisite embroidery. He recognized it, it had belonged to Baba. Without even realizing it, Ronojoy picked it up and lifted it to his face. There was just a hint of the same sandal, what had he expected? He caressed his face with the shawl before unfolding it and wrapping it around his shoulders. Ronojoy felt a strange sensation, almost a physical closeness to the man long gone. He looked down again. Books, all the ones he had sent her over the years and some others. He removed them and placed them in a pile on the floor. The trunk was almost empty. Quite obviously, Ma had left instructions to give away articles of daily use – her clothes,
toiletries – though Ronojoy imagined there wouldn’t have been a lot of those either. With age, she had become even more austere. But there was one last thing. Lining the bottom of the trunk was a magnificent Benaras silk saree, magenta with fine embroidery in gold thread. It was so old that the folds had frayed. Ronojoy knew it, his mother’s wedding saree, passed down from Dida. So, Ma had taken it with her to the Ashram. As Ronojoy lifted the saree gingerly, something fell out of the folds. An open envelope. The flap had opened to reveal a few photographs and a folded note. With a sense of dread, Ronojoy opened the note first.
It had just a few lines scrawled in a biro:
Dear Mala,
I really enjoyed meeting you at Ashim’s terrace the other day. I was particularly impressed by your taste in books. Would you be offended if I asked you out for a cup of tea one of these days? I shall be delighted if you accept but will totally understand if you would rather not. Will wait to hear from you.
Subir. (4727229)
A smile flickered across Ronojoy’s face. Baba’s first letter of courtship to Ma. So typically formal and gentlemanly of him, even at that young age. Ronojoy wondered if women had found this slight hint of formality attractive. Ma evidently had, once upon a time.
Ronojoy turned to the photographs now. There were only three. The first was a very old, sepia-toned image of Dadu and Dida. They were seated side by side on a stone bench in front of the Taj Mahal. It must have been winter – Dadu wore an oversized tweed jacket and Ronojoy thought he detected fog in the background. Dida looked radiant. She had a dark shawl draped over her saree.
The second was of Ronojoy and Sujoy perched on the metal railing that fenced their garden at home in Maharani Bagh. He tried to recall who had clicked it. Sujoy looked like he was around four in the picture.
The last was of Baba and Ma in a group. There were six young people, three couples from the look of it, standing in front of a lake. Everyone was beaming. It was probably before his parents had got married. On the reverse side of this photograph was a beautiful sketch in pencil and ink –
an image of a house, their hill house, facing mountain peaks. It wasn’t signed but obviously Ma had drawn it. Any professional draftsman would have been proud of the quality. It brought a lump to Ronojoy’s throat.
That was all. An invitation to a first date, three photographs of the most important people in her life, two garments of some significance and a few books. Ronojoy sat still and stared. Thoughts drifted in and out. After a while, he rose, went into his bedroom, and returned with Ma’s last letter. He read it again sitting there surrounded by her belongings, pausing when he reached the part where she had written, ‘I burden you again with these impossible decisions’.
He had been thinking about this all night.
Ronojoy had always been fiercely protective of his younger brother. He now faced a dilemma. The nature of the confidence was such that he couldn’t even ask Dida or Ronen Uncle for counsel. Ma had chosen, after all, to keep the secret from them all her life. Ronojoy considered the possibility of sharing only the letter with Sujoy, holding back the last sheet containing the postscript. But somehow the idea had a dishonest stench to it, it felt wrong. Almost without thinking, Ronojoy walked to the kitchen, found the keys in the drawer and unlocked the glass cabinet. He didn’t pause to choose, just picked the first bottle he touched. He poured out a generous measure and took a swig. It burned a bit, his first drink in over a year and a half.
He punched a number, waited and said, ‘Chhotku, where are you? Listen, can you come over, I need to speak to you. Yes, now. It’s very important. It’s about Ma.’