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Chapter 1
Leave out my name from the gift
if it be a burden
but keep my song.
~ Rabindranath Tagore
Anupa Bhattacharya flashed a weary smile at the young man, and gratefully accepted the seat he had just vacated for her. The conductor came by, and as she purchased her ticket, Anupa reflected on how remarkable it was in a city where practically every other day was declared a bandh * in support of some cause or another, and where the cause was more often than not a protest against rising prices, the trams of Calcutta managed to run a reliable service at prices that had been frozen for as long as she could remember. The slow rhythmic motions of the tram began to lull her to a state very near sleep, and even the panoply of vivid colour and sound outside could barely penetrate through her senses, dulled by exhaustion. The tramlines were flanked by some of the busiest thoroughfares of Calcutta, and in most cases, the buffering grassy zones, where they had not been invaded by the stalls of encroaching hawkers, were considered a free-for-all for traffic in every direction. Beyond these stalls, and the catcalls of the hawkers, was the road itself, where buses, private cars and taxis, predominantly ungainly but sturdy Ambassadors, and rickshaws, both manually drawn and powered by bicycles, all jostled for room. Horns were used liberally as the principal means of communication here, although more than occasionally they were supplemented by choice insults in several languages. And across the road were the bonafide shops, on the ground floor of two or three storey private residential buildings. The shops in this particular district were predominantly purveyors of women's clothing, and Anupa could see displayed saris to suit every season, occasion, and budget. Salwar-kameezes, preferred by younger women and girls, were also on display in several of the stores, as were the uniforms of the myriad private girls schools of Calcutta, consisting predominantly of pleated skirts and blouses in various somber colours, with distinguishing, belts, scarves, or pins.
As the tram neared Anupa's neighbourhood, the houses grew simultaneously grander and more dilapidated. Only few of them had shop fronts on the ground floor here, and while there were a few that were adequately maintained, the chipping paint and smoke deposits from the pollution of the city on the majority of them created an aura of shabbiness that could not be compensated for by the elegance of the intricately carved gargoyles. Blinking back her tiredness, Anupa waited for her stop, and descended from the tram, carefully securing her sari so as not to trip on it. Years of using Calcutta's public transportation had lent a certain understated elegance to her always graceful movements, and the young man, reclaiming his seat, watched her with a certain pang of curiosity, wondering how it was that at her age, she was not yet married +. Then he dismissed her from his thoughts; there were probably many others in families like hers, waiting for what they deemed an acceptable suit until they were well over the hill.
Arriving home, Anupa let herself in through the side entrance, and removing her slippers, thoroughly washed her feet. Then she went upstairs and changed out of her street clothes before going into the living room, where she could hear her father in consultation with his barrister. Mrs. Chaudhuri, their neighbour, and a close family friend, was also present, and she flashed Anupa a warm welcoming smile. Her sister, Ila, had a markedly different reaction when she noticed her entrance several minutes later.
"There you are at last, Didi **. Why are you so late, anyway? College gets out a lot earlier than this, if I remember correctly."
Anupa did not respond; instead, it was Mrs. Chaudhuri who sprung to her defense.
"Hush, Ila. Don't you even know that your sister has been giving private tutoring lessons to some of her students for the last few months?"
This exchange had evidently distracted her father's notice from the papers he was studying, and he commented absently, "I still don't understand why Anupa insists on going to that College everyday. There's no reason for a woman from this family to be working for a living."
Anupa and Mrs. Chaudhuri exchanged another look, but each of them forbore from mentioning that it was Anupa's salary that covered for the most part the family's living expenses. Instead, Mrs. Chaudhuri said, soothingly, "Now, you know she enjoys it, and there's no reason why she should waste her education."
But her father had evidently had enough of a subject to which he had never given much thought, and turning back to his barrister, he asked, "So, moshai ++ , what are you suggesting?"
"If you continue on like this, your debts will just keep on mounting. The theatre is simply not a particularly lucrative business nowadays, especially if you just keep staging Tagore revivals, instead of allowing the modern playwrights a chance. The interest is in contemporary social drama, moshai...."
"My decision there is final. I will not upstage Tagore for these upstarts with their overdone inflammatory rhetoric."
"In that case, there is just one option. You need another source of revenue, and we are sitting on it right now."
"Are you suggesting that we sell this house? It has been in my family for seven generations. Job Charnock *** dined here with my ancestors...."
"No, not sell the house. But you only use this storey, anyway. The ground floor is sitting practically vacant #. This is still prime real estate in Calcutta, moshai. Do you know how much merchants would pay in rent?"
"That's impossible. I will not have the frontage of my house defaced in such a manner."
"How about tenants, then?"
"Tenants?"
"The rent will be lower than from merchants, but it will ease things considerably. Surely there is nothing to object to in having people from a suitable family, and you never need see them, if you do not wish to."
"Hmm. Do you have anyone particular in mind?"
"Actually, there is a gentleman, an admiral who just retired from the Navy, who is looking for just such a place..."
"A military man, is he? Do I know him?"
"It is strange that you should say so, moshai . Do you remember a young man, a purut +++ , who used to come in several years ago, to do the Satya Narayan Puja **** every month; what was his name again?"
"Banerjee. Anil Banerjee."
It was Anupa who said this, in almost a whisper.
"Yes! Banerjee."
"Young Banerjee? He was barely out of college, and just acted as a purut on the side. He was in the government, as I recall. Surely he's not an admiral already!"
"No, it is his sister's husband. Admiral Chatterjee."
"Admiral Chatterjee? I think I recognize the name. Very well. You may arrange for him to come to see the house, and me. We may very likely be able to come to some understanding."
With this, he autocratically swept out of the room, declaring the matter as closed. The barrister got up, and took the leave of the ladies. Anupa released a breath she did not know she had been holding, and retreated to her room. She knew Mrs. Chaudhuri would wonder at her behaviour, but she did not feel up to facing her friend's scrutiny just yet. Of all people, only she would be perceptive enough to see that something was amiss, and would be well aware what. Mrs. Chaudhuri had been almost as a mother to her since her own had died, but there were one or two barriers between them, and one of them was what Anupa could still not help but feel about Pradip Banerjee. Mrs. Chaudhuri had decreed that Anupa should have been over him years ago, and as far as she knew, Anupa was. But today, she had barely been able to keep a straight face at the merest mention of his relatives. It was not as though anyone had any cause to remember Pradip. Her father, she knew, would be hard-pressed to even remember the matter, and Ila had never known of it. But she herself could not be indifferent. Pradip's sister would probably be their tenant. Anupa wondered how she would be able to deal with this daily reminder of her greatest folly.
Terminology
* bandh -- literally, stop. Various political parties in India periodically call these, halting public transportation, schools, jobs, etc, as a means of protest. This is particularly the case in Calcutta.+ -- Bengali married women are identifiable from vermilion on the forehead, and/or a certain configuration of bangles on the wrist. In other Hindu communities, there are other identifiers.
** Didi -- elder sister. For no particularly good reason, I made Anupa the elder. One does not normally address them directly by name. Didi is either appended or used as the sole term of address. This is often also the case for relatives or friends. Dada is the corresponding term for elder brother.
++ moshai -- literally, sir. Term of address.
*** Job Charnock -- founder of Calcutta.
# -- For some odd reason, Calcuttans almost never occupy the ground floors of their homes. These are rented to others, or to shops, or sometimes sit vacant.
+++ purut -- priest. Frequently, especially in family rituals, professional temple priests are not brought in. Any Brahmin male can officiate, and some people who are otherwise employed do so out of enjoyment, or to make a bit of extra money on the side.
**** Satya Narayan Puja -- a Puja which can be carried out when the moon is full. In some Calcutta homes, it is conducted on a monthly basis.
Other cultural information will be provided as necessary.
The setting is Calcutta, in my mind it's in the mid-80s, mainly because the 90s have seen major civic improvements, and some social changes, in Calcutta, and it doesn't fit the mood of my story as well. But a lot of what I'm writing about is still very much the case.
This story is somewhat problematic for me for a couple of reasons. First off, I haven't lived in Calcutta since I was less than a year old. I have visited pretty frequently, because almost all of my extended family is there. So I'm doing this from a bit of an outsider's perspective. Also, my sense of geography is pretty bad under the best of circumstances, but in this story in particular, I'm working with visual impressions, and often without associated names and so forth. Also, a lot of the dialogue is going through my head in Bengali, which is the language which these people would use with family and close friends. For example, Anupa and Mrs. Chaudhuri would speak in Bengali, but the Admiral, on his first visit, might use English, although everyone involved in either case is fully bilingual. So a lot of the dialogue as I'm writing it is translated in my head, and was not composed in English. I'm not sure how it reads.
The names -- with first names, I'm doing the best I can, which is not very good. Still, it shouldn't be too hard to figure them out. With last names, I'm working for the most part with my own community (in the most restrictive sense of the word -- socially and culturally, the community has always been much broader, but marriage has traditionally been allowable in a far more limited circle). There will be exceptions to this, one of whom has been introduced already. I'll get into this in more detail when I need to later on. For now, I'll just say that this effectively restricts me to four last names. I kid you not. Given this, the correlations are not too terrible.
Pronunciation --
Bannerjee and Chatterjee are pronounced as they look in English, because they are basically anglicized versions of the Bengali names Bandhopadhyay and Chattopadhyay. In Bengal, the correlation is widely known, and, ironically, the anglicized version is the more commonly used. In the rest of the country, and the world, they are treated as separate last names. Bhattacharya is more complicated. In Bengal, it is pronounced approximately BHOT-tah-CHAR-jo. Anywhere else, people do the best they can.
First names -- In Bengal, Anupa would be pronounced O-NU-pah. Anywhere else in India, it would be Uh-NU-pah. (i.e., the first syllable would be a schwa.) The default vowel in Bengali is just different, and for some reason, this is not reflected in the transliterated spelling. Ours not to reason why. Likewise, Pradip is PRO-deep. (To add another wrinkle, the 'd' is 'soft' as in French.)
Chapter 2
It was assumed, of course, that the responsibility of showing what would constitute the downstairs apartment to the potential tenants would fall on Anupa's shoulders, and accordingly, an appointment was arranged on a Sunday afternoon, normally the one time of the week that Anupa was able to allow herself a little leisure. She assumed the extra burden without complaint, and devoted much of the already busy morning to having the rooms aired out, cleaned, and generally made presentable. And she barely had an opportunity to sit back and survey the results when the shrill doorbell sounded, and the maid ushered in the Chatterjees.
Anupa took to the couple immediately. The Admiral was a robust if slightly weather-beaten gentleman, always ready to launch in to an anecdote, yet considerate of the attention-span of his audience. His opinions were informed both by a native curiosity and his wide experience, and Anupa knew that he would meet even her father's rather exacting standards of good company. And if the Admiral's upbringing had been somewhat parochial in comparison to her father's pedigree, his subsequent eminence would certainly go some way in compensating for it. Mrs. Chatterjee, who was several years younger than her husband, was a plump middle aged woman with an extremely maternal air. She proved to be an extremely voluble companion and in the short tour they took of the apartment, she managed to ascertain the pertinent details about Anupa's situation and her family, and shared similar details about her own. A vague awareness of Anupa's former acquaintance with her brothers was all the more reason for her to share all possibly relevant information. The Chatterjees were a childless couple, entirely reconciled to their situation, although they were looking forward to the prospect of nephews and nieces to spoil, and in this respect they were counting upon her much younger brothers. This, excusably, was information of some interest to Anupa, and she listened eagerly but with little expectation of pleasure.
"...And now finally I have an excuse to nag, because one of them, at least, has managed to find himself a wife. Yes, dear, had you heard of it? Anil just got married a few months ago..."
Anupa shook her head, trying to conceal something very like relief, as Mrs. Chatterjee continued, blithely unaware of the impact of her revelations.
"A very nice girl. She isn't Bengali*, but then, one can't have everything. And, do you know, my dear, you'd never guess she wasn't if I hadn't told you. Yes! She's picked up Bengali so quickly, and I'm teaching her how to cook shukto and maacher jhol **. Now it's Pradip's turn, and I'm looking for a good girl for him. This is a lovely room. I have an almirah that would fit into this niche perfectly. You know what's funny? I always assumed that Pradip would be the one who'd go off and find himself a wife, and I'd have to make a match for Anil, but look at how it's worked out. I got a phone call out of the blue one day, with Anil telling me he had asked this girl to marry him. And Pradip is more than thirty years old now, and he's never even brought up the subject. You can be sure that I will though. This kitchen will do quite well for the two of us, and as for the courtyard, do you use it to dry the washing?"
"No, we use the terraces. The courtyard is for this floor."
"That will suit us perfectly, then. Anyway, so now that I'm in Calcutta and the Admiral have so much time on our hands, our principal task will be to choose Pradip a bride. I'm quite amazed at how much all these girls are doing nowadays. I mean, look at you. A College professor and everything! You shouldn't let that get in the way of having a family, though. Is your family on the lookout for anyone? Maybe I'll take the matter in hand, once I've got Pradip settled. Oh, there's no need to blush like that. One does have to think about these things, you know."
"Marrying off the whole world, are you, Shanta? She reminds me of the wife of the first Captain I ever served under. She had this niece, and she was always looking for an officer who would make a good match for her. I had to go marry Shanta in self-defense! And now look at us; we can't let the young folks alone either!"
"You can't imagine how many times he's told that story. Of course, he thanks his stars I'm nothing like that woman. I never traumatized your officers, did I?"
"No, Shanta, you spoilt them like children. I'm lucky they let me retire honourably without a reprimand from High Command."
"Of course he's just joking, dear. Maybe I did spoil them a little. But they're such nice young men, and most of them have never been away from their families before. I know; I had to bring up my little brothers since they were children. Young men are just like boys, but then, so are old men."
"Smiling at us, are you? Just you wait! You'll turn out just like us someday."
Anupa acknowledged the Admiral's comment with another smile, wishing that she could be so lucky. The Chatterjees obviously shared a comfortable rapport, and she envied them their banter. Even in her own home, Anupa had never been able to speak so freely. As they wrapped up their round of the apartment, she invited them upstairs for a cup of tea, and to meet her father.
As far as Anupa was able to monitor the conversation in between seeing to the tea arrangements, her father was able to come to a comfortable understanding with the Chatterjees. He was obviously rather impressed with the Admiral, and even asked the couple if they would complete a bridge foursome with him and Mrs. Chaudhuri. Anupa had dutifully played with them for years, as had her father's barrister, but her father could never voice his dissatisfaction with their game vehemently enough, and had been seeking an alternative arrangement for years. Now it seemed at least tentatively that he had arrived at one. The matter of the rent was never brought up. Kali Charan Bhattacharya deemed such a matter beneath his dignity, and treated his potential tenants as new neighbours. The Chatterjees for their part were entirely content with the arrangements as outlined by the barrister, and saw no reason to bring up the matter themselves, a consideration which elevated them even further in the opinion of their landlord. The Chatterjees arranged to move in the following week itself, and Anupa was left to see to the practical arrangements involved in facilitating the move. She was, however, more preoccupied with other concerns.
Chapter 3
As he entered the house, the tehsildar's wife offered him the mail, which he grabbed, absently, and inquired, "Sa'ab, tsaha paije kai?" He blinked, having hardly registered her presence, and replied, "Ho," + and then, remembering his manners, thanked her as she was leaving the room. She went into the kitchen, unflustered. Most of the Collectors whom she had worked for in this house behaved in just such a manner. They had tremendous local authority and corresponding perks, including the palatial mansion and a sizable staff that came with the job, but in most cases, were extremely young and often unmarried. They had grown up in cities, and found themselves at their wit's end in these vast empty houses and the limited social sphere in which their word went practically unquestioned.
Pradip she considered particularly unfortunate. In the three years he had been here, never once had he taken a leave of absence, and only once had he entertained a visitor, his brother, who had stayed for a few weeks and had never returned. He did receive letters every so often, and the photographs he had on his desk depicted only two other people, an older couple, though obviously too young to be his parents. In her opinion, what he needed was a wife, and she wondered if he had someone to look out for him in those matters. Here of course it would be impossible for him to find someone, especially since he was Bengali. Perhaps in Bombay he might meet someone suitable, she surmised, and then shook her head. Whatever all these young people might be doing nowadays, it was entirely too risky to just pick a wife on one's own like that. It was all those movies, giving people these funny ideas. Marriage was serious business; it was not the sort of matter for young people to handle on their own. One needed a family to look into these things. Then she smiled at herself as she set about lighting the stove to make his tea. What was she thinking about, anyway? It wasn't as though he would ever ask for her opinion on the matter. Her job was to keep house for him, and though she prided herself in looking out for these young men, and making sure they ate well, ultimately, they were the ones in charge.
She brought the tea to the shaded verandah at the back of the house, where she knew she would find him. He was holding an opened letter in one hand, and staring out at the gardens, with an introspective look in his eyes. She left the tea and a small assortment of biscuits on the table before him and withdrew.
Pradip had been reading a letter from his sister, Shanta, and he was thinking about what she had to say. How ironic it was that they should be staying in that house, of all houses! He remembered it well; he had gone there often enough when Anil used to officiate there as purut. It was there that he had first seen Anupa. Like many young Bengali men, Pradip had affected in his College days a kind of rational areligious Marxism, and had been very resistant of his brother's attempts to introduce him to traditional religious practices. He had gone to the Bhattacharya house the first time only to placate his brother, and he had returned because of her. It became commonplace for him to return every month, although they never exchanged two words together. He would watch her as she went through the devout motions, and after the Puja he would accept the prasad ++ from her hands. She grew to recognize him, and he thought that she reserved a private smile for him, but it wasn't until several months later that they had spoken to each other. He remembered that day as though it were yesterday. He had been waiting at a bus stop on College Street, and she had literally fallen into his arms. By the time she was firmly on her feet again and he had made sure that she was none the worse from the fall, he had missed the bus. She had been profoundly apologetic, but to Pradip, the bus had become entirely immaterial. He had persuaded her to join him at his favourite coffee-shop, and there, in a large dinghy room buzzing with noisy undergraduates and office clerks, they had started to get to know each other. He had learnt that this was her first day at Presidency College +++, studying English Honours, and her first experience with public transportation. He had told her that he was at Presidency himself, in his final year, studying Economics. And most importantly, he had learnt her name. Anupa Bhattacharya. Even now, he could not say it without a certain reverent air.
He took a sip of the tea, which had already started to cool down, and waved away the flies fluttering around the biscuits. So Anupa was not yet married. He had always assumed that her father would have found a suitable match for her within a few months of his leaving Calcutta. A college professor -- it was the right profession for her; she was always the most considerate teacher. Still, it was hard to believe that a woman from that family would work for a living. Her father must be in pretty bad shape financially, if he needed not only to take in tenants but also to live on the income of his daughter. Somehow that thought comforted him; he was surprised at the viscerality of his reaction.
He took another look at Shanta di's letter. She was talking about marrying him off, as usual. Apparently, she had already started looking for suitable brides. And she wanted him to come to Calcutta so that she could start to finalize things. He thought about her suggestion. He would be transferring out of here within the week, and he did not yet have a posting in Bombay. He had not taken any leave ever since he had started work, and this was the perfect opportunity; there was no chance that he would be missed. And Shanta di was right; there was no reason for him to put off marriage any longer. And as for Anupa, it was time to move on. He could not live the rest of his life mourning a shadow.
* Bengalis divide the world into two categories, Bengali and Non-Bengali. This is not done in any mean-spirited way, and they can be quite open. But being born a non-Bengali is a fate for which one is to be pitied, not censured. (I am one; I'm allowed to make fun of it ;) )** shukto -- a kind of typically Bengali vegetable stew.
Maacher jhol -- fish curry. Obviously, this is a non-specific term, and can include any type of fish and practically any means of preparation. Bengalis are great eaters of fresh water fish.
*** tehsildar -- a kind of caretaker cum man of all work. Obviously, he's also serving as Pradip's chauffeur here, and his wife does the cooking and looks after the house.
**** District Magistrate (also known as Collector) -- Pradip is in the IAS (Indian Administrative Service), in the Maharashtra cadre, which is why he expects a posting in Bombay. For the moment, he is posted in a district (analogous to county) in rural Maharashtra. A Collector is the highest Civil Servant at District level, so he's very powerful locally, although he's a pretty junior officer. Chances are that once he starts serving in posts at the State and National Level, he'll never live in a house this big or have so many people at his beck and call again, although he'll be more powerful indirectly as he rises through the ranks.
+ Sa'ab, tsaha paije kai? -- Marathi for "Would you like tea, Sir?" I'm trying to keep it phonetic, but my knowledge of Marathi is very rudimentary.
Ho -- Marathi for "yes".
++ prasad -- The food offerings made to the deity during the Puja. Afterwards, they are distributed among the devotees.
+++ Presidency College -- I think it's the oldest College in India, and it's definitely one of the two most prestigious. The entrance criteria are correspondingly stiff.
Finally, a note on arranged marriages. Arranged marriages and "love" marriages are about equally common in urban India today. I can speak definitively only for my own community, but theoretically, marital happiness is supposed to be contingent on compatibility, and it is on these grounds that arranged marriages are defended. There are a series of criteria that one takes into consideration, and the closer the match, the "better" it supposedly is. These considerations include caste, but equally or more important are things like educational and income levels, future prospects, age, family background, and religion. Even in the case of arranged marriages, caste considerations can be ignored if everything else is perfectly suitable. On the other hand, it is not at all uncommon for love matches to be compatible caste-wise, as is the case with Anupa and Pradip. Also, one doesn't exactly marry a complete stranger in an arranged marriage nowadays. The couple and the families usually take time to get to know one another for some time before the wedding, and a sort of hybrid "love arranged" marriage has evolved. And the people involved have quite a bit of say in the matter, and at the very least are allowed to exercise a veto. I'm not sure why I'm getting onto this right now, but I felt like an explanation might be in order.
Chapter 4
Anupa glanced at her watch, wondering when she would arrive at her sister Mira's north Calcutta home. She had promised that she would be in plenty of time to help, but given the state of traffic, she was beginning to wonder if she should have been more moderate in her promises. Fortunately, she had managed to find a seat on the bus; after a grueling day at work, she did not know if she could have endured the journey with her petite frame dangling from the rails. But today was a rather special day, and she did not know if she could have promised any less.
The family were meeting with a prospective groom for Lata, her sister's sister-in-law, and Anupa, universally acknowledged as the most reliable coordinator for any sort of occasion, had obviously been required. Just thinking about the matter made Anupa feel older than her years. At twenty-eight, she herself was not yet an ineligible marital prospect, and despite her habitually over-worked air, and a certain disillusioned look in her eyes, her subtle beauty and natural elegance often took people by surprise, all the more so because these were qualities not obviously apparent. But it had been years since her family had looked into the possibilities of a suitable match. Not that Anupa regretted their lack of interest; the whole business of marriage negotiations had always made her feel a little too much like a marketable commodity put on display, especially since her heart had been promised elsewhere. But that avenue had long been closed to her, and as she saw the amicably settled couples around her, Anupa had to admit that she did nurse some regrets.
She had been wont to rate the delicacy of her own sentiments over the pragmatism of their concerns, but she could not help wonder whether in cherishing an exotic, but faded bloom, she had sacrificed more robust prospects. She had heard entirely too often that she would make a good daughter-in-law and a good mother not to wonder whether those offices would suit her. As a daughter she had been almost entirely neglected ever since her mother died -- but she hastily suppressed so disloyal a sentiment.
Still, as she journeyed to the Mukherjees' home, she wondered how it would have suited her had she married into it. It was a boisterous family; her father held that they were vulgar, though he had married a daughter to that house, but to Anupa they were a healthy family; her own had a slightly decaying air in its tenuously maintained aristocracy. Mira's in-laws had not the distinguished bearing of her father nor the delicacy of her mother's sentiments, but intrusive as they could be, they meant well. Mira's boys, Sujay and Vijay, had the run of the house, and they could not have had more caring grandparents. Lata, herself spoilt and childlike, was also a doting aunt and companion. It was Mira herself who was inadequate when it came to dealing with the boys. Anupa did not blame her; she had seen a very different sort of house herself, but still, as their mother it would have been far more suitable had she been more involved in their upbringing instead of complaining constantly of the fatiguing nature of the chores she had taken upon herself, Of course, Anupa had no doubt that the boys would turn out well, but she knew her sister would not play as great a role in it as she ought, although she would take all the credit for it. And then there was Chandan. He was a good father, she knew, and in his own way, he did care for Mira, but to Anupa's eyes there could not have been a more unsuitable couple.
She had known Chandan at Presidency, and she remembered him as a carefree and extremely friendly youth. When the proposal had first come from his family, it had been for her, but Anupa had demurred, and Mrs. Chaudhuri had intervened on her behalf, pointing out that she and Chandan were entirely too close in age, and that Mira, two years younger, would be the more suitable match. Seeing how things had turned out, Anupa could not help wondering if she had made the wrong choice. Chandan had acquired the jaded air of a man who concocted excuses to avoid his own home, and her little sister had turned into a nagging housewife. Married before they had come properly to know one another, they had discovered too late that they shared little common ground in their interests, and neither had been properly willing to accommodate the other. Matters had been further complicated when Mira, unaccustomed to dealing with in-laws, had insisted on her own nuclear establishment, and been denied. She had accepted that situation, but only by assuming a perpetually martyred air which had not helped matters at either end. Anupa, more accustomed to compromise, knew that her sister might have handled the situation more tactfully, but Mira was used to having her own way. She complained always of the treatment of her in-laws, and compared herself to Lata, and complained that they spoilt her boys inordinately. She had still not forgiven Chandan for not allowing her to set up a household on her own, and as a result was hardly involved at all in the management of her mother-in-law's. Anupa knew that the old lady in turn was offended by Mira's aloofness.
And now they were looking for a match for Lata. Mira, excited at the prospect of a wedding, had suddenly dropped all her reservations of cooperating with her in-laws, and was bent upon involving her more-competent sister as well. Anupa in any case was always welcome at the Mukherjees', and Mira's in-laws had for once whole-heartedly embraced her suggestion. Anupa, who had had Lata as a student in college, could not help think that she was rather too immature to be thinking of marriage at this stage, but Lata herself was markedly excited at the prospect. This Anupa could understand; Lata had always been a romantic, and she would probably fall in love with the first reasonably good-looking man to whom she was introduced to as a marital prospect. What she wondered was how soon such an approach would lead to disillusionment.
Getting off at a convenient street corner, Anupa walked an extra block to find the sweet-shop she preferred, where she purchased a dozen khir-cadambas and a pot of mishti-doi *. The Mukherjees did not stand on ceremony, she knew, but Anupa always felt as though she were taking advantage of their hospitality if she came empty-handed. And on an occasion such as this one, a few extra sweets might well be desirable. Pradip had always been addicted to mishti-doi, she caught herself thinking, and she smiled wryly at how miserably she had failed in exorcising his memory. She then made her way to the house itself, where she was enthusiastically, if a little unceremoniously, greeted, and almost immediately after her arrival she found herself in Lata's room, helping Mira get her ready for the impending visit.
"Lata, keep your head still. This mascara is going all over the place."
"Ouch! Boudi +, let go; you're hurting me! Here, let Anupa di do it. Anupa di, could you put on my mascara?"
"I don't see how she will do it any better than I. If you would only hold still, we'd have been done ages ago! Here, you try, Anupa di."
"There you go, Lata. Now just hold on another second, and let me wipe off that mess over there."
"Thanks, Anupa di. That's wonderful. I can hardly recognize myself; I look so grown-up. Do you like my new saree? Do you think he'll like it? Oh, I'm so excited!"
"It's a lovely saree, Lata. Let me straighten out those folds for you. There, that's much better. You look beautiful."
"Now mind you don't make a mess of things when you carry the tea into the room, Lata. I can't imagine why your mother didn't insist on your wearing sarees more often. You can barely walk in one. Anupa di, have I told you about the prospective groom? He's an IAS officer. Maharashtra cadre. He'll be living in Bombay! Oh, Lata is so lucky! I remember the day your brother came to see me, Lata. You must be so thrilled!"
Anupa smiled as she watched the two sisters-in-law exchange exultations, and bit her lip to keep from laughing as the old Mrs. Mukherjee hurried into the room, almost shrieking in excitement.
"Oh, they're here; they're here! Lata, are you ready? Bouma **, come along! You have to help me welcome them! Lata, you stay here for now. Anupa, will you come with us?"
"No, I'll just stay here with Lata. This is a family thing, after all."
"Then you bring her out. You are family, my dear."
"No, I'll be fine back here, thanks."
"I won't force you, dear. But you are welcome to join us. And Anupa, thanks for coming all this way. I know Lata appreciates it; we all do."
"It's nothing. I enjoy coming."
Mrs. Mukherjee nodded kindly, and Anupa felt almost guilty for having usurped a place that was rightfully her sister's in that lady's affections. But Mira's manners were always abrupt, and even now, she interrupted the moment.
"We can't just be standing here, Ma! Let's go look after our guests. You know Anupa di will be fine."
The two women hurried out, leaving Lata and Anupa behind. Lata, simultaneously apprehensive and thrilled, could not stay still or silent, and Anupa's calming influence was extremely useful, as was her deftness in straightening out the younger woman's saree. All too soon the moment came for Lata to be called out, and Anupa helped her balance the loaded tray. Despite Lata's entreaty, she demurred from appearing before the guests. Although the Mukherjees were inattentive to this sort of thing, Anupa was well aware that being an unmarried woman herself, it would not be entirely proper for her to appear before a prospective groom for Lata.
She stayed behind as Lata, with a last apprehensive glance back, entered the living room. Looking around Lata's room, she picked up a book and leafed idly through it. The visit seemed to be going extremely well, and every so often Anupa heard bursts of laughter coming through from the living room. This was certainly very unlike the ordeals she had had to undergo when being examined by prospective grooms herself. Her father had been looking for men of a certain stature and background for his eldest daughter, and considerations of personality or education had weighed rather low. Anupa had been confronted for the most part with a series of men she could not envision carrying on a conversation with. And it had hardly helped that she had furtively promised her heart elsewhere. Fortunately for her, several of them had not considered her pedigree or education as sufficient compensation for her lack of fortune, and Mrs. Chaudhuri had managed to convince her father that those who had were beneath her.
Anupa smiled as she thought of Mrs. Chaudhuri. The older woman had been more than a friend and confidant to her; she had been almost a mother. Anupa had heard it speculated that her father had refrained from marrying Mrs. Chaudhuri only because of his extreme sensitivity to caste considerations, but she considered this unlikely. The two had never been more than friends, and though Mrs. Chaudhuri was aware of the most intimate details of the Bhattacharya household, Anupa knew this was because of her friendship with her deceased mother and her friendship with Anupa herself rather than any interest in her father. But though Anupa had no one whom she counted as a closer friend, she knew that on some matters they would never be able to see eye to eye. Mrs. Chaudhuri was still looking for her to make a brilliant match, and though she better than anyone else knew of her attachment to Pradip, Anupa knew that she would not be able to comprehend that those feelings might yet prevent her from looking elsewhere. Mrs. Chaudhuri did hope to see Anupa settled in a marriage of affection, but to her way of thinking, such a match would be inconceivable until a set of stringent criteria, including fortune and family background, were met.
The Mukherjees were very different. The prospective groom they were entertaining even now had promising prospects, but she knew it would be far more important to them whether he would be able to make Lata happy, and whether he would be able to blend in to their extended family network. And it certainly sounded as though that would be the case. They appeared to be getting along famously. Anupa wondered how soon the engagement would take place.
It occurred to her as she stood there in Lata's room that the guests would probably need some water or something to drink to wash down the snacks, and she walked towards the kitchen to instruct the maid accordingly. As she passed by the living room door, another figure emerged into the corridor, and Anupa was startled to recognize Mrs. Chatterjee.
"Anupa! What a pleasant surprise, to see you here of all places! How do you come to be here?"
"Mira is my sister, Mashima ++."
"Oh, you cannot call me mashima, and make me feel so old. Come, it must be Shanta di. That is what my brothers call me, and if you are a friend of theirs then you must call me the same. You must know why I am here then, do you not? Why, I was telling you only the other day that I was looking for a bride for Pradip, and where should I look, but your sister's house! Oh, but it's a small world! Lovely girl, that. I'm quite taken with her already, and it will be so nice to have someone with whom I can speak Bengali. Pradip just got here today you know. He's taken leave from work, and I said that as long as you're here, let me have my way about this. So I managed to bring him here. He acted like he wasn't at all interested in looking for a bride, but then they always do that."
"Will he be staying with you?"
"Oh, but of course! I don't know how long he can stay. He might get a posting at any time and have to leave, but he's here for the weekend at any rate, so he can help us move in. It's always nice to have a young pair of shoulders for that sort of thing, isn't it? I can't wait to move into your house. I have so many plans for how I'll set things up, and then, your father is being so very hospitable. I just know it'll suit us very well. Oh, Anupa, look at me, rattling away with you, and quite forgetting what I came for. No wonder the Admiral calls me quite scatterbrained. Could you show me to the kitchen, my dear?"
"Yes, of course. Do you need something?"
"Yes, dear. It's that brother of mine. I always said that he had no manners! Your sister and Lata brought out so many lovely sweets, and what does Pradip do but insist upon Mishti-doi! Not that I blame him; he absolutely adores it, and he's been out of Calcutta so long. But really, it was most inconsiderate! What if they hadn't had any? But fortunately they said they did, and they were going to send Lata for it, but I said I'd go find it. After all, it is for the best that they get to know one another, don't you think? I'm telling you, Pradip is going to get it from me and the Admiral on the way home!"
Laughing despite herself, Anupa led Mrs. Chatterjee to the kitchen and, opening the pot, dispensed a generous serving for Pradip. The irony of the situation did not escape her; she and Pradip had discovered that particular shop while exploring out of College Street one day, and had frequented it regularly. She was certain Pradip would recognize the doi; he had created a myth about a secret ingredient in the doi at that particular store. As she led her companion back to the living room and prepared to retreat, she found herself faced with the most vehement opposition.
"Nonsense, my dear, of course you must come out! It is all family and friends, and then, it has been ages since you and Pradip have met! You have to come in, really. No one is so particular about these things anymore. You may be sure that we don't stand on ceremony, and I'm sure your relatives don't want you lingering back here!"
Against her protests, Anupa found herself entering the living room. Had she come herself she might have snuck in unnoticed, but Mrs. Chatterjee would allow no such thing.
"Look whom I found! Truly, I did not know Anupa would be here! Why, it seems we are to take your father's house, Mrs. Mukherjee. I always say what a small world it is. Come in, my dear!"
Smiling into the ground, Anupa mumbled a shy greeting, and went to take a seat by Lata. The room was full of friendly greetings she attempted to respond to, but she was conscious the entire time of one set of eyes upon her. She willed herself to meet them, and there he was, before her once again. She could not say that he looked just the same. Certainly his dress sense had altered considerably from the jeans and kurta he had affected in College. He was as handsome as he had always looked to her. But there was someone hardened in his eyes that gave her the eerie feeling that being so familiar he was still entirely alien to her. And there was something else there that she thought she recognized. With a start, she realized it was humour. She had been staring at him for a very long moment, and he glanced down significantly at the bowl of doi in her hand. Remembering herself, she walked up to him, and handed it to him. He accepted, and thanked her in the most neutral tone. Then, turning to Lata, he asked her what subjects she had most enjoyed in college.
* Bengal is quite famous for its sweets. There is a sweet shop on practically every street corner, and one never visits empty handed; one always brings some sweets.khir-cadambas -- A Bengali sweet. I don't think I've ever seen them outside of Calcutta. (Ok, by all rights she should have bought the classic Bengali sandesh, but I'm a renegade, and I don't happen to like them much, so I imposed my tastes on her.)
Mishti-doi -- As far as I'm concerned, the classic Bengali sweet. It's basically sweet set curds (yogurt to Americans, although yogurt tends to imply the stirred counterpart), but it's a lot better than it sounds. You do get it outside Calcutta, and some people pretend to make it at home, but it never comes out the way it does at the store, and there are some places that specialize in it.
+ Boudi -- term of address for brother's wife.
** Bouma -- term of address for son's wife. Of course, one's in-laws can call one by name, but traditionally they choose not to.
An aside: A wife isn't supposed to refer to her husband by name, traditionally. My Mum doesn't, usually, and never in direct address. That's why Mira said "your brother." A pointed version of "he" is commonly used, or "xxx's father". In direct address, "listen" is generally sufficient( "xxx's father" if you're really desperate, although Bengalis don't tend to use that as much as north Indians.)
++ Mashima -- term of address for older woman, basically analogous to Aunty.
Chapter 5
Invariably an early riser, Anupa woke up long before the rest of the family, and having had her bath, she came out to the back terrace to put out her towel to dry, and to comb out her long hair, allowing it to dry in the breeze. It was a bright morning, and she could tell that it would be a humid Calcutta summer's day, but right now the breeze was crisp and delicious, with just a hint of warmth when she stepped out of the shade. From the voices reaching her from the street, she could tell that the hustle of the day's work had commenced long before. On the main street, she knew, newspapers were being delivered, shop fronts opened up, and the sweepers were washing out the streets. In the back alley, the servants were carrying pails of drinking water back from the tube-wells to the various houses, the milk was being delivered, and people were leaving for the morning's shopping, to bring home a complement of fresh vegetables and fish for the day's repast. It had been many years since Anupa's father had left this chore up to the servants, but in most houses, she knew, the head of the family would make the choices himself. Past the terraces of the other houses, with their usual complement of clunky TV antennae and lines of clothes only just being put out to dry, she could see the tops of a cluster of palm trees, the large leaves fluttering in the breeze. Though it was so close to her house, she had never quite discovered where that particular stand of trees was. Not that she had made any concerted effort to discover it, and in any case, palm trees were excessively common in Calcutta, especially in its less inhabited quarters, but from her roof-top here, she had always regarded that spot as an oasis -- her own little haven, away from all the tribulations of her life.
She gazed at it now, but she thought only of Pradip. He was in Calcutta again. She had never quite discovered where he had gone, nor had she attempted to, but she had known that he had left. And now he had returned. He would not be staying long, of course. An IAS officer at his level was rarely in a position to take extended leave, and he had made it fairly clear that he had no choice but to leave as soon as he had his next posting. But while he stayed, he would stay in her house, and court Lata. Anupa had no illusions about that. Lata's partiality was entirely transparent, but Anupa had taken for granted that that would be the case. But Pradip returned her interest; Anupa knew his nonchalant posture of indifference too well to allow herself to imagine otherwise. And his indifference the other day had been directed at her, while Lata's enthusiastic chatter had engaged him completely. For a minute, she almost envied Lata her ease of conversation; she and Pradip had started out amicably enough, but she knew she had been guarded with her heart in a way that he had not been with his. She had never been in any doubt of his attachment, just as she could not now mistake his indifference. But he had had reason to question whether it was simply the circumstances that had kept them apart; he had not then been wholly privy to her heart, and he had had cause to doubt the depth of her commitment. And he would never realize now that her heart was still, and always, his. Lata, on the other hand, was an open book; Pradip could not have mistaken the meaning of the regard written all over her face. And he would not have been so cruel as to cultivate that regard if he did not think he would return her affection. And he had given the Mukherjees every assurance that the two families should grow better acquainted. There could only be one outcome to this increasing proximity. They would make a match of it; it was best for her to be reconciled to the fact of the matter. And if it was painful for her that he should be marrying so close within her own circle, then she had to be grateful for the fact that the couple would live all the way across the country in Bombay.
One of the maids came looking for her on the terrace, and Anupa gave instructions for lunch. Then, remembering that the Chatterjees would be moving in today, she told the maid to make sure there was enough for all of them. Going back into the house, she went to the small Puja chamber, and put out the day's offering of fruit. Then she started clearing out the ashes from the burnt incense, and lighting a new stick, she watched as the intricate swirls of smoke dissipate into nothingness. She could hear a truck arrive outside, and subsequently, the noise of furniture being maneuvered through the doors. Evidently, the Chatterjees had decided to get a head-start on their moving. In the melee, Anupa thought she could hear Pradip's voice, yelling out instructions to the hired movers. His Hindi had obviously improved since he had moved out of Calcutta, but then, it had always been better than the average Calcutta Hindi, if only because of his addiction to Hindi movies. Anupa herself had never seen a single Hindi movie before she went to college; in her family, with its strong ties to traditional theater, they had always been regarded with no little disdain. Of course, Mira was addicted to them, and Anupa invariably found her and Lata frantically learning the lyrics of the latest popular songs, but she could never hear the old classics without thinking of Pradip. He had prided himself on his ability to identify the movie, its stars, and the music director from the smallest snatch of a song. Absently, she found herself humming a song Pradip used to sing to her -- a song which had naturally become a favourite of hers.
Kabhi kabhi, mere dil me khayal aata hai,
Ke jaise tujhko banaya gaya hai mere lye.
Tu abse pehele sitaro me bas rahi thi kahi;
Tujhe zameen pe bulaya gaya hai mere lye.Sometimes my heart tells me
that you were made just for me.
You belong somewhere far away with the stars;
You were brought down to earth just for me. *
"Anupa!"
Belatedly hearing the summons, she rushed to the dining room. Her father was regally seated at the head of the table, systematically slicing the melon, and lecturing the servant, who stood by, on fine distinctions of quality. He nodded at Anupa as she entered and took her seat across from Ila. Then he turned to the grapes soaking in a large bowl, and scolded the servant for again forgetting to put out the scissors with which he individually cut each grape from the stalks. As Anupa helped herself to some of the fruit and started eating, he turned to her and said, "Fine racket they're making downstairs. Really, it's going to be quite intolerable if they go on like this all day."
"But, Baba +, they're moving in. They can hardly help the noise."
"Yes, well, they do owe us the courtesy of making sure it's as silent as possible. Anupa, you should go down and talk to them once you're done eating. Here, take another slice of melon. Really, I don't understand why you insist on squeezing so much lemon on it!"
She nodded at him, unwilling to contradict him and put him out of humour as he changed the subject and started speaking of a new young playwright who had written to him, extravagantly praising his productions, and sent him a play to consider.
"It's promising, I'll say that much. He has definite potential. Really, I must invite him over sometime and meet him personally. We might well be able to do something with this play of his. I'll be going over it on the front balcony while the sun is on that side of the house. But really, Anupa, you have to do something about the noise downstairs."
After everyone had finished breakfast, Anupa helped clear away the table. Then, heading into the kitchen, she instructed the maid to make tea for the Chatterjees, and the men helping them move. The maid obligingly set the water to boil, and put out the cups, but since she was seeing to lunch, Anupa decided to take the tray downstairs herself. She carefully made her way down the stairs, and then around the various pieces of furniture strewn about the landing. The door to the apartment was open. From one of the inner bedrooms, she could hear voices, to which she could not help but listen.
"Put the dresser over there, Pradip. No, a little bit further -- that's perfect, don't you think? Or maybe I should put it on the other corner..."
"No, this is fine, Didi! You said so yourself."
"You can talk like that to your Didi; just wait 'til you have a wife. You won't be able to open your mouth! She'll have you wrapped around her little finger. But of course I'm just kidding! A lovely girl like Lata would never treat you like that. Now tell me, honestly, what did you think of her? They were quite taken with you, I could tell! I was so proud of you! But really, what were you thinking with that doi? What if they hadn't had any? I'm so glad Anupa brought some."
"Anupa?"
"Yes, she was the one who brought it, silly. It was a brand new pot. Just think how embarrassing it would have been if it hadn't been for her! Anyway, you didn't answer my question. What do you think of Lata? I know you were making such a fuss about getting married, but really, it's about time, and she's such a nice girl."
"She's a nice girl."
"Oh, and you're generous with your praise, aren't you? What more do you want in a girl, I might ask? She's beautiful, she's mild mannered and delightful to talk to, she sings, she got a first class on her B.A...."
"Yeah, but she didn't seem that eager to go back for her Masters."
"Not everyone needs a Masters degree. If she's going to get married and settle down, I don't see why she should have one. I never went to college at all, and what harm did that do me, I might ask? If I can be an Admiral's wife, you're not telling me Lata's not good enough for you! Are you going to tell me Anupa's better than you because she did her Ph.D.? You get the education you need; you got a Masters and went into the civil service, and she did a Ph.D. because she wanted to be a professor. And if Lata doesn't want a Masters, so what? She is more than sufficiently qualified to marry and settle down, and maybe even to work for a few years if she feels like it."
"I didn't know she had a Ph.D." He was almost mumbling now; Anupa, in the outer room, could barely make out the words.
"Pradip, we're talking about Lata! You're the one who told them you'd stay in touch with them. You can't make me and the Admiral look bad, now. You have to make up your mind; you can't just lead on a girl from a decent family like that!"
"I'm not leading her on. I said I'd get in touch with them, didn't I?"
"Oh good! You don't know how long I've waited to see you settle down with a nice girl like that. Once you are married, my work is done! Then you'd better give me some nephews and nieces!"
Anupa made her way to the bedroom where Pradip and Mrs. Chatterjee were, and managed to enter, precariously balancing her load. Pradip looked at her, unable to hide his surprise, and then looked away, devoting his attention to the dresser he had earlier abandoned. Mrs. Chatterjee fluttered around her young friend.
"Anupa, this is so sweet of you! And aren't you looking lovely today! You should wear salwaar-kameezes more often, my dear -- they're so becoming on you. And the colour -- with your fair complexion, it's just perfect! And I always say they are so much more convenient than sarees. Now at my age, of course, it's different, but a beautiful girl like you! Just you wait; after I'm done with this brother of mine, I'll find a nice husband for you! Just ask the Admiral; I can always spot the perfect match!"
Anupa knew she would have been blushing had her complexion permitted it; she could not, at any rate, meet her friend's eye. Pradip, no longer content to stare at the dresser, started moving it closer to the corner.
"Pradip, stop fussing with the dresser! It's fine! Now have some tea. Anupa went to all this trouble! Really, you needn't have bothered. But I could use a nice cup of tea right now. That smells wonderful. Nothing like a good cup of pure Darjeeling, I always say! It's so hard to get outside Calcutta, my dear; you won't believe the trouble the Admiral and I have to go to get our hands on some! O go, shono! ** Anupa brought us some tea! Come and drink it while it's nice and hot! Oh, he must be busy in the other room. There, let me take him a cup!"
She left with a cup for herself, and one for the Admiral. Pradip remained stubbornly with the dresser, moving it back to that imaginary perfect spot.
"Two spoons?"
"What?"
"Do you still take two spoons of sugar in your tea?"
He couldn't stem the momentary sense of triumph that she should have remembered, but he resented his weakness that such a small gesture should still mean something to him, after she had thrown him off so definitively.
"No, just one. I've cut down on sugar."
* I translated the lyrics somewhat loosely, because all the poetry would have been lost had I been more literal. Even so, I'm a fairly shoddy translator, and no poet, so it's not that good. The song is gorgeous, but you'll have to take my word for it. Also, a plot summary of the film it's from (Kabhi Kabhi) included for no particularly good reason -- The couple in love who sing the song to each other early in the movie do not get married; her parents arrange a different match for her, and her boyfriend tells her it is her duty to follow their wishes. So she marries the other guy (who is really very nice) and he eventually marries someone too, and years later their kids end up getting together. The movie is full of uncomfortable encounters and telling glances and such between the two of them.About Hindi movies in general -- it's a huge and vibrant industry, but most of them are highly formulaic "boy meets girl; they overcome obstacles and marry" kind of movies. They are worse now than they used to be back when Pradip and Anupa used to watch them. They all have numerous song (and dance) sequences, and some of the songs from the older movies are fabulous. Pradip is based largely on my Dad, and I was brought up on Hindi movie music from the '60s and '70s. My Mum, like Anupa, had never been exposed to this stuff until she met my Dad.
+ Baba -- father, in Bengali.
** O go shono -- "shono" is "listen" "O go" is used almost exclusively by women to call or attract the attention of their husbands, since they don't usually call them by name. It doesn't really mean husband, or anything, for that matter.