The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Part One

  Somlata

  Part Two

  Boshon

  Part Three

  Somlata

  Part Four

  Boshon

  About the Author

  A Note From the Translator

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Somlata

  My husband’s name is Chakor Mitra Chowdhury. He’s pruned the Chowdhury, though, and is known as Chakor Mitra. At home everyone calls him by his nickname, Fuchu. When we married I was eighteen, and he was blissfully unemployed. By way of skills, he played the tabla and had passed his bachelor’s exam. No one in that family had ever held a job. They used to be zamindars, feudal landlords, in East Bengal. The effects of this were evident even at the time of the wedding. People said that despite dwindling wealth, they had enough to ensure their sons wouldn’t have to earn a living in their lifetime. The arrangements for the ceremony at the groom’s house after the wedding and the jewelry gifted by my in-laws also convinced my family that this must be true.

  Aristocratic families on the decline tend to show off disproportionately. They never let go of an opportunity to impress people. I realized from the minor squabbles and arguments in my husband’s home after the marriage that they had used up almost all their reserves for the wedding. They had even borrowed money.

  My shaashuri was a decent woman, especially for a mother-in-law. Mild and sympathetic. She came from a poor, god-fearing family and hadn’t been able to blend into this one. One day she made me sit down by her side and said, “It’s your fate that Fuchu had to be your husband. He is not a bad sort. But all we have now is for appearance’s sake; there’s nothing substantial left. I got him married in the hope that his wife’s luck will rub off on him. You have to pester him constantly. Do not indulge him in any circumstances. The slightest leniency will mean he will spend all his time in bed. I know the men in this family only too well. Utterly lazy, all of them.”

  This was worrying. If my husband’s fortunes didn’t improve after the wedding, would they consider me the source of bad luck?

  My shaashuri said regretfully, “Do you know how this household runs? With the money that comes from selling land and gold. This cannot go on. If you have any sense, you will groom Fuchu.”

  “Do you think I’ll be able to, Ma?” I said apprehensively. “He’s so bad-tempered.”

  She laughed. “You mustn’t fear a man’s temper. It’s all sound and fury. Pay no attention.”

  “Will you teach me what I should do?”

  “These things cannot be taught. You look smart enough. You will be able to work it out for yourself.”

  From that very day I developed a sisterhood with my mother-in-law. I had been petrified before the wedding by all the stories one hears about the species, and I felt lucky that she didn’t turn out to be a shrew.

  But then no family lacks for shrews. My jaa—my husband’s elder brother’s wife—for instance. This sister-in-law was older than me. And a harridan. There was also Pishi, my father-in-law’s sister, widowed in childhood. She was the de facto head of the family. She was mollycoddled by both her older and younger brothers because of the tragedy in her life. Her tyranny over the family was remarkable.

  The North Bengal town in which my in-laws lived was small, filthy, and congested. There was no variety to life here. Their house was quite a large one. They used to own several houses, even larger, and a lot of land in Pakistan. My father-in-law’s father had built them, as was the custom in families of zamindars. Elaborate affairs with many chambers and arches and domes. Nor was there a lack of claimants for a share. When the land on which these houses stood was allotted to Pakistan, all the relatives found sanctuary in this house. At first they were given shelter as distressed members of the family. But later they claimed a share of the house, since it had been built with estate funds. The house was registered to my father-in-law’s father; the inheritors were my father- and mother-in-law, my father-in-law’s elder brother and his daughter, and my husband and his brother. But that was on paper. Those who had occupied the house had not relinquished possession. The litigation had been going on for a long time, accompanied by quarrels and conflicts. When it came to special occasions, weddings or funerals, though, the entire family was united.

  It had taken me some time to grasp the complexities and to get to know each of them individually. They were particularly fond of bragging about their lordly, feudal ways back home. The men in the family were not keen on employment or business. They were more intent on enjoying themselves. But by the time I got married, some of them had had to start earning a living just to survive.

  All this is a preamble to my account of my husband. Being the scion of a feudal clan, he had been utterly spoiled as a child, encouraged to be indolent. Since there was no pressure to get an education, he had rolled at a leisurely pace toward a BA degree. He was prone to being short-tempered. No one dared to interrupt him when he practiced the tabla. He was furious if anyone ever woke him up. He would awaken at his convenience. He didn’t care to take his wife anywhere, and as for taking her advice or suggestion, that was downright humiliating.

  He was quite a bit older than me, thirty-two to my eighteen when we got married. I had not objected to this difference in age, for I had wanted a mature husband. And my parents were so poor that it would be an indulgence to make a fuss about the groom’s age or employment status. But, say what you will, my husband now was very handsome, even at thirty-six. Tall, fair, and slim, with a head full of thick hair and attractive in appearance. His looks made it obvious that he was blue-blooded. Given the difference in our ages and his gravitas, I used to address him with the formal aapni. The habit has persisted to this day.

  A few days after the wedding, when I gauged his mood to be favorable, I said, “Can you tell me why it’s not clear whom I’m dependent on in this family?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked in astonishment.

  “I wish to know who pays for my keep here.”

  “What sort of question is that? The same person pays for both our keeps.”

  “But I do not understand who it is.”

  “Why do you need to? You’re getting your meals—isn’t that enough?”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s not good enough. Someone must be paying for it. Who is it?”

  He could have been annoyed; he could have scolded me too. At least, that’s what I was expecting. But he didn’t get angry. With a grave, worried expression, he asked, “You mean you don’t know?”

  I murmured apprehensively, “Don’t be angry, but what I’ve heard isn’t honorable at all. I’m told the family is run on money from selling its gold and land.”

  He neither confirmed nor denied this. Sitting at a ground-floor window, he was having his evening cup of tea. There was an open drain outside, beyond which stood a wall with the plaster peeling. The room was infested with mosquitoes, and the drain gave off a horrible stench. A depressing, melancholy evening.

  Draining his cup slowly, he put it down on the old-fashioned round wooden table and, turning to me, said, “That is correct. I’m assuming you have more to say.”

  I felt a wave of fear. He looked grim, and his voice appeared even grimmer. But my shaashuri had told me not to be afraid. I said, “Family gold is sacred, family land too. I’ve heard it’s not right to sell off either of these.”

  He was grim but helpless, as his response revealed. Clearing his throat, he said, “I have no idea what to do.”

  Gathering courage, I said, “Look, the gold won’t last forever. The land is probably
almost gone too. Shouldn’t we be cautious?”

  Hiding nothing in his eyes, he said, “Who’s ‘we’? Do you mean you and me?”

  “Of course not,” I responded quickly. “We’re all in this together, everyone in the family.”

  Despondently, he said, “The wedding was very expensive too. By the way, why did you bring this up suddenly?”

  “You know I belong to a poor family. The poor live a life of hardships. Your family will not be able to bear poverty. You’ve been brought up in luxury.”

  “I hope no one here has humiliated you for belonging to a poor family.”

  “They haven’t. But I always feel uncertain because my family is poor.”

  Gently, he said, “There’s no reason to feel uncertain. Your family did not hide anything. We went ahead knowingly. Do you feel I am absolutely worthless?”

  “Not at all,” I answered hastily. “Perhaps you do not know how much I respect you. Why should you be worthless? It’s not that. You could easily earn a living if you wished to.”

  “But how? All I have is a BA degree. I can get a clerk’s job at best. Nothing better, and even that’s not easy. I have never considered employment.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a job. You could start your own business too.”

  “A business! That’s for shopkeepers. I cannot possibly do that.”

  I started laughing at his reaction. “All right,” I said, “never mind all that now. This is your time for a walk. Why don’t we talk afterward and plan something? That won’t upset you, will it?”

  He left with a worried expression instead of replying. Perhaps he was too distracted to pay attention to what I’d said.

  Life in a small town was dreary. There was nowhere to visit and no entertainment besides the cinema—and there too only ancient films ran. Gossiping with the neighbors was the only occupation. Even that was forbidden in this family, for it was demeaning to call on ordinary people. As a result, the evenings were depressing and oppressive. I felt like crying. Naturally, I missed my parents. The men could still go out to chat or to play cards, but the women didn’t have that option. My shaashuri involved herself with meditation and prayers after sunset. My jaa couldn’t stand me. I was very lonely.

  We lived in the southern half of the house. Our share consisted of ten rooms spread over three floors. The other claimants to the property occupied seven or eight rooms in the northern half. There were fewer people on our side. My husband’s elder brother, my bhaashur, whom he called Dada, had no children. He and his wife, my jaa, occupied two rooms on the first floor. My father-in-law’s elder brother, the jetha-moshai of the family, occupied two as well. My husband and I were in one room on the ground floor, with my father- and mother-in-law in the two others. Pishi lived on the second floor. I wondered what she needed three large rooms for. I went nowhere near her if I could help it. The way she glared at me made my blood run cold. Whenever something went wrong, she screamed so loudly from her second-floor sanctum that everyone in the house could hear her. I’ve never heard a voice so powerful. She had sent for me once after the marriage and draped a thick gold necklace around my neck. It was going well till then. But then, one day, she was so offensive to me that I wanted to weep at the humiliation of it all. A spirited woman would have taken the necklace off and returned it. I couldn’t do it. What she told me indirectly was that she was not at all pleased with her nephew marrying into a pauper’s family. I must have been dazzled by the blue-blooded ways of living here. She berated my mother-in-law, who was the root cause for getting a bride from a penniless family, but then again, why not, since she came from one too. And so on.

  I often wished I could go up to the roof in the afternoons and evenings. The rooms seemed so dismal, so cavernous, so ghostly, that I simply couldn’t bear to spend my time in them. The roof would at least offer me a breath of fresh air. I could take a stroll, sing under my breath. Because it was a common roof, some of the other occupants of the house came up too. There were three or four women of my age—I could have had a chat with them. But I didn’t dare go up because of Pishi. Sitting in her room with the door open, facing the staircase, she could make out even if I tiptoed past her.

  But I was so miserable in my room that day that despite my fear of Pishi, I made my way to the roof surreptitiously. I was a bundle of worry, apprehension, and anxiety. I did not seem to be experiencing the kind of joy other women felt on getting married. It seemed to me that married life would involve shouldering many burdens, which I might not be equal to.

  I was climbing upstairs quietly, on tiptoe. Pishi’s room was directly opposite the staircase. The light was switched on. I looked up to find her sitting facing the stairs, as usual. Fair-skinned, with eyes that seemed to devour everything around her. She used to be a beauty. But that beauty had never been worshipped, it had consumed no man, her youth had flowed away in vain. I knew what a litany of regrets her life was. It was no use being angry with fate, with society, with the country. And so her rage was expended on the innocent. Afraid as I was of her, I did not hate her.

  I stopped a few steps short. The thought of walking past her actually filled me with fear. Peeping in once more, I was a trifle surprised. Pishi was sitting still, the same way as before. Her eyes were open, unblinking. Her mouth had fallen open. My heart trembled for some reason. This was not a natural sight.

  I climbed the last few steps and entered her room.

  “Pishima! Aunty! O Pishima!”

  No reply. She kept sitting on her massive cane stool, leaning against the wall.

  I touched her gingerly, holding my fingers beneath her nostrils. My limbs froze. Pishima was probably dead.

  I was about to run downstairs. Suddenly I heard her voice behind me. “Stop. The news can wait.”

  I jumped out of my skin and looked back. Had she not died after all? But she was sitting the same way. Her eyes bulging, her mouth open. There was no movement of those lips. But I could clearly hear her speak. “Yes, I’m dead, you haven’t made a mistake. The wretch is finally gone.”

  I had never been so terrified in my life. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

  “All of you love the second floor, don’t you? You plan to occupy it as soon as I’m dead. And share the jewelry and money amongst yourselves. Not a chance. What are you standing there for? Come here. Come closer.”

  The order was like a magnet. Drawing me slowly toward her.

  “Where do you think you were running off to?”

  I couldn’t answer. My voice was choked. I could only stare. Pishi’s dead eyes were boring into me.

  “Take the keys from the end of my sari. Go to the north room. You’ll find a locked drawer in the large wooden cupboard. Unlock it. There’s a wooden box wrapped in an alpaca jacket. Take it and hide it in your room. No one must know. You think I’m bequeathing it to you? My foot. They’ll flock around like vultures once they find out I’m dead. That’s why I’m getting rid of it. Keep it hidden. My favorite jewelry—I couldn’t wear any of it because of being a widow. I’ll snap your neck if you even try it on. Nothing must be touched. Go.”

  I have no idea how I retrieved the keys from the dead woman’s sari or how I got the jewelry box out. I don’t remember anything clearly. I was not particularly aware of what I was doing.

  Two people saw me as I was leaving with the box hidden in my sari. One of them was Bandana, my jaa. She was standing near the staircase, calling for Bhajahari, the family servant. I was practically running by the time I went past her. Observing me without turning her eyes, she asked Bhajahari, “Is that a married woman or a horse? Does she live on trees?”

  Bhajahari pressed himself against the wall to let me past. He saw me too.

  “What was that she was hiding?” my sister-in-law asked Bhajahari from the top of the stairs.

  “Looked like a box,” Bhajahari replied.

  “A box! Where’d she get a box?”

  That was all I heard. Locking myself in my room, I hid the
box at the very bottom of my new trunks and turned the lock. I hadn’t realized when bringing it downstairs how heavy it was. I did when my arm began to ache later that night.

  Should I tell everyone Pishima was dead? But how could I? My heart was trembling so much, I was so out of breath. I felt so confused that I had to lie down for a while. I couldn’t even decide if all this had indeed taken place—or if it had, what it was that had taken place.

  Pishima never ate a proper meal after sunset, having milk and khoi in her room instead. The khoi was stored upstairs, while Nanda Ghoshal, the cook, took her a bowl of hot milk.

  It was he who came downstairs to tell everyone, “Pishithakrun is looking strange. The signs aren’t good.”

  My mother-in-law went upstairs. Then she shouted to Bhajahari, “Call the men. Send for the doctor. She’s done for.”

  There was no uproar over Pishima’s death. No wailing. The menfolk returned home with slightly hurried footsteps. The doctor went upstairs in silence and came back in just fifteen minutes.

  I’m sure it looked dreadful that I didn’t go upstairs even after hearing of her death. But I didn’t have the strength. I was weeping on the bed.

  It was my husband who found me in this condition. In great surprise he asked, “What’s all this? What are you crying for? Is it for Pishima? How strange.”

  How strange, indeed. Because no one else in the family was weeping. Not that I was crying in grief for the departed. These were tears of anxiety and terror. Why did fate have to hold such ghastly things for me?

  My husband was astonished. Perhaps he melted too, assuming that I was mourning for Pishima. He said, “It’s just as well that she’s gone. What happiness did she have anyway? She just had those three rooms on the second floor to protect. All she did all day was rummage through her jewelry. No other joy or comfort. But why are you crying so much—when did you get close to her?”

  I could not answer. Clinging to him, I said, “Don’t go to the crematorium. I can’t be here by myself. I’m afraid.”

  Sitting down by my side, he stroked my head, saying, “I didn’t know you were so tenderhearted. You’re a very nice girl, after all.”