The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  My shaashuri called out for me. “Where are you, Chhoto Bouma, my youngest daughter-in-law? Come here. You should be here now.”

  Bhajahari came to summon me. So I had to go up to the second floor eventually. My husband helped me up the stairs. Everyone was astonished to see me cry.

  My shaashuri couldn’t contain herself. “What’s all this? What are you sobbing for?”

  My jaa said nothing, but it was evident that she was scrutinizing me closely. She had seen me go downstairs with a box, after all.

  Pishima had been laid out on a mat at the top of the stairs. All the occupants of the house had gathered. There was a crowd of neighbors. Still, I felt afraid to stand there by the corpse. What if she glared at me?

  The entourage left for the crematorium rather late at night. Honoring my request, my husband did not go on the pretext of not feeling well. No one cared.

  I couldn’t make up my mind whether to tell him what had happened. He wouldn’t believe me. I was new here. He might misunderstand me. I was also worried because Pishima had told me to guard the jewelry box carefully. Best not to tell anyone.

  Pishima’s last rites were completed. People returned from the crematorium. The sun rose.

  A family meeting was conducted in the morning in my shoshur’s elder brother’s room. I was not called. I waited in my room with a beating heart. I was certain they were discussing Pishima’s jewelry and the question of who would inherit the second floor.

  An hour later, I realized they were going upstairs.

  I simply could not recollect where I had left Pishima’s keys. All I knew was that I hadn’t knotted them back at the end of her sari.

  My husband came downstairs an hour later, glowering. His expression made my heart quake with an unknown fear. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Pishima’s jewelry box couldn’t be found.”

  A barrel of blood spilled in my heart. “Jewelry box?” I asked in a quivering voice.

  “Yes. Not a joke. A hundred bhoris of gold. Some forty or fifty pure gold guineas alone. Pishima’s dowry.”

  I was surprised. That was more than a kilo of gold. How had I managed to carry such a heavy box downstairs?

  Looking extremely worried, my husband said, “Boudi”—our sister-in-law—“is saying strange things. Claims she knows who took it. But won’t reveal the name. Baba’s saying it must be Nanda Ghoshal. He was the most frequent visitor to Pishima’s room.”

  “Impossible,” I interrupted him. “Nanda Ghoshal has been here for years.”

  “Exactly. And he’s never stolen anything.”

  I made a humble suggestion. “Don’t worry about Pishima’s jewelry. What does it have to do with us?”

  He looked at me in astonishment. “Don’t you have any desire for gold?”

  I found my voice. “There’s not a human being without desire. From the servant to the saint, everyone has it. Even god himself desires the devotion of people.”

  My husband stared at me in undisguised wonder. As though he had just begun to discover me. “Excellent,” he said. “But where could the box have disappeared to?”

  “Let the others worry about that. Pishima’s unhappy sighs will always hover over her jewelry. We don’t need those ornaments.”

  My husband appeared to accept this. Then he said, “Ma is saying we should have the second floor cleaned up and move upstairs.”

  Startled, I said, “Why? We’re fine here.”

  “Hardly. It’s dark on the ground floor, infested by mosquitoes. It’s so much brighter and airier up there. Much more space too. Dada and Boudi won’t move upstairs. My parents won’t give up the ground floor because of my father’s heart condition. Jetha-moshai is all by himself and doesn’t need three rooms. The floor will be unoccupied if we don’t move in.”

  “Let it be unoccupied. I’ll be afraid to live there.”

  My husband smiled. He looked very handsome when he did. I gazed at him, entranced. He said, “Nothing remains of a person after death. What are you afraid of?”

  I said, “You know so much more than I do. But I think something of a person does remain even after they’re dead. Don’t ask me to live on the second floor.”

  Sadly, he said, “But I’ve long wanted to move to the second floor after Pishima’s death.”

  “But we’re fine here,” I said tearfully, “aren’t we?”

  He didn’t insist anymore.

  Meanwhile, a furious argument had broken out over the jewelry box. I was worried on not hearing my jaa participating. My husband’s jetha-moshai even mentioned going to the police.

  After lunch my jaa sent Bhajahari with a message to see her on the terrace. It was autumn, but I remember it being particularly sunny.

  Looking at me piercingly, my jaa said, “You haven’t got rid of the jewelry yet, have you?”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked softly.

  “You’re not naive. It wasn’t you who throttled her, was it? I must be careful of you from now on. How horrible.”

  I was silent. My jaa was neither pretty nor plain. Now that she was plump, she no longer had an attractive figure. Her face looked voluptuous, but it also held a hint of cruelty, which became visible now. She said, “I haven’t told anyone what you did. There’s no need to either. I know Pishima had over a hundred bhoris of gold.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I feigned innocence.

  “Don’t pretend. I’ll tell the police if you do. Jetha-moshai is actually informing them. They’ll arrest you and take you away on charges of murder and theft.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said fearfully.

  “We’ll find out what you’ve done as soon as your things are searched, unless you’ve got rid of it already, of course. I’ve never met a more dangerous woman in my life. You’re a terror. I should warn your husband.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. To whom could I tell my version? Who would possibly believe it?

  My jaa said, “Don’t expect me to be taken in by tears. Listen, since you have stolen them, there’s no other way. I want half. Full fifty bhoris. I have a trusted jeweler. He will split it equally. No one will know. No one’s home at that hour. We’ll share it in my room. All right?”

  I did not reply.

  After some time, she said, “So you want to keep it all to yourself?”

  My feet were about to get blisters from the red-hot sunbaked floor of the roof. She was in slippers. I was barefoot. Ignoring the burning sensation, I said, “You probably suspect me because I come from a poor family.”

  “There’s no question of suspicion. I saw. With my own eyes. You’re not only from a poor family, you’re from an ill-bred family. There’ll be deep trouble if you don’t agree to my proposal, I’m warning you.”

  Flustered, I considered confessing. At least I wouldn’t have to bear the burden on my own. Perhaps she wouldn’t believe me. So what?

  Suddenly I noticed a widow in a plain white sari at the other end of the enormous roof, tugging on a garment hung up to dry. She turned toward me.

  I froze even in that heat. It was Pishima.

  At that moment one of the young girls who also lived in the house came up to the terrace to dry her hair. She sat down directly opposite Pishima, even looking at her. But there was no change in her expression. I realized she could not see Pishima.

  “Why have you turned so pale?” asked my jaa. “Are you afraid? That’s good. Because if you aren’t afraid you will really be in trouble. And if you split the jewelry, there’s nothing to fear. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I told her. “You can do whatever you like.”

  I went downstairs. My heart was quaking so heavily at the sight of Pishima that I was about to collapse in my room. My husband usually took a siesta at this hour. He was asleep today too. He would have been extremely surprised to see the state I was in.

  I sat quietly by the window. A dove cooed in the silence of the afternoon. A foul stench rose from the drai
n. My heart thudded.

  The afternoon passed this way.

  I went to the kitchen to make my husband a cup of tea when he awoke. That was when I heard the sound of someone running down the stairs from the first floor and my bhaashur calling for my husband, who ran upstairs.

  Bhajahari went out soon afterward to fetch Dr. Rudra.

  I stood in silence at the bottom of the stairs.

  Bhajahari, who was coming downstairs, told me, “You won’t believe it. Boudi has stopped talking.”

  “Stopped talking! What do you mean?”

  “She cannot say a word. All she does is point at someone and moan.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. But at whom was my sister-in-law pointing?

  No one left the house that evening. Everyone looked grim. They were overwhelmed by the death, followed by this loss of speech.

  My husband came downstairs and told me, “Will you go to Boudi, Lata? No one knows why she’s suddenly lost her power of speech.”

  “She doesn’t like me,” I murmured. “But I’ll go if you want me to.”

  My jaa shot up in her bed in agitation as soon as I appeared at her door and then began to moan loudly, pointing at me. I realized she was trying to identify the thief. But no one understood.

  My brother-in-law, Chatok Mitra, was a wonderful man, possibly even more handsome than my husband. Fear and anxiety were written all over his sharp features. He asked me helplessly, “What do you think has happened, Bouma? Why is she behaving this way?”

  “Perhaps she’s trying to say something,” I answered softly.

  “Say what? Can you make it out?”

  I shook my head. “No. But possibly she will tell us once she’s recovered.”

  “Even the doctor can’t tell what’s happened suddenly. Her tongue has turned to wood. I have never heard of just the tongue being paralyzed.”

  My jaa was staring at me with bulging eyes and jabbing her finger at me repeatedly, trying to draw her husband’s attention. I felt afraid.

  Her husband, my bhaashur, was a harmless, peace-loving man, who inevitably seemed to shrink in the presence of his formidable wife. He seldom left his room, only going out in the evening to meet his friends. Most of the men in the family were worthless and idle-brained, given to sleeping in the afternoon. They grew helpless when in trouble. Lack of use had blunted their faculties. My brother-in-law was so nonplussed by his wife’s affliction that he could not interpret her signs.

  But there were other ways of communicating even if she couldn’t speak. She could always write out everything. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to her because of the sudden paralysis of her tongue. But surely she would realize this soon. And then I would be in trouble.

  Suddenly my bhaashur took a piece of paper from the desk and handed it to me. “Read this. Can you decipher anything?”

  There was only one recognizable letter of the alphabet, J. The rest of it was squiggles and lines.

  My bhaashur said, “She’s trying to say something important. She tried to write it out but couldn’t. I can’t make any sense of it. Only the letter J can be identified.”

  I understood what it meant even if he didn’t. “Is her hand paralyzed too?” I asked.

  “No. There’s nothing wrong with her hand. It’s just that she can’t write.”

  I summoned an expression of misery to my face and stood there. It wasn’t as though I felt no sympathy for her. However, my fear was much greater. I had no idea what was happening or why. But it was clearly happening.

  My brother-in-law said, “Stay with her for a while. I’m going to buy some medicine.”

  My jaa seemed to grow rather fearful and agitated at this and started moaning again. She appeared to be asking her husband not to go. Turning to her, he said, “There’s nothing to worry about; Lata is here. I’ll be back soon.”

  He left.

  I had never before seen the expression of terror that appeared on my sister-in-law’s face. Her eyes seemed to be bursting out of her head, her mouth had fallen open, she was breathing rapidly.

  Hurrying up to her, I said, “What’s wrong, Didi? Everything will be all right, there’s nothing to fear.”

  She coiled up into a ball in dread. Retreating till her back was against the headboard of the bed, she said in anguish, “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone about the jewelry. I swear on the gods. I don’t want a share. You know black magic, you’ve paralyzed my tongue with some trick of yours. I promise you, I will never say a word. I beg of you. Let me go.”

  Hearing her speak despite a paralyzed tongue confused me again. I stared at her for some time in perplexity. She was sobbing and pleading with me. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She was drowning in her own tears and spittle. I felt miserable. Asking the part-time maid to be with her, I went back to my own room.

  The police came in the afternoon to collect testimonies. Bhajahari was about to stammer out something when faced with their interrogation. But for some reason he turned pale and stopped. The police took him and Nanda Ghoshal away as suspects.

  My husband and the members of his family began to discuss and dissect the jewelry theft. I realized that they had expected Pishima’s jewelry to pass on to them after her death. It could have replenished the family’s depleted store of gold. The men could have lived off the wealth for some years more without having to lift a finger.

  I came from a poor family. Even in my dreams I couldn’t imagine possessing a hundred bhoris of gold. How was I to bear the burden of these riches? I grew more and more restless over the next few days, feeling completely unsettled. I didn’t know what to do. It would have helped to share the secret with someone. But my secret was so dangerous that I didn’t dare.

  I had to cook for the family in Nanda Ghoshal’s absence. My jaa was unwell and couldn’t leave her room. My shaashuri wasn’t getting any younger. Servants weren’t available either. I was relieved to have the opportunity to make the meals. At least I had something to do. It helped me pass the time, keeping me distracted.

  One evening I was making mutton for everyone. I was a good cook, praised by everyone. I had just set out the mortar and pestle to grind the spices when I discovered a corner of a white sari behind the door. Someone was standing outside. There were no widows in this family. I froze with fear. My body turned to stone.

  I heard a sigh. Undoubtedly, Pishima’s voice, though suppressed. “Cooking mutton?”

  My heart was trembling. Still, because it was no longer an entirely new experience, I managed to say, “Yes.”

  “Smells divine.”

  I sat in silence.

  “It’s been so long. I’ve forgotten the taste. Do you cook well?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, my voice faltering.

  “It’ll be delicious. But you’ve forgotten the salt. Put plenty.”

  The white sari moved away. I had an impulse to run away from the kitchen to my room, but I forced myself to stay. For this was probably my destiny. I added salt, though I kept thinking I had done it already.

  That night everyone said the mutton was excellent, but there was too much salt. No one could eat it. I was furious.

  At night, I asked my husband, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Seemingly taken aback, he said, “No. Why?”

  “Nothing.”

  Part Two

  Boshon

  An enormous moon rose over the hill in the evening after our picnic. None of us had seen a moon so large. The peaks, the forest, the river, the gravel paths and sandbars all seemed to submerge themselves in a fairy tale and resurface in a new form. How beautiful the evening had turned out! Many of us began to sing our favorite songs. First just a humming, then out loud, then a chorus.

  The cooks and their helpers were busy loading our pots and pans onto the lorry. We weren’t going back just yet. We girls held hands and sang and spread out in all directions, singing.

  The teachers were shouting, “Don’t go too far. We’ll be leaving in
half an hour.”

  Who cared for them? An evening like this wasn’t going to come again. Who wanted to abandon such a beautiful spot and such a glorious moon to be cooped up in a hole?

  We didn’t stick together. A group as large as ours inevitably split into smaller ones. So did we. Four of us strolled along the mountain stream. We had walked here in daylight too, but there was no moonlight then, no reflection of the moon in the water, no enchanted world.

  Large boulders were strewn across the river. Just imagine the distance this slender stream had borne all these rocks after breaking them off from the mountains! Now that it was winter, the current was not particularly powerful. How cold and clear the water was!

  The four of us sat down, two to a rock. For some time, we sang Rabindrasangeet together, as many songs featuring the moon as we could remember. But the harmonies broke, and we got the lyrics wrong. “Rubbish,” we laughed.

  Priti was sitting next to me. Supriya and Simantini were on the other boulder. We chatted away happily.

  It was freezing. The cold was still bearable, but the north wind shook us to our bones. This icy wind had begun blowing after sunset. It cut through our cardigans and scarves to riddle holes in our bodies. I could feel the cold even in my stomach. Still, how wonderful it felt to be sitting there.

  We had split into two groups of two without realizing it. At first we had all been talking to one another, but now it was Priti and me on one side, Supriya and Simantini on the other.

  Chatting with Priti was no fun. She would invariably drag Nitish into the conversation. Nitish was her husband-to-be. They had been seeing each other for five years. Now all she could talk about was Nitish. Nitish had given her a bottle of perfume, Nitish would take her to Kashmir after they were married, Nitish had told her after a promotion, “You’re very lucky for me,” . . . and so on. We knew her Nitish quite well. He was nothing special. But the way she talked made it seem he was one in a million.

  What do girls like in boys? Can any girl possibly answer this question? Although our college was coeducational, the girls had come on their own picnic. We no longer went with the boys because they had misbehaved once. Boys drool so much over girls that the whole fun of a picnic is ruined. And it isn’t as though it’s just at picnics—it’s the same every day at the college. The things boys do to be noticed by girls, to appear heroic in their eyes! Some of them even use powder. The well-built ones keep flexing their muscles. We laugh hysterically over all this in the girls’ common room.