The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  Priti was itching to start talking about Nitish. Suddenly she said, “You know, Boshon—”

  I knew she was going to bring up Nitish now.

  I cut her short. “When did you say you were getting married?”

  Priti said, “Getting married! Not before April. Might even be June. He won’t even get a leave, he’s under so much pressure after the promotion. The manager says, ‘The office will come to a halt if you aren’t here, Nitish.’”

  “Will you continue studying once you’re married?”

  “Of course I will. My father- and mother-in-law have already said, ‘Get as many degrees as you can, Bouma. You won’t have to do anything for the household. Learn, know, grow.’”

  I wanted to laugh. Priti was a mediocre student. She was unlikely to acquire too many degrees. And she was quite inclined to involve herself in household matters. She would be so immersed in home and family after her wedding that she wouldn’t even remember her studies.

  Priti began her litany about Nitish. I was being transported to an unknown world by the ethereal moonlight. Fragments of what Priti was saying floated into my ears now and then: “You know Nitish, how honest and upright he is . . . . He says, ‘You’re my guiding force.’ They have no demands, not even a watch or ring . . . . Nitish is clueless about money; I’ll have to manage everything . . . .”

  Why can I not be attached to a man in the same way?

  When the entire swarm of girls was on its way to the picnic today, a jeep with a bunch of boys, none of them Bengali, followed us a long way. The teachers told us not to look at them. They whistled, singing songs from Hindi films, gesturing with their hands. How the girls giggled and nudged one another! I was the only one burning with rage.

  My pishi’s son has a colleague, an engineer, who has just been transferred to our city. A month ago, when I barely knew him, the man suddenly called me to ask, “Are you free?”

  I know men inside out. It was obvious from his voice that this was a matter of the heart. “Meaning?” I asked sternly.

  He was a confident sort. Chuckling, he said, “Meaning, can I proceed or not? Will you give me a chance?”

  I said, “I’m free, and I want to stay that way.”

  Undaunted, he swallowed the barb and said, “Thank you.”

  That was the end of that.

  Two professors and a doctor had also proposed marriage to me in succession. Not to me directly, but through my father, who had said, “Let me ask my daughter.”

  I had turned them down.

  I still do not know why I cannot trust the male of the species.

  Slipping off the boulder, I said, “I’m going for a walk. I don’t feel like sitting here.”

  I wandered off on my own. None of them came along.

  I could hear the high voice of one of the teachers, Monica-di. “Come along, girls. The lorry driver won’t wait any longer. The contract runs till 10:00 p.m.”

  I knew everything was guided by rules. I would have to tear myself away from this freedom, this abandon, this fantasy walk amid nature under an exquisite moon, and return home. Just as I will have to dress up in wedding finery one day and take my place on the bride’s seat.

  Woman and man are supposed to complement each other. I don’t agree. I feel I will get by without a man.

  I walked into the distance, holding hands with loneliness, my best friend.

  Amalesh used to pass our house on his way to school. Tall and thin, with his shirt buttoned all the way up to his throat, dressed in a coarse dhoti, his hair neatly combed. He would march straight ahead, looking neither left nor right. He lived three doors down the road—a structure with bamboo fencing as walls and a tin roof. His father was a teacher at the primary school. He never wore a shirt, only wrapping a flimsy shawl around his bare upper body. Amalesh’s mother would come to our house sometimes to borrow some rice or salt when they ran out of it. It was she who told us that Amalesh often went to school without a meal, for there would be no food at home sometimes. She would say regretfully, “The boy’s good at studies, but I can’t even give him enough to eat. How far can he go on an empty stomach?”

  Amalesh was one of the good students at school. But a good student was all he was. Books, and books alone, were his constant companion. He would walk past the football field without the slightest interest in the game. He didn’t watch films, didn’t chat with friends. All he did was score profusely in his examinations, top his class, and be promoted. “A good boy,” said everyone. “A very good boy.”

  I had been seeing him since childhood. The same clothes. His hair combed the same way. I had never even seen him roll up his sleeves.

  I was very young then, seven or eight. Amalesh was a student in grade nine. He was grave for his age. He never visited anyone at home. But his two younger sisters and one younger brother often came to our house for treats during religious festivals. Ma would give them our old clothes, which they would wear happily. Only Amalesh-da was different. He seemed to have nothing to do with other people, as though he had lost his way and arrived in this world, completely indifferent to it.

  I remember the neighborhood boys playing football with a tennis ball on the street as Amalesh-da was passing. Caked with mud, the ball suddenly hit him squarely on his chest, leaving a mark on his white shirt. Anyone else would have stopped in annoyance, perhaps scolded them. But Amalesh-da paused for only a moment to lower his head and inspect the mark. Then he went on his way in silence.

  I was still in frocks when Amalesh-da got the ninth rank in the entire state in the final school examination. His mother told mine, “All the big colleges in Calcutta want him. I doubt if we’ll be so lucky. So expensive.”

  There was a stir everywhere. Such achievements were not usual in this small town. Two receptions were held to facilitate Amalesh-da, at the school and at Town Hall. I sang the welcome song with two other girls at the Town Hall event. I also had the responsibility of garlanding him and putting a ceremonial tilak on his brow. He had to stoop so that I could reach him. He had his eyes fixed on the floor with embarrassment. No sooner did I put the garland around his neck than he took it off and put it down. There was no glow of pride or accomplishment on his face. He looked as though he’d be relieved if he could hide.

  Amalesh-da didn’t get around to studying at a Calcutta college. He took admission at a local one and continued walking past our house as before. By way of change, he had become taller, with a hint of a beard. He topped the next exam too, creating a stir all over again.

  Sometimes I’d ask his sister Sumita, “Isn’t Amalesh-da interested in anything but books?”

  “No. That’s all he cares for.”

  “Doesn’t he chat with all of you?”

  “Hardly. We’re terrified of Dada. He makes us so nervous when he’s teaching us.”

  “Does he scold you a lot?”

  “No, not at all. But the way he looks at us with those cold eyes of his is enough. He doesn’t talk much. When he does, it’s only with Ma.”

  For some reason, I wanted to find out more about Amalesh-da. What lay behind his aloofness? Was he bad-tempered, or did he lighten up sometimes? A marionette or was he of flesh and blood? But we seldom visited their house. There was nowhere to sit. They used to get so worked up if anyone went over, rushing out to buy something to offer them, always on credit, or to get hold of some sugar for the tea. Their abject poverty made them desperate to welcome guests with great care. Which was why Ma used to say, “Why visit them?”

  Amalesh-da’s younger siblings, Amita, Sumita, and Alakesh, were all at the top of their respective classes. But none of them were as shy or as obsessed with books as Amalesh-da. Alakesh was a good football and badminton player. Both Sumita and Amita sang and embroidered.

  I was approaching puberty. My body and heart were both in turmoil. My first period ushered in both fear and a thrill. A host of unfamiliar windows seemed to have been opened suddenly. My body changed in all sorts of embarrassing ways, and so
did the world outside.

  That was when I did the stupidest thing in my life. The embarrassment still makes me want to shrivel. I wrote Amalesh-da a letter. There was nothing objectionable in it. All I wrote was, “I want to meet you. I like you very much.”

  There was no reply.

  I got after my mother. “Tell Amalesh-da to coach me, Ma. He’s such a good student.”

  She didn’t object. But having inquired, she said, “He doesn’t coach anyone. Very shy, you see.”

  It could have ended there. I assumed Amalesh-da hadn’t got my letter.

  But that wasn’t the case. One day Sumita told me, “So strange, Dada was asking about you yesterday.”

  I was startled. “What was he asking?”

  “Who you are, where you live, things like that.”

  Something funny was going on in my heart. Fear, uncertainty, excitement. Amalesh-da hadn’t told her of my letter, had he? I couldn’t breathe.

  “What else did he say?” I asked.

  “Did you ever make faces at Dada? Or mock him or something?”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “He seemed a little angry. So I thought, Oh, no, maybe Boshon was rude to him.”

  I felt crushed. Angry? Why would he be angry? Was it so bad for a girl to want to be friends with him?

  Sumita said, “But then I told him Boshon is wonderful. She’s very good at both studies and music. And a quiet girl. Never misbehaves.”

  Amalesh-da stopped walking past our house. There was a big field across the road. He took the long way around it.

  The humiliation seemed to shatter my world. Just when puberty had woven a web of mysteries around me, just when a million lights were playing in the universe that I had conjured up, this heartless affront seemed to be a show of contempt at my blooming womanhood. The world I knew so well was in smithereens. The prolonged despondency of widowhood seemed to rise slowly from the darkness of the netherworld.

  Another girl wouldn’t have responded this way. It was the age to take wing. Puberty is the time to be fickle, impulsive, shallow. Picking one out of many becomes an impossible task. Many girls like to get attention. But I’m not any other girl, I’m Boshon. I’ve been born with a strange melancholy in me.

  If someone were to ask me today, “Did you fall in love with Amalesh?” I wouldn’t be able to put my hand on my heart and say, “Yes.” For that would be a lie. I had never exchanged a word with him, not even a glance. Amalesh-da was not handsome or athletic or confident—he was merely a good boy. Girls seldom fall in love with those who are nothing but good boys. I had only wanted to be a friend. I don’t know why. When the desire for friendship had arisen, it was only him I had thought of.

  The man didn’t even answer my letter. He changed his route. He became angry with me. At that age this was all it took to stoke within me a distaste for men.

  Amalesh-da left for Calcutta with a scholarship. Then, sometime later, he went abroad. Their ramshackle house was rebuilt properly. Another floor was added. Signs of affluence became visible in the impoverished family. Although they didn’t top their exams, Sumita and Amita scored high marks to graduate from school. Alakesh was due to take the exams next. Everyone knew he was bound to get the district scholarship. Their family was quite close to ours now. No one knew what had taken place between Amalesh-da and me. Not that anything to catch people’s attention had happened.

  And yet, this silent, uneventful incident changed my entire life.

  I walked a long way in the moonlight, holding hands with loneliness. I liked solitude these days. This touch of melancholy, this slight sadness, this little weight on my heart of past humiliation, this delicate unhappiness, this trivial needle of envy—all of these garnished my existence. It would have been far too bland otherwise.

  The winter stream had spread out a fabric of fine sand. The moonlight was almost glaring. It was bright enough for even a pin to be spotted. I stopped at a bend in the river. A solitary hill stood on the other bank. Silent, mute, still. The water gurgled past my feet. Even the gravel on the riverbed was visible in the moonlight. As I gazed at the unending emptiness all around, it suddenly occurred to me how good it was that I was so alone, that there was no one in the world waiting for me. This was best for me.

  Teacher Shobhana’s voice blew in on the wind, sounding like a wail of despair. “Boshon, Boshon, where are you? Everyone’s in the lorry. Come at once.”

  I went back, depositing a secret sigh with the moonlight and the loneliness.

  The teachers scolded me roundly. “Such an irresponsible girl. Have you any idea how late it is? Just one person holding everyone up. I don’t know what’s wrong with you girls these days.”

  I enjoy being by myself, but I don’t mind being in a group of people either. I lose myself in the laughter, jokes, and conversations. I seem to be two people. Hoisting my sari and clambering onto the lorry was a matter of much merriment. The seven teachers sat on a sheet while we girls squeezed in amid the pots and pans. Nine or ten of us sat on the roof of the cab. Some had to stand. It was quite crowded. When the teachers told us not to sit on the cab, some of the girls climbed down again and perched on upturned pots and buckets, which wouldn’t stay steady because of their handles, rattling as the lorry moved. And everyone rolled with laughter.

  After a while, the laughter gave way once more to songs. The lorry was approaching the town. We had left the ethereal valley of the moonlight to advance toward our constricted homes, our cubbyholes. Why did humans have to learn how to build houses? In ancient times they used to live in mountains and caves, beneath the trees. Perhaps I had also been a cavewoman many births ago, hunting animals with stones, roasting their meat, wandering around at will amid hills and forests. An unshackled life.

  Our songs and chatter and laughter took us halfway on our return journey. It would be past ten by the time we got into town, after which we would go to our respective homes. But there was uncertainty in every destination. Just as Teacher Bandana glanced at her watch and told Teacher Shikha, “We should be back in an hour,” the lorry began to emit hiccups.

  This too made us giggle.

  Shobhana said in annoyance, “I’m sick of all this giggling. What’s wrong with the lorry? Ask the driver.”

  There was no need to ask. The lorry stopped at the side of the road. The driver and his assistant disembarked, opened the bonnet, and peered inside by the light of a torch.

  “What’s the matter, Driver?” asked Madhuri-di.

  “No acceleration. Dirt in the diesel,” answered the driver.

  “We’ll go on, won’t we?”

  “Of course. Let me fix it.”

  “It won’t take too long?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Five minutes stretched into fifteen. Then half an hour.

  The anxious teachers looked over the railings. “Why aren’t you telling us what the matter is? We’re responsible for all these girls here. Will the lorry move at all?”

  The driver said uncertainly, “We’re trying, Didi. The suction is acting up.”

  Shobhana was infuriated. “Why are you people so callous? How could you do the trip with a defective lorry? What will we do now? There’s still a long way to go.”

  “These are machines. You can’t always predict how they’ll behave. It was overhauled just last week.”

  Soon we realized that the lorry was in serious trouble. The girls stopped giggling. The teachers vented their anger.

  Indira-di said, “Even if the lorry is stalled we do have to go back. Stop some other lorry, Driver.”

  The helper tried to do just that. Because it was late at night on a holiday, however, there were very few trucks on the road. One of them did stop. It was packed with tea chests. The driver got out, tried to help in fixing our lorry, then gave up after some time and drove away. Two others didn’t even stop. A private car did, but it held four drunken men. One of them said, “Where are all these women being trafficked, my friend? Are you
dispatching them to Abu Dhabi under cover of the night?”

  One of the relatively less drunk passengers said, “Can’t you see they’re from decent families? A picnic party.”

  The third one said, “Pour a pint into the fuel tank, Driver Saab, the lorry will fly.”

  They didn’t stay any longer. Their driver drove off.

  About an hour later the driver tried to get the lorry to start. The vrooming sounds gave us some hope, but the lorry didn’t budge.

  Indira-di wailed, “But it’s very late already. What shall we do?”

  The driver said in great embarrassment, “Battery down.”

  Shobhana said, “What to do, then?”

  “Just needs a push.”

  “Who’s going to push?”

  “Will the teachers help? Nothing much, just a little shove.”

  As soon as we heard that, all of us offered to help. Why couldn’t we push the lorry? Were we helpless? Hadn’t we eaten mutton for lunch? We leaped to the ground. The teachers made noises of protest. “Careful! What if the lorry starts moving suddenly? This isn’t a job for girls.”

  The lorry was like a house. Even with all of us pushing, it didn’t budge an inch.

  Shikha-di said from the back of the lorry, “Wait, let us get off too. And listen, all of us have to push together. Stop giggling. You can’t summon the strength to push if you keep giggling.”

  This made us giggle even more.

  The teachers climbed out of the lorry. Indira-di said, “Haven’t you seen how laborers do it? They go ‘Hey-ho, hey-ho’ when they’re fixing sleepers on railway lines. We have to do something like that.”

  She launched into a line from the song “Kharabayu Boy Bege”: “I’ll hold the tiller, you raise the sail, all together now, hey-ho, pull hard, hey-ho . . . .”