The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  We split our sides laughing.

  Shukla said, “We aren’t pulling, teacher, we’re pushing.”

  “Same thing.”

  It was true. We were laughing so hard that we had no strength to push. The lorry couldn’t even feel us pushing.

  Eventually, we did stop laughing. The lorry began to roll forward slowly, jerking every time the driver tried to start the engine.

  Vroom, vroom, vroooom! Startling all of us, it suddenly burst into life. We cheered loudly.

  The journey resumed along the road through the jungle. Sitting precariously in one corner, I found myself sinking into sadness. We were going back. Why were we going back?

  I had no idea when Priti had sat down next to me. Tearfully, she said, “Boshon, where do you think the ring from my left ear fell off?”

  “How would I know?”

  “The hook was loose. Must have fallen off when we were pushing the lorry. What will I do now?”

  “Why are you so worried?” I said. “Such a lovely picnic, such a glorious moon—you can sacrifice your earring to the occasion.”

  “You’re weird. Ma will scold me so much.”

  “Let her. Your Nitish will give you lots of jewelry.”

  Priti said indignantly, “Yes, I know how much jewelry he’ll give me. What do I tell Ma now?”

  One lost earring had made the night, the moon, this immense richness of the evening meaningless to Priti. She sat there glumly. These things were not meant for girls like her. For Priti there were dingy rooms, husbands and families, a busy household.

  And for me? I didn’t know.

  I felt a stab of pity for her. She was looking so despondent. “Can’t you assume the earring isn’t lost?” I asked her.

  “How can I assume that? How is that possible?”

  “Why not? The earring must still be lying where it fell. Right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then it certainly is somewhere. Just imagine you chose to leave it there.”

  “What rubbish. Makes no sense, the things you say.”

  Returning home late that night, I went to bed after a mild scolding. I couldn’t sleep till much later. I felt drunk. My little box was brimming with happiness today. I couldn’t shut the lid. How was I to sleep? It was like when Ma couldn’t make all the sugar in the packet fit into the tin. She tried to pack it all in, but still it overflowed. So annoying. I was in the same situation.

  Priti had lost an earring. And I? I had left my entire existence behind in that lonely moonlit valley! I could feel myself wandering around there still. Flowing hair, slow footsteps, a song in my throat, the giant moon sprinkling gold dust everywhere. The muted sound of waves breaking on the pebbles in the river. As beautiful as a deep, impenetrable dream.

  I’m certain I’ll be a ghost when I die. I’ll haunt the world’s remotest mountains and forests and sand beaches. I’ll burst into laughter when the storm breaks. I’ll drench myself in the rain. I will never be born as a woman again.

  Suddenly in the dead of night I could hear the mad woman who had married into the Chatterjee family singing tunelessly, “Save your money, save as much money as you can, eat no honey, work isn’t funny, save your money, save your money . . . .”

  I couldn’t stay in bed. My heart bled for her. Her room was directly opposite my window, separated by only a couple of yards. When Sreemoyee was married into the family four years ago, everyone predicted she would have to work to the bone. The Chatterjees were misers, and it was practically a family trait. The grandfather was a miser, the father was a miser, the son was a miser. Charu Chatterjee was a lawyer. It wasn’t enough for his clients to pay their fees; he also kept himself abreast of what vegetables they grew in their gardens, even raiding their homes. Charu Chatterjee earned handsomely. His son Sumit was a government officer. Rice starch, vegetable peel, wheat husk—they didn’t throw away any of it. The new bride couldn’t bear such intolerable miserliness. She went mad when having her child. The baby in her womb was a large one, making a normal delivery difficult. Frightened, the midwife had asked for a doctor and a cesarean delivery. Eventually they did take her to the hospital, but there was no room. There were many private nursing homes in this town, but the Chatterjees didn’t try to go there. Sreemoyee was close to dying in the hospital corridor. Finally, a young gynecologist who saw her condition during the morning rounds arranged for a cesarean delivery in the hospital. The baby did not survive. Sreemoyee did. But the combined shock of her husband’s and father-in-law’s miserly behavior and the loss of her child sent her over the edge. Now all she did was laugh and cry and sing. But she did the household chores too.

  Opening the window, I gazed at their house. The window opposite mine was open too. Sreemoyee was standing there despite the cold, her hair undone. She was the only daughter of a widow. Her mother’s brothers had spared no expense during her wedding. Sreemoyee’s mother had died two years ago. Now she didn’t even have a home of her own. She was burning, she was dying.

  Sometimes I shouted out through the window, “Can’t you set the house on fire, Sreemoyee? Sprinkle some kerosene and light a match. Let them all burn to death.”

  Ma had scolded me when she heard. The Chatterjees were furious with me. Fat lot I care. I’ll set their house on fire one day even if Sreemoyee doesn’t.

  Softly I said, “Sreemoyee!”

  She stopped singing. After a silence, she said, “What?”

  “Why aren’t you asleep? Who sings at this hour?”

  Sreemoyee said, “What a moon tonight.”

  “Do you like the moon?”

  “No. I don’t like anything. I want to cry.”

  “Go to bed. Sleep.”

  “I’m going to turn into a fairy and fly away tonight.”

  “Fly away where?”

  “Up in the air. Have you been on a plane?”

  “Never.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it scary?”

  “I’d be scared stiff. Go to bed.”

  “Not going to bed now. What a moon.”

  Sreemoyee began singing again, “Save your money . . .”

  I lowered my voice. “Sreemoyee!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you know any other song?”

  “I do.”

  “What song?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “This is an awful song. Sing a nice one. You know the one about the moon’s smiles?”

  “No!”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “I shan’t learn it.”

  “Don’t sing this one anymore. It’s awful.”

  “It’s the only one I can sing.”

  “Do they tell you to save money all the time?”

  “Money is so valuable.”

  I closed the window with a sigh. Splashing some water on my face in the bathroom, I decided I would never get married. No way. It was better to die. And if I could turn into a ghost, I would go off to the valleys, the mountains, the forests, the rivers, singing with my hair flowing . . . .

  Part Three

  Somlata

  Is that shuntki you’re cooking? Smells delicious.”

  “Of course not. We don’t eat shuntki.” She of all people knew that only poor families eat fish that way.

  “Eyh! Queen Victoria! We don’t eat shuntki. Why not? Hot and spicy with chilies and onion and garlic. Why don’t you eat it?”

  “It stinks.”

  “Eeeeh! It stinks! Where’s the smell coming from then?”

  “Next door, perhaps.”

  “If they can, why can’t you? What are you putting on airs for?”

  “Do you like the smell?”

  “I’m a widow, remember? How can I say I like it? It’s a sin. What are you cooking?”

  “Fish.”

  “What kind?”

  “Koi with cauliflower.”

  “What sort of seasoning?”

  “W
e don’t use seasoning for fish.”

  “Fat lot of cooking you know. You have to use five-spice paanchphoron.”

  “All right.”

  “Also, some oil, a pinch of sugar, a little baking soda. Just see how it tastes.”

  “All right.”

  “Eat all the fish you can. Two months more.”

  My heart quaked. Pishima was standing outside the open kitchen door. It was dark there. Only her white sari was visible. Looking in her direction, I asked, “Why did you say that?”

  “You’ll become a widow, you see.”

  My eyes began to well with tears; waves crashed against my heart. I said, “Why will such a thing happen, Pishima?”

  “Why not? Why should I be the only one to suffer? Why not you too?”

  “What have I done, Pishima? Have I committed a sin?”

  “What sin did I commit? Are you pregnant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’ll die too if you are. No need for a child. Don’t sleep with your husband. Stay apart.”

  I trembled with fear. The white sari vanished. I was so unmindful that the fish curry was burned to cinders. No one could eat it.

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

  He said in surprise, “You asked the same thing the other day. Why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “No, I don’t. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Are you afraid of ghosts?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

  “You’re a strong woman. Then why this strange fear?”

  “It’s not exactly fear. I can’t quite explain.”

  Embracing me intimately, he said, “There’s nothing to fear.”

  We made passionate love that night. Then my husband went to sleep. I tossed and turned in anxiety.

  There was no knowing when she would turn up. But it was usually when I was cooking in the evening to give me incorrect advice. The fish and meat often ended up with clumps of hair, ash, or dead lizards in them. Giving the mattress an airing to get rid of an infestation of ants, I discovered sugar sprinkled all over it.

  One day I said, “What’s all this you’re doing, Pishima?”

  “And why shouldn’t I? What happiness did I ever get here?”

  “I’ve heard you were the head of the family.”

  “My foot. They were good to me only because of the jewelry box. They let me stay here because of the gold. Or I’d have been kicked out long ago.”

  “What do you want now, Pishima?”

  “I want your husband to die, your child not to be born, you to be a widow. And then I want you to die too. I want everyone to die. Let the world be destroyed. Let every home be set on fire.”

  “Maago!” I said. Mother!

  “Oh, you didn’t like hearing that, did you? Die, Maagi, what’s wrong with that? When you’re like me, you’ll know there’s no happiness unless the entire world turns to ashes.”

  My husband didn’t die two months later.

  One day Pishima asked from the shadows where she lurked, “How does it feel, eh?”

  “How does what feel?” I asked.

  Pishima said with a touch of embarrassment, “Don’t pretend you don’t understand. All those things you do with your husband, what else?”

  “Shame on you, Pishima.”

  “Ish, what a shrinking violet. Is it a crime to ask? Married at seven, widowed at twelve. I wasn’t even old enough to understand. By the time my body woke up my hair had been cropped and I was reduced to one meal of rice a day and fasting on Ekadoshi. How will you understand what I went through? Tell me what it’s like.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Damn you, you bitch. Everyone knows it’s good. Give me details.”

  “It’s embarrassing, Pishima.”

  “Then die. Die, die, die, die. Die right now.”

  “Omaago! How can you talk like that?”

  “Of course I will.”

  * * *

  We were sliding toward poverty. The money was running out. Expenses were mounting. One day my husband said, “You were right. We should do something. But what?”

  “Why not start a business?”

  “Become a shopkeeper after the lives we’ve led?”

  “What’s wrong with that? Everything is acceptable in an emergency.”

  “Where will I get the money?”

  “I got plenty of jewelry as wedding gifts. All of it from your family. Pishima gave me a necklace that must be at least ten bhoris. I have a pair of bangles, not less than five bhoris. A diamond ring.”

  “What are you saying? You want me to sell all this?”

  “No, why should you sell it? I will and give you the money.”

  “What will that leave for you?”

  “It will leave you for me.”

  Pishima appeared that evening.

  “So you sold the necklace I gave you.”

  “Yes, Pishima.”

  “How dare you? You’ll die of leprosy.”

  “I sold it because I don’t want to die.”

  “Remember what I did to Bouma?”

  “I do.”

  “Should I take care of you too?”

  “No, Pishima. Forgive me. We have no choice. No one sells gold if there’s another way.”

  “You’re a lowlife, you’re capable of anything. I’m sparing you because you’re supposed to be married.”

  “Supposed to be married? What do you mean?”

  “If only I hadn’t been a child widow, I’d have shown everyone how to take care of your husband. But the wretch was already halfway to senility when he got married. Bad lungs on top of that. Died just like that.”

  “What would you have done if he had lived?”

  Pishima said shyly, “So many things. I’d have given him so much love, just like you do. I’d have looked after him all the time.”

  I smiled.

  She said, “Gold was at twenty rupees a bhori when I got married. How much is it now?”

  “A thousand.”

  “What! You’re a witch. How will you digest so much money? Do you know there’s a curse on gold? That shop of yours will perish. How could you turn a man from this family into a shopkeeper? You’ll be buried in a bucket of filth in hell. You’ll have a stillborn baby, take my word.”

  My heart trembled. My husband established a shop with a capital of just a few thousand rupees. A great deal of money went simply into setting it up. After it was done up, there wasn’t enough money left to buy the merchandise. He borrowed some and got going somehow. But he lacked experience, he botched up the accounts, it hurt his pride as a scion of an aristocratic family to speak deferentially to all kinds of customers. On top of which, friends and people he knew bought from him on credit. An assistant was hired, but he ran away a month later, after stealing some money and a dozen silk saris.

  In utter despair he said to me, “This can’t go on. I’m a failure.”

  But I didn’t lose hope. If we were deep in trouble, if we ran up huge losses, I always had Pishima’s hundred bhoris of gold jewelry. I would sell it if need be. Survive or perish.

  “There are always ups and downs in business,” I told him. “You mustn’t worry. I’m by your side.”

  “You had to sell your cherished ornaments.”

  “You are my greatest ornament.”

  My husband was a serious sort of person. After a short silence, he said, “No one has told me anything like this in all these years. I am astonished by your love for me. Why do you love such a useless person? I realize today how worthless I am, completely lacking in abilities.”

  I said softly, “You have practically given up playing the tabla. Your instruments were gathering dust. I’ve dusted and cleaned them. Play it again—you’ll feel better. I’ll play the tamboura with you.”

  He was extremely pleased by the proposal. He grew cheerful after spending a long time with his tabla. “You’ve come up with an effective remedy,” he said.

&nb
sp; My world revolved around him. That I loved him was neither for his good looks nor for his qualities. I loved him because I couldn’t possibly not. It was this love that kept the lamp alive in my heart. I could never tell anyone all this. Not even my husband. I lived and breathed for him. But I also got alarmed if he became too wrapped up in me. His masculinity would be deflected if he became henpecked. No one respected or valued a henpecked man, and they didn’t have a personality either. Sometimes he would be reluctant to go to work, saying, “Never mind the shop today, I want to spend the day with you.” I would jump up at once, saying, “Then I’ll have to go.”

  I used a combination of coercion, cajoling, strictness, and love to keep him busy. These people were lazy and self-indulgent by nature. Loosening the reins even a little made them lethargic.

  No one in the family had approved of the shop. Especially not my father-in-law, my shoshur, and my husband’s brother, my bhaashur. There were constant clashes. Sending for his son, my shoshur said, “How can a gentleman become a shopkeeper? You’ve brought disgrace on the family. How shameful it is to meet other people now!”

  My bhaashur was extremely annoyed too. He would often declare at the dinner table, “It’s difficult to walk down the road. My friends sneer at me.”

  My father-in-law’s brother was not very vociferous, but from time to time he would say, “This is prostitution. Being a whore.”

  They knew my role in setting up the shop. One day my shaashuri sent for me. “All of them are furious with you. But frankly, I don’t blame you at all. I am happy that Fuchu isn’t vegetating, that he’s not rusting anymore in mind and body. Your shoshur may have a talk with you this evening. Don’t be afraid.”

  But I did feel afraid. I seldom spoke to him or to my bhaashur. Was I capable of explaining?

  I was distracted all afternoon. Suddenly, sensing someone’s presence in the room, I discovered the familiar white sari in a corner. The same shadowy figure.

  “Now the fun will start. Your shoshur is very bad-tempered. He will whip you today.”

  I said, “Let him.”

  “Listen. If you do as I tell you you’ll escape unscathed.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Your shoshur has a secret. Do you know what it is?”