The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  “No.”

  “He has a kept woman. Her name is Chameli. Lives near the canal. He has lavished a lot on her. Money, jewelry. If he threatens you, tell him, ‘I know about Chameli.’ He’ll turn defensive.”

  I knew aristocratic families had vices like these. There was nothing to be surprised at if my father-in-law had a mistress. I was silent.

  Pishima said, “So you won’t do it?”

  “I can’t say such things.”

  “Of course you can’t. Want to know more? Your husband has one too. Her name is Kamala. You think he’s deeply in love with you? Nonsense. What beauty or accomplishments do you have anyway? You think you’ve got him in your pocket. Rubbish. He visits Kamala whenever he gets the chance.”

  I was electrified. My eyes filled with tears.

  Suddenly I heard Pishima crying too. “Each of them is worse than the other. All bastards, swines. You think your shoshur’s brother or your bhaashur are innocent? Both have concubines, even two. A wife at home means nothing to them. You think they’re satisfied with their wives? They were debauches, and they left me to play with my jewelry box at home. Because I was a fool, I fell for their game. There was a servant named Ramkhelaon. I was in full bloom. A high tide in my body. Ramkhelaon was a young man. So manly. Are you listening?”

  “Don’t tell me any more, Pishima, I beg of you.”

  “Ish, what a paragon of virtue. Why should I not tell you the story? Listen carefully. Eventually I gave Ramkhelaon a hint. He came in the dead of night. I was full of the desire to sin, to forget about a widow’s abstinence. My body was on fire. I was lurking like a tigress. And that idiot slipped on the staircase and fell down. What a scene! Your shoshur and his brother thrashed him within an inch of his life and threw him out. Their pious child-widow sister remained starving. And the very next day they put perfume on their wrists and went off to their mistresses. Are you listening?”

  “I am, Pishima.”

  “Are you crying? Cry away, cry to your heart’s content. Let your heart burn. If you want to survive, tell your shoshur to his face, ‘I know about Chameli.’ Understood?”

  “I can’t do it, Pishima.”

  “Then die, die, die at once. Become a leper. Let your father die, let your mother die, let your brothers and sisters die, let your children die.”

  I couldn’t stop weeping. My chest felt like a ton of bricks.

  “You’re burning, aren’t you? Now light a fire under their arse. Let them burn too. Let the family go up in flames. Your brothers-in-law, your husband—shove poles up their backsides. Let them die of cholera, of leprosy. Are you listening?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  “When you burn like I do, you’ll learn.”

  Everyone went into the drawing room downstairs in the evening. My shaashuri came to fetch me. “Come, Bouma. They’ve sent for you. Stay calm.”

  My heart was weighed down.

  Clearing his throat, my father-in-law said, “Sit down, Chhoto Bouma. There’s something serious to discuss.”

  I did not sit. I remained standing by the door, the end of my sari a cowl over my head.

  He said, “All this business of shops is humiliating for our family. This isn’t respectable at all. How can someone from this family be an ordinary shopkeeper?”

  I stood in silence with my head bowed.

  My shoshur’s elder brother said, “We’ve also heard that the shop was financed by selling the jewelry you got as dowry. That jewelry represented the benedictions of your elders. Do you not value blessings? They have been insulted by your selling the jewelry.”

  My bhaashur said, “And why is it necessary to set up a shop? There are other lines of business too. How much can you earn from a shop? I heard there have been heavy losses in the very first month. An employee stole money and ran away.”

  My shoshur said, “We want to hear your viewpoint too. Times have changed. Wives’ and daughters’ opinions had no value earlier. They have become eloquent today. You may speak.”

  I said nothing at all. They were furious right now. Nothing I said would be acceptable to them.

  He continued, “It is true that the theft of Pishima’s jewelry has put us in some trouble, but that will pass.”

  I did not understand how he expected the financial crisis to pass. Finally, I said, very softly, “Rice and oil became more expensive last month. Our budgets are tighter. We’ve run up two months’ debt with the grocer.”

  “I am aware. Some more land and a pond in Pakistan will soon be sold. Once that money is here, we have nothing more to worry about.”

  I went to my room. My husband joined me a little later. He told me, “They suggest the shop be sold.”

  Softly, I told him, “You needn’t go to the shop tomorrow. I will.”

  “You!” He stared at me openmouthed.

  Looking at him with moist eyes, I said, “I have something else to tell you today. Promise me you won’t be angry.”

  In surprise he said, “Yes, tell me.”

  “Do you love another woman?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Is her name Kamala?”

  He seemed to shrink. How helpless the handsome, well-built man looked! I said, “Don’t hold yourself back. If you need Kamala, marry her and bring her home. I can tolerate it.”

  He slumped on the bed, hiding his face in his hands. He was ashamed.

  My eyes flowing with tears, I said, “There’s no need to visit her in secret. Where secrecy involves fear and shame and revulsion, that’s where vulnerability and sin reside. I cannot let you commit such a sin.”

  He sat with his face buried in his hands for a long time. Then, lifting his distressed, embarrassed eyes, he said, “Who told you about Kamala?”

  “Is that important?”

  Emitting a sigh, he said, “There’s no question of marrying her. I’ve hardly ever visited her since you came.”

  “Forgive me for what I’m saying. I want you to be happy. Most important, I want to be proud of you. You are my glory. Don’t conceal anything. You must understand that I am incapable of thinking ill of you.”

  “You don’t hate me?”

  “Not in the least. Please do not apologize to me. Do not stoop.”

  Looking at me in wonder, he said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “What don’t you believe?”

  “That you are a flesh-and-blood human being.”

  “You saying that is tantamount to my sinning. More important, you will become small if you consider yourself guilty constantly.”

  Emitting yet another sigh, he said, “Then let me tell you, Biren may have stolen money from the shop, but he did not take the saris.”

  “Then who did? Was it Kamala?”

  “Yes, she came to the shop one day and took them. Can they be retrieved now?”

  I shook my head. “No. Twenty silk saris are not worth a fortune. Kamala can keep them. She will get a lot more if you marry her.”

  He bit his tongue. “Why are you bringing up marriage?”

  “Then what should I conclude?”

  “What has happened will not be repeated.”

  Gently, I said, “Men are inconstant and fickle. I will not take it to heart if you do the same thing again. Only promise that you will not conceal it from me.”

  He only shook his head in mute astonishment. Fear or perhaps dread appeared in his eyes. He could no longer think of me as an ordinary woman.

  But I knew that an ordinary woman was just what I was. All I wanted from the world was what was due me. There would always be opposition, invisible enemies, crises, destiny—all of which would have to be negotiated. They mustn’t make you stop thinking sensibly. What claim could I have laid to my husband if I had quarreled with him over Kamala or made a scene? His hurt male ego, his injured pride, would have hardened him. He would have insisted on visiting Kamala. I would have died of jealousy. I preferred to keep the door open for him. He could visit any woman he wanted. But he wouldn’t
feel the need anymore.

  I kept waking up that night, and I could hear Pishima wandering around my room, muttering, “Die, die, die, become a widow, may you have leprosy . . . .”

  I did not protest publicly against my shoshur and bhaashur. But I succeeded in instigating my husband. I told him, “If you don’t want to go to the shop, I will. We have to be alive to preserve our honor.”

  He said, “Very well. I shall go.”

  I shook my head. “You may feel uncomfortable on your own. I will go with you.”

  “What will the family say?”

  “They will be affronted at first, but then they’ll stop. They’ll get used to it. They can also see that the times are changing. Even if they protest, once they see we’re making money from the shop, they will support us.”

  “You think so? I think you’re never wrong. Very well, that’s what we’ll do.”

  I don’t give in to emotions. I have fears, I feel anxiety, I make the effort to move the pieces of real life around in a way that helps me survive. When we began working in the shop together, genuine love grew between us amid all the blows and counterblows, ups and downs, profits and losses. We developed trust, dependence, mutual respect.

  He found it impossible to maintain the books, let alone keep track of the inventory, sold on credit constantly. As long as someone else was running the shop, he had depended on that person completely. And so the shop had fallen on bad days rather quickly. I didn’t know how to maintain the books either, let alone keep track of inventory. But does anything get in the way of a woman who becomes a mother for the first time without knowing anything about how to bring up a child? The shop was like my baby. It took me some time to explain this to my husband. It took me even longer to get him to brush off the stardust of aristocracy and become as industrious as a laborer. The shop began to turn a profit.

  Buying goods from wholesalers in this town did not offer the chance for large profits. But buying from Burrabazar or Manglahat in Calcutta did. I persuaded my husband to do this. Being lazy and a reluctant traveler, he didn’t agree at first. I accompanied him on the first two occasions. Then he began doing it on his own.

  People’s tastes changed every day. The demand for particular colors or designs peaked at different times. One had to make an intelligent bet. Our purchases kept this in mind. Profits grew.

  My shoshur made an unexpected raid on the shop one evening. Pleated dhoti, crimped panjabi, a shawl draped around his neck, a cane in his hand, new slippers on his feet. He looked around briefly with contempt. The shop was crowded. He watched the sales for a while and then left.

  He came back a few days later. I offered him a chair. He accepted it.

  “Brisk sales.”

  “By your grace.”

  “Not mine, Bouma, I never offered you my blessings. I cursed the shop, if anything. Neither works. A sinner, you see.”

  I was silent.

  He said, “I don’t approve of your disobeying us. But the ultimate result appears to be beneficial. How much do you make every month?”

  “Three or four thousand.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  Since his male ego and his self-respect would be injured, I did not tell him that the money from the sale of land and the pond in Pakistan had not yet turned up, that there was no gold left to sell, and yet the household was running—which was not by magic. There was no need to tell him either. He knew. And because he did, he began to visit the shop every day.

  The contemptuous smile had disappeared from his face. Two silk saris were sold for two thousand rupees each in front of his eyes.

  He stirred in his chair. “How much profit from those two saris, Bouma?”

  Smiling shyly, I said, “We have to consider the cost price, allocate the transport cost, rent, electricity bill, and employee salaries and then work out an average to price the sari.”

  “Uff, it sounds very complicated. How do you calculate all this? We only blew our money, never stopped to count it. All this is the work of lower-class people.”

  I said softly, “Our profits from those two saris is six hundred and thirty rupees.”

  Startled, he muttered, “Six thirty. From just two saris.”

  He went home, nurturing his astonishment with a worried expression.

  He sent for me a few days later and said, “I know you have to rush to the shop every morning. I am free at that time. I will go there with Fuchu.”

  I was uneasy about this. His was a feudal disposition. What if he was rude to customers? I said, “You don’t have to take the trouble. It doesn’t suit you to work in a shop.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. Let me try to make sense of the whole thing. I thought it over. I have made no use of this thing called the brain that god gave us. Let me try to shake off some mental lethargy in my old age at least.”

  I did not stop him. He began. Returning home in the afternoon, my husband said, “You won’t believe what happened. Baba quoted inflated prices for all the saris. Two customers ran away. Why did you send him? He didn’t even come home for lunch. ‘You go along,’ he said, ‘I’ll eat later.’”

  “He insisted. But don’t say anything to him. He’s trying to increase our profits. People do such things at first.”

  My husband and I laughed over the whole thing.

  My shoshur appeared after my husband went back. Very excited, perspiring, his eyes glittering. No sooner had he set foot at home than he said, “This work is not for you, Bouma. I sold seven saris today. All of them at high prices. One of them had fifty rupees written in a corner. Do you know what I did? I added a one. It was sold at one fifty. You see? Extra profits of a hundred rupees.”

  I sensed danger. The shop was just beginning to acquire a reputation. If the customer checked, he would come back either to argue or to return the sari. And he wouldn’t shop here in the future. But how was I to explain this to my father-in-law? He was as joyful as a child with a new toy. He began to regale my shaashuri with stories about the shop, forgetting all about a bath and lunch.

  Summoning me, my mother-in-law said, “Your shop will collapse now.”

  I smiled.

  She said, “If you have any sense, you’ll discourage him.”

  I said, “Never mind, we’ll manage.”

  The next day he quarreled bitterly over the price with a couple of customers. They were regular buyers. “How can a sari that cost seventy-three rupees days ago cost a hundred and seventy now?” they complained. “This is daylight robbery.” Whereupon my shoshur rolled up his sleeves to assault them. My husband had to intervene.

  In the afternoon my father-in-law began his bluster, “This is why I say shopkeeping is for the lower classes. People who aren’t even worthy of carrying our shoes dare to argue with us.”

  My shaashuri said, “Why do you have to go to the shop then? Since you haven’t done a day’s work all your life, keep it that way. The household is running, isn’t it?”

  Flaring up in a rage, he said, “You think I can’t do it?”

  “Will you visit a shop where you’re insulted?”

  “A shopkeeper? Insult me? How dare he?”

  “So you see, no customer will stomach a shopkeeper’s insult. He has ten other shops he can visit.”

  “I have ten other customers to sell to.”

  “No, you don’t. When one customer leaves because he’s cheated, ten others follow him. Do you think shopkeeping is nothing but buying cheap and selling at a high price? If only it were that simple.”

  My shoshur glowered. He did continue going to the shop, but he didn’t create any more trouble. Instead, he concentrated on learning the business despite his advanced age.

  One day he said, “Look, Bouma, people love to bargain. They think they’ve won a huge victory if they can lower the price by two rupees. Your fixed-price shop doesn’t give that opportunity. I suggest you do away with this fixed price. Raise the price a little, let the customer haggle for a price that will make them hap
py.”

  I said softly, “That’s true.”

  He said happily, “Then shall we start tomorrow?”

  “Why not? But the trouble is, most people know prices are fixed here. So no one will bargain other than new customers.”

  “That’s true,” he said, worried. “This will create problems.”

  He abandoned the idea on his own. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now he began to go to the shop both mornings and afternoons. To be honest, he ran the business quite smoothly. Every so often, he told me, “There’s a thrill to it. The day passes so well, I meet new people, see new faces. It really is a new experience.”

  My jaa never came downstairs. She was bedridden with arthritis and high blood pressure. Even a whole year after the incident, she had not overcome her fear of me. So I never went upstairs either. My bhaashur would take her food to the first floor.

  She sent for me one evening.

  I went. Averting my gaze, she looked at the wall. Then she said, “Don’t be angry. I want to say something. I have no choice but to say it.”

  I hadn’t entered. I was standing at the doorstep, lest she was terrified. “Yes?” I said.

  “We are in a bad way. My husband has no money. There’s no gold to sell either. We can’t go on.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “What can I tell you? You’ve rendered me useless with your black magic. You spared my life only out of kindness. But I am no longer afraid to die. Being tied to my bed is no different from being dead.”

  “I don’t know any black magic.”

  Wiping her eyes with the end of her sari, she said, “It was only your kindness that you didn’t make us starve. You know all sorts of spells and hypnotism; there’s nothing you cannot do. I’ve been informed you’ve got your shoshur to work in your shop.”

  “You’ve been misinformed.”

  “I don’t want to argue. You can do much more if you choose to. You can tear the family apart. I accept all this. But I cannot afford to be fearful. So I am speaking up.”

  “Explain in detail, Didi.”

  “I’m afraid to. But still I’m asking, have you sold all the jewelry?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard you’ve set up a huge shop. That needs lots of money.”