The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  As soon as I stepped out, I realized it was a drunken night. Loveliness would not be thwarted tonight. It was a night of extremes. Of wild winds. No one was willing to behave themselves. Everything had been turned upside down. An alchemist had recast the ingredients of the world to create a completely new universe. The sky had never held so many stars, had it? Perhaps I had been borne away somewhere on the breeze, on a moonbeam.

  Turning around tenderly, I saw no one behind me. He was not following me. Had he chosen this maddening moonlit night not to come? Tonight I seemed to have been expecting him too. I felt a little saddened, a little sour. I’d become used to him, after all.

  Muttering my disapproval at the empty street, I walked slowly. There was no hurry to get anywhere. Maybe he would come. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  He wasn’t behind me. He was in front. Startling me, he suddenly blocked my way on that desolate road. His tall frame, doe-like eyes, a giant moon above his head. I had stopped in enchanted wonder, unknown to myself. Gazing at him shamelessly. Such deep ardor in his look! What infinite passion in that pair of lips!

  His eyes were boring into me. Waves of silence passed back and forth between the two of us for some time.

  Suddenly he spoke, the words falling off his lips. “I . . . I love you.”

  He couldn’t remain after this. Filled with dread, he disappeared after setting off an explosion. I had nothing to say in response anyway. But the walls were being razed within me. The mountains were crumbling. The way was no longer clear.

  I went home on slow footsteps, as though I had no destination, nowhere to arrive, ever. It even took me some effort to identify my own front door. Was this where I lived? Was this my address?

  I flooded my pillow that night with my tears.

  Pishima said intensely, “Cry. It will wash the grime away. Duties and rituals and caste and religion are all grime. Let it all be swept away. Then you can cross the river. You will see the joy it brings.”

  “Joy, Pishima! I’m burning within.”

  “Let it all be burned to ashes, all the garbage.”

  I stared into the darkness all night, my eyes flaming.

  When I opened the front door early the next morning, I found that someone had left a rain-soaked, bloodred rose by the doorstep, complete with its stem and green leaves. It hadn’t bloomed yet.

  I picked the rose up, putting it in my room. Let it blossom. Let the flower bloom.

  He chased me every day. Every morning he left a bloodred rose on my doorstep. Was this a sin? Was this what it meant to be cut from my moorings and have my boat adrift on a mad current?

  My exhausted husband came back at dawn one day. Opening the door, I said in utter surprise when I saw him, “It’s you at last? Where were you all these days? Why do you leave me alone?”

  Bursting into tears, I knocked my head over and over against his chest.

  Putting his arms around me, he said, “What’s all this? Don’t cry. You know I went for work.”

  “Don’t leave me and go away ever again.”

  The bloodred rose lay on the doorstep that day too. Not having seen it, my husband ground it beneath his heel as he entered.

  I didn’t pick the rose up.

  That night I put fresh sheets on the bed, arranged the pillows, and scattered flower petals. A little perfume too.

  When he came to bed, he said, “This looks like it’s our wedding night.”

  I embraced him hungrily. Inarticulately, I said, “Give me.”

  “What’s all this, Lata? You know everything I have is yours.”

  “I want you more. More. Give me you.”

  A restless voice floated around the room. “So you didn’t cross the line? You didn’t go for your tryst? Die of cholera, die of typhoid. I’ll turn into a snake and bite your husband. You’ll die, you’ll die.”

  I drew my husband into bed. I couldn’t delay any longer. My eyes were flowing with tears. My heart was burning away.

  The voice kept cursing me: “Eat him up, eat him up, eat him up, eat him up . . . .”

  Closing my eyes, I held my husband tightly, my lips on his. In my head I said, “Be quiet, temptation, be still, my beating heart. Be born. Be born through us. Let your pain recede, let your agony end . . . .”

  The sound circled the bed. “Eat him up, eat him up, eat him up, eat him up . . . .”

  I said, “Let the flames in your heart go out, let the torment of your desire be calmed, let the anguish of your self-repression be relieved. Serenity. This is your moment of birth. Be tranquil, this is a beautiful moment. Fill my arms, fill my heart. Be born, be born, be born . . . .”

  The sound faded. Forever. Our union reached a climax.

  Nine months later I gave birth to a daughter. She was born in spring, in boshonto. We called her Boshon.

  There was no sign of Pishima anywhere in the house. No sound. Calmness. Unburdened.

  I couldn’t stop looking at Boshon. She lay on her bed like a bouquet of flowers. That’s how beautiful she was. Hugging and kissing her, I asked sometimes, “Do you recognize me? Do you recognize this house? Don’t you remember anything?”

  The baby gazed at me uncomprehendingly.

  A child had been born in the family after a very long time. A furious tug-of-war broke out over her. My shaashuri gave up on her gods and goddesses to spend all her time with her granddaughter. My shoshur skipped the shop frequently. Even his elder brother, who would seldom come downstairs, went into the living room often. My bhaashur was so charmed by his niece that he filled the room with toys. Boshon was passed around from one person’s arms to another’s, being cuddled all the time. Since no one was willing to set her down on the floor, she didn’t learn how to crawl and walked rather late.

  But all this while, my jaa didn’t even set eyes on Boshon. She was unable to climb down the stairs. Arthritis, high blood pressure, and all sorts of other illnesses surrounded her joylessly.

  One afternoon, when Boshon had just learned to toddle around, she slipped past everyone’s eyes and climbed upstairs. She stood at my jaa’s door on tottering legs, observing her with great surprise while she sucked her thumb.

  When my jaa spotted Boshon, she shouted, “Who’s there? Who is it?”

  It took her some time to realize that this was the daughter of the witch. She waved the baby away from her bed. “Go away! Go away from here.”

  Children understand clearly where they are not wanted. Scared, Boshon tried to turn and go back. But she tripped and rolled all the way to the bottom of the stairs.

  Who knew how my jaa’s body was electrified, but she practically flew out of her bed and ran down the stairs to pick Boshon up. Boshon was blue with pain.

  By the time Panchu, the family servant, went upstairs, alarmed by the sounds, my jaa was cradling Boshon in her arms and crying as she applied a cold compress to the injured area.

  I wasn’t home. I heard about it from my shaashuri when I returned later in the afternoon. Looking woebegone and guilty, she said, “Such a turbulent girl. I’d gone for my bath when she went upstairs. And then . . .”

  “Is she in Didi’s room?” I asked with fear and trepidation.

  “Yes, she’s still there. Who knows what’s going on? Your jaa’s heart is full of poison. Send Panchu to fetch your daughter.”

  After a short silence, I said, “Let it be, Ma.”

  The cook appeared and said, “The boudi has asked for some rice to feed Boshon. Shall I take her some rice?”

  “Yes,” I told him.

  After this Boshon began to visit her boudi upstairs every day. There was no one in the family she didn’t win over.

  When she was alone with me I still looked for signs on her face. “Don’t you remember the jewelry box?” I asked her. “Don’t you remember the pain, the suffering? Don’t you remember any of it?”

  I had no idea what Boshon babbled in reply.

  Part Four

  Boshon

  I cannot explain how barren the se
cond floor feels. I occupy three enormous rooms. My mother doesn’t like that I live here by myself. An entire terrace and as many as three coveted rooms had lain vacant for a long time. They would be swept and cleaned and then put back under lock and key. I demanded that I be allowed to move in.

  They tried to dissuade me, even scolded me. But eventually I did get my three-room kingdom on the second floor. Ma and Baroma used to spend the nights with me at first, in case I felt frightened. But I feel no fear at all. I love living alone. I can sense an eerie desolation blowing through the three rooms and the terrace all day long. It’s not the wind, but who knows what it is that whistles through the rooms.

  The entire floor is packed with furniture. A huge, heavy bedstead, several large wooden wardrobes, a marble-top table, a big clock with a pendulum on the wall. Dolls lined up in a glass case. All of these had belonged to a great-aunt of mine who died before I was born. What a tragic life she had! Married at seven, widowed at twelve. How fortunate I wasn’t born in that time! My god, what a horrible system. No wonder women are rebelling for freedom.

  My friends visit me sometimes. They’re astonished to see what a big space I live in. Some of them envy me too. And a few say, “Oh, lord, I’d die of fear if I had to live here alone. How do you manage? So brave, honestly.”

  There was a big discussion one evening. Suddenly Chanchal said, “Look, Boshon, you could be kidnapped.”

  I said in surprise, “Kidnap? Who’ll kidnap me?”

  “It suddenly occurred to me last night, my god, Boshon is the perfect target. They have so much money, and she’s the apple of everyone’s eye. Considering the times we live in, criminals can easily kidnap Boshon.”

  Indrani said, “No one will kidnap her. But the danger for Boshon lies elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Anyone who marries her will get a kingdom of sorts, right? I bet lots of people will want to marry her.”

  She wasn’t wrong. My jethu, my father’s brother, has no children. I am the only child of my parents. Everything will come to me.

  Tilak said, “It’s not for nothing Mr. Chatterjee, a respected lawyer, wanted to marry her. It’s true, Boshon, you have to be very careful.”

  He spoke with so much authority that we started laughing. I said, “Want a slap? You think they all want to marry me only for my money and nothing else?”

  “You have an excess of everything, honestly,” said Jhinuk. “There’s divine justice for you.”

  Bachhu said dispassionately, “Boshon is beautiful all right, but that classical beauty doesn’t work in this day and age.”

  I asked in surprise, “Are you saying I’m worthless?”

  “I’m not saying that,” Bachhu replied knowledgeably, “but those aristocratic almond-shaped eyes and plump cheeks and lustrous curls are not valued anymore. Tastes have changed. Haven’t you seen—it’s girls with prominent jaw lines and sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones who are chosen as heroines for the movies these days.”

  Irked, Tilak said, “Forget it. It’s beneath our dignity to discuss people’s appearances. Beauty is skin-deep. Personality is the main thing.”

  In my head I withdrew from the chatter to think about myself. Why did I have an excess of everything? Money, looks, doting family, friends. It tires me out sometimes. My entire family keeps its eyes on me. I used to have two dadus, my father’s father and his uncle. Both of them had spoiled me. They died within a year of each other, but that hasn’t made the others dote any less on me.

  Ma is the only one I can set apart from the rest. She loves me to no end, but she doesn’t indulge me. My mother is a strange person, actually. We hardly have anything in common.

  Even my friends say, “Your mother’s very odd, isn’t she? See how much she still cares for her husband?”

  It’s true that none of my friends has parents so devoted to each other. Ma is full of reverence and respect for Baba, deferring to him in a way I’m incapable of. And yet it is this old-fashioned woman who runs the entire household flawlessly. I’ve heard that it was her effort and enterprise that led to these two shops we own. Our affluence today is the result of her farsightedness. Everyone swears by her. She is the one who rescued the family from collapse and set it back on its feet.

  The formal way in which Ma addresses Baba does not seem unusual to me for I’ve been hearing it from my childhood. But it grates on my friends’ ears. They ask me, “Why does your mother address your father formally, as Aapni?”

  I felt embarrassed then. I asked my mother, “Why do you address Baba as Aapni, Ma?”

  She told me, “He was so much older than me, such personality. Aapni seemed natural. Not that it did any harm.”

  “Should everyone address their husbands that way?”

  “Of course not. To each according to their own. But my strength comes from the fact that I have always respected him. Otherwise everything would have fallen apart.”

  I didn’t understand this. But I didn’t ask Ma any more questions either. This house is still imprisoned in an old, feudal atmosphere. The world outside is changing so fast.

  When I woke up this morning on the second floor, the winter sun was flooding the room through the eastern window. The day was well advanced. But my head was still full of last night’s moonlight and desolation.

  As I was about to go downstairs after brushing my teeth, I discovered Baroma climbing up the stairs. Her rheumatic knee makes it difficult for her. She was panting.

  I said, “Why must you come upstairs, Baroma? All you have to do is call.”

  “What were you telling the Chatterjee woman so loudly last night,?”

  I chuckled. “I’m glad I did. Why do they torture her?”

  “Why do you have to interfere in other people’s affairs? Do you want to start a fight with them? You were shouting! The entire neighborhood must have heard. You mustn’t do such things.”

  “I really want to get all my friends together and attack their house one day.”

  “You’re quite capable of it. There’s nothing you can’t do. They said you even pushed a lorry last night.”

  “We’d have had to spend the night on the road if we didn’t push the lorry.”

  Baroma’s eyes turned to saucers. “What next? I’ve never heard of girls pushing lorries.”

  “Do you think we’re still living in your era, Baroma? Girls today can do everything.”

  “Do anything, do everything, just don’t stop being a girl. Don’t turn into a boy. The way things are going, I’ll be grateful if women don’t start sprouting beards.”

  I couldn’t contain my laughter. “The things you say, Baroma! You’re jealous of today’s girls, aren’t you?”

  “That’s true, I am a bit.” Baroma fished out a small bowl from somewhere beneath the end of her sari. “Eat these. I just made them.”

  Gokul pithe. Those palm-sugar-and-coconut savories I abominate. My nose began to wrinkle inadvertently. But telling her that was out of the question. All I could say was, “You won’t give up till I’m a ball of pudding, will you?”

  “Oma! Listen to the girl. Why should you be a ball?”

  “Of course I will. Do you know how many calories these sweets have?”

  “Never heard of such a thing. Eat. You have to eat these in winter. It’s a special day.”

  “You know what I love?”

  “Only too well. Those things that wriggle like worms and spicy shingaras from Gopal’s shop. No wonder you’re turning into a skeleton.”

  “Skeletons are in demand these days. I’m going to open my mouth, and pop it in. No way I’m touching that syrupy stuff. My hand will get icky.”

  “Open wide. It’s hot. Be careful.”

  Truth to tell, I’m closer to Baroma than to Ma. Baroma is an open book; she can’t keep anything to herself. Her affection for me includes force-feeding, antislimness propaganda, even opposition to feminism. Still, I can win her over whenever I want. I can ask for anything and get it too.

&nb
sp; Baroma almost fainted when Jethu bought me a scooter a year and a half ago. She had a huge fight with him. Apparently she had never seen such a thing in her life. Now she rides on the seat behind me.

  Baroma says, “You’re actually a boy. You were born a girl by mistake.”

  Baroma has no idea how much of a girl I am. I don’t have the slightest regret about being a girl, though she may. I’m very happy to have been born a girl. If there’s such a thing as rebirth, I want to be born a girl every time. I want the world to belong only to women. There’s no need for men. What a lovely world it would have been with women alone! But then, no, not without Baba and Jethu and my two dadus. They will be the only four males on earth. Baba, Jethu, and my two dadus. No one else.

  It was a holiday. I had lots of things to do. Music lessons, go to Shabari’s for science notebooks and then to Sumita’s—she was knitting a cardigan for me, and I had to ask her to change the design a bit.

  As soon as I went downstairs, Ma said, “Boshon, come to my room after breakfast.”

  Was she sounding grim? My mother is a little grim.

  Ma’s room is dark and dingy, horrible. And packed with trunks and cases and who knows what else. Baroma was perched on the bed, her legs dangling. Ma was in front of the safe. A huge jewelry box lay on the floor in front of her.

  “Shut the door and come here.”

  I shut the door and remained standing.

  Ma gave me a peculiar look. “Do you recognize this box? Remember anything?”

  I shook my head. “No. What should I remember?”

  “This box was yours once.”

  I looked away in disgust. “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe not in this lifetime.”

  I looked at Ma in astonishment. My mother was always rational. I’ve never heard her spout mumbo jumbo. What did this mean?!

  “You mean in another lifetime?”

  Baroma told Ma in irritation, “Why do you have to spell everything out? You’re a fool.”