The Aunt Who Wouldn't Die Read online

  Ma opened the lid. “Take a look. Check everything.”

  The box was filled with old, heavy jewelry. Made me want to throw up. Ugly things.

  “There’s nothing to check,” I said. “Ancient ornaments.”

  “More than a hundred bhoris. Nothing less.”

  “Why are you showing me all this? I have enough jewelry. Have you seen me wear any of it? I hate ornaments.”

  “It was my responsibility. That’s why.”

  “Whom does all this belong to? Did you get it when you got married?”

  “No. It’s all yours.”

  “I don’t want it. Keep it.”

  Ma’s face brightened for a moment even in that dark room. She seemed to emit a suppressed but anxious sigh.

  Baroma said, “Can you stop all this drama of yours, Lata? Heaven knows what madness takes hold of you sometimes. She’s a little girl—what do they know of jewelry these days? Call Kshitish and ask him to remake some of these. Not too many. Best not to show jewelers how much gold you have at home.”

  I could make no sense of this morning performance. I looked at them by turn. What did all this mean?

  Why was Ma staring at me? I wasn’t new around here.

  Ma said, “I took the box out with your permission.”

  “My permission? Why, Ma? I’ve never seen this jewelry in my life. Whose is it?”

  Ma lowered her head. “Someone has bequeathed this to you. It was in my safekeeping all this time, that’s all.”

  “What’ll I do with it? Who bequeathed it to me?”

  “A thakuma, a great-aunt, of yours. She had a sad life. This jewelry was like her heart.”

  “Who was she?”

  “You haven’t seen her. Rashomoyee.”

  I smiled. “I’ve seen her photos. So beautiful. It’s her rooms I’m occupying, isn’t that so?”

  “You’re there by right. Why should you be occupying them?”

  “Why did you bring these out today?”

  Ma and Baroma exchanged mysterious glances. I scented a mild conspiracy.

  “I have to go, Ma. Lots to do.”

  “All right.”

  No one can understand the romantic madness of putting on a helmet and floating away on a scooter. The sharp cold wind entering my brain through my nose and mouth swept away all thoughts of the jewelry. I simply cannot understand Ma and Baroma. So old-fashioned. Obsessed with nothing but gold and ornaments. Do they ever try to find out how beautiful the world is?

  It was afternoon by the time I got to Sumita’s after visiting a couple of other places. Parking the scooter, I entered, saying, “Sumita, ei Sumita.”

  A tall, gentle young man was sitting on a sofa in the drawing room. Tender beard. Unkempt hair. Faraway expression. He had changed a lot, but I wouldn’t forget him in my entire life. I came to an abrupt halt. My heart stopped beating for a few moments. And then the memories of humiliation came marauding from the past like soldiers on a rampage.

  A deep, resonant voice said, “Sumita? She’s probably upstairs.”

  I left the room and went up the stairs without any awareness of what I was doing.

  A disheveled Sumita was sprawled on her bed amid a sea of wool. As soon as she saw me, she said in a forlorn voice, “Haven’t finished today either. What to do? Dada came back after such a long time. We’re having so much fun. No time for anything else. Come, sit here. Did Dada see you?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Why?”

  Sumita concentrated on her knitting needles. “Just asking.”

  She wasn’t just asking. I could see a faint pattern in all this. I was hardening, getting angry. But I couldn’t say anything.

  Sumita said softly, “He’s been in America so long. Imagine what a hard time he’s had. It was very tough at first.”

  I had no use for all this information. So I did not respond.

  Sumita said, “I heard your lorry broke down on the road last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “What a shame I couldn’t go this year. Dada’s home. How could I go? So much to talk about.”

  “So you talk to your brother these days? You used to be afraid of him.”

  “Dada wasn’t the way he is now. Nor are we. We’ve grown up.”

  “Is your brother less conceited now?”

  Sumita’s face fell.

  After a short silence, she said, “Conceited. What did Dada ever have to be conceited about? We barely had enough to eat. Had to borrow things all the time. Dada was so shy he could never ask. We never knew when he was hungry. The truth is, he has suffered a lot.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that what you think of him?”

  “I know nothing about Amalesh-da. What should I think about him?”

  “You said he was conceited.”

  “He was a good student; he could easily have been conceited.”

  “Don’t say that. He used to send most of his scholarship money from America to us. He starved himself. Studied all the time.”

  “Why do I need to know all this?”

  “No one has ever said anything bad about Dada.”

  “Bring the cardigan home when it’s done. But don’t make it long sleeved. Try three-quarters.”

  Sumita nodded. “All right. But I’ll be a bit late. Because Dada’s here.”

  Sumita came downstairs to see me off. As I was putting on my helmet, I heard her tell her brother discreetly, “This is Boshon, Dada.”

  The deep voice said, “I know.”

  Today the old humiliation was stinging me like nettle. I kept grinding my teeth. I had never driven my scooter so fast. My house was close by, just three doors away. But I had gathered so much speed that I couldn’t stop in time. I had to brake hard. The scooter reared up like a horse. And then it went in one direction while I was flung in another. My left arm was badly hurt. Tears sprang to my eyes. But by the time I left my ignominious bed of dust, my heart was in more pain than my body.

  Lifting the scooter from where it lay on the ground, I wheeled it home slowly before a crowd could gather.

  Back in the privacy of the second floor, I found my left arm bruised all the way to the elbow. It was bleeding profusely. I had injured my head too, but not too badly thanks to the helmet. Was there an injury to the hip too? Probably. But none of these could affect me physically. I went to my room and sat quietly in my chair. As though I was possessed. There was a wailing in my heart that went beyond the usual sounds of the second floor. A keen wailing that left me bereft.

  I would be scolded roundly if found out and not allowed to ride my scooter anymore. So I had to clean the wound and put antiseptic cream on it. Luckily, it was winter, which let me put on a long-sleeved blouse. But not every wound can be kept out of sight. Why did that insolent silence in response to an innocent letter written in the foolishness of puberty have to come back multiplied a thousand times today?

  There was a new restaurant in town. It had become quite famous. Jethu took me there in the evening. A swank, flashy place. A superb restaurant, really, considering it was a small town.

  Jethu had just been diagnosed with high blood sugar. He was under restrictions. I glared at him. “You mustn’t eat anything you want. Give me the menu, I’ll pick for you.”

  Jethu pulled a long face. “One meal does no harm.”

  “No, Jethu, high blood sugar is dangerous. Stew and salad for you. With two tandoori rotis.”

  “Two spoons of fried rice?”

  “All right, from my plate.”

  “What’s the matter with you? You look pale.”

  “Why do all of you keep an eye on me all the time, Jethu? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Never mind, eat now.”

  Jethu looked like he wanted to say something. He tried several times but couldn’t.

  It was a lovely evening. After a delicious meal, Jethu took me to play video games. I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’
t score well at all.

  At night, a symphony of pain took over my body, the agony jangling like a musical instrument. I hadn’t realized the extent of the injury. Did I have a fever? I was feeling unusually cold. More than that, something was blowing across the room. What was it?

  I couldn’t sleep. Getting out of bed, I switched on the lights in all three rooms and then wandered between them like a wraith. My great-aunt, Rashomoyee the child widow, used to roam around these rooms once upon a time. There was nothing for her to savor in her life, no joy. She wasn’t allowed to eat at a restaurant or ride a scooter or play video games. All she did was rummage through her jewelry. And sigh. And hold hands with loneliness. Was it the void in her heart that was flitting about the room tonight? Was it her sighs I could hear?

  There was a huge mirror on the wardrobe door. I sat down in front of it on a stool. Dada used to say, “Boshon resembles Rashomoyee.”

  I do. I know I do. There are some photographs of Rashomoyee’s in the family album. Taken late in her life. Still, the face doesn’t change with age. A flawless beauty. I was feeling sad for Rashomoyee tonight. She had apparently bequeathed her jewelry to me. So strange. How did she know I would be born?

  I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. My arm was aching, my hips were frozen with pain, my head was throbbing. The signs of a high fever were there in my body. And over and above all this, that same wailing even on this sunlit winter morning. The same sense of feeling bereft.

  The entire family would pounce on me if they found out I was unwell. Doctors, medicines, permanent security in the form of Ma and Baroma in the room. A bigger pain. I didn’t tell them about little illnesses.

  I was getting ready to go to college. Baroma came in. “College?”

  “Yes, Baroma.”

  “Good.”

  She wanted to say something. The burned child fears the fire. That expression, this redundant question of whether I was going to college—I knew the signs only too well.

  “Have you heard, Jatin Bose’s eldest son is back.”

  “That’s hardly news to me, Baroma. Sumita is my friend.”

  “Yes, of course. Very nice boy.”

  My heart wailed again. I adjusted my sari instead of responding.

  Baroma said, “They were saying they’re looking for a match for him.”

  Turning to her, I smiled. “What is it you want to say, Baroma?”

  Baroma looked flustered. “No, that’s not what I was suggesting. It was your jethu who was saying, he’s a good boy. Comes from a poor family, struggled so hard to get where he has.”

  “I could guess, Baroma.”

  “Are you upset?”

  “No. Why should I be angry with you? But for heaven’s sake, don’t make a proposal in any circumstances.”

  “But why not?”

  “There are reasons.”

  The fever rose when I was in college. Never mind paying attention in class, there was a constant lamentation in my ear. A void in my heart. I sat down beneath a tree with the sun on my back during a break. Priti sat beside me, babbling about her Nitish. On and on. I paid no attention. All I could hear was the wailing in my heart. What was so attractive about a home and a family anyway?

  Suddenly I turned to Priti and asked her cruelly, “How much does this Nitish of yours love you?”

  Priti said in embarrassment, “You have no idea. He’s so crazy. Apparently he thinks of me with every breath.”

  “Tell me, Priti, suppose someone suddenly threw an acid bulb at you and your face was burned horribly and you lost an eye. Suppose you became grotesquely ugly. Would your Nitish still marry you? Would he still love you?”

  Priti’s expression was indescribable. She gaped at me for a few moments. Then she shrieked, “Maago! Are you a witch? Who says such nasty things?”

  Chewing on a blade of grass, I said absently, “Is there any value to conditional love, which depends on your beauty or your position? I don’t believe in it, you know. I don’t believe in such love at all. Lovers have very fragile relationships.”

  “You’re a demon. My heart is in my mouth. Have you any idea what you just said?”

  “Think about it, Priti.”

  “I feel miserable.”

  “You’re a fool. So you’ll be happy. You can’t be happy in life unless you’re a fool.” At that Priti left.

  Jethu suddenly cleared his throat as we were eating at the enormous dining table that night and said, “I have something to ask you, Boshon. Think carefully before answering.”

  I stopped eating. Looking at him, I said, “I know what you’re going to say. My answer is no. Never.”

  Everyone exchanged glances and fell silent.

  “All right,” Jethu said very softly. “But the boy’s been waiting a long time. Apparently he had no plans of getting married. But when his family started pressuring him, he said, ‘There’s someone I’ve been waiting for all this time.’” Jethu paused and sighed. “Never mind. It’s best to let them know we don’t want this.”

  I went to my room. Desolation wailed from every corner. What was wrong with me?

  Sumita appeared one afternoon a couple of days later, on another holiday. Her face was drawn. She said, “Try it on, see if it fits.”

  I put the cardigan on in front of the wardrobe. It was lovely. Sumita knitted very well.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  Sumita sat down. She said, “I stayed up two nights to finish the cardigan. I told myself, It’s very cold, Boshon will find it hard without the cardigan.”

  I curled my lips, feeling guilty. “Rubbish, there was no hurry. I have so many.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Still I imagined you were waiting for this one. You wanted it, after all.”

  “Why did you take so much trouble?”

  “It’s a joy to take trouble for some people. Is there anything your family hasn’t done for us? It was Somlata whom Ma would turn to every time we ran short of something.”

  “I get angry when I hear all this, Sumi. Those who have enough can easily give some away. What’s so great about it?”

  Sumita was silent for some time. Then she said, “There was something Somlata used to say that I really liked. She would say, ‘I can’t take it when other people sigh.’”

  I know my mother is a generous woman, I know. I will probably never achieve her greatness. So much respect for her husband, her bonds with the household, the way she battled poverty—no, I will never be able to match her, to be so devoted, so good like her.

  Suddenly Sumita said, “Dada is leaving tomorrow.”

  I posed in front of the mirror, examining the cardigan.

  Sumita said softly, “You turned him down?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “We had no idea it was you he likes,” Sumita said with moist eyes. “Who knows why? I asked him many times, ‘When did you even set eyes on Boshon, Dada? You never look at girls.’ He wasn’t even around. I asked him, ‘When did you start liking Boshon?’ Dada just says, ‘You won’t understand. She has a score to settle with me.’”

  Sumita continued, “I don’t know what he means. Do you?”

  I didn’t know. All I could hear was the deathly current of the wails. Why was it coming from my heart? It rose above all other sounds.

  “So many marriage proposals! Dada’s turned them all down.” Sumita sighed.

  Suddenly I understood. The wailing in my heart only got worse when he was mentioned. A wild idea occurred to me, and I lowered my voice, sounding grave.

  “Listen, Sumi, can you tell your brother something in complete confidence?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “First you have to swear to me you won’t tell anyone else.”

  “You’re frightening me. All right, I swear. Nothing bad, right?”

  “It’s bad. You touched me just now. Go home and wash your hands with disinfectant.”

  Startled, Sumita asked, “But why?”

/>   “Listen, I’m telling you because I trust you. I haven’t told anyone at home. They’ll make a huge fuss if I do. You know how they care for me.”

  “Tell me, Boshon. I’m terrified now.”

  I put on a wonderfully convincing act. Without warning, I hid my face in the end of my sari and burst into tears. Then, still sobbing, I said, “I have leprosy.”

  “Oh, my god.”

  “I’ve been to the doctor in secret. I haven’t told anyone.”

  Sumita sat like a stone.

  After weeping for some time, I unveiled my tear-soaked face and said hoarsely, “Tell your brother.”

  Sumita was staring at me in fright. Then she said, “How did it happen? Are you sure?”

  I rolled up my left sleeve and showed her my arm. It was already looking nasty with all the cream smeared on the wound. On top of which Sumita didn’t even dare look properly. She hid her face. Perhaps she had tears in her eyes too.

  When that fool, Sumita, had left with a face like thunder, perhaps I should have laughed to myself. But I wanted to cry instead. Why could I not trust love?

  When I was young, I would often see a blood-red rose that someone would leave outside our door early in the morning every day. When I grew older, I learned that it was someone who had fallen in love with my mother. Unrequited, of course. He would leave a symbol of his bleeding heart outside the door every day. I would open the door at dawn so that I could claim the rose. One day, I opened the door a little too early. I saw the man. Tall and nice looking, with a rose in his hand. He was taken aback when he saw me. Then he smiled in embarrassment. Thrusting the rose into my hand, he left without a word. How wonderful it had felt that day.

  It’s been a long time since anyone has left a rose on our doorstep. Why did he give up? Does love dwindle? Does it get tired? Does love feel afraid? Could I ever accept love?

  That night after bidding Sumita farewell, I returned home. Our house falls unnaturally silent every evening. My second-floor room was even more silent. Only a stream of pain, of separation, flowed through it. The wailing in my heart hadn’t stopped.

  Suddenly a sound broke through the silence. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. They were not familiar ones. I was alarmed. How could someone just come upstairs uninvited?

  I knew who was coming. I didn’t know how I knew. Was this supposed to be the way into my heart? Why did he have to be here, barging in, demolishing my resistance, my fear, my rejection?