The Onus of Ancestry (5 page)

Dwita was to grow up further when she returned from school one day to find her eight-year-old world shattered completely. It was a cold January afternoon which felt colder without Dima peering out of the window through the familiar foliage of the jackfruit tree. Their courtyard was full of people, some she knew and others whom she had never met. Ma's office car was parked outside which was an unusual sight. “Bhushandada, what is wrong? Why are all these people here?” But Bhushan was silent. She rushed into the house, ignoring the others, calling, “Dima, I am back from school – where are you? Mahama-aa…” She stopped in front of a strange, black tableau, frozen with fear. Dima was lying on her bed, her eyes closed, hands still, crossed together on her bosom. Ma's head lay buried at her side. Mahama spread her arms to enclose Dwita, tears streaming down her face. Others stood around silent or weeping. Dwita was confused, cold and afraid. “Dima, wake up, speak to me. I am back,” she whispered helplessly and flung herself on Nirupama. For the first time in her life there was no response from someone who had never failed to respond. So Dwita met death again – but this time it was different. It was a personal and close encounter with mortality, finite and irreversible.

Although Dima had obviously thought of death, she had never made it clear to Dwita that she would have to obey its summons as well. Dwita now remembered those evenings so clearly when she and Dima sat together and hummed their favourite songs. Dima would sing, ‘
Din to galo, shyandha holo, paar karo amay
' (‘The day is done, the dusk is here, now take me ashore'). Dwita would join in as she liked the melody, but Dima always objected. “No, my love, you are not old enough to sing this song.” She now realised that this was the other shore, to the safety of which Dima had been finally taken – alone and unescorted as she had desired.

Nirupama's death should have brought her mother and Dwita closer, but it did not. Instead, Dwita disappeared further into the protection of Maheshwari's simple and undemanding love. They surrounded themselves further with the impenetrable rustic density of the mysterious Santhal Hills. Parna once again withdrew into the realms of her own grief and loss, leaving Dwita outside it. She mourned her mother deeply, and not quietly. She cried for long periods, alone and inconsolable, first asthmatic spasms of distressed weeping, then dissolving into low drawn-out moaning sounds – it was both depressing and frightening to hear her. Dwita was too young to fathom this traumatic emergence of a new personality in her mother. This led her to thoughts of her father whom she knew had no real presence in her life. He was a shadowy image on the mantelshelf like her aunt Alpana, and now Dima had taken her place beside them. But because Dima was no mere figment, her father too seemed to acquire more substance. He became more of a person, a probability.

At school most children spoke of a father who seemed to be permanent in their lives. She was once asked by her classmate Chandni where her father was. But Mrs Brown had intervened and asked Chandni to mind her own business. Why? What was wrong with her being asked a question like that? All this had happened a long time ago when she had just joined her new school.

She also remembered the argument that had taken place between Dima and Ma about the choice of a school. Dima wanted her to go to the Sacred Memorial School, a combined Brahmo-Christian foundation, run by European and foreign educated Indian women. Ma had wanted her to go to a Roman Catholic Convent, reputed for its high academic standards. Dima won as usual and Dwita joined the Sacred Memorial School. Headmistress Mahamaya Roy was Dima's friend, who handed Dwita over to Mrs Brown's safe-keeping. Miss Roy was very kind and had allowed the child to do the entry test sitting on her lap.

Dwita settled into school very easily. Mrs Brown was tolerant of her, even indulged her to some extent. She had not realised then that she was particularly anxious to protect the posthumous girl from the inadvertently harsh questioning of other children, who obviously came from more fortunate backgrounds of dual parenthood.

Dwita had subsequently asked Dima about her father. Nirupama was completely taken aback by the sudden gamut of questions. But she knew that her granddaughter was not going to be put off easily. They should have perhaps spoken to her earlier about Monmotho. Dima was always so reassuring. She always held up the world for her when it was about to crash or disintegrate.

It was a long story and the afternoon had rolled into evening. She told Dwita everything, hiding nothing, making it as simple as she could for a five-year-old. Dwita found out that her father was dead, that he could not return to earth as he was with God in heaven. He was not a ghost as she had feared, but he still lived in Dwita and in all those who loved him. He died not because he wished to leave them, but because he was very ill and the doctors were not able to cure him. Dima also told her how much her father wanted her to be born, so that he could love her and look after her. When he had to leave them he left Dwita in their care and continued to love her from a distance. She also added that she was very special to them and they would always take care of her in the way her father would have wanted. She was told most firmly that she must never feel deprived or lacking in anything. Dima had then continued to speak of Dibendra and how she had brought Parna up without him.

As time went on Nirupama had made sure that she spoke more and more about Dibendra and Monmotho to Dwita, until they became part of her everyday existence. These hours of exchanges stayed private – only Mahama knew of them. Parna was not made party to these confidences. She could never have understood nor have handled them without emotion. But they helped Dwita settle into the life of the school, never expecting concessions or special privileges. The teachers respected her detached confidence and she was absorbed into the anonymity of an ordinary existence.

After Nirupama's death Brojen Halder became a regular visitor to the household. Dwita did not like him, nor did Mahama. She felt that Bhushan, Ramu and Dhiru disliked him as well, but no one expressed their opinion to any of the others as they knew that this would upset Ma if she ever found out. They also knew that he had found her the job she now held, which supported and supplemented the family income. Mr Halder was the General Manager of the Superior Publishing Company (UK) Ltd and Gerald Downe was the Managing Director.

Uncle Halder, as Dwita was asked to address him, did not like the old guards either and what Dwita resented most was that he tried to rule the roost in Dima's absence. So there was increasing tension between Ma and Mahama. But Uncle Halder knew enough not to offend Mahama openly. He not only visited Parna often but took her to his house after work, pleading more work and official discussions. He was a married man with several children and an ailing wife. He said that Mrs Halder enjoyed Parna's company.

Dwita was unconcerned or at least unaffected, until he suggested one day that Bhushan should bring her to his house in the evenings so that she could play with his children and they could all do homework under Parna's supervision. Being conscious of Parna's weakness as regards Dwita's academic welfare and her pride in her daughter's performance at school he said to please her, “She will set a good example to my brood who never seem to manage examinations or homework.” Parna was indeed pleased as he had expected, and agreed to his suggestion.

Dwita did not like the idea at all as she was happy playing with her own friends and in any case she preferred her little study adjoining the bedroom, where she kept all her things, and in her spare time wrote comforting long letters to Dima and her father. She did not want her activities tampered with, nor her private world invaded by Mr Halder and his children. She liked him even less after that and decided to drop the ‘uncle' from his name except in her mother's presence.

His children had nothing in common with her, except that one of his daughters had recently joined the school with Parna's help, at Mr Halder's insistence. This had already upset Dwita, as she was subjected to sharing transport with Bina, his daughter, when Mr Halder's car failed to turn up, which was quite often. His children were also far too noisy, loud and badly behaved. She could not understand why Parna had not noticed all this when she was so particular about Dwita's personal conduct and behaviour.

Dwita wanted to speak to Parna about her reservations, now that she was older, but her mother was always busy and preoccupied. Whenever she had time to spend with Dwita, she devoted it to checking her schoolwork. She was pleased when Dwita scored well and very hard on her if her marks were ever low. Dwita found her mother very demanding and unsparing and dreaded her sudden appearance at school to discuss Dwita's progress and performance in class. Dwita wished to be left in inconspicuous anonymity and not pushed out of her privacy into the public eye or to be discussed or appraised.

Her mother would resort to an occasional frenzy of making Dwita speak English at home continuously for days to improve her command and fluency of the language. As it was, the girls were only allowed to communicate in English for short periods, when they had their Bengali or Hindi lessons at school, so for her mother to inflict her with linguistic restrictions at home seemed a bit of an imposition to Dwita. In order to amuse her Mahama and Dhiru would burst out with their newly acquired skills in the language, “Come, come – do not naughty, finish bath, food time now” and so on.

Why did she have to speak English all the time? What was wrong with Bengali? She thought Bengali both versatile and lyrical as a language and she enjoyed reading Bengali books which she brought home from the school library. Despite Parna's surveillance, Dwita spent many a holiday afternoon exploring Tagore, Sharat Chandra and Bankim Chandra. She loved to recite poems from
Shishu
when no one was about – Tagore was a good friend, she seemed to find solutions to most of her problems in his works and his flights of fancy matched her own.

Then one day, another little bit of her world disappeared. Bhushan asked to retire. He said he was too old to drive and wished to return to the remnants of his home in Birendrapur. Dwita felt that Bhushan's decision to retire was not so much due to his age as to Brojen Halder's increasing control over Parna's affairs.

Dwita also missed seeing Uncle Bimal. He rarely came now, he was too old and arthritic to make visits on his own. Parna went to only Nababidhan Bramo Samaj these days, as Brojen Halder went there and thought it a good idea for her to do so.

Dwita hated those Sundays when she was dragged along by Parna. When she grumbled, her mother would say,“Dima would have liked you to go.” What she could not tell her was that Dima would not have forced her – going with Dima to the other Samaj had been such fun. She always told her stories of Monmotho's antics. On 11
Maagh
, on the special day of the
Utsav
it was most enjoyable to eat
khichuri
and
chutney
with other children, whilst Dima chatted with all her friends. She did not find the old men of Naba Bidhan Samaj very friendly though – they hardly took notice of children of Dwita's age. She also thought that her mother and Mr Halder were far too intense in their pursuit of religion.

Bhushan's retirement was followed by more changes in their household. Ramu left them after all these years to take care of Uncle Bimal, who now lived in his little cottage in Deopur, a small hill resort to the north of Calcutta – he preferred its climate and solitude. Dhiru died suddenly whilst on leave in his village near Birendrapur. Their house was now full of new people. To Dwita, Gajan Singh, the new Nepali driver was just someone who took her to and brought her back from school – even the car was no longer Dima's old Austin Minor. Gajan Singh drove a Standard. Ramu was replaced by a part-timer and Shivnath was the new cook-bearer. Mahama was her one link with the past.

The only new arrival Dwita liked was Durwan Bhajan Singh, who sat patiently at the gate all day, sometimes broke his routine to escort Parna to sales meetings, and sang
ram kirtans
in the evenings. He made his own chapatis and cooked his own vegetables and dhal. He used to give Dwita a hot chapati from his kitchen when her mother was not around. Parna would not have liked it.

Nirupama had used to say that Parna in her younger days was much quieter and far more composed and Dwita often wondered if she was so different now because she was lonely and unhappy. Parna never relaxed, never stopped being busy and never attempted to make friends outside the circle of Brojen Halder. Gerald Downe and his wife liked Parna and had invited her to join them for Sunday picnics. But Brojen Halder always tried to include himself or find some other alternative – in the end Downe gave up.

^ ] Years later when Parna was in a mood to confide in Dwita she told her that Gerald Downe had once suggested remarriage to her. He had said then, “Parna, you have a long, lonely life ahead of you. I know your husband still means a lot to you and your daughter's interests are dear to you. But you must think of yourself. When she grows up she will have a life of her own, what will you do then?” Parna, in her arrogance, had responded that “her mother had coped”, and Gerald Downe had not raised the topic again. Dwita wondered if Parna had ever regretted seriously her decision later on in life.

Brojen Halder's wife died at her next attempt at giving birth. It was sad but not surprising, as the doctors had warned them. He was obviously upset and shed copious tears, but unfortunately his visits to Parna became almost a daily necessity. What was even worse was that he expected her to be involved in his children's upbringing, which they did not welcome with enthusiasm – Dwita could see their point as she similarly objected to Brojen Halder's intrusion into her life. Most Sundays became interminable bores as he spent those days relaxing in their home. Dwita used to avoid his company and disappeared into her own domain of books, records and children's games – Maheshwari quite liked to play a game of Ludo with her.

Brojen Halder was anxious to win Dwita's favour and tried to draw her into their company, much against her wishes. He invited her to join them for a visit to the cinema or for a treat of ice cream or
faluda
on the Strand. She usually accepted to avoid incurring her mother's displeasure. Dwita quite liked their outings to the Strand where on a quiet evening she could count the boats on the river or watch the progress of the orange sun setting over the Ganges. She sometimes listened to the nostalgic singing of the boatmen in the distance, or the laughter of the fishermen displaying their day's catch accompanied by incomprehensible dialectical exchanges amongst themselves. She felt happily detached from the mundane world of Parna and Brojen, they did not matter – even Brojen's presence could not take away the magic of that brief twilight hour. She wished to answer the call of the distant enchantment that beckoned her – her grandfather must have felt the same urge when he left the safety of these shores for a tryst with the unknown.

Then it would be time to return home and they invariably ended up buying several hilsa fish which Maheshwari would have to turn into various culinary delights – such as
hilsa teljhol
, hilsa in mustard sauce, smoked hilsa and so many other delicacies. Maheshwari was an excellent cook and handled her art with both versatility and sensitivity.

In the old days Dwita had loved her Sunday lunches, the happy, relaxed eating at Dima's table was very enjoyable. Although Parna had introduced many new aspects of non-Bengali living into their lives, she had retained the Bengali muse and Bengali food. They still followed Dima's traditional approach – Basmati rice, fried greens, a clot of fried bitter
neem
with sautéed aubergines, or a few bits of fried bitter gourd (Dima said a taste of that purified the system), one of the many varieties of lentils, an assortment of spiced vegetables, fish in mouthwatering sauces, deep-fried pakoras, chicken or mutton in fragrant mughlai style, chutneys, yoghurt and
sandesh
– a never-ending flow of delicacies to please the palate. They had to be eaten and relished in their order of priority, without haste or any sense of urgency. Dhiru was used to Nirupama's style of living and entertaining but Shivnath was new, hence Maheshwari ended up supervising or even cooking most of the items on the menu. Nowadays the Sunday lunches were more a matter of habit than a special weekly event awaited with a sense of anticipation or enjoyment. Brojen Halder sat at the head of the table, making noises of approval, whilst the others ate in silence. Life was becoming very boring with Mr Halder's constant, unwanted presence – and now frequent interference – in all affairs. He was increasingly assuming a paternal role in her life.

Dwita was now well past twelve; puberty had come early and with it a certain amount of knowledge and maturity. It was not her mother who had thought it necessary to explain to her the pangs of shame and embarrassment she experienced with the first onslaught of puberty. It was Mrs Owen, the elderly school nurse who had talked to her about it lightly and sensibly, as a minor but regular and unavoidable nuisance. When Dwita had turned up a second time, doubled up with pain, she had given her an analgesic pill and sent her off to the games field saying, “The infirmary will only make it worse, learn to put up with it the normal way, and you will soon cope – nothing like a good game of basketball to drive away the monthly blues.” The practicality of her approach had helped relax Dwita and further exchanges with her friend Chandni cured her aches and pains altogether. Maheshwari, too, did not fuss, but tackled the first awkward spells through simple advice and instructions. Parna, on the other hand appeared inept and embarrassed and quite unable to cope.

Dwita's growing up brought new questions to her mind and gave new facets to old relationships. She now realised the possibility of Brojen Halder's assuming a more positive and a permanent role in her life. Was Parna going to marry him? Her friend Amina's father had died recently and her mother had remarried. But Amina was a Muslim, Dwita believed that Hindus were more conservative about remarriage, although Brahmos promulgated remarriage of widows – she had read it in her history book. They advocated resettlement of young widows into normal marital circumstances. Dwita felt sorry for her mother, whose life of hard work and small pleasures depressed her. She gave herself no other enjoyment but the duties of conscientious motherhood. Perhaps she could be happy if she married again. But Dwita had her doubts about Brojen Halder as her mother's choice. Would Dima and her father approve of her mother's remarriage or would they provide divine interference? She somehow felt that they would support her.

Although Nirupama had chosen to remain a widow, had practised all the tenets of widowhood – wearing her widow's white, eating out of black and white marble, observing fasts and total vegetarianism – she had never insisted on imposing them on her daughter. In fact she had persuaded her gradually to change from white
thans
to bordered white sarees and also into non-vegetarianism. Parna began to wear quiet patterns on white and followed no dietary restrictions. In fact she dressed carefully and expensively – her sarees were the best in cottons, silks or chiffons; her sandals, always elegant and high-heeled, bags made out of the softest of leather. She wore nothing in the form of jewellery except for a pair of pearl solitaires in her ears and a bangle on one of her wrists, the other sported a minute gold watch given to her by Monmotho. Her abundant hair was always coiled into a neat bun, poised precariously just above the nape of her neck. Dwita always liked to watch her mother fully turned out – she looked proud and elegant, soignée, and quite beautiful. If she ever decided to remarry, Dwita would not try to stop her, she felt she had no right to do so – but still she could never accept Brojen Halder as her new father, nor his numerous offspring as her brothers and sisters. Were there no other eligible men around?