“My husband is shouting. Can you hear him?” she asked. The noise became worse and I shivered at the volley of incoherent words that seemed like the man was spitting fire. He was now standing in front of her, I imagined. She was gently telling him to go away while hiding her cellphone. After a while, he seemed to have moved away for his voice sounded like it was coming from a distance. But nonetheless, he was still creating a racket.
“He is not in his senses,” I ventured.
“Yes, he is always drunk, and for the last three years he has not paid me a single farthing, not even for the upkeep of our child,” she informed me.
“Recently he pissed on my plate when I was having lunch.” My mouth fell open at this non-digestible piece of information that she told me so simply.
I thought of the time when I had seen this gutsy lawyer come down with police to capture a highly influential man from Mumbai and put him in prison in Kolkata because he had been cruel to his wife who had returned to her hometown and filed a case there. Ever since that time, I had heard about more section 498 cases from this lawyer friend of mine. I had always been in awe of her courage.
I somehow managed to fend her off that day but her situation continued to play in my mind. A few days later, as I was getting ready to attend a meeting, I got a message from her. She sounded sweet and apologetic but unmistakably sad and determined. Her message read:
“Hi darling! Please search for someone to go with me to Goa through Facebook. First make him your friend and then transfer him to me. This is your task for today.”
I was irritated but I knew what I had got into and that I was trapped. I could not avoid her. This sounded so cheap, I thought. My friend was going bonkers and she refused to see reason. Throwing my hands up in despair, I suddenly got an insight. Why had she not charged her own husband under Section 498? What was she waiting for? I was puzzled. This lady knew all the nuances of the law. She knew powerful lawyers too. She had fought for so many victims of domestic abuse and cruelty.
“Should I charge my own husband under section 498? I can’t get myself to do that. Perhaps I still have feelings for him,” she informed me.
That is the story of a gutsy woman, I said to myself.
The Foreign Bride
“At least your daughter will marry that Goan and go away to live with him somewhere. My son is marrying a foreigner girl. Imagine. She will be living with us in the same house! Ajoy is getting a job here.” Mrs Alpona Maitra tried to sound indignant, threatened and annoyed. She was desperate to evoke some sympathy from Konikadi, as if her life and future depended on Konikadi’s response.
She usually met with jovial camaraderie from her kitty party friends whenever she broached the topic. Curiosity and admiration dominated their reactions. “Ajoy is so smart looking. No wonder he hooked a foreigner girl. Look at our baldy and paunchy rice-slurping husbands – the hulks shamelessly fall flat on bed and snore as soon as they had had their stomachs full of rice and curry.” The thought of a tall, slim, white, liberated, career-minded woman falling in love with their Ajoy was exhilarating for them. This was in stark contrast to what Mrs. Maitra had expected from her orthodox, red bindi bearing, starched-Bengali-cotton-saree-clad friends. When she received no consolation from them for her dilemma, she turned to her relatives. However, she feared ridicule. Kolpona, her younger sister would squeal with joy! That jealous creature! She would be happy to see her sister tortured so!
“Jethima, can you imagine what fun it will be to have a foreigner amongst us? Oh! I love them. They do not have any qualms about a lot of things and much less taboos.” Her nieces were actually looking forward to the wedding! Her other children echoed the same feeling. “Oh! Our Ajoyda is so smart and dashing to deserve this.”
Alpona had to brave her plight alone. And imagine what if the girl’s relatives dropped in for the wedding? How would she keep house for so many firangs with their odd ways of life? Chhee chhee chhee. Her house would get corrupted. Perhaps she would find her younger son and daughter following in their footsteps. Really, she thought, Ajoy has lost his sense of responsibility. And what will happen to her Lakshmi pujas on Thursdays and Shani pujas on Saturdays? The firangs will play havoc with her holy menus on those days.
At 11 PM the phone rang. “Ma we are reaching home day after tomorrow, early morning. The girl is Russian. Her name is Olga. She has a sister and a brother and her parents in Moscow.” Ajoy decided that these details were enough for his mother’s supposedly weak heart for the time being and hung up.
Alpona was up and about at 6 AM on the day of reckoning. She was walking dizzily up and down her verandah. Oh! The flight will be landing soon and anytime now, her son will be here with that foreigner. The chiffon saree kept slipping off her shoulders. The diaphanous material accentuated the rounded contours of her 100 kg body.
“What happened to the beautiful Bengal cotton sarees that you usually wear? My my! You look like my girlfriend now, not a wife.” She glared at her amused husband and shut him up for the umpteenth time but to no avail. “And my darling where is your bindi? You will soon resemble a witch unless you tie up your hair. Where are the balas on your wrists? These flimsy bracelets don’t suit you at all. Oh God! You are wearing pencil heels!” quipped Dipankar.
“Oh, will you shut up? Just go in and check if the maid has kept the gleaming silver tea set ready. And tell her to keep the sugar and milk separately in the proper containers. Last time your boss was here, she had put the milk in the sugar pot.”
Alpona wiped her forehead with her saree. The sound of a motor vehicle in the distance alerted her.
“Quick! Put on the Om Jai Jagdish cassette. What? Can't find it? Okay then the Ma Kali devotional songs cassette. Hurry!” she ordered her husband.
"Where is my puja plate? I must welcome her in our traditional way with the lighted lamp. That will put her in place right from the moment she enters our house. No modern lifestyle here."
Her husband hid his face, the muscles contorting from suppressing the compulsive beginnings of a laugh. Alpona didn’t realize that Olga had managed to get her dressing sense more modernized, even before setting foot in the house.
Olga emerged from the taxi and waved out to her. She had long lovely hair, noticed Alpona, with grudging admiration. Olga came close and Alpona pushed her cheek forward to be kissed in the western style. Olga joined her palms together and said, “Namasti.” Then she turned to Ajoy’s father and said, “Namasta,” with a huge grin.
Oh! What was that? Namasta and Namasti? She has done her homework too enthusiastically, thought Alpona because the girl had added gender to the greeting, Namaste! And was she already making eyes at her husband? Alpona clutched on to her plate and started welcoming the girl in the traditional way while her husband tried hard to camouflage his bemused look.
Konikadi wondered what was happening in the Alpona household. It was 7 AM. The firang must be there by now, she thought.
“Oh Konikadi, Olga is so beaootiphoool. We are having tea – our typical Indian elaichi tea and she loves it,” Alpona beamed into the phone. She continued indulging in badinage making sure she was within the firangi’s hearing distance. Konikadi shook her head at her friend’s sudden burst of English. Alpona must have gone crazy.
“When I was posted at the Bangladesh border, I……a long pause…..I saw this tiger.…..a long pause……I took out my rifle…….”
"Enough!” Alpona cut short her husband’s monologue. “Don’t bore my bahu with those stories. My ears are rotting from hearing them."
“It’s interesting Ma,” butted in Olga.
Olga changed into her jeans and a halter top. “You know Ma I love these big Indian bungalows overlooking the hills and the sprawling verandahs.” She settled down quickly, dusting the house and chattering about her family back in Moscow.
“You can only laugh at my plight. I wonder how long she will put up this charade. Ma Kali only knows what is to come.”
Alpona’s discomfort was visibly disconcerting. Ajoy’s father cleared his throat. “No Alpona, let us enjoy the spectacle while it lasts. I give this marriage a maximum time of one year to last.”
Olga was beautiful. The most dazzling Bengali bride anyone had ever seen. Her white, glowing face offset the magenta Benarasi saree with the exquisite veil framing her face. Her hair, tied up in a beautiful bun and embellished with golden broaches and pins, glimmered through the veil. Dots of sandalwood paste decorated her face. The gold glistened on her person. She surveyed the jewelry proudly, unable to contain her amazement about so much gold. The typical Indian designs enamored her. She marveled at the filigree work, minakari, and stone settings. Silver anklets adorned her dainty ankles. No less than a film star. She looked like Suchitra Sen. Her kohl-lined eyes were bright and shiny. Nobody could believe their eyes. Ajoy stood, elegant and handsome, next to her in his dhoti and silk shawl. Olga chuckled to herself. Where else could she officially dress up so much and feel appreciated? If only her family back home could see her now - they would be so proud of their beautiful debuchka.
“Our wedding rituals are elaborate and tedious,” Alpona warned Olga.
“Ma, I want to go through the whole gamut of procedures. There is no need to cut them short. I have heard of the Vedas. Sanskrit is really very sweet sounding. You are so lucky to have so much literature to explain the meaning of various aspects of life – so much guidance and seriousness. I am curious about the wedding rites. Let me understand them, imbibe them,” Olga declared in one breath.
Alpona could not believe her ears. She had already instructed the priest to cut it short. Poor girl – she will burn in the blaze of the fire and the smoke – she will sweat and throw off her heavy saree. But Olga would hear none of it.
Dipankar whispered to his mother. “Ma, remember, the girl is not Indian so be careful what you say. And don’t impose your ancient restrictions on her.”
“Okay baba, you don't leave your sick old mother also. Let me live,” smiled granny. A patient of heart disease, all knew that her days were counted.
Six months passed. Olga was found to be changing clothes all day. Sometimes she wore salwar kameez, sometimes saree, sometimes jeans and tee-shirt. She had learned to make wonderful fish curry with mustard, poppy seed curry with potatoes, mixed vegetable curry, and mango chutney. She was warm and down to earth. She spoke Bengali with the cutest accent. Her tinkling laughter filled the air as she joked and chatted with Ajoy's siblings.
Alpona had long forgotten her apprehensions. Granny too was looking healthier nowadays. She took an interest in the household decisions. One could find her attempting to visit the large window in her room to watch the beautiful world outside. At least the desire to wonder about the world again had been revived in her. The only thing everyone wondered about was, why did Olga change her clothes so many times in the day? Alpona decided that this must stop. Seeing her, the other children would start parading around in different clothes every now and then.
Finally, Alpona asked Olga matter-of-factly. She did not want to sound authoritative or interfering.
“It is granny, Ma. Granny had said that nowadays girls are so unhygienic. In her times they would change their clothes every time they visited the toilet to relieve themselves. And wasn’t that a great method of getting to wear a variety of clothes? If this simple gesture can make old granny happy, then why not try it? Granny only has a few more months to live after all. And in exchange for this little gesture, granny agreed to take her medicines on time, even the tasteless ones, and she is learning English from me.”
"Yes," granny nodded to Alpona. "I ken talk eenglis now. Wait till I catch my grandchildren complaining about me!" exclaimed granny in a shaking voice.
My Love, My Life!
“Amit, where are you? I have something important to tell you. Please don’t disappear like you did yesterday. I keep talking and how does it feel to find mid-way that you have left for office?”
“Ma, you can give me a call at lunch time, can’t you? You know I have to shave and plan my day now. And have to eat that heavy breakfast that you trail behind me with!” Ma wipes a tear with her saree. “Oh Ma! I am so sorry. You make the best breakfast dishes in the world. Why do you think I always eat at home unlike my colleagues who order food at the office?”
It’s 8.30 PM. Amit Chatterjee, the tired project manager of a reputed software firm, rings the doorbell of his home. He plans to spend the evening with his mother. Perhaps she has been feeling lonely and neglected of late. Even Tumpa, his sister, cancelled her visit to their house due to ill - health. Today he was going to make Ma feel proud and elated for having a son like him! After dad’s death, Ma had become very lonely and sentimental, he mused.
Amit was carrying a pouch of rossogollas, Ma’s favorite sweet. Uff! Why is she taking so much time to open the door? When she finally opens it, Amit leaps on his mother to hug her. He holds her tightly for the next few minutes, muffling all her pleas about creasing her starched cotton saree. Her bun too had started coming apart now. So did his black-rimmed spectacles. When Amit finally released her, he immediately grabbed her round swollen cheeks, and yelled, “Yippee….Let’s go out for dinner. You know today a female colleague was giving me admiring looks…” He stops short. Sitting in the drawing room are three people. Mother, father, and girl. All prim and proper. Amit tries desperately to disappear into his bedroom but as he starts, he finds that he is limping. His right knee has suddenly given way. His mouth has twitched into a half-smile at his attempt to look normal. He has unknowingly scratched his head, making the hair above his left ear stand up straight. He has also unconsciously started unbuttoning his shirt buttons as he usually did on returning home. He reaches his room somehow and mutters under his breath. Ma appears after a little while with an inscrutable expression on her face and tells him that she had tried calling him at lunch time but could not get through and moreover she thought that he looked smart enough when he returned from the office in his formal clothes. All the while, both avoid meeting each other's eyes. Amit decides to keep quiet. He makes the obligatory presence in the drawing room. The rossogollas are distributed to the guests…there goes his love and hard-earned money. He rejects the girl because of her height…and does not ask his mother if the girl had liked him. Where was the need to rake up the embarrassing issue?
The weekend arrives. Amit and Ma go shopping in a department store. He wants to buy Ma a beautiful shawl. The aunty standing next to her admires the shawl and comments on Amit’s choice. Ma glows. She tenders more information. “My son is a good cook too. He makes mouth-watering noodles, you know. Even today he has planned out a nice surprise menu for me.” Amit is aghast. God knows what went on in his mother's head. The lady nods to her husband and another girl appears within the crowd. There are introductions. Their daughter is a very good dancer. She is specializing in salsa. Amit is eager to lead his mother away, fearing a life in the kitchen while supporting a dancing wife. Had his mother become so modern as to accept.......? Never mind.
Amit finally manages to pull her to a restaurant. They chat about various things. All of a sudden, his eye catches a familiar figure and he waves out to her.
“That girl is Rani,” he tells his mother. Ma turns and finds a smartly dressed girl sitting with a man at the next table. The girl leans forward and touches the man’s cheek.
“She works in my office. The office gossip goes that Rani is seen with different men every evening.” Amit looks at his mother expectantly, waiting for her outburst of morality. Just then the aunty from the department store they had just been to appears and gives a broad smile. “I see you are eating out today. Giving your son some rest from cooking?” Ma goes cherry red.
One dreary, humid afternoon Ma opens her e-mail inbox and tries to enjoy the jokes sent by her son. Suddenly her attention goes to the list of names in the CC box. “Sudeshna Sanyal,” she says aloud. Sounds nice. Sudeshna Chatterjee would sound even b
etter! She picks up the phone.
“Ma! I am in a meeting. Anything urgent?” hisses Amit.
“No. I just wanted to ask about Sandhya Sanyal. I saw her name among your email addresses….” The phone clicks shut at the other end.
“Sudeshna Sanyal is a project director in another department of my office! She has two grown children!” thunders Amit the moment he enters his home in the evening.
“Ma, you need to relax. I will send you to your daughter’s house for a few days.”
Ma is drowned in tears. “This son of mine does not love me. Oh God! Please take me away.”
“This weekend will be hectic. The new neighbors are finally coming to live next door,” Ma is excited. Since morning, she has been supplying the new neighbors a steady stream of tea and snacks.
“They should feel good and comfortable living next to us,” she explains. “I heard that they have a daughter who has studied in Australia. She is a microbiologist. What do you think of microbiologists, Amit? It must be such an interesting subject. That girl has brains. Her mother was saying she won a gold medal too.” Amit starts to feel uncomfortable with Ma’s words. With her next sentence, he jumps up to take his position in the toilet. He feels safe there at least for half an hour. “I think she is your type of girl…” he can hear his mother’s voice trailing off.
“Sister, Ma is suffering from anxiety and loneliness. You don’t know what I am going through!” mumbles Amit exasperatedly into the phone, hoping for some genuine understanding.
“Oh! Only yesterday she was excitedly telling me about your interest in the neighbor’s daughter? Amit, you cannot hide things from Ma you know! Now tell me about the girl who has won my brother’s heart like a good boy.”