5

Indir Thakrun had been back for six or seven months, but in all that time Sarbajaya had not exchanged a single pleasant word with the old woman. Lately, it seemed to her that her own daughter loved that old witch, that devourer of seven generations, even more than she loved her own mother. She felt not only jealous, but angry. The old woman was turning her own flesh and blood into a stranger. Twice a day, at every opportunity, she would drop hints, advising the old woman that she ought to find her own path while there was still time. Which way that path might lie—in the seventy years since she had first gained awareness of the world, the old woman had never found a trace of it, and she could not for the life of her imagine where she might discover it now, after so long.

Towards the end of the monsoon, the old woman finally hit upon a plan. Six krosh away, in Bhandarhati, was the home of her son-in-law. Her son-in-law, Chandra Majumdar, was still alive. He was quite well-off, a prosperous householder. Of course, the connection with him had lapsed the moment her daughter died—that was thirty-five or thirty-six years ago now—and since then there had been no visits, no exchange of news. Still, if she went there, would he really be unwilling to offer her a little shelter?

Entering the village of Bhandarhati just before dusk, the cart-driver stopped the cart before a large chandimandap. At the driver’s call, a young man of about twenty-four or twenty-five came out and asked, “Where’s this cart from?” Behind him, an old man emerged from the house, inquiring, “Who is it, Radhu? Ask them where they’ve come from.”

The old woman recognized him, but she was stunned—this was him! Her Chandar! Comparing this grey-haired, elderly gentleman in her mind with the sturdy, well-built, handsome boy of forty years ago, she felt breathless. The next moment, overcome by a strange state of mind—a mixture of feelings that was neither joy nor sorrow—she let out a cry and burst into tears, calling out her daughter’s name for the first time in many years. The bewildered Chandra Majumdar was at first utterly at a loss, but then he understood. He came forward, took the dust from his mother-in-law’s feet, and bowed in respect. Composing herself a little, the old woman pulled the end of her sari over her head and said in a broken voice, “I’ve come to you, Babaji, after all this time… for a little shelter. How many more days will I live, after all! I have no one left in the three worlds… at this age, just for a bit of rice and a cloth to wear—”

Majumdar Mahashay told his eldest son to unload the things from the cart and sent his mother-in-law inside with him. His widowed daughter from his second marriage and his eldest daughter-in-law were the mistresses of the household. There were three other daughters-in-law as well, and three or four grandchildren.

Two enormous, high, eight-roofed atchala rooms with verandas, their pillars and crossbeams made from the trunks of palm trees, were crammed with belongings, chests, and trunks, leaving scarcely a place to set one’s foot. Majumdar Mahashay’s widowed daughter was named Haimabati. She was a very kind girl. With her own hands, she cut fruit, arranged a snack, and sat affectionately beside the old woman, urging her to eat. She asked this and that, saying, “You’ve never seen me before, have you, Didima? You’ve never graced our home with the dust of your feet before! Shall I cut you some sugarcane, Didima? Do you have the teeth for it?” In the adjacent kitchen, the children, sitting down to their evening meal, were making a racket. One of them was shouting, “Ma, look, Umi’s pouring all the dal onto my plate!”

The daughter-in-law yelled, “Why do you sit next to him to eat? Haven’t I told you every day to sit separately? Hey, Umi, you’re getting too bold, aren’t you?”

But ten or twelve days went by, and everything still felt new and strange to the old woman; she could find no real comfort. The new style of the house, the unfamiliar paths, the different way of running the household—it all felt as if it were not her own, as if it all belonged to others. Every evening, she would remember her own quiet veranda and the faces of the little girl and boy. After twenty days or so, the old woman grew restless to leave. Her heart was no longer in it. The eldest daughter-in-law had been displeased from the very beginning by this sudden appearance of her father-in-law’s first mother-in-law and her intentions, so she was anything but unhappy at her departure. What Chandra Majumdar himself wished, God only knows, but for fear of his eldest son and daughter-in-law, he could not say a word.

After a long time, back on the veranda of her own home, sitting with Durga and the little boy, watching the gentle swaying of the moon-drenched coconut fronds, a sweet drowsiness would come over the old woman.

At first, the little girl had been deeply offended; she wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t come near. But after much coaxing, they were on good terms again. The old woman lovingly stroked her grand-niece’s hair and said, “A nice pair of red dhenri jhumko earrings would suit you perfectly, wouldn’t they? Or what’s that new style they have these days—what in the world do they call them—”

Winter arrived. The old woman went to the Ganguly house in the next neighbourhood and said to old Ramnath Ganguly, “O Ram, the cold has set in again something awful. I don’t have a single wrap to cover myself with, to huddle up in the mornings and evenings. If you could give me one—”

Ram Ganguly said, “Alright, Didi, come by another day. It won’t be possible this month—but I’ll see what I can do next month.”

After much to-ing and fro-ing over a long time, he one day produced a cotton chador of red-printed cloth from Kushtia and placed it in her hands. “Here you go, Didi,” he said. “It’s a very warm piece—nine and a half annas it cost. You won’t find anything better in all of Nababganj. I brought it back on Wednesday. Why don’t you open it and see?”

The old woman still could not seem to believe it. With a grin that spread across her face, she unfolded it and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Wonderful! So nice and thick, a wonderful cloth! Ah, Dada, may you live long! May your Kanai and Balai live long, may you have unending life! No one gives to the poor and wretched. I’ve been asking that Annada for a shawl for three years now—‘I’ll give it, I’ll give it,’ she says, but she never did. Let me indulge this one fancy. How many days do I have left, anyway?”

When she delightedly showed it to Sarbajaya, Sarbajaya said, “Look here, Thakurjhi, you going from door to door begging, that won’t be tolerated in this house. I’m telling you plainly. If you must beg, then make separate arrangements.”

The old woman swallowed the words. She had to swallow many such words, ten times a day. She still hadn’t forgotten the old rhyme:

Kicks and shoves at my feet, A stone of rice to give my heart its beat.

Durga was thrilled and asked, “How many paisa did it cost, Pishima? Isn’t it a lovely red?” In a reassuring tone, her great-aunt said, “When I die, I’ll leave it to you. You can wear it when you’re older.” The fresh, earthy smell of the new starch on the chador seemed to the old woman the very height of luxury, a mark of true elegance. In the mornings, when she wrapped the chador around herself to sweep the yard, she would sometimes glance down at her own reflection. She would stand needlessly on the path to the ghat, calling out to some unsuspecting maid or housewife passing by, “Who’s that? Raji’s mother? So late in the day?” Then, without carrying the preamble any further, she would smile a little, glance down at herself, and say, “This shawl here… Ramchand from the other neighbourhood got it for me this year. Nine and a half annas it cost.”

One or two mischievous girls would tease her. “Ooh, doesn’t Thakma look splendid in her red cloth! I think our Thakma is getting married!”