32

Somehow, a month went by. In that time, Sarbajaya had considered many different plans, but none seemed feasible. It wasn’t that the thought of returning to her village hadn’t occurred to her once or twice, but whenever it did, she suppressed it. In the first place, apart from the single plot of their homestead, everything else had been sold off, some to cover debts, some for other needs, before they had left; there was no land left at all. In the second, before her departure, she had painted such vivid pictures of their future happiness for all the women and girls of the neighbourhood. They only had to leave the soil of Nischindipur behind, she had declared; in this wretched, ignorant village no one had understood her husband’s worth, but where they were going, he would be snapped up by everyone. It wouldn’t even take a year for their fortunes to turn—how many ways had she explained this, gesturing emphatically with her hands! It was now the month of Chaitra; a full year had not yet passed. The very thought of returning there in the midst of it all, in such a destitute, impoverished state, and a widow at that, to stand before everyone—it made her want to sink into the earth with shame and embarrassment. Whatever was to happen, let it happen here. She would take her son by the hand and beg on the streets of Kashi to raise him; who would come here to see it?

About a month later, an opportunity arose. A gentleman from Kedar Ghat informed the mission office that a Brahmin girl was required for a wealthy family he knew—a girl of good caste who could enter the inner quarters of the house and help with the work. Could the mission provide a contact for such a person? In the end, through the mission’s liaison, the gentleman agreed to send Apu and his mother there. It was as if Sarbajaya had found shore in a shoreless sea. A day or two later, the gentleman sent word that they should prepare to move with all their belongings, as the wealthy family’s estate was not in Kashi. Some of their relatives had come to Kashi for a visit and would take Sarbajaya and her son along with them when they returned.

It was a massive, yellow-coloured house. The kind of grand mansion one sees in Kashi, immense and sprawling. Trailing behind everyone, Sarbajaya entered the house timidly, her son in tow.

The moment they stepped into the inner quarters, a wave of welcome arose—not for her, but for the party that had just returned from their trip to Kashi.

When the crowd and commotion had thinned a little, the mistress of the house came and stood before Sarbajaya. She was very stout, and it was clear she had once been quite beautiful; her age was over fifty. As Sarbajaya bent to touch her feet in respect, she said, “Enough, enough, come, come—ah, so young, and already…” and gesturing toward the boy, “This is your son, I suppose? A fine-looking boy—what’s his name?”

Someone else spoke up. “Your home is in Kashi, I take it? No? Then you must be…”

Under the curious gaze of them all, Sarbajaya felt a great deal of shame and discomfort. When, on the mistress’s orders, a maid led her to the room assigned to her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

From the next day, Sarbajaya was enrolled in the cooking staff, as agreed. She was not the only cook; there were four or five others. There were three or four kitchens: one for meat and fish, one for vegetarian dishes, the dairy, the room for making rotis, and a separate kitchen for outsiders. The number of maids and servants was countless. The cooking wing, though part of the inner quarters, was a separate domain. That entire section was a kingdom of maids, servants, and Brahmin cooks. The ladies of the house would come to assign tasks and explain what needed to be done, but unless there was a special reason, they rarely stayed long in the kitchens.

There was a discussion about what Sarbajaya would cook. Sarbajaya had always believed herself to be an excellent cook. She suggested that she be given charge of the vegetarian dishes. The head Brahmin cook, Mokkhoda, smiled a little. “You’ll cook for the masters? That would be a fine mess, wouldn’t it?” Then, calling out to Panchi the maid, she said, “Did you hear that, Panchi? This lady from Kashi says she’s going to cook the masters’ vegetables. What’s your name again, dear? I keep forgetting.” The mocking smile at the corner of Mokkhoda’s lips left Sarbajaya feeling overwhelmed with embarrassment that day, but within a day or two she understood that none of her village-style cooking would pass muster here. That so much sugar had to be mixed into a simple curry, or that a dish called ‘cabbage fritters’ even existed, were things she heard now for the very first time.

For the first two months, the mistress of the house treated Sarbajaya with considerable care, giving her light tasks and looking in on her. But gradually she was brought down to the level of the others. At first, after working until two in the afternoon, she would feel utterly exhausted; she had never been accustomed to standing constantly in the heat of a fire, and she had little appetite for a meal at that late hour. The other women cooks would hide away choice portions of fish and curries for themselves; some they ate, some they took away somewhere outside. She, however, would only sit before her plate for a moment.

The enormous scale of the cooking left Sarbajaya dumbfounded; she had never in her dreams conceived of such a vast operation. Astonished, she would think to herself, Three seers of oil a day, for both meals? The cost in oil and ghee is like that of a daily sacrificial feast! With her experience of a small, poor, village household, she simply could not comprehend it all.

One day, while trying to take a large pot of fine rice off the fire, she called out to Mokkhoda, “Auntie, could you give me a hand with this pot?”

Mokkhoda heard but pretended not to.

Seeing that the rice was about to burn, Sarbajaya tried to lift it down by herself, but she lost her grip on the heavy pot and it tipped over. The hot, starchy water spilled onto the top of her foot, and a blister formed instantly. That very day, the mistress transferred her to the roti-making room, telling her that she need not do any work until her foot had healed.

Sarbajaya lived with her son in a room on the ground floor, just off the western verandah. But it was so low-ceilinged, the floor so damp, and the room perpetually gave off such a strange smell that even their room in Kashi had been much better. Saltpetre was creeping up the lower part of the walls in large, reddish patches. Every time he came in from outside, Apu would say, “Ugh, what is that smell, Ma? It’s exactly like old rice or something, isn’t it?…” The authorities had not built these ground-floor rooms to be fit for human habitation; that was precisely why they were occupied by servants and cooks.

Apu had wandered around and seen all the rooms on the upper verandah from the outside. They had large windows and doors, all with glass panes. Inside, there were large, upholstered chairs and gleaming tables so polished you could see your face in them. The kind of old carpet-mat they’d had in their own home—like that, but much better, thick and almost new—was spread on the floor. Mirrors hung on the walls, so large that Apu could see his entire self in them. He would wonder to himself, Where do they get such big pieces of glass? They must join them together…

On the second-floor verandah there was another large room. It was almost always kept locked, opened only occasionally by the servants to let in light and air. Apu was overcome with an uncontrollable curiosity to know what was inside. One day, finding the door open, he slipped into the room. What enormous pictures! Statues made of stone! Huge upholstered chairs, mirrors—he was wandering about, looking at everything, when Chhotu the khansama saw him in the room and came at him aggressively, barking, “Who’s that?… What’re you doing in here?”

He might have received a beating that day, but one of the housemaids, passing along the verandah, saw what was happening and said, “Here, Chhotu, let him be, don’t say anything—his mother works here. Let him look if he wants to.”

When everyone had finished eating and drinking, Sarbajaya would come to her own little room at half past two in the afternoon and lie down for a while. Because this was the only time in the whole day when she could speak with her son heart-to-heart, Apu would sometimes come to the room then. His mother longed to see him at least once during the day. Since they had come to this house, it was as if Apu had drifted far away from her. It was work and more work all day long—she had to stay away from her son’s company. When she came back late at night after finishing her duties, Apu would be asleep, and they wouldn’t get to talk. Her heart thirsted for this one time of day.

There was the sound of footsteps at the door. Sarbajaya called out, “Is that you, Apu? Come in.” Pushing the door open, Auntie Bamni, one of the cooks, entered the room. Sarbajaya said, “Come in, Auntie, please sit.” At the same time, Apu came in as well. Auntie Bamni was a distant relative of the masters, so Sarbajaya seated her with respect. Auntie Bamni’s face was heavy with gloom. After remaining silent for a while, she said, “Did you see what the eldest daughter-in-law did today? I ask you, what was my fault… you were in the roti room the whole time, weren’t you? She brought the fish and ghee and left it in the basket. I thought it was for the cabbage—and then the way she insulted me, did you see? If the fish was for the pulao, she could have just sent word with a maid. And is that Sodu the maid any less of a scoundrel herself?… Just because she’s the mistress’s pet maid, isn’t it? She thinks the ground isn’t good enough for her feet. She goes upstairs and embroiders the tale, making it ten times worse—that Sadu-jhi! Wasn’t Shirikantha Thakur there too? Ask him!”

The afternoon passed as they talked. Auntie Bamni said, “Well, I’d better go knead the flour for the evening snacks.”

“It’s already four o’clock.”

After Auntie Bamni had left, Apu snuggled up to his mother. She affectionately cupped his chin in her hand and said, “Where do you spend your afternoons, tell me?…”

Apu smiled. “They were playing the wind-up phonograph in the upstairs drawing-room, Ma. I was listening—from that verandah.”

Sarbajaya was pleased.

“Tell me, have you made friends with the masters’ sons?… Do they invite you to sit with them?…”

“Oh, ve-e-ery much!”

This was a lie. No one ever invited him to sit with them. Whenever he heard the sound of the gramophone playing in the upstairs drawing-room, he would hesitate for a while and then, fearfully, creep upstairs and stand quietly by the drawing-room door, listening to the music. Every moment he was afraid that they would tell him to go downstairs. As he came down after the music had finished, he would think to himself, No one scolded me, did they? Why would they? I’m just standing outside listening to the music, I’m not going inside their room, am I? They are very good people.

He had not managed to make friends with the boys of the house either. They paid him no mind at all. The other day, Ramen, Tebu, Samir, and Santu had been playing a game, pushing little black wooden discs on a square board set before them—the game was called Carrom, apparently. He had stood at a little distance watching them play. His eggplant-seed game was much better.

At the beginning of the month of Baishakh, the house was abuzz with activity for the wedding of the eldest master’s daughter. Relatives, male and female, began to arrive from Gaya, Munger, Allahabad, Calcutta, Kashi, and various other places. They were all daughters of wealthy families and brides of great houses, and each one came with her own maids and servants. At night, they took over the verandahs and corridors of the ground floor. The commotion lasted all night long.

In the morning, the mistress called for Sarbajaya. “O, Apurba’s mother, do one thing. For the next couple of days, leave your kitchen duties. Ceremonial gifts are arriving from all over. You and little Mokkhoda sort them all out and store them in your roti-room pantry. Keep the sweets there. Any fruits or flowers that look like they might spoil, send them with Sodu the maid, or else keep them aside; Auntie Bamni will come for them at snack time.”

From morning till evening, so many ceremonial gifts arrived on the heads of maids and bearers from so many places that Sarbajaya could not count them. There was no room to put all the sweets; fifteen or sixteen small silver sandalwood paste bowls accumulated. Mangoes were not yet in season, and yet a large basket arrived, filled to the brim with them.

As Sarbajaya handed over food to Auntie Bamni, she would think, All these delicacies, all this fanfare, and yet is there anything for my son? Ah, my poor darling, he sits huddled miserably in a corner of the sarkars’ dining room and eats a couple of mouthfuls of rice. I can’t give him two decent pieces of fish on his plate, nor a nice curry, not even a ladleful of milk—while that wretch Sodu will immediately put everything from the masters’ kitchen onto her own son’s plate.

The wedding day was incredibly crowded. The groom’s party had arrived on the morning train and was staying at another house in the city. A little before evening, the groom arrived in a grand procession.

The outer courtyard was filled with invited guests. The entire space was covered with carpets. In one corner stood a high seat for the groom, draped in red velvet with a wide gold-thread border. A blue satin canopy with dangling gold-tinsel tassels hung above it, flanked by bolsters of gold brocade. Large garlands of tuberose were strung in threes from arch to arch of the canopy. All around were chairs and couches for the groom’s party. Sprays of European perfume and rosewater were being discharged frequently into the air.

Apu had not seen much of any of this; he had fallen asleep. He had gone into the inner part of the house only once, when the women’s rituals were being performed. It was late at night. He couldn’t find his mother anywhere; who knew where she was, busy with some task in the festive crowd. The courtyard was so packed with women in expensive Benarsi saris that there wasn’t an inch of empty space. The younger master’s daughter, Aruna, was calling out to someone, telling them to bring the large organ from the outer drawing-room into the house.

Two days after the wedding, there was another great stir for an amateur theatrical performance. A stage had been built in a corner of the courtyard. It was exquisitely decorated with roses and orchids. A huge chandelier with five hundred branches was hung in the middle of the stage. The events of the last few days had already left Apu wonder-struck; today, he had no idea what this thing called ‘theatre’ was, and so, with great eagerness and curiosity, he had been sitting near the front of the audience area since evening in order to secure a good spot.

Gradually, the invited gentlemen began to arrive one by one, and lights were lit all around. The house guards, dressed in gold-threaded livery, stood outside and near the door. The estate manager bustled about, making a show of being busy. The concert began. When it was nearly time for the drop-curtain to rise, the family’s estate agent, Girish Sarkar, came over to him, bent down, and peered at his face. “Who’s this?” Apu looked up, but being shy, he could not speak for a long moment. Without giving him a chance to reply, Girish Sarkar said, “Get up, get up, the masters will sit here. Get up.” Girish Sarkar had recognised him by a rough guess.

Apu looked behind him and, his face full of distress, said in the singsong tone of a child reciting his tables, “I’ve been sitting right here since evening, it’s all full behind me, where will I go?…” Before he could finish, Girish Sarkar grabbed him by the arm and shook him violently, yanking him to his feet. “To hell with you and your troubles, you insolent brat! Have you no sense? This is right at the front where the masters will sit, and here he is, the cook’s son, come to sit right under their noses! And I’m supposed to tell him where to go! Impertinent little upstart! Get out of here, go on, go sit by that pillar somewhere.”

From behind, one or two of the organisers called out, “What is it, what’s happened, Girish? What’s the commotion? Who is he?”

“Just look at this, Manager-babu! This insolent brat has come and sat here in the masters’ section, right at the very front. The gentlemen from Chandannagar have arrived and there’s no place for them to sit, and when I tell him to get up, he argues back to my face!”

The Manager-babu said, “Why not just give him a couple of slaps?”

Apu, shrinking into himself and looking at nothing, walked out of the audience area as if in a trance. Suddenly, it seemed to him that the eyes of everyone in the crowd were upon him, that they were all watching him with curiosity. At first, he felt an urge to suddenly break into a run and flee to any place that would hide him from the eyes of this whole assembly. Then he went and stood behind a pillar. His body was trembling violently with fear, humiliation, and shame; a coarse tremor had shaken the fine screen of his sensibilities. After steadying himself a little, he peeked out from behind the pillar… but all around were servants and lackeys; upstairs on the verandah, behind the bamboo screen, were the women; the maids and cooks were standing on the lower verandah—they must have all seen what happened. What must they be thinking! What a thing he had done without realising! He didn’t know that was the masters’ place! He tried again and again to convince his mind that perhaps no one had recognised him. Just some random person, so many outsiders had come—who would have recognised him?

After that, the play began. He paid it no attention at all. The crowd of people before him, the stuffy air, the blaze of lights, the clamour of guards and servants—he was oblivious to it all. Chhotu the khansama was distributing betel leaves to the rows of invited guests from a silver, swan-shaped paan-box—looking at it, Apu felt a wave of nausea. He looked up at the enclosed upper verandah and thought, Ma isn’t up there, is she? What if his mother found out about this? But Apu’s fear was entirely baseless. His mother was not in that part of the house then; not a word of these events had reached her ears.