A Silent BALMER (9)
Chapters – 9 (A Silent Balmer)
I looked up the word ‘balm’ in the dictionary at the start. No such word as ‘balmer’. But I want a word like ‘balmer’ to convey the sense of a person who was more than a mere ointment or sweet smelling oil for my late brother. Who cares if such a word exists or not? I don’t know how many of you, dear reader, are bothered to go through my unfolding novel, “My Sis: Through My Eyes”, but I would definitely like to hear a few assuring me that it is not ‘just one of those books, you know.’
A couple of years back, I started writing about another sister of mine. I called that book “Di”, meaning sister. I should have been more adventurous with the book. At least I should have taken the manuscript to a couple of publishers. I don’t know if you would believe me or not, but I had the first draft printed from the shop run by the students at CST, Phuentsholing, liked the look of it, realized the 70 pages couldn’t run for more than some 120- 130 pages of a standard-sized book and shelved it for a more opportune moment. Now at this moment I am not even sure if I had the soft copy of the master copy intact in my laptop or not. It will be a great waste of time and energy if it got dumped in the empty bin due to the umpteen times my laptop crashed in the last one year or so.
Anyway, today let me try to write about a sister’s love for her brothers, or a particular brother at least. I have written about my Barda, my Mejda. But I haven’t written anything about my Sejda anywhere. My Sejda was the most popular of all my siblings. Others gloated about him and his simplicity, in spite of being a Professor. His untimely death in July, 1997, left a void in the family which couldn’t be filled up again.
He was a pacca brahmin amongst all my siblings, a firm worshipper of God Mahadeva, a teetotaler in the truest sense of the term and the Crown of his students. When he started throwing up finally before making it back to his ancestral home at 41, his students came all the way from Purulia and occupied a bed at PG Hospital in advance in order to make sure that their beloved teacher had no problem being admitted in the hospital due to lack of beds, when he was finally driven down to Calcutta. Some teacher, my Sejda was and a very good human being too.
Now you must be wondering what this novel about my Sis has to do with a brother of mine. Please bear with me before you find out the reason yourself. It pains me when I find people boasting about small favours they might have done to others. If you are terrifically sick and someone makes an appointment with the doctor, s/he starts acting high and mighty. “I fixed the appointment with the doctor”, another may say,” You know, Sejda had to undergo dialysis 136 times. I’s there with him from day one.”
My Sejda had to undergo dialysis 136 times. Can you believe it? Only people with their kidneys damaged, might tell you how very excruciatingly painful undergoing one dialysis is. You are made to stretch out on a bed with the machine attached to it. Once the machine starts grumbling or rumbling, THERE IS NO RESPITE! I once tried to sneak a peek from outside when the dialysis was in progress. The tremor inside the room made me quake outside up to my teeth! Even the most valiant of people, would cower at the very sight of the monstrous machine! My Sejda faced living hell 136 times in his life!
Anyway, to come back to the unique brother-sister relationship – I can’t remember my sister missing even a single dialysis session of late Sejda’s. She was a house wife. Besides discharging the duties in a joint family set-up, she had her daughter studying in school at that time to be taken care of, continue with the practice of visiting Ma at 41 daily and get back to her in-laws’ place on time. Of course, they were nice people, and understanding of my Sejda’s condition. I could never tell if the pain on her face if she came late, having been stuck in a jam or whatever, was more than that which was reflected on my late Sejda’s face. Sejda loved this Sis of ours like a loving brother, a brother who knew his days were numbered, should.
Once my sister got detained somewhere. Sejda had just been lowered in the bed for another ordeal, when Sis stormed in the dialysis room like a meteor. She knew how Sejda would feel if he failed to see her around just before being placed on the living hell. She was the moral, emotional support that Sejda needed to cling on to worldly ties. Even Dr.Jayanta Bose, who was the numero uno kidney specialist in Bengal at the time (and still is), was aware of the brother-sister relationship. Most probably, he whole-heartedly approved of this unique bonding and love between a brother on the last leg of his earthly stay, and a hapless, hopeless sister,who, through her mere presence, tried desperately as best as she could, to keep Yomraj, the Lord of Death, at bay.
The moment Dr. Bose saw my Sis entering the room, panting, out of breath, he smiled down at my despairing brother. “Your Sis is here, Biresh Babu.” (for that was my late Sejda’s name) Sejda, with a smile that would light up the whole of Kolkata, replied: “Please don’t call her my Sister, Dr. Bose. Call her my Ma. She must have been my mother in my previous birth.”
The point I am trying to convey is this that I’ve never heard my Sis mentioning even once that she had been there with my Sejda from the first day the appointment was made with Dr. Bose at his chamber somewhere in Central Calcutta. My Sejda’s death must have been a heart-wrenching blow to my Sis. She must have been frightened then by the realization that people who were really close to her, were being snatched away by the cruel hand of Yama, one after another.
Sejda’s tragic death just before he was to undergo the kidney transplant in July, 1997, must have shattered my Sis no end. If there was anything left yet, the death of our nephew two days later, the nephew, who wanted all his friends to fall for his ‘Massi’ (aunt), my Sis, must have been the final nail in the coffin.
Anyway, the crux of the ‘BALMER’ is that there was a time when such love existed between a brother and his sister in Bengal. Unfortunately, Bengal seems to be forgetting her past, busy aping as she is these days, more ills of the Western Culture than reaping from its rich benefits.
