My Sis: Through My Eyes (1)
Chapter – 1
Some years ago, my eldest brother authored an autobiography. He couldn’t publish it at the insistence of my Mejdi. She told him that by publishing his book, he was likely to hurt a lot of people. Last night I wrote a letter to my bon, she is not exactly my bon. She is my didi rather. But every time I think of the way I took advantage of her, her love and affection for me, I feel extremely low. I have observed her from close quarters for all these fifty-seven years and I can say without the least bit of doubt in my mind that God sent her to my late father’s family as a gift, for a reason or purpose. It’s not that the family was lacking in daughters. There were already two elder sisters, Tapati and Arati, any parents would be proud of. But this novel is dedicated to Tapasi, so I’d rather focus on her here.
I remember that afternoon in summer at 41 rather well. We, two of us brothers, a niece and a nephew were sitting round the dining table. It was a gorgeous day and gorgeous days do not last for long. My sister-in-law was serving us while my mother was up in her room enjoying her midday siesta. We were chatting and shouting and having the time of our lives. Exactly at around the same time, my youngest sister, Tapasi joined us in the dining room. My niece, sister in law and a few others immediately started pestering her to join us at the table.
“Muna Pissi, sit by me. Tulu Kakima has really cooked the fish curry like di-la-grandi (one of the pet expressions of a very popular Bengali character called Tenida),’ said my niece with a mouthful.
“Please, don’t request me today, dear. I’d a heavy lunch,’ my very lively sister replied. “You all enjoy the meal while I go up and see what Ma is doing. I’Ii get a mouthful from her if I don’t scurry up the stairs soon.’
“Pissi, have lunch with us,” pleaded the nephew, a class five student of Modern School, “Oh, no, you won’t. I know you won’t. You must have had a hearty lunch at Arunda’s. One gets the best Vetki and Parsey at Maniktala,” the nephew, still a chit of a boy, simply couldn’t stop from cutting in the conversation of the elders.
“Please, Dinka. Don’t pester,” Tapasi would try to pacify her nephew.
Up there in her room Ma, Mrs. Bina Devi, was waiting for her youngest daughter, sitting up on her bed, her legs hanging out above the floor. She was in her late seventies and despite being the head of the family, she had been confined to the bed lately after an urine infection that nearly took her life. Once a hard-working woman, someone who would be the first to get out of bed in the family and the last to get in. She worked non-stop once she was up on her feet. The family was going through hard days, especially after her husband, a college Principal was summarily dismissed from service on charges of embezzlement or something. She would work uncomplainingly. Her husband to her, was no less than an incarnation of god Bishnu himself and she simply glowed in his presence. God did the most right thing by letting her handsome husband stay at home. These were bad days and there was no taking the young lasses for granted any more. She would look up from the thakur dalan (the corridor near the altar room) and turn her head from blowing into the mud oven to get the fire for cooking going, to look at her husband, reclining in the easy chair with the gown her eldest son had presented him a couple of months back. The velvety gown with its patterns of gold neatly embroidered all over looked nice on him. He was a handsome man and her god as well. Wasn’t that what her parents would teach her day in and day out before the marriage?
Ma’s father, who taught her the best lessons of life, was gone not long after her marriage. Her only living brother was struggling to find his footing in the capital, Delhi. She would visit her widowed mother whenever she had the chance. Little Tapasi must have accompanied her to her maternal grandpa’s along with her small brother. Ma would get off the bus, in the lazy hours of the afternoon, at a place called Hazra; buy some fruits and sweets for her widowed mother. Both Tapasi and her small brother loved their maternal grandfather’s house very much. It was such a dreamy, sleepy place. Once they reached the grandma’s room, right after climbing up the stairs, ahead of Ma, both of them would run into granny’s. Granny was one of a kind. Thin and frail, with her white hair and white sari, she looked like a saintly figure. She would get up at the din and walking down the stairs, would go to the small room she had been using as her kitchen since the demise of her husband. Then she would make the food that brought water to Swagata’s mouth. He was sure even afterwards, when he wasn’t a small boy any more that the food he used to get from Granny, consisting of rice, milk, banana and some of the sweets brought by Ma, was the world’s most healthy and delicious food. By the time, he was done with the eating; he could see his face in the lapped up to the last bit plate!
Anyway, to come back to Tapasi, she never forgot the days when she accompanied Ma to grandpas. Once she got married and after she had lost her father, she made it a point to visit Ma almost on a daily basis. There were people who did not like that but unperturbed, she kept doing what she considered to be her bounded duty. She ran up the shadowy stairs of Deblane and by the time she had reached the top flight of steps, the whole Bhattacharyya household knew of her arrival.
“Ma, Ma, I’ve arrived now. How’re you?” she would cry out from outside Ma’s room.
The lady, who had been desperately lonely, all this while, would sit up straighter and cough up:
“Oh, so finally you could make the time! What does it matter to you if your mother is dead or alive? What does it matter to anyone, anyway?”
“Ma. Won’t you ever understand? I’m a married woman. I’ve duties and responsibilities at the in-laws!”
“I see. Why did you bother to come then? You could have left me at the mercy of all and sundry as your other siblings have done!’ Ma cried out. But then the old lady was very fond of her youngest daughter and melt within no time in her presence. You have to give Tapasi credit because she knew how to deal with Ma.
Once Ma cooled down, Tapasi dug out all the stuff she had brought for her. Banana, bread, biscuits and sweets. She loved it when Ma smiled at her to make up for the scolding earlier. Then as the afternoon wore on, the other brothers would be there at 41 as well, and the remnants of the rapport that was fast vanishing among her siblings, made Tapasi happy. And in the mayhem in Ma’s room, someone would go out to buy kachudis (some kind of snacks) from Madhu’s, a confectionary. Tapasi loved spending time with her Ma, but that is not the whole truth. She loved spending time with her siblings.
But the clock in Ma’s room would keep ticking and soon it would be time for Tapasi to go back to in-laws. Ma, again back to being quiet, would keep her hand on Tapti’s bent head as she slouched to touch her feet, and ask her the eternal question:
““Kal asbi to (You’ll come tomorrow, no?) And despite the exhaustion of the day, Tapasi would nod her head, looking longingly at her Ma. Then Ma would turn to me, as if she would notice me for the first time and say: “Swagata, reach Muna (my sister’s nickname) to the bus-stand. Eto kasto koray asey (She’s to face a lot of trouble to come here). I’d marvel at Ma’s change of tone and learn a thing or two about mother-daughter relationship.
I accompanied my sister to her in-laws at Maniktala. I was unhappy that she hadn’t taken anything during lunch. A few kachudis and a cup of tea was not exactly my idea of healthy food. My sister would then knock on the door of the in-law’s house at the corner, while I’d take my place behind her. Bulu, her sister-in-law, a lovely-looking girl in her teens, would come running down the stairs to open the door. On getting inside, my sister asked her sis-in-law if there were any visitors or letters, while her mother-in-law came out of the kitchen and looking at me, asked:
“Bappa, what special items were there for lunch at yours today? Bouma (daughter-in-law) was in such a hurry to get there. She ignored my request for lunch. She told me that everyone at 41 would be waiting for her..”
I looked from Masima (my sis’s mother-in-law) to my sister, not comprehending a thing. The pleading look in her eyes couldn’t hold me back: “What are you telling me, Masima? She didn’t have lunch at ours, Said she had taken quite a heavy lunch here…” And as I realized what my sister had done, I wanted to touch the ground with my head out of shame. A sister, who never tried to belittle anyone from either of the two houses, be it her late father’s family or the family of her in-laws. UNBELIEVABLE in today’s world, don’t you agree?
( For the last few days, I have been trying very hard to submit a story for a Contest. Every time I tried to submit, there was a message : Sorry, we are offline. Now you know, dear Reader, that we writers are queer creatures. Once a story is born, we can’t wait till it has been seen and appreciated. I couldn’t submit my story. Perhaps, I am not meant to win contests, awards and rewards. Let it be. Then I thought of ZobraBooks, a platform where I can have my story published. No sooner did the thought come to my head than I was searching for my dashboard. So, finally here is my novel ready. Let me present to you then, dear Reader, a story entitled: My Sis : My Lifelong Hero, which was originally written for “Women Heroes” by another online magazine.) Here is the story :
