The Matriarch
It was a balmy June morning – the kind of day when the air hangs heavy around you as if dripping with the weight of unsaid words. The voice of the hawker rose to a familiar pitch, cutting through the sounds of the whirring ceiling fans to reach Mamoni’s keen ears. “Baashonnnnnn….”, the hawker cried, advertising his gleaming steel utensils, causing Mamoni to bustle out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her sides, the haldi on her fingers leaving distinct marks on the creamy white canvas of her thaan[1] saree. She needed a large steel bowl to knead the dough, and the eight faded cotton sarees, three pajamas and four shirts that she had set aside the night before, should be enough for the barter. Mamoni’s decision making in all matters related to the kitchen was unchallenged in the household – that six-foot by four-foot room was her veritable kingdom.
Childless Mamoni lost her husband last year. She was 45 – the age when her friends were spending busy afternoons deciding whether the nabaratna[2] necklace would look better or the sita-haar[3] on the weddings of their daughters. The Roy Chowdhurys were erstwhile zamindars[4] who may have lost their land and title in 1950, but had not let go of their airs, three decades later. So, when her husband breathed his last on his magnificent four poster bed, on an otherwise uneventful July afternoon, Mamoni was unwittingly turned into the austere Mrs. Roy Chowdhury, widow of the late barrister Biplab Roy Chowdhury. First to go were her shankha and pola[5]; they were ceremoniously broken, their pieces collected and taken away. A dazed Mamoni watched with unseeing eyes as her beautiful kaan pasha[6] was unscrewed from her dainty earlobes and packed away into an ornate wooden box on her mantelpiece, along with the pair of wide gold bangles with two heads of elephants facing each other. Her radio chain (as long gold necklaces were fashionably called in those days) followed, as did the delicate gold flower on her nose. The earlier inhabitants of the box were a pair of silver anklets that had been relegated there since the day her mother-in-law told Mamoni that it did not behove the Bodo Bou[7] to walk around with tinkling anklets, like the young unmarried girls of the house. Mamoni was shorn of all adornment, dressed in a creamy white saree with no border, the parting in her hair bereft of the meandering stream of vermillion, looking bloodless and stark. What you noticed from a distance, was the blank canvas of her forehead, no longer marked by the pomegranate red kumkum[8] powder, painstakingly shaped into a perfect circle every morning by Mamoni’s deft fingers.
The beautiful dhonekhalis[9] and Shantipur cottons that Kusum, Mamoni’s trusted companion for twenty years, had learnt to perfectly starch, were given away to the wider circle of Maamis and Kaakis. Kusum herself kept her laal paad gawrod saree[10] – the one Mamoni would wear dutifully every evening at sundown as she poured water from a tiny brass tumbler, on to the base of the sturdy tulsi at the centre of the courtyard, before retreating into the pujor ghor[11] for the better part of the hour. The children would be drawn to the sound of the bell and the smell of homemade ghee from the diya that she used for her arati and would run to the pujor ghor when they heard Mamoni’s musical voice call out, “Prasad!”[12]. The object of their interest would be the nokuldana[13] that Mamoni would give them, tiny white gleaming balls of sugar that nestled in their palm. Mamoni indulged them far more than their own mothers did and feeding them copious quantities of sugar-filled or fried goodies fresh from the kitchen, was Mamoni’s own brand of love.
Biplab Babu had been a fashionable man in his youth, whose ideas bordered on the modern. He would wear neatly pressed three-piece suits with printed silk pocket squares peeking out of his front pocket, his pince-nez firmly pressed on his nose and his brow furrowed with concentration as he read the headlines and clicked his tongue with apparent disapproval at how elected representatives chose to run the country. Like all Bengali men of his genre, he was a staunch critic of the men (and women) in government, secure in his belief that he would do better, if he were in their place. Their childlessness bothered him less than his wife’s disinterest in politics, and he opted to remedy the latter by carefully curating her reading list each month. Mamoni was a Masters in Bengali, a rare distinction for women of those times, but was content to let the evidence of her academic excellence remain framed on the wall of her husband’s study, and occasionally taken down to be thoroughly dusted.
She liked the sound of his voice, and although politics bored her, she wouldn’t interrupt him when he passionately held forth on a variety of subjects to her on many moonlit nights, although she would rather they spoke of something else. She enjoyed his company more than that of the women in the house and didn’t mind that in their relationship she was usually the listener. She occasionally asked him questions about his work, and about the law, the various problems his clients came to him with, and how he solved them. She had a beautiful voice, and when he occasionally asked her to sing, her dulcet tones wafted across the rafters of their centuries-old mansion in North Calcutta and invaded the intimate spaces behind fluttering curtains to pierce the heart of a lovelorn niece or stir up forgotten memories in the deep recesses of a sister-in-law’s heart.
Biplab Babu was as certain of his own interests as he was unaware of his wife’s. Accustomed to guide her and teach her so she would imbue some of his worldly wisdom, he had never attempted to find out her opinions. He didn’t know, for example, that she used to write short stories in her early twenties. That she had published some of them under the pseudonym “Tushar Kanti” in the weekend supplement that accompanied Sanjibani, a popular daily that all his family read. And that she gave it all up when she came into his household as its Bodo Bou. Only Kusum knew her secret. She had come into this household as a six-year-old, holding the index finger of her recently widowed mother. Mamoni’s kind mother-in-law had given Kusum’s mother work, and the two of them a roof over their heads. Little Kusum, skipped around all day, out of sight of the adults, playing with somebody’s forgotten stash of marbles at one time and a one-eyed mutilated doll at others. Mamoni and Kusum took to each other right away. She made up for Kusum’s lack of a formal education by diligently dusting out discarded textbooks from the childrens’ study and inducting her into the mysteries of Bengali and Mathematics at first, with History, Geography and elementary Science, thereafter. She happily sacrificed her afternoon siesta to teach Kusum, and this arrangement continued for 12 years until Kusum cleared her matriculation examinations as an external candidate. It was while studying for her examinations that Kusum once chanced upon a folder full of old newspaper clippings of writings by Tushar Kanti, in Mamoni’s old trunk. Her head full of romantic thoughts about a lost lover, Kusum relentlessly interrogated Mamoni as to his identity. Perhaps glad to have someone to share her secret with after all these years, Mamoni eventually confessed that Tushar Kanti was in fact, her own pseudonym.
Kusum’s mother’s sudden death from a mysterious week-long fever meant that Kusum’s place was firmly cemented in the Roy Chowdhury household and by Mamoni’s side. Unlike everyone else, Mamoni never treated Kusum like a servant. She spoke of her as a companion and treated her with a kindness that Kusum had never known. She oiled Mamoni’s hair, starched her sarees, made her bed and fussed over her at mealtimes. Above all, she tracked Mamoni’s medicines and made sure she took them timely, daily.
It was naturally assumed that Biplab Babu’s younger brother Bidyut, Chhoto Babu to the servants, would assume the role of the patriarch upon Biplab Babu’s demise. Chhoto Babu lacked both the education and the finesse of Bodo Babu. Perhaps it was his unexpected arrival into the household when Biplab Babu was ten, or the fact that his hair was unusually golden and his skin remarkably fair, which contributed to his being spoilt silly by his mother. Either way, he was conscious of being above all reproach from the time he was little, and this translated into a cavalier disregard for anyone or anything other than himself, in his youth. He couldn’t care less about heritage and social standing and was constantly on the lookout for get rich quick schemes that would lace his own pockets rather than enhance the family coffers overall. His risky investments and overall irresponsibility had remained in check when his father, and after the latter’s demise, Biplab Babu, was around. Now with Biplab Babu’s sensible and somewhat intimidating presence missing, Bidyut’s behaviour was entirely out of control.
One year was not too short a time for Bidyut to embark on a systematic path of squandering the family’s wealth. His firm belief in his knowledge and astute observation of horses was clearly not echoed by the horses themselves, who refused to win and lose races at his command. His losses at the racing track, coupled with the money Bidyut paid to bootleggers to source the finest whiskeys for him, meant that the rather generous yearly allowance that Biplab Babu had set aside for him, ran out in a matter of months. Bidyut’s firm belief that he was meant for greater things made him the darling of scamsters and con artists. He invested in one Ponzi scheme after another, until there were no jewels his diminutive wife Kamala Devi had left, to sell. But who would rein him in? Kamala Devi was petrified of him, while his mother instigated him with the irrational indulgence of a parent whose older child has pre-deceased them.
Bidyut lost no time in reminding the Kakas and Mamas – distant impoverished relatives who had made their homes in the mansion owing to the largesse of Bidyut’s father – that he was the karta[14] of this family and would brook no criticism. Indeed, there was no one with a sufficiently powerful voice to stem the inevitable financial ruin that now loomed large before the family.
Mamoni was kneading the dough in the shining new steel bowl in the kitchen when Bidyut bustled in looking for her. She was startled out of her reverie by the voice of Thakurpo, as she referred to him, since he did not usually cross over to the territory that was reserved for the women folk of the house. “I need you to sign some papers, Boudi[15],” Bidyut busily commented, disregarding the sticky white dough that completely covered Mamoni’s fingers. “Now”? Mamoni laughed, drawing attention to the semi solid blobs that dripped from her fingers. “You can leave them on my dresser, I’ll sign them after I am done preparing dinner”, she said. “What papers are they anyway?” she asked distractedly, her mind having already made its way back to calculating the exact amount of dough needed for each perfectly shaped ball that would eventually turn into a crispy puffy luchi[16], after it was smoothened out and dropped into the hot oil that was bubbling in an ancient black kadai[17] on the stove by Mamoni’s side.
“Just some papers”, Bidyut remarked airily, as if the contents of the papers were too incomprehensible for Mamoni. “I have to submit them to the bank. The official and my lawyer will come tomorrow at 9.” Mamoni said nothing, making a mental note to scrutinise them thoroughly later.
That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Mamoni sat down with her reading glasses to go through the sheaf of papers Bidyut had left on her dresser. She read them slowly and meticulously and was horrified by the story that unfolded. Bidyut was mortgaging the house. His lawyer had drawn up papers that established Bidyut as the karta of a Hindu Undivided Family, the members of which were Bidyut, Mamoni, his mother, Kamala Devi and Bidyut’s unmarried daughter Sheila. The house was designated as the property of this Hindu Undivided Family, which was being mortgaged with the consent of all its members. Mamoni’s worst fears came true as she saw page after identical page initialled by Bidyut’s mother, Kamala Devi and Sheila…the only missing signature was hers. The documents claimed that Biplab and Bidyut’s father, who had bought the house from a distant relative, had died without a will and hence this arrangement had to be reduced into writing prior to the execution of a mortgage. It was a mere matter of formality as all the family members had given their consent to this arrangement and there were no other legal heirs involved. Mamoni sighed. She placed a heavy marble paperweight on the papers, took off her glasses and switched off the light. She picked up the glass of warm milk that Kusum had left on her bedside and stood in the verandah for a long time, letting the moonbeams wash over her.
Sleep did not come easily that night. Mamoni tossed and turned in bed for a long time. She was suspended in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness when the first light appeared through the skylights opposite her bed.
Morning brought an irate Bidyut to Mamoni’s kitchen once again. He had found the unsigned papers on Mamoni’s dresser and was not pleased with her for not having completed that simple task. Mamoni was prepared for him, her hands and feet covered in oil, sitting poised in front of the boti[18] chopping a pile of banana flowers into tiny pieces. The banana flower or “mocha” has a high iron content and is notorious for staining everything a deep stubborn red, so the process of cutting it is as elaborate as it is dexterious. She looked up, as if apologetically, at the sound of Bidyut’s voice, gesturing soundlessly to the mocha. “Call me when the lawyer and the banker are here”, Mamoni said. Bidyut stomped off, annoyed but unwilling to debate with Mamoni, given that her signatures were critical.
Mamoni finished the task at hand and handed over the neatly chopped vegetable to Lokkhir Ma (Lakshmi’s mother), the cook-cum-helper in the kitchen, who had been identified by the name of her adult daughter for so long, that no one really knew her real name anymore.
She washed her hands from her fingertips to her elbows carefully with soap, wiped them on the green hand towel next to the kitchen sink and sent for Kusum as she walked back to her room. Thirty minutes and a long conversation with Kusum later, she was dressed in a brand new saree, austere and firm, ready to meet the banker and the lawyer who were waiting for her in the sitting room.
Mamoni walked into the sitting room, every bit her warm and hospitable self. She bustled about organising tea and biscuits for the guests and when everyone was finally settled, she asked Kusum to give her the red file that the girl had been holding on to patiently, all this while. Mamoni put on her glasses and opened the file with a quiet sense of purpose that suddenly rattled Bidyut. She took out a photocopy of a court document, cleared her throat and addressed the lawyer, Mr. Basak. “Basak Babu I think you know Ghosh Babu, who has been our family’s lawyer for the last few decades.” Mamoni knew Basak Babu was Ghosh Babu’s erstwhile junior, who the latter had parted ways with, when he discovered his shady dealings. “I saw the paperwork you had prepared last night, and I found some errors which I wanted to discuss with you,” she remarked, matter of factly. “This house was purchased by my father-in-law in 1952 and willed to my husband in 1975, with a specific direction that my mother-in-law will always have a place to stay in this house until her passing. The will was probated the same year. Here is a copy.” She held out a copy of the probate papers along with a decree of the court which lent an air of finality to her words, which neither the lawyer nor the now-squirming Bidyut, could challenge. “My husband passed away last year, as you know,” she said, “leaving behind a file full of meticulous paperwork which I believe you will find most helpful. As you will note from the paperwork, the house has been willed to my daughter and me, with a right of permanent residence being provided for my mother-in-law”. She handed over another sheaf of papers to the lawyer, who by now looked like he had swallowed something bitter.
“Daughter!?” Bidyut exploded. “What daughter?” “Kusum,” replied Mamoni calmly, “your brother and I legally adopted her six months before he sadly left us”, shutting the file with an air of finality. “I will leave you gentlemen to study the paperwork now, there is too much work left in the kitchen.”
[1] Thaan is a term used to describe unstitched undyed white/ cream cotton cloth worn as a saree by widows in Bengal.
[2] Nabaratna is a collective term for nine different precious stones (used in jewellery).
[3] Sita Haar: A name for a specific kind of long gold chain
[4] Zamindar: Landed gentry.
[5] Shankha and Pola are the red and white bangles made of shell and lac respectively and worn by married women in Bengal. They are ceremoniously broken when a woman becomes a widow.
[6] Kaan Pasha: A type of gold earring popular in Bengal, in the shape of a ear.
[7] Bodo Bou: Eldest daughter-in-law
[8] Kumkum: A natural red pigment
[9] Dhonekhali: A type of cotton saree from Bengal
[10] Lal Paad sarees are cream or white sarees with red borders typically associated with auspicious events in Bengal. Gawrod is a term used for undyed silk.
[11] Pujor ghor: Prayer room
[12] Prasad: A devotional offering of food given to God and then shared among devotees.
[13] Nokuldana: Tiny balls of sugar offered to Hindu Gods.
[14] Karta: In legalese a karta is the head of a Hindu Undivided Family. It is also loosely used to describe the patriarch.
[15] Boudi: elder sister-in-law
[16] Luchi: a deep-fried flatbread from Bengal
[17] Kadai: frying pan
[18] Boti: Curved sickle shaped blade fixed to a platform