by Shona Patel
“I...” Biren fumbled, trying to remember the schoolteacher’s name.
The woman watched him, smiling faintly. He was acutely aware he was coming across as a numskull. Who else would rush around looking for the house of a person with no name?
“I just can’t remember his name,” said Biren lamely. “He’s a schoolteacher...”
Her face brightened. “Is it Jatin Nandi?” she asked.
Biren gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, yes, that’s right! Jatin Nandi, the schoolteacher.”
“Won’t you please come in,” she said, stepping aside in the doorway.
“Oh, no, no,” said Biren. “Thank you very much, but I must be on my way. Perhaps you can tell me the way to Jatin Nandi’s house?”
The woman’s eyes danced with amusement. “But you are here,” she said. “This is Jatin Nandi’s house. He is my father.”
Biren felt slightly dizzy. “Your father?” he repeated faintly.
Little Mitra pulled him by the arm and jabbered excitedly. “You know Baba fell down in the fish market and broke his arm? He went to buy magur fish for my dida, who has stomach pain.”
“Please come in, this way,” the young woman said. “Baba is in his study.”
She led the way inside the house, past the kitchen and the smell of frying eggplant fritters. Biren followed her graceful back, mesmerized by the spool of her shiny hair twisted into a low bun at the nape of her neck. As she walked, her hair began to slip, inch by inch, unfurling on its weight, and mere seconds before it cascaded down in a waterfall she twisted it back with a natural movement of her long, delicate fingers.
She tapped outside a door and waited, listening. “Baba?” she called softly. “Maybe he fell asleep,” she whispered. She pushed the door ajar and little Mitra barreled into the room.
“Baba! Baba! Wake up! A very important man has come to see you!” she said.
“Who?” a groggy, sleep-laden voice answered.
“A man who rides on a horse. But today he came walking.”
The woman turned to look at Biren, her eyes dancing. “I will leave it to my sister Mitra to complete the introductions,” she said. They were standing close together, and when Biren looked at her eyes he finally understood why they were different. They were an unusual gray-green color with tiny flecks of gold.
An old memory stirred within him. He had dwelt in those eyes, perhaps in another lifetime. He saw again the waters of the estuary, gray-green, blending earth and sky, with soft pockets of golden sand.
Little Mitra appeared at the door and pulled Biren by the hand. “Come in, come in,” she said eagerly. “He’s awake.”
“I’ll get some tea,” said the young woman in that soft, husky voice of hers. As she walked away Biren watched her receding back, that beautiful silken hair slipping out of its hold, surrendering to the gravitational force of its own beauty.
* * *
Jatin Nandi sat by the window, his feet propped on a cane ottoman. He was a scholarly man, with a high forehead and large ears with prominent earlobes. His right hand, encased in a sling, rested on a mustard seed pillow on the armrest of his easy chair. His eyes had spidery red veins and small tufts of hair stood up on the crown of his head like a half-plucked bird. He appeared to have fallen asleep with a book on his lap. When Biren entered the room he struggled to sit up and groped for his glasses on the side table.
“Here, here,” said Mitra. She grabbed the glasses and pushed them down firmly on her father’s nose, where they sat slightly askew.
As Biren introduced himself, he was surprised to find Jatin Nandi knew all about him.
“Oh, the brilliant Cambridge barrister from Sylhet with the coveted government job. Who has not heard about you?” Jatin Nandi smiled.
“The coveted job!” Biren laughed. “I wish. I am not exactly in an enviable position, to tell you the truth.”
“Most Indians would think otherwise. You are an asset to the government. Why else would they hire you as the assistant to the deputy commissioner himself?”
“Because nobody wants to get involved with the local politics, that’s why,” Biren replied.
“I stay away from local politics. You can get your tail caught in a bamboo crack if you are not careful. Better to concentrate on the work that needs to be done.”
“Indeed,” agreed Biren. “Mr. Thompson, my boss, first told me about you. I dropped by your school on my way here to your house. I don’t know if you are aware of this but the British government has several grants set aside for education. I can get you more information—that is, if you are interested, of course.”
“That depends what they want from me in return. I am always suspicious of free money.”
“Well, nothing, really,” said Biren. “This is all a part of the new educational program sponsored by the government. There are two criteria, however. The funds have to be used primarily for female education, and the medium of instruction must be English. I think you qualify on both counts.”
“Baba is a very poor man, you know,” piped up Mitra from behind her father’s chair.
Jatin Nandi smiled. “And what did I tell you, maiyya?” he asked gently.
“That you are only as rich as your mind.”
“Exactly,” said her father. “Now, if you will please ask Buri Kaki to make us some tea, it will make your old father very happy.”
“All right,” said Mitra loudly. She got up and scampered down the hallway.
Jatin Nandi sighed. “That one will never grow up,” he said. “She is the opposite of her sister. Maya was born an old soul. She started reading when she was three and writing poetry when she was seven. Mitra, on the other hand, wants to play and climb trees all day.” He laughed, suddenly appearing younger.
As Jatin Nandi talked, Biren learned he was a widower who lived in the house with his aged mother and his two daughters. They had an old housekeeper who ran the household.
“My wife died ten years ago after giving birth to Mitra. It is Maya who brought up her younger sister. Thanks to her tender care, Mitra has never felt the loss of a mother.”
Maya. What a lovely name. Biren ran it over in his mind. It had a graceful sweep to its sound. It was impossible to say Maya too fast or too loud. It unfurled on its own beauty. Like her hair.
“I wish for my daughters, and all daughters, to have equal opportunity in our society. Education has given freedom and opportunity to men. Why should it be any different for girls?”
Biren’s heart responded to his words with the vibrating energy of a tuning fork. How refreshing it was to meet somebody whose thoughts so closely matched his own.
“That is why female education is so critical,” Biren said passionately. “Something has to be done.”
There was a tinkle of teacups in the hallway and Biren’s heart skipped a beat. He turned, expecting to see Maya, but he was disappointed to see a bent old crone enter with the tea.
“In our society, money, horoscope and family name are the only things that define a girl’s worth,” Jatin Nandi lamented. “Her own accomplishments mean nothing.”
“Beauty is an asset,” Biren said absently. He gazed outside the window. The evening sun filtered through the splayed leaves of the papaya tree, making the tubular stalks glow a translucent green.
“Beauty!” exclaimed Jatin Nandi. “Yes, beauty as defined by society. A typical Bengali beauty must have a betel-leaf-shaped face, almond-shaped eyes and wide child-bearing hips. Pedigree and dowry still outweigh beauty at the end. It offends me to see the way marriageable girls are examined like livestock at the market. I have vowed never to put my daughters through such humiliation.”
Biren thought of Maya, her slender waist and her gray-green eyes faceted with gold. She was no typical Bengali beauty, and he was thankful for that.
He leaned forward eagerly, elbows on his knees. “I completely agree girls should be given a fair education. I came here to ask your advice on a proposal I am putting together for a free English-medium school exclusively for girls. I have heard you have an excellent curriculum. I would like to know more about it.”
“I am actually following a model set up by Elizabeth Benson. Have you heard of this remarkable lady?”
Biren thought for a moment and shook his head. “Her name does not ring a bell. Who is she?”
“Elizabeth Benson is a Christian lady who started a free school for girls in Dhaka. It is called the New Horizon Academy. Hers is the only Christian school where the teenage girls are allowed to wear their saris instead of Western-style skirts. As you can imagine, many Indian families don’t like their girls wearing skirts because it looks immodest.”
“Are the teachers nuns?” Biren asked.
“No, the New Horizon Academy is a secular institution. The teachers are all Anglo-Indians. Miss Paulson, the Anglo-Indian teacher in my school, has been trained at the Benson Teachers’ Institute, which Elizabeth Benson also founded. My dream is to send Mitra, my younger daughter, to Dhaka to study at the New Horizon Academy. The boarding school is excellent, but it is difficult to get admission. I applied for Mitra four years ago and I am still on the waiting list.”
“And what about Maya? Did she study at the New Horizon Academy, as well?” Biren asked, trying to sound casual. He could not help his interest drifting back to Maya.
“Maya was privately tutored by an English governess at home. She completed her matriculation two years ago and now teaches at my school twice a week.”
Biren did a rough calculation. That would make Maya eighteen or nineteen—a very marriageable age. She was so mature and self-possessed, she appeared older. He wondered how he could find out more about her without appearing too forward. Luckily Jatin Nandi came to the rescue.
“Maya also works at the weavers’ village,” he said conversationally. “She must have gone there today. She is helping the weavers to start a co-op. The weavers are very poor. There is no sanitation in the village, no clean drinking water. Most of the children die of disease or starvation. These are the traditional silk weavers of Bengal. Their weaving skills have been passed down for generations, but now with the commercial English textiles flooding the market they are in grave danger of becoming extinct.”
“So what does Maya do for them?”
“Maya negotiates a fair deal for the weavers with the wholesalers. An agent of a wholesale sari dealer comes to the village every second Tuesday of the month to purchase saris and put in orders. Previously the agent used to take advantage of the poor weavers and pay them a pittance. Now he cannot cheat them because Maya is there. In her quiet way Maya is quite tough.”
Biren was surprised to hear that. She seemed so delicate and soft-spoken. He remembered her soft, husky voice that made even a casual conversation sound so deliciously intimate. It was very charming, and yet clearly there was an invisible toughness to her that he had yet to encounter.
* * *
Biren left the house feeling soul laden. It was the surprise of finding something precious and rare he had not even known to exist. Stunned by the providential nature of their meeting, he wanted to dwell on the miracle and at the same time understand the unrest he felt inside.
He walked toward the river in a daze, feeling slightly intoxicated, and noted that the water was low and drawn back over a ribbed stretch of sand, ruffled with kelp. Biren sat on an upturned boat and contemplated the water. He thought of Maya’s eyes, of the emotions that dimmed and darkened in their depths, the flecks of gold that floated, so constant and pure. He breathed in the balmy air, his mind empty of coherent thought. Taking a stick, he scratched the letters in the sand, watching the shapes dip and curve to form her name. He contemplated it, seeing past the gouge mark into the grains of sand and the entire universe within. Something compelled his hand to move, unbidden, of its own accord. Next to Maya he wrote with firm deliberate strokes Roy.
Maya Roy.
And there it was. The name of his future wife. Strangely, once having written it, he felt at peace.
CHAPTER
44
Life could be perverse and cruel, Biren concluded. Just when he wished to stay in Silchar, he was sent on multiple trips to Calcutta. It seemed as if all the high court cases of the world had been dumped on his head. How ironic—only a few weeks ago he was complaining about his dreary life in Silchar. Back then trips to Calcutta were few and far between. Now he was forced to spend several weeks at a stretch in Calcutta when all he wanted to do was visit Jatin Nandi’s house or float up and down the river looking for Maya.
Four months went by and he never stopped thinking about her. When he finally returned, the flame trees were in the madness of bloom. Everywhere they blazed a heart-stopping red. They singed the sun and washed out the sky. Biren felt the same madness in his heart.
Over the next few weeks he visited Jatin Nandi’s house several times. Each time he walked past the clatter of pots, the sizzles and smells of the kitchen, on his way to the study. All the while his heart tiptoed in the hope of seeing Maya, but she was never there. Even Mitra, whose chirpy presence filled the house, was hardly around. Each time it was on the tip of his tongue to ask where Maya was, but he was too self-conscious. Day after day the toothless old crone came and served them tea. Once the white-haired grandmother showed herself and was introduced. Each time Biren left with leaden feet, dispirited.
In desperation he walked to the school. A class was in session, and through the open doorway Biren caught a glimpse of a stout Anglo-Indian teacher with bobbed hair wearing a navy blue dress with white-cuffed sleeves. He walked around to the back of the schoolhouse, hoping perhaps to learn from the caretaker’s wife which days Maya taught in the school, but the hut was empty, the bamboo tray leaning against the wall. There was nothing much to do but walk toward the river. It was unimaginable how a single meeting with Maya had shifted the pivot of his entire universe. He watched a boat idle along the water’s edge. Kanai was perched on the prow. His slackened oar cut a thin knife line in the water.
Kanai raised his hand in greeting. “Mia! Care for a boat ride?”
Biren was about to decline when it occurred to him it was the second Tuesday of the month.
“Can you take me to the weavers’ village?”
“Yes, mia.”
Kanai turned the boat toward the bank, but Biren had already removed his shoes and rolled up his knife-creased trousers. He waded into the river and climbed in.
“What takes you the weavers’ village today, mia?” Kanai asked. He pushed back from the mud bank, catching the swirl of the midcurrent.
“My heart,” replied Biren impulsively.
“Ah, you are but young. You still follow your inner tide.”
He broke into a song. Biren listened, his bare foot trailing in the water. It was a haunting song from the great beyond, sung to the rhythmic chop of a falling oar. As the song dissolved into a hum, all that remained was the splash of wood on water.
* * *
He disembarked on the shore, feet bare, shoes in hand. The cracked river mud felt cold and the broken shells cut into the soles of his feet like shards of broken glass, but Biren did not notice the discomfort.
It was a flood-hazard area, Biren thought as he walked across the flat, cracked earth devoid of vegetation toward one of the meandering pathways leading into the village. The ground was covered with rows of saris in dazzling colors, stretched on bamboo frames. Twisted yarns of freshly dyed silk were drying looped on bamboo poles. For Biren it felt like walking through a rainbow.
The mud huts of the village were built on elevated slabs. A loud rhythmic clack-clack noise that sounded like a freight train grew louder as he drew near. He passed open sheds wit
h women sitting in front of wooden looms operated by foot pedals as they pulled on shuttles of yarn threading the weft to create a woven fabric. He paused to watch them work, but his presence elicited curious stares that broke the rhythm of the weavers’ work, so he moved on.
Soon he came to an emerald-green pond with lush banana plantations all around and what appeared to be the only pukka brick house in the entire village. It looked fairly new and prosperous, with lime-washed walls and marigolds planted in terra-cotta pots lined outside the front door. A small cluster of slippers crowded the veranda, indicating people were inside. Biren looked in through the doorway. He wasn’t expecting to see Maya, and when he did he thought for a moment she was a mirage of some sort, so he stood looking at her, not daring to believe she was real. But she was. So engrossed was she in her work, she did not notice him as she sat cross-legged on a bamboo floor mat with her head tilted and the unsharpened end of a pencil dimpled into her cheek. Her hair, braided in a loose side plait, tumbled in a lazy coil to the floor, where a pile of saris lay in a massive heap. Two men sat across from her, their backs turned toward the doorway. Many of the saris were opened out of their ironed folds to display the inside patterning and intricate designs of the end piece. Next to Maya, a sultry young girl with liquid eyes was deftly folding the saris back into neat envelope-like folds and placing them into separate piles. The girl looked up and noticed Biren at the doorway. She cupped her hand and whispered something into Maya’s ear. When Maya saw him, she didn’t even look surprised. She tilted her head in a gesture that invited him inside.
Biren placed his shoes outside the door and entered the room. The two men turned around to glance briefly at him. They were dressed identically in starched white dhotis and embroidered kurtas the pale color of buttermilk.
He sat leaning against the back wall, feeling vaguely guilty. Maya glanced at him once or twice and went back to listening to the two men. One of the gentlemen fingered the edge of a sari and said something about thread count, border designs and motif placement. He could see Maya making neat diagrams in a notebook on her lap with a steady hand. She said something to the young girl beside her, who appeared to be her assistant. The girl went to the back room and came back with another pile of saris, which she started opening up and laying out on the floor.
