“An inspection.”
“Right you are, Aloka.” Grandma elaborated that a marriage broker had approached her parents with a proposal and the prospective bridegroom and his family would come for a visit. She gathered that they would make her walk, question her about her studies and whether she could cook and sew, and ask her to sing. They would check her out as if she were a prize buffalo. “I was frightened, but terribly curious,” Grandma said. “Through gossip I’d heard the interested family was well off and highly respected. I’d also found out that their oldest son, Bimal, was not only intelligent and handsome, but also kindhearted. People adored him. He was special. That meant many prominent families would want their daughters to marry him, so, of course, I didn’t stand a chance. I told myself to relax and enjoy the show, to practice ‘being seen’ for future use.” Grandma strained to catch a shallow uneven breath and smoothed her front hair, perhaps experiencing anew the uncertainty of that young age.
“Tell us how that went.” It seemed Aloka could barely contain her curiosity.
“It started with a long bath. I scrubbed my skin with green gram flour so it would glow. After drying myself, I outlined my feet with brilliant red aalta, then I put on a peacock-blue silk sari. It was my best sari and showed my dark skin to advantage. I wrapped the aanchal around my shoulders in a show of modesty. A scene from Ramayana was woven into the aanchal and the sari border—followers waiting for the god Ram’s return. Finally, I combed my hair.”
“Was your hair very long?” Sujata had figured out from experience that Grandma often needed prodding to supply missing details.
“It reached all the way to my calves. In those days, Bengali women didn’t cut their hair. Even so, mine was the longest hair in the village, undoubtedly my best feature. It was thick and soft and reflected the sunlight. My father called it Brahmaputra, after the long river known for its ferocious currents.”
Sujata looked up. Gray curls, scented with Keo Karpin oil, framed Grandma’s wrinkled brows. Since becoming a widow, she had cropped her hair to just below her ears. Secretly Sujata wanted to stroke Grandma’s hair, but that would be disrespectful. Instead she simply asked, “How did you wear your hair that day, Thakurma?”
“My mother piled my hair up in a coil at the back of my head. That was the custom. If you were over the age of twelve, you had to keep your hair braided, knotted, or covered, anything but down. Even very young girls plaited their hair. And under no condition should you let your hair hang down or show it to men outside your immediate family. They might get ‘ideas.’ Only bold and wanton women would do such a thing. Our village society considered it shameless. The situation was different for wealthy women living in big cities. They could wear their hair bobbed, shoulder length, and loose.”
“But you went to college in Calcutta,” Sujata said.
“I came from a poor family. I had to look conservative and act submissive.”
“So, Grandpa and his family came to see you. Did you feed them?” Aloka’s thoughts never strayed far from food, it seemed.
“Oh, yes. My mother spent the whole day in the kitchen, preparing a seven-course meal we could hardly afford: luchi, aloor dam, begun bhaja, cholar dahl, payesh, and two kinds of sandesh—all for an afternoon tea. At four o’clock, when we were ready and quite exhausted, Bimal, his parents, and four of their relatives arrived. I still remember the day. It was hot, damp, and very still. The rooms were stuffy, so the guests were escorted to our clean courtyard. We had no fancy flower beds, fountain, or sculpture. There was just a tall bel tree and a tiny holy basil plant, tulsi, in a raised planter.”
Sujata remembered how Grandma had often emphasized the sacred quality of the bel fruit. “Touch a bel; wash your sins.” Once every Hindu household planted such a tree in the courtyard so children would grow up in its divine shadow.
“The guests sat under the bel tree in a semicircle, facing the tulsi plant,” Grandma picked up her tale. “I stayed inside the living quarters, just far enough back from the doorway to watch the proceedings without being seen.
“Do you remember what Grandpa was like then?” Sujata asked.
“I remember him as though it were yesterday. He was dressed simply in a white shirt and dhoti, but there was an air of dignity about him and just the right amount of deference on his face. He greeted my parents sincerely and remained standing until both sets of parents took their seats. Then my father beckoned me to join them. I said a mute prayer to the bel and tulsi and, with my gaze lowered to the ground, as any proper girl would, stepped into the courtyard. The crowd, who had been waiting for this moment with eager anticipation, fell silent. I shivered. The judging had begun. Knowing I wasn’t pretty, I positioned myself under the bel tree, so the sun filtering through the leaves would highlight my hair. Then I remembered my mother’s words. My teeth were as dainty as pomegranate seeds and my smile was my second best feature. I parted my lips slightly. As I raised my eyes, I found Bimal, his mouth half open, staring at me. Like I was a goddess with a halo who had just descended from heaven in a chariot. I wondered how he saw beyond my exterior into my soul so quickly. Our eyes locked for a split second, and I, too, was smitten. I’d never seen so much vitality and intelligence in a man, or playfulness evident in the twinkle in his eyes. He was like Krishna, our fearless god, sitting on a raised pavilion and playing his flute—silly stuff I’d seen in a movie. Before I knew it, I pictured myself as barefoot Radha, made totally helpless by his call, responding, swaying, looming toward him. Bimal’s father broke the trance by saying, ‘Please be seated, Nina.’
“Just as I had folded my sari-clad self into a chair, Bimal’s mother parted her veil. Her features were perfect, like an artist’s work. Her skin had a pinkish radiance, as though she regularly bathed in a pool awhirl with rose petals, like ancient Mogul princesses did. She must have been quite a beauty in her youth. She swung her nose ring and asked in a small, whiny voice, ‘Bring me a glass of water, Nina. And one for Bimal.’
“It was an order. I shuffled inside, quite excited to be doing something for Bimal. Brass tumblers in either hand, I returned, again with baby steps, as I’d been taught, not spilling a drop. I was convinced I had passed the walking test. Bimal accepted a glass from me, grimaced as he swallowed, then caught himself and mumbled, ‘How refreshing.’ He sloshed the water and painfully took another tiny sip.
“His mother snatched the other tumbler from my hand, then immediately set it down firmly on the ground. ‘But this water is boiling hot,’ she sputtered indignantly.
“‘Please, please,’ my mother cried, ‘I’ll get chilled water in an instant.’ And she rushed inside.
“Ma Durga! I prayed to my protecting goddess. In my excitement and haste I’d forgotten to pour chilled well water from the earthen pitcher that was kept in one corner of our kitchen. I’d gone straight to the tap. On this scorching day, the pipes were nearly melting.” Grandma roared with laughter. “Such was the spell we had cast on each other that I hadn’t felt the heat from the brass tumblers, and neither had Bimal, or so he pretended. By then totally humbled and embarrassed, I bowed to his mother with folded palms. From everyone’s silence I could tell the inspection was over. I stood there with a failing grade in my hand, only sorry that nobody understood the humor in the situation. Didn’t our scriptures say that humor and laughter, hasya rasa, were second only to the emotion of love? The guests sat for another few minutes, then Bimal’s mother muttered an excuse to leave. She shot up from her chair and so did her family. Bimal and I exchanged one last longing glance as he hurried after his mother. My father stood there with folded palms, looking pathetic and worn and old, his eyes glazed, and begged them in vain not to leave. After they’d disappeared around the corner, my mother lowered her head on the tulsi planter and sobbed. To my relief, they didn’t chastise me, in fact they said nothing at all, hut I could tell what a letdown it was for them. I wanted to die.”
“But Grandpa loved you in spite of it all.” Aloka, always the
one dreaming of a prince. “I’m sure he didn’t mind the hot water. He drank it, didn’t he?”
“Yes, despite this little mishap, Bimal wanted to marry me. His mother said she’d go on a hunger strike if he did. I think she had a whole stable of candidates who were nothing but bundles of jewelry. In the meantime, Bimal and I began meeting by the village tube well without our parents’ knowledge. My fearless god confessed he couldn’t live without me and I told him he was the only one I wanted. I realized that he’d treat me as his other half, ardhangini, as our scriptures had dictated. He was still respectful of his mother. It took him four months, but eventually he wore her down and she agreed to our marriage. I hadn’t expected her consent, so when the news came, I was delirious with happiness. I promised myself I’d win her over.”
Aloka asked, “What was your new mother-in-law like?”
“Horrible and disgusting,” Sujata replied condescendingly. “You have to ask?”
“Do you know what she did to me?”
Sujata slid closer and, in an instinctive gesture of protection, held Grandma’s hand. “What, Thakurma?”
“It was only two weeks after our wedding. We were living with his parents, of course. That day Bimal and his father had to go to the next town, Shaktipore, on business and weren’t expected back till late. In the afternoon, his relatives were coming for a visit, so his mother made me slave in the kitchen all day. I prepared a ten-course meal for twenty-some guests. She had given the servants the day off, her way of punishing me, since I didn’t bring any dowry. Besides, her son was too much in love with me, which meant loss of control for her. Late in the afternoon, when I was nearly fainting from exhaustion, she asked me to go freshen myself. When I’d changed and come out of my room, she ordered me to veil my hair and face and to follow her. I couldn’t see the ground under my feet. Like I was barely human, allowed only to walk shamefully. The guests were seated in the family’s beautiful courtyard lined with plum and bel trees, a tulsi plant and rosebushes, laughing and joking. When I heard their laughter and breathed in the fresh smell of roses, I felt more at ease. Then my mother-in-law presented me to the guests in a voice sweet as malai.”
At the mention of rich, thick cream, Aloka licked her upper lip.
“How did they greet you?”
“The usual, Sujata. ‘What a lovely bride’; ‘Oh, she’s so modest’; ‘See how beautifully she walks.’ They kept heaping praises on me until my mother-in-law interrupted, saying, ‘Wait till you hear this.’”
“That was very rude.”
“More than that, Sujata. She began mouthing the hot water incident. What a clumsy, stupid girl I was. How my poor, uncultured parents didn’t teach me any manners. How I didn’t deserve her golden boy Bimal. Everyone was roaring. An aunt said that such a bride should be locked up in the maid’s room. A cousin blurted, ‘Her face is as interesting as the underside of a lorry.’ Again, I think it was all due to the lack of dowry. So there I sat, head down in total humiliation, praying to the tulsi plant. My eyes stung with tears. My scalp began to feel like it had been trampled on. I sprang up faster than a tigress leaps at her prey, threw off the veil, and took the pins out of my hair, allowing my tresses to cascade down my back and over my face. Mouths fell open. They’d never seen such long, shiny locks, and certainly no one expected a young married woman to assert herself in this fashion. “Choop karo,” I said. Shut up. My mother-in-law nearly fainted, her old cousin breathed terribly hard, and the rest looked up at me in shocked silence. I felt glorious—in a couple of words I had changed the atmosphere around me. I twirled once, so they could see me from all angles, smiled like thousand stars twinkling, then, with a raised chin, walked back to my room with sure, regal steps.”
“Bravo.” Sujata and Aloka both applauded gleefully.
“I became the talk of the village. My mother-in-law respected me a trifle more after that, though she never accepted me fully. I was neither rich nor beautiful. Bimal fought for me. When nothing worked, he came up with an excuse to move us to Darjeeling. The area was known for its jute, wool, cardamom, and, most of all, tea. We were to take care of his family tea estate.
“And so this mountain valley became my home. Legend has it that when the god Indra came down from heaven on a thunderbolt, or dorje, he landed at the peak of a mountain that later became the site of Darjeeling. His chosen beverage was tea, which is why it grew here so well. That incident in Malipore had affected me like a thunderbolt and burned my inhibitions. I became an equal partner with your grandfather in the management of the tea estate. Little did I know about fine tea then, having been raised on strong, coarse tea poor people could afford. However, a fact I’d studied in a college text had stayed with me. That in earlier times people spoke of tea, silk, and porcelain in the same breath.
“Then Bimal served me a cup of second-flush Darjeeling. I’d never tasted anything like that in my life. Silk and porcelain would pale before such tea. ‘It’s truly fit for the god Indra,’ I told Bimal. I was pleased that we’d relocated in this cosmopolitan town. The limited Bengali society here was quite modern, educated, and Anglicized. We joined the Darjeeling Planters’ Association, which threw a supper party every Wednesday night. The local term for a tea plantation owner was a ‘planter.’ I soon learned to fit in with the other planters and their wives.”
“I’m so glad we live here, Thakurma, and not in that silly village with your mother-in-law. Did you ever go back?”
“I made a point to, Sujata, fifteen years ago.” Grandma laughed delightedly. “I found that my name had been forgotten, but the tale had grown. Once upon a time, the village folks raved, there lived a brave bride who defied her evil mother-in-law. Her weapons were her long hair, a brilliant smile, and two words. In her support, the sparrows circled overhead, the bel tree swayed, the tulsi plant shed its leaves, the temple bells rang. The sky wept, though not a single drop of rain fell on her.”
Sujata said, “You’re a legend, Thakurma.”
“I was also told that ‘To drink boiling water on a scorching day’ had become a household expression. Even your grandpa used that expression to indicate an unbearable situation.”
“What happened to Great-Grandma?” Aloka again.
“She died,” Sujata answered firmly.
“Yes, within a year,” Grandma said, “from a heart condition. Her relatives suggested that the humiliation from the incident killed her, but I tell you I had nothing to do with it. I was expecting my first child by then. Your father was born shortly after the second anniversary of our marriage. Your grandpa got over his grief when his eyes fell on the sweet baby face of your father.”
Even at that age Sujata had heard many sad tales of marriages gone sour. What joy to know Grandma’s was blessed. With regret Sujata said, “I never did meet Grandpa.”
“I did,” Aloka said.
twenty-seven
An hour after her phone conversation with Grandma, Suzy found a place to park her car on a commercial block of Fort Street. She joined a throng of antique collectors dawdling along and reached number 1018, alerting a pair of red robins pecking away at a branch above her on a mountain ash tree. She glanced at the water drops gleaming like silver beads on a purple cabbage plant outside the store window. The signboard just above proclaimed in big black letters: “Eva’s Custom Tailoring.” Etched below was Eva’s trademark logo of a spool of thread. Suzy slipped in through the door.
She became aware of the smell of machinery and cloth that swirled about her. She passed a heavy old Singer sewing machine standing in one nook and, next to it, bobbins of thread in myriad colors. The foot-pedal model, ancient and blackened with age, would not be out of place in one of the neighboring antique shops, and it added personality to the space. A rack of clothes, consisting of finished men’s suits, women’s dresses, and pants—new, shining, fashionable—stood waiting in the middle of the room. She heard a snatch of conversation, something about “pure cashmere and tweed,” as a clerk helped a customer choose
from bolts of fabrics stacked on a tall shelf.
Eva emerged from her office, impeccable in a tailored turquoise suit. Gladness broke through her professional restraint and spread across her face.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Suzy said.
“We managed to keep busy.” Then, with an eye to Suzy’s blouse, “That’s a fine lavender shade. It’ll go nicely with your new pants.”
Eva stepped to the rack, scrutinized a label, and handed the garment to Suzy. The plum-colored gabardine pants shone under the fluorescent light. Eva steered her to a fitting room in the back, where she changed into her new pants before a full-length three-way mirror. She brushed her fingers over the supple fabric. From outside the closed door, Eva chattered about the benefits of a drawstring waist.
“It’s nonirritating,” she insisted.
“And easy to adjust after a big meal,” Suzy said.
She studied her body image, admitting to herself that the drawstring waist snuggled her midsection and the pencil legs seemed to boost her height an extra inch. What a pleasure to be able to order custom-made clothes! She opened the door and struck a pose.
Eva, who was waiting with a tape measure, a tailor’s chalk, and a see-through ruler in hand, cast a keen, professional eye at Suzy. “You have just the figure for these slim-legged pants. Wait.” Eva drew near, examined the seams, then stepped back and tilted her head. “The hem needs to be taken up. The work will be done by Tuesday and I’ll deliver them to your door.”
No use arguing with Eva, the meticulous seamstress. “Okay,” Suzy murmured as she stepped into the fitting room. She changed back into her original clothes and came out.
With Eva muttering, “Let’s have coffee,” they stepped into a tiny office. A large desk in the center of the room was cluttered with lace, zippers, buttons, scissors, ribbons, and a papier-mâché dress form. While Eva cleared the desktop, Suzy eased down on a chair and dropped her purse to the floor. Her eyes caught an artist sketchbook on a side table. On the open page Eva had sketched an apron and made some notations.
Darjeeling Page 18
