MATCHBOX

This work of translated short fiction appears in two parts in the December and January editions of Matchbox. Read part one here:

1.

There was a certain wind in the streets at that hour, a kind that implied a change in the season. Was there a sound somewhere? When there was an explosion at the Jubilee Showhouse, the sound could be heard all the way down here. The kittens, however, did not understand, they merely fussed. They wanted to climb the split palash tree, not knowing it would never flower again.

Staring at the bare palash tree in the Paikpara residence, south of Mirpur, memories of that house flooded my mind.

14/A Ahiripukur Road- the place I had wanted to see one last time before returning to my country. It had been my Abbu’s basha, his home, one that was handed over to someone else during the 1947 partition. We migrated to Dhaka. I studied in a children’s school at walking distance from my old house. We used to call our headmistress Boro Mashima. I heard so many poems by Rabindranath from her. I remember one particularly well- ‘the day is growing older, let’s go fetch water’. Listening to these poems made me feel strange. I had many friends there. I promised everyone I would return. Chabi was my best friend. She was supposedly the daughter of a famous film star. I told her that on my return the two of us would watch an English film at New Empire. I was under the impression that I had come to Dhaka for a short visit, that I would get back home soon. I had therefore hidden a box of my dolls in the attic.

We had not been able to return to that house anymore. I wept my entire childhood for the dolls I left behind. When I went to bed at night, I felt the dolls searching for me, calling out to me- Sallu, Sallu, please take us with you, we are scared. One of my cousins told me that the rioters had burned the house down. After that I had no peace; the dolls that I had left behind in the third-floor attic haunted me. Could the fire have spread to the third floor? I dreamt of a raging fire for many days, saw my dolls burn, a few were cloth dolls, most were made of porcelain, one or two clay dolls, a foreign doll whose eyes opened and shut, with golden hair, a pink ribbon flower, blue eyes. I still remember her frock, pale blue with yellow polka dots, white stockings on her feet. She was my favorite doll, one I slept with at nights. I missed all my dolls dearly. I smelled their burnt flesh at nights. I remember I couldn’t eat any meat at that point of time. No one could figure out why I couldn’t eat meat. Ammi would sometimes force some meat down my throat but I would immediately vomit it out. However, I was cured of this problem in a few days. What didn’t get back on track was my sleep. I slept fitfully, twisted and turned, holding on to Ammi tightly. But I couldn’t articulate the cause behind my restlessness. My mind was stuck to the world I had left behind, that had been snatched away from me. The doctors couldn’t diagnose my ailment. I finally escaped into the world of books and almost forgot what happened.

But I couldn’t dwell in the world of books for long either. Abbu slipped into a slow depression after leaving the Kolkata residence and shifting to Dhaka. He started a small business in Dhaka. It did well for some time. But Abbu didn’t have his heart in the business. He was sad all the time. 

One day, while still at the store, he had chest pain. Abbu didn’t get back home. I think he was deeply hurt and disappointed at having to leave his Kolkata residence. The house at Dhaka never really became his home. Once Abbu left, I suddenly grew up in others’ eyes. All my relatives began to pressurize Ammi to arrange my marriage. Had Abbu been alive, would I have had to leave school and marry so early? Why did Abbu have to leave before his time?

Actually, the house at Ahiripukur was my Abbu’s dream, his labour of love. He had bought it off a poor zamindar. The three-storeyed building had coloured glass in its railings, with a hexagonal attic in the terrace, like a bee-hive. It wasn’t like other attics where all the unused things of the household are dumped. There was an old sofa and a rocking chair. The room was surrounded with coloured glass windows on all sides. Ours was the only three-storeyed house in the neighbourhood at the time. Most houses had one or two floors. I looked out far from the windows in the attic and my mind travelled great distances, no hindrance in sight. Ammi got the attic cleaned regularly by the maid and that is why there were no cobwebs or insects in the room. That was my kingdom.  My box of dolls, and hidden diaries of poetry were stashed there. I would lay on a rug on the floor and write poems. The room turned many-hued with sunlight streaming through coloured-glass windows in the afternoons. Ammi often said- “I understand the comfort of the room in winters but I don’t get how Sallu stands being in that room in summers. It is hot enough to boil eggs.”

I, however, liked the summers in that room, more than other seasons. The intense heat drugged me slightly, my body felt heavy, indolent. I shut my poetry notebook and played with my dolls. I made one of the six corners of the room a space to play with my dolls. Ammi told everyone- “Sallu has used the shoeboxes to create partitions and make bedrooms, sitting room and kitchen for her dolls.”

That was the first time I heard the word ‘partition’. I found it quite amusing. Perhaps because any word sounded sweet in my Ammi’s articulation. She had a lovely cadence in her voice. She never shouted at us or spoke loudly. Not even with the maids. They loved and obeyed her regardless.

My mother’s voice was robbed of its sweetness once she came to Dhaka. Everything changed and turned chaotic especially after Abbu’s sudden and untimely demise. Ammi had to take over my father’s business after his death, a woman who had seldom set foot out of her house. The business was not of grains or pulses. Abbu traded in books- the buying and selling of old books and manuscripts. Ammi gradually bought an old press– my timid, homely mother. It is surprising how circumstances alter people. The strength that Allahtallah has given all of us finds expression at crucial points in our lives. I came to think that anything was possible, anything, except returning to the Kolkata residence.

2.

I was able to visit Kolkata. Many years after my marriage. My son was fourteen years old then and my daughter nine. My husband had some work in that country, one of them was lighting a candle and incense at his father’s ancestral home in Durga Nagar village in Basirhat. He had spent quite some time there in his childhood. Eventually he too had to leave during partition, just like us.

The very thought of going to Kolkata sent ripples of joy and anticipation in my being, but at the same time I could feel a curious hurt in me. I had a home there, why would I have to avail a passport and visa to get there? I was aggrieved that the father of my children, Shilpi and Papon, thought of lighting candle and incense at his ancestral home but never mentioned my old house in Kolkata. I realized that not merely lands are clefted, there is a divide between a man and woman as well. One’s thoughts do not reach the other.

The Dhaka airport was located at Tejgaon then. A small airport. There wasn’t any hassle. Now-a-days the airlines have turned miserly. Back then, they offered such a variety of food in that forty-five-minute journey- a sandwich, an orange, orange juice, ice-cream, sandesh, cashew nuts and a large chocolate for young Shilpi. I, however, did not feel the urge to eat anything in the flight. I felt as if my chest was flapping. Was I really going to Kolkata? Memories of Ammi and Abbu filled my mind.

We stayed with my husband’s aunt in Kolkata at Colonel Biswas Road, Park Circus. They were undoubtedly very warm people. They had a large three-storeyed house. All of us had breakfast and lunch in the ground floor dining hall and evening tea in the drawing room on the first floor. The days passed by merrily. We visited the zoo one day, the museum another day. We went to Basirhat for two days in the middle. Back in my country, I had never been anywhere apart from Poradah. I was really happy on my way to Durga Nagar. While lighting incense at my father-in-law’s ancestral home, I felt a lump in my throat. My Abbu had an ancestral home as well. Other people dwelled there now, but surely, they would allow me to enter the place? My heart leapt at the very thought. I saw the many-hued attic, the box full of dolls, and faintly recalled Boro Mashima’s face from Shishu Vidyapith as well as my friend Chabi. I could see the mango and coconut trees, the madhabilata vining on the gate, the celosia flowers and the touch-me-nots at the back that would shrink on touch, making me touch them repeatedly. I ran to the plant many times a day just to see the leaves curl back. Right next to it were the wood sorrel leaves that I ate often. Washing them would not be on my mind. They were deliciously tangy. Ammi laughed- “I cook such delectable dishes at home, yet Sallu roams the wild garden and eats whatever fruit or leaves she lays her hands on. Just like Durga.” Ammi had read Pather Panchali to me, so I knew about Durga. What strange things Ammi would say! Where would I find wild gardens in Kolkata? It was just a small garden.

The dense greens around Durga Nagar suddenly reminded me of Durga. That house, the touch-me-not, the wild sorrel, the vining madhabilata, my Ammi, Abbu. My eyes brimmed with tears. But Shilpi and Papon’s father did not even notice.

3.

Not just in the afternoons, I would escape to the attic whenever I could manage. I would roam the terrace once and enter my favourite room. Sitting inside the coloured glass windows, the world seemed so animated. I laugh at my naivete now.

One day, after school, I snacked and went upstairs to play. I played with the skipping rope for a while and then with my dolls in the attic room. I didn’t realize when dusk had arrived, a cool breeze blew through the window. I went and stood next to it because of the heat, a faint darkness descended, the houses nearby were not yet lit. People in those days relished the almost darkness of evenings before it turned inky. Now people try to wipe out natural darkness with an array of lights. They burn the eyes even during daylight. Is that why there’s such darkness in the human mind? 

I have already mentioned that our house had a bit of space in front and at the back— we had flower plants in front, mango trees, custard apples and a few vegetables and greens at the back. Our boundary wall was lined with rows of coconut trees.

One who hasn’t seen the moon rise from among serrated coconut leaves hasn’t lived. That sight enchanted me from my very childhood, the dark green leaves enhancing the charm of the moonlight. It moved me to tears. My Ammi would heave a sigh and worry- “Only God knows what lies in this child’s fate.”

It was a new moon. Standing at the window, I felt I saw someone climb the coconut tree in front. I felt it was Jalil chacha who would sometimes be summoned to pluck coconuts from the tree. Surprised, I wondered at the strangeness of Jalil chacha being at the top of the coconut tree at that hour. Ammi came to the terrace at that moment. I said to her, “Ammi, look! Jalil chacha is climbing the coconut tree in this darkness!”

Ammi looked shocked. There was nobody there. She came and pulled me to herself, trembling.

“What’s wrong Ammi?”

“Don’t you know it’s been three days since Jalil died?”

An unformed cry escaped my throat. Had I seen Jalil chacha’s ghost?

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE JANUARY MATCHBOX…