MATCHBOX

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

A few days after this incident, riots spread in the streets of Kolkata, and we eventually left the city. But it didn’t leave our minds, even after my father’s death; the proof of it lay in my mother’s decision to name the press Ahiri Printing Press. 

Even though I heard this name almost regularly, after a time it didn’t particularly evoke a memory, not the house, neither my dolls, nor the painful separation, nothing at all. I did not recall the colourful attic room, the coconut trees, nothing at all. 

My husband had some work in Kolkata. He brought us with him. We stayed at Colonel Biswas Road, at his aunt’s three-storeyed house. It was at this house that I recalled Ahiripikur. 

Of course, I couldn’t think about anything in the first few days. My life became a delightful picnic. Each floor of that three-storeyed house was full of people, laughter, good food, interesting debates. My husband was a communist and he would often argue with the traditional congress supporter Anwar chacha. It was whispered that my brother-in-law, who played the guitar and sang at times, was a Naxal. He was saved from the suspicious eyes of the police with much difficulty. He spoke rarely, but when he did, his words were laced with such hatred and vitriol for everything in this world. I didn’t really understand much of what he said. Was it really possible for all people in this world to be equal? Shilpi and Papon’s father had never seen me read such books! I preferred roaming the streets of Kolkata to these heated arguments. And to be invited for dinners to other people’s homes. 

Meanwhile, my shoes caused me trouble in one of these trips. They weren’t meant for walking. Actually, I have never had to walk outside my home. I would either take the purdah-covered rickshaw, shaped like a peacock-feathered boat or a baby-taxi. I still remember what hardships I had while touring a fair ground at Poradah, my maternal grandfather’s place. My fancy shoes were damaged and my saree was torn- what a pain it had been! I would always be a little vulnerable on the streets from that time. 

Kolkata was an even bigger deal. The footpaths here were all occupied. How could I walk here? Getting a taxi was equally difficult. Besides, I had visited Kolkata at a critical time- the Naxal rebellion had just ended there, and across the border Muktijuddho had reached its culmination. But the bodies of both Bengals hid the many splinters of traumatic events. 

We had been able to roam around freely, make merry, see my father-in-law’s ancestral place. My house was so close, yet no one thought of taking me there. I brooded and sulked.

Finally, I conveyed my dismay to my children, not to my husband, there was too much hurt in between. They went to their father and said, “Papa, we have our Nana’s home here as well, right here in Kolkata, close to this Nani’s place. Wouldn’t you take Ammi there?”

“Nana’s place? Here in India? Oh yes, that famous box of dolls! Will you look at your Ammi? Everything at the last minute! We have our return flight tomorrow and she brings this up today.”

I declared in a choked voice- “You don’t need to take me there.”

“And she is angry as well! Couldn’t you have mentioned this before? We have stayed here for so long! Where is the time now? We still have so much shopping left. And then dinner invitation at Muzaffar Bhai’s place. Packing.”

We had really shopped a lot- watches, bicycles, hotpot, lunch box, pressure cooker, blender, mincer, large plastic buckets, collected from our trips to Gariahat, Burrabazar and New Market- along with shawls, georgette sarees and dress materials. But, as usual, we discovered that we were yet to buy gifts for many people back home, who would otherwise remark sarcastically that we didn’t get them anything from India. 

He didn’t even once consider visiting my home along with his, despite hearing about it from me so many times. He had said once that we could have such fun if my family still had that house in Ahiripukur. We could have our own place in Kolkata, that we wouldn’t have to stay amidst the din of his aunt’s house. There was no dearth of warmth and conviviality there but there were so many people that it was impossible to remember their names properly, the head would buzz at the very thought of it. 

I somehow gulped my tears and said- “I have already told you there’s no need to go there.”

My husband said- “What will you get to see there? Strangers live in that place now. You will be hurt. Shilpi, your mother thinks that she would be able to play with her dolls in the third-floor attic. Perhaps she would still spot Jalil Miya’s ghost climbing the coconut tree. As if time has stopped still.” 

Saying this he laughed at his own joke. But neither Shilpi nor Papon laughed. Shilpi came and hugged me, and Papon, a boy of fourteen, looked squarely in his father’s eyes, hardened his jaw and said, “We will leave a little early for the airport. We will visit Nana’s home on our way.”

I pulled the anchal a little tightly over my head. The sun was harsh. It blinded me. I felt as though it emitted the fumes of that fire. I saw a high-rise, a tall, shiny apartment building at the place that used to be my home, I couldn’t understand how many floors the building had. Was the third floor of this apartment building the same height as the third floor of my home? I was lost trying to measure the height in my mind. A child peeped out of one of the many windows and hid herself as soon as she saw me.  Perhaps she was my doll with the golden hair, with the blue eyes that would open and shut. No one in school possessed such a doll back then. I had showed the doll to my friends at school one time. Chabi was delighted to see it. Even she, the daughter of a film star, didn’t have such a doll. What about the mango and coconut trees? They must have been the first to be hewn down. Where did they throw the rubbish? Would I find my box of dolls in that heap? 

My husband called out impatiently from the taxi, “Do you have any inkling of the traffic jams in Kolkata? The airport is located at the farthest end of the city. I told you that you wouldn’t get anything by coming here, it’s just a complete waste of time.”

I looked at the nameplate once before boarding the taxi. The address was still the same- 14/A Ahiripukur Road. There wasn’t a mistake anywhere, just that the ashes of my dolls had spread throughout the world…