The Onus of Ancestry (2 page)

She ignored this thrust and attacked him in return, “Why did you go through with it all these months – only to please your vanity?”

Dibendra had stopped laughing and said in a sad, dejected voice, very quietly and deliberately, “It was not for me that I fought, Niru, I thought at least you understood that. It was for all those others who are still young – they must enter and flood the services of the system, so that India can be free one day, and Indians can rightfully man what is theirs. You and I will perhaps not be here to see it or celebrate it, but we must still breathe a little fire of our own beliefs into the lungs of our children, our young, and they in turn into theirs, so that out of the disruption and disintegration of our lives we can help build a strong integrated and indestructible India.”

He had never said so much before. She stood mesmerised, gazing into his fiery eyes. He seemed to her like an angry god, towering and aloof, surrounded by desperate hopes and illusions. For the first time in her life Nirupama felt she had to stand by his side for better or for worse, whether she agreed with everything he said or not. She loved him.

A few days later Dibendra was invited to spend an evening with the Maharajah of Dholbazar. The Maharani was away so Nirupama was not included in the invitation. He returned early, feeling strange and uncomfortable. He sat down in his favourite armchair in the bedroom, holding his head, then collapsed. The family doctor was summoned, but before he arrived Dibendra died, still holding Nirupama's hand, unable to utter another word to her. Medical diagnosis attributed it to cerebral haemorrhage. Nirupama was too stunned to believe anything – in fact she was not convinced. But then whoever paid heed to a young widow in those days, even if she was the daughter of a Rajah and wife of the erstwhile heir of the Chowdhurys of Birendrapur – were they both not dead?

*

Nirupama did not shed any tears in public. She wept in the darkness of her own room. Only Mridula, her old maid knew. Mridula was still with Nirupama, her sixty-five years weighing lightly on her. She had loved Dibendra like her own son. His world upstairs where Joseph cooked, driver Bhushan smoked his hookah and Ramu dusted those beautiful leather-bound volumes of learning always amazed her. It was an alien world to Mridula, she knew that Nirupama was not wholly a part of it either – but it was a world full of wisdom and grandeur or Dibendra would not have chosen to live in it.

Nirupama handed over to Mridula and Ramu the domestic cares and concerns of her large home, whilst she herself proceeded to master the contents of Dibendra's asset files and various official documents. She wished to learn everything quickly so that she could talk sensibly to the lawyers. They had informed her that he had left everything to her. What she did not know was that he had given away large sums of money to the university to support deserving students undertaking research and post-graduate studies. She was not hurt when she found out – her own father had done the same. She was used to seeing money given away to favourite causes. She was left with enough to support herself and the children, and to take care of the needs of some of the family retainers – others would have to return to the family estate in Birendrapur. She decided that Joseph and Bhushan would have to be found other employment. Joseph was readily absorbed as a cook by the household of the Maharajah of Dholbazar. The white Bentley Rajnarain had given them as a wedding present was sold to a local buyer. She kept the little Austin which she decided would serve their requirements adequately. When she told Bhushan of her plans for him he said he had no intention of leaving her. He was Dibendra's driver and hence now hers. He was going to stay on with her whether he got paid or not. Bhushan stayed to drive the little Austin and he never wore his red and gold turban again. Dhiru, her own cook, ran the kitchen well and old Dhulsingh with his white hair draped in a bright saffron turban continued to guard the portals of the Chowdhury household.

Nirupama occupied the house for another five years. She ran the family investments with the help of Dibendra's lawyers and a few close friends like Professor Mahapatra, spent much of her time reading voraciously books on politics and music and playing her
esraj
. But she felt increasingly that life must offer more to make living worthwhile.

At the end of five years her old maid Mridula died and Dhulsingh collapsed whilst guarding the Chowdhury home. Nirupama decided to leave Calcutta with the children and the remaining retinue of her declining household. She accepted the post of music teacher at the State University. She did not occupy the family home but stayed in a house provided by the university on the compound.

Alpana and Aparna grew up in the friendly care of the university community and under the surreptitious vigilance of grandmother Chowdhury who participated in most aspects of their upbringing but never interfered with Nirupama's own concepts on childcare. She was overjoyed to have the grandchildren living so near her. She of course allowed them to grow up in the informal normality of the university campus, since that was what their mother wanted or their father would have approved, but she would never let them forget that they were Chowdhurys or that they were the inheritors of an illustrious past. She felt that Aparna was far too quiet and docile, but rested her hopes on Alpana who always stood up for her rights – perhaps the girl would take her mantle one day. But she could not have foreseen that Alpana was to precede her in death, struck down by an unknown virus – she died quietly, weakened by a raging fever and nausea which she was unable to fight with her small body.

With Alpana's death, Nirupama's happy few years in Birendrapur also came to an end. She found it very difficult to bear the loss of her daughter and almost more difficult to watch Aparna wandering listlessly through the house, often with a tear-stained face.

Nirupama also observed that the campus was becoming restless day by day. She knew that something strange was afoot – she sensed a quiet flurry of activity, heard whisperings in dark corners which stopped instantly when they saw her. Nirupama realised that the outcry and anger against bondage had now crept into the campus in Birendrapur, the seeds of rebellion had been sown. She heard the strains of ‘Bande mataram' the song of praise to mother India, float into the indistinct consciousness of her somnambulant hours. She knew that the spirit of the campus had been raised, as Dibendra had predicted. The whole country was up in arms, the germs of revolution were spreading thick and fast.

The Hindus and Muslims of Birendrapur who lived peacefully all these years through Ramadan and Durgapuja, Muharram and Holi, suddenly decided to see things differently. Seeds of dissension had been sown in their ignorant hearts. Little Bhola, the youngest son of the benign greengrocer of Birendrapur, had sprayed colour on the day of the Holi on Muzaffar Ali, the quiet blacksmith who shoed all the horses of the Chowdhury stables. Those interested had bribed others to convince Muzaffar the blacksmith that this was planned deliberately by the Hindu ‘kafirs' to make him impure and thus insult Islam and the tenets of the Holy Koran. Muzaffar was a devout Muslim and this aroused him to action. He and his friends set upon Bhola, beat him severely, and little Bhola succumbed to his injuries, a victim of his own harmless pranks. Rashbahari's grief and the senseless violence perpetrated by Muzaffar and his friends stunned and enraged the community. However those interested then oiled the willing Hindu palms successfully – Rashbehari and his family were told that the Muslims had deliberately killed his son to create planned communal disturbance during the Holi festival. One thing led to another. No one ever knew who burnt the first house or killed the first Hindu or Muslim – but Birendrapur was in flames in no time. Men, women and children were killed, tortured and raped. Those who survived ran for their lives to neighbouring towns and villages. The Chowdhury estates were not spared either – hordes of vandals and hooligans ransacked the estate, murdered the guards and set fire to the properties, shouting abuse. The old lady had rushed around in helpless fury and desolation. Those who heard her and were spared looked for her in vain. She fainted in the end, engulfed by soaring flames and fumes and lay alongside her Hindu gods, who perished with her. Her charred body was discovered days later among heaps of burnt furniture, rugs, broken crystal and china.

Nirupama too had to escape then with Aparna, with the help of Bhushan and Ramu who never left her side. They took her to a
Bagan-bari
, a house given by the Nawab of Sultanganj to his favourite mistress, Hashimabai. It was an attractive refuge built as a small summer palace for the nawab, and lying cool and cloistered in a mango orchard, concealed from public scrutiny. Hashimabai took them in and gave them
burkha
s to wear to make them look less conspicuous in her own household. Hashima knew of Nirupama as Rajnarain had been a friend of the Nawab. They had drunk together, played chess and whiled away many an indolent hour listening to Hashimabai's
thumri
and Munwar Khan's
sarangi
.

Nirupama stayed with her for three days and three nights. On the fourth day, as the cock crowed, Bhushan and Ramu had reappeared from nowhere with an ancient motor car, put her and Aparna in it and drove away silently towards the railway station of Anantapur, away from Dibendra's home and Birendrapur. They had not uttered a word regarding the events of the last few days. She did not dare to ask them about their own losses.

They managed to reach the deserted railway station and waited anxiously for the local train which they hoped would take them to the Mia Ferryghat, and on finally to Calcutta, which then seemed to be a haven of safety. It was a long and circuitous journey. She was still numbed by what had happened. Her mother-in-law's violent death and the sheer vandalism had shocked and paralysed her – Hashimabai had given her the news just before her departure. Was this the beginning of a hatred that would consume and destroy the brotherhood of Hindus and Muslims forever? How could she make herself believe in the goodness or evil of one or the other? They were all the same to her. How could she separate or analyse the differing components in the kindness and courage shown by Hashimabai or Bhusan and Ramu?

Nirupama sat on the ferryboat thinking and reliving her own past of the last few years. So much had taken place, and what lay ahead of her was unknown and undecipherable. She arrived in Sealdah station, the noise and bustle of Calcutta that had once been familiar now seemed strange after the quieter provincial existence of Birendrapur. The coolies in their red shirts and white turbans ran after the newly arrived passengers, grabbing their trunks and cases.

She asked Bhushan to find a
ghoragari, a hackney carriage
. Bhushan and Ramu exchanged glances. Then suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder – it was Professor Mahapatra, Dibendra's friend. She remembered him well.

*

After all these years Bimal Mahapatra had not changed – he was just a little thinner and a little greyer. No words passed between them, only an arm guided her to a waiting black Vauxhall. She discovered to her surprise that Bhushan had sent a telegram to Bimal through the good offices of the station master of Anantapur, announcing their arrival.

Bimal Mahapatra had stayed a bachelor and lived in his paternal home, in an ordinary looking yellow house in a quiet cul-de-sac off College Street. He was the eldest in a family of many brothers and sisters, married and unmarried, widowed and deserted, not to speak of all the uncles and cousins and their multiple wives and children who seemed to live there in apparent peace and harmony.

Bimal was not interested in the small pursuits of life, such as making money or providing sustenance. Money somehow still flowed, thanks to Naibmashai's – the estate manager's – accounting, and food always appeared from Thandi's kitchen. She had been the housekeeper, manager and well-wisher of the Mahapatra household for several decades, even when Bimal's mother was alive. She was supposed to be the widow of a distant relative, no one had bothered or remembered to pursue the details of her origins. She had just appeared one day, some thirty-odd years ago, widowed at fourteen, and without anyone knowing quite how, she had taken charge. She did everything with a certain flair and a great deal of competence.

Nirupama and Aparna, Bhushan and Ramu were all absorbed into this domestic network without much fuss or formality. Nirupama soon became used to Thandi's ways and expectations. On weekdays, for instance, men ate in the long, narrow dining room which housed a vast carved rosewood dining table, with innumerable high-backed brown velvet upholstered chairs. Women and children were served in an anteroom at a less imposing table with its ordinary wooden chairs, next to the kitchen – children ate first and women later. Food was always carried to the room of the old and ailing. Sunday was special – all ate together in a large hall, sitting on long strips of folded
shatranjis
, hand-woven in cotton, colourful and festive in appearance. Food was served on young, green banana leaves and water was drunk out of burnt clay tumblers. The kitchen staff served food in strict order of priority, out of polished brass pots, under Thandi's unfailing supervision. She ate last and always very little.

Aparna seemed to enjoy herself in this atmosphere of noisy togetherness. But after a month of Bimal's therapeutic generosity, Nirupama knew she had to leave in order to pick up the threads of her life again. Bimal accepted her decision, he knew she was right.

He found her a little house in Bhowanipore – a house with a patch of green and three shady trees, a mango, a jackfruit and a neem. It also had a small garage. She liked the house – it was light and airy. She met her lawyers and with the help of Bimal arranged her finances, bought the necessary pieces of furniture and, to placate Bhushan, bought a second-hand Austin Minor. A few weeks later her old retainer Dhiru appeared from nowhere. Bhushan in fact had once again sent an urgent message to Birendrapur asking Dhiru to join them as they had their own home again. For the first time in all her adult years she cried, tears fell down her cheeks unrestrainedly – she neither hid them, nor held them back. They had all suffered together, they had all lost something, left everything – there was now no shame in shedding tears together.