French Lover (15 page)

Danielle’s eyes brimmed with tears. When Nila tried to wipe them, she snatched her head and her tears away.

‘You wouldn’t understand, Nila. Food and clothes are not everything. You want to judge the world with your Third World vision. There’s such a thing as the heart and about that you know nothing.’

Nila said, ‘The Third World also has a heart, Danielle, and it isn’t made of stone. I know you are suffering. I also suffer often but I never have to see a doctor. Why are you so afraid of suffering? I have never heard of our people going to a doctor to cure themselves of sorrow.’

Nila didn’t speak for a long time and Danielle tried to hide her tears.

‘Let’s walk on the Champs-Elysées; you’ll feel better.’

Danielle didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to go home. Alone.

Nila pulled her hand, ‘Let’s go to the cinema.’

‘No.’

‘Let’s go to a café.’

‘No.’

‘Walk along the Seine?’

‘No.’

‘Theatre?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll treat you to dinner.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, go to hell. You and your melancholia!’

Calcutta was just the way Nila had left it. Yet, she felt it looked a little dingier, there was more filth on the footpaths, the air was a little more polluted, there was more traffic on the roads, the incessant honking seemed a little louder. The houses looked more worn out with paint peeling off, the shops smaller, more cramped, damp and the people darker, there was less grass in the fields. As Nila was driven home from Dumdum, she said as much to Nikhil, ‘Calcutta has changed a lot.’

Nikhil tried to find the signs Nila talked about and the driver, Ramkiran, wiped his neck with a dirty handkerchief and said, ‘Didi,
you
have changed. Calcutta is exactly the way you left it.’

Nila entered her home in Ballygunge and felt that too had shrunk in size. Once, Nila had gone to see her old school building after she was grown up. But she could hardly recognize it. She was looking for the huge field where she had run around once, the immense pond that she remembered, had looked like a small tarn.

On her way home, Nila hadn’t asked Nikhil or Ramkiran what was the matter with Molina. When she came in, Chitra ran to tell Molina, ‘Didi has come, didi.’ That’s how it had always been, if Nila ever came home a little late, Chitra ran to give the news of her arrival to Molina thus. Today Nila felt as though she had come home a little late: there was traffic on the way; she’d gone to see Aparna Sen’s new film.

She did what she always did when she returned home, called out for her mother. If she didn’t find her in the bedroom, she’d look in the kitchen and then try the puja room. If Molina wasn’t there, Nila would try the small patch of vegetable garden in their backyard and then she’d know that Ma was up on the terrace, drying out the clothes.

Today Nila called out to her and entered the bedroom. Molina
lay there under the fan at full speed, sweating. She was sleeping.

‘Ma is sleeping at this time of the day? Wake up, I’ve come.’

Nila has come. Molina, wake up. Give her some cool water, sit her down beside you and listen to her stories—she has lots to tell you. If her voice chokes as she talks, draw her head upon your lap and stroke her lovingly and say, ‘Don’t ever leave me, darling.’

Nila sat at the head of the bed and found Molina’s long dark tresses had flown out the window and a skeleton swayed under that whirring fan.

‘Didi, would you like some tea?’ Didi didn’t answer.

Chitra burst into tears. Nila didn’t ask why she was crying. She got up and went into her own bedroom upstairs. Chitra followed her, wiping her tears on her sari, ‘Didi, don’t go to sleep. Have a bath and eat something first.’

‘Chitra, just go away. Leave me alone.’

Chitra continued to stand at the door and said, ‘God knows what has happened to aunty! She was fine one day and bedridden the next. Now she can’t even stand up. She just takes those sleeping pills and sleeps all the time. It’s a good thing or else she’d be screaming in pain. You won’t be able to stand that, didi.’

‘Why are you talking so much? I haven’t asked you anything!’ Nila yelled at her.

Chitra moved closer to Nila, step by little step. ‘Aunty was constantly asking for you, didi. Before she fell asleep she was giving us nonstop directions to cook three kinds of fish and get some sweets because you are coming today.’

Nila buried her face in the pillow. ‘You go away from here, just go for a while.’ She felt Chitra was hurling not words but balls of fire at her.

Chitra sobbed again, ‘So many people came to see her, but no one could cure her. So many doctors. They gave so many medicines. But she isn’t getting better. Every day she’s getting worse. Until a few days back she could eat a bite of rice if it was overcooked and soft. Now even that she can’t have.’

Soon she was joined by Manjusha. ‘You have come home at last,
Nila.’ She burst into copious tears.

She wept noisily and said, ‘Why didn’t you come sooner? She said she’d cook so many things when you came home, because you didn’t get them abroad. But now I don’t think you’ll ever taste her cooking again . . .’

Nila raised her face from the pillow and shouted, ‘What’s wrong with all of you? Why are you all crying so much? Go away.’

Manjusha sat there and went on speaking. ‘The doctors have stopped treating her; they say it’s no use. Now they just give painkillers but even those have stopped working. I believe the cancer has spread from the intestines to the liver and yesterday he said it has affected the bones as well, and the brain too I believe. Last night didi howled in pain all night long and we could only watch.’

Now Nila got up from the bed and ran to the bathroom.

From outside, Manjusha said, ‘Have your bath and come for lunch, Nila.’

Nila wanted silence. She didn’t want anyone to describe Molina’s condition or wishes in great detail. Nila knew about Molina’s wishes from her childhood—none of them had ever been fulfilled. Molina had wanted a little love from Anirban; she didn’t get it. It’s not that Anirban Mandal didn’t love anyone, he did. But not Molina. He loved Swati Sen. Once Molina had seen a Kanjivaram sari and exclaimed, ‘What a lovely sari. I wish I could wear one.’

Anirban didn’t buy it for her. But he bought it for Swati, who wore it and went to Simla with him. Molina had always wanted to go to Darjeeling. But Anirban never had the time to take her there. Swati was fairer than Molina. That was the one quality for which Anirban loved her. For as long as she could remember, Nila had never seen Anirban and Molina share a bed. Molina always made her husband’s bed with great care. He came back from his hours of fun with Swati, critiqued every item that was put on the table, crashed on his neatly made bed and snored the night away. That was Molina’s life. She had spent her years in this household by keeping her wishes collared and chained.

In the evening the house overflowed with relatives who’d come to
see Molina. The road in front of the house brimmed over with cars. Molina’s sister, her husband, their son, daughter-in-law and their children, Molina’s aunt, Molina’s cousin, her son Poltu, Anirban’s elder brother, sister, cousin brother, his daughter Mithu and two women from the neighbourhood. The pile of shoes at the entrance grew as they all went into Molina’s room. Some brought her apples, pomegranates, grapes, oranges, some brought Horlicks and some others came with a fish soup or homemade yogurt or even just flowers. Manjusha showed them to Molina and kept them aside. She knew that the smell of flowers was intolerable for Molina and she’d throw up if she had the juice of apples or oranges. Molina looked at her relatives with empty eyes and closed them again, as if she didn’t even have the strength to open them now, after so many years of relentless service. They all looked at Molina and sympathized, some wiped their tears, some fanned her and some even stroked her emaciated body.

From the crowd the words floated around, ‘She was up and about even a few days ago.’ ‘Dear me, how sick she looks.’ ‘Her stomach looks more puffed up today.’ ‘The eyes are more yellow.’

Nila waded through the crowd and came out of the room. Some of the throng followed her. Manjusha rebuked Nila, ‘Go and wear the red and white bangles and sindoor. What will all these people say!’

‘Have they come here to see my bangles and sindoor?’

‘No they haven’t. But they all have eyes. You’ll see, there’ll be talk of this.’

‘I don’t care.’

Nila had quit wearing all that long ago and she had no intention of starting again. She stood at the window, and looked out at the back wall of her neighbour’s house and the pile of filth at the foot of it. Two stray dogs were picking at the pile. Nila’s stupor broke when Molina’s elder brother’s voice, speaking in English, reached her, ‘Why didn’t he come, Nila?’

‘Who?’

‘Kishanlal. I thought he was in Calcutta and we’ll have quite a chat. He is quite a gentleman.’

That’s true. But he wasn’t here. Nila came alone.

‘I have never been to Paris. But I know it’s a wonderful city. I’d love to go there. Can I stay in Kishanlal’s house? I am sure he has a beautiful, big house.’

Nila said, ‘Why are you using so many English words? We are Bengalis and you can speak in Bengali.’

He always spoke in a mixture of Bengali and English and Nila had never objected to it before. In fact, she had also responded in the same way. He laughed out loudly. His ego wasn’t bruised. Instead, Nila felt, he was rather pleased. He was quite proud that his tongue rolled out more English words than Bengali.

Anirban’s elder sister drew Nila back from the window. ‘What’s the matter, why are you so quiet? Talk to us. The less you talk, the worse you feel. What can we do? It’s not in our hands to cure Molina. It’s God’s wish . . .’

Molina’s brother-in-law reclined on the sofa, lit a cigarette and asked, ‘So how is life in Paris? Is your husband a rich man? I heard he earns good money!’

Molina’s cousin sister held up Nila’s wrists and said, ‘Look at this—bare hands. Why have you taken off all your jewellery and why aren’t you wearing the red and white bangles and sindoor? You’re looking like a widow!’

Another cousin asked, ‘When are you planning to have children? Whatever you’re planning, do it quickly.’

Now one of Nila’s cousins spoke, as she shoved the milk bottle in her baby’s mouth, ‘Your child will be a French citizen by birth, right?’

Molina’s aunt called out to Poltu and pushed him in front of Nila. ‘You said you wanted to ask your didi about Paris, so ask!’ Poltu was fifteen years old. He sidled behind his grandmother. ‘Just try to take this Poltu abroad, Nila. The boy doesn’t want to study here at all.’

Anirban’s cousin brother, Sadhan Das took Nila aside, heaved a sigh and said, ‘Nila, will you try to do something for Mithu? If you can arrange a match for her . . .’

Nila guessed that her relatives thought her to be very rich now.
They didn’t know that she had borrowed her air fare from Sunil and come home. They didn’t know that it wasn’t possible for Nila to solve anyone’s problems. They didn’t know that Nila had no interest in who wasn’t getting married and who wasn’t studying. She wanted all the people to leave and for her to get some time to sit beside Molina, to gaze at her closed eyes until she opened them; when she did, Nila would show her the shoes she had brought for her, the watch and the face cream to stop ageing.

Chitra and Manjusha were busy looking after the guests. Tea and biscuits were doing the rounds.

Nila searched for the rare solitude.

Mithu stood in a corner of the room wearing a white cotton sari. She came up to Nila with hesitant steps, looked around her cautiously and said in an undertone, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Not here. Let’s go to your room.’

Nila took Mithu to her own room upstairs. Mithu shut the door and sat down on the bed. She took Nila’s hands in hers and said, ‘Please do something for me, Nila.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Find me a man, anyone. You know I am four years older than you. Baba was a clerk and that job has gone. Now he is a watchman in that same office. Dada is jobless. Whoever comes to see me for a match, rejects me because of my dark skin. Baba doesn’t have the money to offer me a fat dowry. Nila, you are married and you wouldn’t know what a crime it is in this society to stay unmarried. I have passed my BA long ago and I am sitting at home. I am nothing but a burden to my parents. I am an eyesore. A man abroad . . . I am not particular about religion, anything will do, if only he agrees to marry me. There’s no one in this country who’ll marry me.’

Mithu’s large eyes were brimming with tears. Her long black tresses covered her back. Fear was stamped on her heart-shaped face. Nila took in the graceful beauty of Mithu’s tall, sparse frame.

‘I ask dada why he isn’t getting married. He sighs and says how can I until I marry you off? He isn’t getting any younger. He can’t
marry because of me. I am scared, Nila. I can hardly show my face in society.’

Nila drew her hand back from Mithu’s grip and said, ‘You’ve done your BA. Why don’t you look for a job? What’s wrong in not getting married? It’s not everything.’

‘I don’t want marriage for my sake, Nila. I can scarcely look at my parents these days—dark and hopeless. I see my skin colour on everyone’s face. This is such a big crime of mine. Nila, if someone marries me and then treats me like a servant, I don’t mind—at least please marry me. If you find someone, old, mad . . .’

Nila didn’t give her any hopes. Mithu went away with the fear still on her face.

Anirban came home after dusk and called Nila to his room. He was just as he had always been. As usual, he came home and washed up, changed into comfortable clothes and sat on the sofa. He glanced through the day’s news. When Nila came and sat in front of him, Anirban was still reading.

‘What’s wrong between you and Kishan?’

‘Nothing.’

Anirban took off his glasses, wiped them in a corner of his kurta, placed them back on his nose and said, ‘Can’t you see that life is very short? You are seeing your mother’s condition. If you don’t recognize the value of life, go about doing whatever you fancy and ruin your future entirely, one fine day you’ll find life is over. There’s no time for anything else, to change or build something afresh.’

This man had always talked of the future to Nikhil and Nila, in just this way. Nila tried to remember if she had ever seen Anirban cry.

Anirban spoke again in sombre tones. ‘I spoke to Kishan the other day. He said, if you behave yourself, keep your husband happy like most women do, do as he says, then he’s prepared to forgive you and take you back. Otherwise he has no problems in ending the relationship legally. Nila, you have gone and upset this straightforward man. I could hardly sleep, I was so worried.’

Nila stared at Anirban’s moving lips carelessly and said, ‘Baba, have you ever cried?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘Because I want to know. I want to know if ever, in your entire life, you have cried. Try and remember, have you ever wept for anyone? If not for someone, then at least for yourself, have you ever felt tears in your eyes? Eyes, I’m talking about those eyes behind the glasses, which you just polished and wore again, those eyes. Have they ever shed a single tear? Have you ever felt your heart ache, and suddenly reach up to find your cheeks wet? It happens, you know, your hand gets wet, or your pillow—has it ever happened to you?’