Kajori (Kolkata Memoirs)

Kajori

A   S T O R Y

By Sramana Mitra

1955, PURI. Five boys, scattered across the long second floor verandah, played Piggy-In-The-
Middle. Each barefoot in shorts, their torsos dark chocolate from sun. Sweat glistened their skin as they pursued each other, darting in and out of the pillars.

The
vacation house of Debendra Narayan Basu chattered with the entire Basu family, along with the family of his friend Surjo Shankar Ray.

             
The shrieks rose to a climactic scream as Ajoy jumped and caught the ball.              The other boys collapsed on the floor.             

“I’m going for a swim.”

              “Me too,” chimed the other four, though none moved from where they lay.

             
A servant, Ramapada, in only a white loin-cloth, brought them a basket of
shingara
and
jilipi.
Another brought a bunch of green coconuts and a large half-moon
katari
knife.

             
The parched puffing boys waited for him to chop off the head of a coconut.

             
Ajoy walked over to the other side of the verandah and held up a coconut to his older sister, Kajori.

Surjo Shankar’s grand daughter, Kajori and Debendra Narayen’s grandson Shekhar sat on the floor surrounded by five younger boys and girls. They discussed a play the family was rehearsing, to be staged at the end of their vacation.

              “Maloti needs to be very soft, understand Abha?” asked Shekhar.

             
“Dada, will you stop? Maloti has one line to deliver!” complained Abha, turning her attention to the coconut. She taunted the lines to spite her brother. “
Agun jalai kano dibe nashi
…?”

“Yes, but understand,” intervened Kajori, “the queen is about to burn down an entire village for her momentary pleasure. You are the only person who questions her!”

              Shekhar laughed. “Kindness isn’t her strength!”

             
Kajori smiled, whispered into Shekhar’s ears.

             
“What?” queried Abha. “You two and your secrets!”

             
“You want to be the queen, not the maid, right?” asked Kajori.             

“She can’t be the queen,” cut in Shekhar.

“Of course not Dada! We know who’s fit to be
your
queen.” Abha retorted, looking at Kajori, and walked off, further taunting her lines.

On another corner of the verandah, a group of six women sat cross-legged on bamboo mats, watching Kajori and Shekhar’s easy camaraderie. They were childhood friends, confidantes, accomplices.

              Abha grabbed a
jilipi
from her mother’s plate and walked away.

             
“I couldn’t keep match-makers away in Kolkata. Now, they followed me here,” complained Shekhar’s mother, Radharani, wiping the sweat on her forehead with her sari.

             
“What does Shekhar have to say about all this?”

             
“I don’t understand Shekhar these days. Doesn’t want to talk about marriage … looking after Baba’s textile mill. Even makes his own money. Doesn’t like the work, it’s boring. But ...” Radharani put a piece of batter fried potato
in her mouth.

             
“May be, he’s in love with someone!” conjectured Sudha, laughing.

             
“Have some sweets
.
” Radharani held out a plate.

             
“And Kajori’s wedding, Damayanti?” asked Sudha. “Ambitious girl. I worry about her.”

             
“Kajori will go to college,” responded Kajori’s mother, Damayanti.

A few yards from the gates of the house, the magnificent waves of the Bay of Bengal lashed on the sand. The boys ran past Kajori and Shekhar and splashed into the water. A group of jet black
Nuliya
boys stood waste deep in the water, watching over the women and children.

Kajori looked at Shekhar, smiled. Shekhar smiled back, but did not look away. “That sari will come off in the water …,” he said.

“It won’t!” Her cheeks felt hot as she struggled to tighten the sari around her waist.

“Fine,”
he shrugged.  “The
Nuliyas
will find out what a mermaid looks like.”

             
Kajori sped, caught up with the girls in the water. Shekhar followed.

The
Nuliyas
bobbed on the surf, keeping vigil.

Kajori’s wet sari clung to her body. Her long hair came loose. She was not used to wearing a sari in the sea. Until a few years back, it was okay to wear a
salwar
. But now, her body was changing, and all the aunts kept reminding her that she needed to cover it as much as possible. The waves, however, had a way of disarming her.   

Feeling Shekhar’s eyes on her made her all the more awkward, as she struggled to keep herself together. The
anchol
of her sari tangled up between her breasts, the blouse underneath covering them became translucent.

She gave up, waded out of the water, sat down huddled on the sand.

Shekhar, laughing, fervently gestured her to come back in. She stuck her tongue out, and looked away.

That evening, the six women were in the kitchen, supervising dinner preparations. The kitchen was large. The three clay ovens humongous. The woks such that you could cook an entire goat in them.

Kajori stood at the door, watching.

“Baba ordered a diamond necklace for Shekhar’s bride,” said Radharani.

“Really? When does it arrive?”

“What design, Didi?” asked Sudha, taking her nose close to the wok to smell the goat curry, into which the Oriya cook stirred in a blob of red chili paste.

“
Didi
,
how many brinjals?”

Kajori came into the kitchen to watch Radharani launch
luchis
into the oil
.
Radharani picked up a hot, puffy one with her fingers, “You want?”

But from nowhere Shekhar came in and snatched the
luchi
that his mother held up.

“Look who’s here!” Sudha called out. “We were just talking about the necklace for your bride.”

“Kakima, I’m sure it’d look great on you.” Shekhar retorted.

All the women laughed.

“I know you’re dying to marry me, Shekhar,” quipped back his aunt.

Shekhar gestured Kajori to follow him outside with his eyes.

It was full moon. The silver surf glistened. The thunder of waves lashing on the shore became louder as they walked closer. They went some distance in silence before Shekhar stopped, turned to her. “Kajori …”

She looked up at him curiously and saw a slight frown on his normally joyful face. The strong wind blowing from the sea sent some of her loose hair flying around.

Shekhar hesitated.

Kajori waited, trying to manage her sari in the wind.

Shekhar raised his hand to touch her face, but held back.

Surprised, she held her breath, afraid to ask what was going on.

             
AT THE END of the holidays, Kajori returned to their Bhowanipur house in Kolkata. The
Darwan
who kept vigil over this house was a big, heavy man with an ear-to-ear moustache. He came upstairs, called from outside: “Didimoni, Mastarmoshai has arrived.”

The house was relatively modern, influenced by the British Colonial architecture that was often built in Kolkata in the early 1900s. Driveways led to porticos with marble staircases, which led to foyers with wooden staircases covered with rich, thick carpets.

Kajori arranged a
shingara
and a
sandesh
on a plate, poured a glass of fresh watermelon juice, and went downstairs to the study, where her tutor waited. This was her routine every evening.

             
“Meghnad Saha is aging …” Mashtarmoshai said, taking the juice from her, drinking half the glass in one gulp. “I hope he doesn’t die soon.”

             
Kajori looked up, concerned.

“End of science for Kolkata. Satyenbabu focuses on the wrong issues. Obsessed with teaching science in Bengali.” He took two books out of his bag, arranged them on the table. “Worked with Einstein, but doesn’t understand why Science should be taught in English!”

              “Did he really work with Einstein?” asked Kajori, pushing the plate in front of him.

             
“Of course. In Berlin. Imagine, Bose and Einstein talking in Bengali!”

             
Mashtarmoshai laughed out aloud. Kajori smiled.

“Did you have a class at Presidency?”

“Yes.” He opened his notebook and sat down. “I hope you will join soon. Dr. Bose is planning to retire next year. May be, Dr. Saha too. Who knows what will happen.” Mashtarmoshai pondered aloud with a frown. “But,
if I have anything to do with this, you will take their place.”

             
Kajori lowered her eyes.

             
“But first, you will go to Oxford. Then Princeton.”

“Why Princeton?”

“Oh, you can go to MIT if you prefer!” He smiled, adding softly, “Then come back here and teach.” Eating his
Sandesh
, he continued, “… Princeton because Einstein has trained so many people there for 20 years. You will find good guidance.”

Kajori opened her Physics book, but looked up. “Mashtarmoshai, does a free Electron have finite mass?”

He looked at her gently.
“
The quantum theory of radiation predicted that a free electron should have an infinite mass.I will bring you Dr. Lamb’s Nobel lecture next week
…
”

The first time Mashtarmoshai took Kajori to his Presidency College laboratory, she was twelve. He gave her a specific gravity bottle which she broke. He took her to the hospital, got her hand stitched, then returned to the lab and showed her how to measure the specific gravity of water.

Kajori had worked in his laboratory ever since. He answered her ever-active questioning, resolved her dilemmas, argued with her. Most importantly, he asked new questions of her. The uncut diamond of Kajori’s mind was thus polished for years. There was hardly any aggression in her personality. Only precision.

Darwan
interrupted Mashtarmoshai’s story. “Didimoni, Kartababu is back from Hazaribagh. He wants to see you.”

             
Mashtarmoshai sighed. “They’re trying to marry you off, Kajori.”

             
Kajori, leaving, turned and declared, “Mashtarmoshai, I’ll go to Oxford. Marriage or not!”

Outside, in the portico, two servants unloaded baskets from the car. Her grandfather had brought them back from his fishing trip. The carps were large and dead, with blank round open eyes and silver scales. The two servants salivated.

As she walked up to him, Surjo Shankar held his arms out to his grand daughter and drew her up the staircase.

              “I did something …,” he looked at her uncertainly.

             
“And what is that, Dadu?”

             
“I didn’t ask you first.”

             
“You always ask for my permission on everything, Dadu!” Kajori laughed.

             
“I didn’t ask your father either.”

             
“Dadu.” Kajori stopped. “Enough suspense!”

             
“I promised Deben I’d marry you to Shekhar …”

“
Dadu!” She was stunned.

             
Kajori refused to turn around and look at Mashtarmoshai, who had come out to the foyer. He watched horrified from the bottom of the staircase.

KAJORI AND SHEKHAR were married in a grand ceremony celebrating the union of two of Kolkata’s oldest families.

An exquisite veiled Kajori in a red
Benarasi
sari sat on a four-poster bed sprinkled with rose petals, adorned by fragrant tuberose strings that took the place of the mosquito net, on the night of their
phoolshojja
.

On her neck was the famous necklace, a gift from Shekhar’s grandfather. Her slender wrists and fingers were bejeweled with gold
ratnachur,
a gift from her grandfather. Diamond earrings hung from her delicate lobes, heirloom jewelry given to her mother-in-law, Radharani, by her father, at her own wedding.