The Onus of Ancestry (3 page)

*

Life soon resumed its course. Aparna was admitted into the Ascension School for Girls, a stronghold of Christian and Brahmo Samaj learning. She resorted to her writings again and acquired a few pupils through the good offices of the Brahmo Shammilani Samaj and Bimal Mahapatra. She taught them to play the
esraj
and to sing songs from the
Brahma
Sangeet
, the hymn book of the Bramos.

Bimal visited her from time to time and even the Maharajah of Dholbazar came to see her with his wife. The news of her return to Calcutta and her regular appearances at the Brahmo Samaj brought some of her old friends. She also made a few new ones.

Then suddenly Monmotho appeared in their lives like a rainbow shaft, with his humour, his mischief, and his desperate need for attention.

He was the only son of Rai Bahadur Hirendranath Roy Chowdhury, an eminent, wealthy Brahmo who often attended the Sunday Service of the Shammilani Samaj. Rai Bahadur's wife, Bonolata, whom he had married after the death of Monmotho's mother, always accompanied him. She sometimes even came alone, driving her own ‘tom-tom', with the coachman sitting inside the carriage. It was an unusual sight. She never spoke to anyone and the congregation whispered about her eccentric behaviour amongst themselves and called it conceit. Nirupama had tried to speak to her a few times, but not succeeded. Monmotho came as well, particularly on those days that she came on her own – but he never came with her and always stood apart. Nirupama felt somehow that his presence was dictated by Rai Bahadur's concern to determine that his wife had arrived safely at her destination.

To Nirupama, Monmotho seemed a pleasant young man. He was about twenty, very tall, well-built and good-looking. He had a shock of dark hair, combed away from his forehead, cheerful eyes which twinkled with good humour through a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. He never failed to acknowledge her presence with a friendly smile.

Their quiet encounters came to an end when one Sunday morning after the usual service, Nirupama's Austin Minor and Bhushan failed to make an appearance. She waited a while and then saw Bhushan arriving breathless and confused – the car had stopped dead a few blocks away and refused to start again. Monmotho had stepped in from nowhere and offered to take her home. Their friendship began that day over a cup of tea, and as days passed, grew into a closer relationship – in him she found a son or a younger brother she had never had and Monmotho began to thrive on the spontaneous affection she freely bestowed upon him. Aparna too found him likeable and took to him immediately.

Monmotho teased Aparna constantly which made the girl laugh. Nirupama was relieved; she always thought that Aparna needed to laugh more. His visits became more and more frequent – he called Nirupama ‘Didimoni' and Aparna ‘Parna'.

Nirupama soon found out that Monmotho's good humour was endless and his energy quite boundless. His appearances could be both dramatic and traumatic. He would drive up to the house, blow the horn twice, loud and clear, in his battle-green Humber Hawk to announce his arrival, then after an indeterminate period would creep in behind their backs, wink at Nirupama and upset Parna's meccano or homework. If Parna threw up her arms in the air to remonstrate he would soon quieten her down by pulling out an absurd piece of frippery from his pocket or briefcase, or he would draw a quick sketch of her face, with its expression of a tantrum, frozen on the paper. This would light up Parna's eyes in no time and she would forget to be grave and ‘pouty'. Monmotho's little games eventually led Parna to sketch and paint seriously and in due course fetch her assignments from news and art magazines.

Monmotho also loved music. He would urge Nirupama and Aparna to sing, and sometimes brought his guitar to accompany them. Aparna learnt to play the guitar from Monmotho and they both had lessons from old Mr McMohan, who joined the trio once a week to spend a social hour or two. Mr McMohan was recommended by the music teacher of Ascension School. He was a lonely old man who lived in digs, somewhere in the depths of Charamtalla – he spoke proudly of his Scottish soldier father who seemed to have died in unknown circumstances, leaving his mother and him to fend for themselves. She had worked as a seamstress in various British homes to pay for John McMohan's keep and schooling. She was now dead too, and still he carried on with his guitar, not thinking beyond the present or beyond the music which he loved.

Nirupama often felt that her house was a refuge for the unloved and the destitute of this world – people like Monmotho and McMohan, Bhushan, Ramu and Dhiru who had nowhere else to go.

She was also aware that Parna virtually worshipped Monmotho, while his love for the girl visibly grew each day. Parna was about to emerge as a graduate of the Calcutta University. She worked for various magazines in her spare time and taught art during weekends. She had grown into a quiet, stubborn girl, very solemn and single-minded. Monmotho was an established civil engineer who was then working for his father's company.

If Monmotho were to propose to Parna in the near future, Nirupama was fairly certain her daughter would accept. Would she herself welcome it? Surely she would – but there was something that niggled her, an intuitive concern, almost a foreboding.

It was Parna's birthday. She had invited a few of her friends and Monmotho. Parna stood in front of her mirror, checking her face for the last time. Her large liquid eyes stared back at her. She adjusted her hair and bent down to put the finishing touches to the pleats on her lemon French chiffon saree, which was her mother's present on her birthday. She suddenly felt warm familiar palms in her eyes. “Monoda, you are quite impossible, you have now spoilt my
kajal
!”

She took his hands and turned round to meet Monmotho. But today it was different. Monmotho was not flippant or playful as usual. He put his hands into his ‘punjabi' pocket and drew out a diamond ring – a large solitaire set in its own splendour, raised high, the platinum base studded with numerous little diamonds spreading a starry lustre – it was exquisite.

“This is my mother's Parna, I would like you to wear it. I – I love you Parna, I have loved you for a long, long time.” He finished rather breathlessly.

Parna looked at him with absolute wonder and complete amazement. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Do you really?” She looked away quickly, suddenly feeling shy in front of a man she had known most of her life. “How confusing, everything has to change now – what can I call you suddenly – we have known each other all our lives –”

“I know – so what about
Ogo Shuncho
, like so many other good Bengali girls address their husbands, or perhaps–”

“But we are not married as yet, not even engaged,” she rebuked him gently. “You have not even put the ring on my finger.”

Monmotho burst out laughing and embraced her, slowly drawing her towards him and said, while sliding the ring onto her finger, “But Parna, you have not said anything – whether you love me or accept me–”

“You have given me so much – what can I say in return that will sound right or even match my feelings for you?”

Monmotho was visibly moved.

“Call me just Mono. My demands are few, Parna, but they are not modest. I need love, I want love, lots of love – undying and passionate. I also need your lifelong promise never to leave me.”

“That is not asking too much of a person who has loved me for most of her conscious existence – and may I know why should I ever wish to leave you? It is for you to promise that. I have heard that you have many girl friends.”

“Oh, yes, hundreds of them. I practise my art on them, so that when I come to you I am perfect–”

Nirupama's voice interrupted their bantering.

“Parna, your friends are here, where are you, my girl? Why is Monmotho late today?”

“Monmotho is never late, Didimoni – in fact he is always early. I have been here for ages helping Parna to choose her jewellery. She is such a slow dresser, honestly. Parna, hurry up – see I said your friends would be here soon.” He went on in this vein, mocking and teasing her, whilst Parna tried to compose herself to face her mother, but the light in her eyes betrayed her.

*

A few weeks later Monmotho appeared one afternoon, looking tired and dishevelled, and far from composed.

“I am very sorry to come in looking like this, but I was so – so upset, Didimoni – she, you know who, Mrs Bonolata Roy Chowdhury, well all right, I mean my mother, she – she had the nerve to tell me if I were late for lunch every day I should find my food elsewhere. Here I was, working for her and my father as much as for myself. She–” Monmotho choked on his words and then continued, “I really came to say that Parna and I should get married soon – there is no need to delay further. Do not look so surprised Didimoni – surely you know by now about our feelings for each other – we are in love, we wish to marry, hence why delay?”

“Monmotho, I am no fool and I had guessed some time ago, but we must still talk about it together, sensibly and calmly, there is so much to discuss, my boy. You are agitated and famished, why do you not cool down a little, have something to eat and Parna should be back soon.”

“I am here now, Ma. Who is here? Oh, Mono–” she stuttered in front of her mother. Then looking at his flushed face she continued anxiously, “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing at all. I am angry and hungry in one breath, so Didimoni is trying to calm me down. I came to ask you to marry me quickly – do not look so aghast – Didimoni knows all about it.”

Nirupama remained silent – she was touched as always by Monmotho's frank boyish manners. He had nothing mean or devious about him. He had Dibendra's honesty without his unforgiving anger or intolerance. She turned towards Parna. “Have you heard him, Parna? Is this your idea as well? I only want you both to be happy. You have known each other long enough to know what you want or not to make a mistake.”

Parna bowed her head and nodded. She did not say anything. “I am glad that you agree with me, Parna, or you would have had me at your doorstep every day. I cannot afford to eat at Antonio's or Chungking's restaurants all the time, nor will I ever be found eating at Rai Bahadur's table from today.” He accepted the plate of delicacies Nirupama had placed before him and concentrated on demolishing it with some appetite.

A month later Parna and Monmotho were married. It was conducted in style – after all it was Nirupama's last and only act of extravagance and Rai Bahadur could not be seen doing any less for his only son. The only person who was displeased and sulked was Bonolata. But Rai Bahadur had learnt to ignore her tantrums. He just regretted that he would now have to find someone else to supervise her ‘tom-tom' rides.

*

Monmotho and Parna had been found a comfortable little house by Rai Bahadur. He had tried hard to insist on both finding it and paying for it. Monmotho had been equally insistent that he would accept what he had found for them but was not going to let him pay for it. Rai Bahadur had no choice but to accept his son's decision and knew well that Bonolata had a lot to do with Monmotho's leaving home so soon after his marriage. He felt that lately Monmotho had grown distant, and rarely stepped into his office for informal exchanges. His visits were always concerning work and laden with formality.

They were only married for about eight months before Parna found that she was pregnant. It was not an accident but had been planned deliberately to please Monmotho who desperately wished to become a father, to experience a love that he had rarely felt or received. Monmotho was conscious that Nirupama had put a lot into her daughter's upbringing, but she had not entirely succeeded in instilling in her the ease and spontaneity of accepting or demonstrating physical love, nor explained to her the pleasures and implications of marital sex. Parna had arrived in his life awkward and ignorant and he had assumed the role of her teacher. He was not a philanderer, but he was certainly not inexperienced in these matters. Monmotho's independent existence had made him into quite a man of the world. In Parna's case he had shown a great deal of patience and understanding. When the moment had arrived, he did not regret his forbearance as they had surrendered to each other with passion and without restraint.

However, Monmotho's youthful nature had not altered with the responsibilities of marriage or at the prospect of imminent fatherhood. He still managed to perpetuate astonishing feats of adventure or misadventure whilst at home or travelling on work. Parna remembered the time when Monmotho had arrived, having driven all the way from Delhi, bedraggled and unshaven, but wearing a gold-bordered brand new
dhoti
and a Lucknowi
kurta
. She was amazed to see him, his bridegroom's attire hardly went with his unkempt, travel-weary appearance. She was also surprised to find him in a
dhoti
, as he rarely wore one.

“Do not look as though I am someone from another planet. You will never guess, Parna, what happened to me. You see, there was a short circuit in the car – I had not noticed it until I was aflame! I think I had been a little absent-minded, whilst driving...” He looked at her tentatively. “You do not approve – all right to cut a long story short, I lost my trousers near Samastipur. Then I fortunately met a
Bijonbabu
who owned a clothes shop in the local bazaar; what's more unlike you, he liked me and took pity, hence presented me with all this wonderful attire.” He concluded running his hands down the embroidered front of the
kurta
.

When Parna protested or complained about his careless behaviour he always laughed and dismissed it. Life was never a serious consideration for him – he sailed through it swiftly and lightly, unconcerned and without fear.

Two months later, at the end of April, Calcutta was suffering from a bout of blistering and stifling humidity. These moments of enervating suffocation were occasionally torn apart by the searing, maniacal north-westerly storms of Baisakh. The loud crackling of thunder and the outbursts of psychedelic lightning deafened the ears and blinded the eyes with a relentless aggression. Parna was suffering under its spell and her present condition seemed to make it worse. Monmotho was travelling again – she was expecting him back that day and hoped he would make it before dark.

He had returned before the pall of thunder and lightning struck again, but he had come back desperately ill, raging with fever and nausea. She had informed the Rai Bahadur and Nirupama, who both rushed in with their respective family doctors. She was very nervous and worried as she had never seen Monmotho ill before and he seemed unlike himself. His fever was rising all the time, he soon lost consciousness and only limped back to clarity in moments of delirium. The family physicians were unable to cope; specialists were summoned. Rai Bahadur was helpless and distraught – consultants and medicines came from far and near. All their efforts to control the fever were in vain, diagnosis was varied and confused. On the fifth day he stopped speaking altogether, even in delirium. On the tenth day, he opened his eyes, looked at Parna without a trace of recognition and muttered indistinctly, “The saffron robes are here, I must leave you now.” He closed his eyes and never opened them again.

Nirupama watched Parna helplessly, reliving her memories of the past. Parna was beside herself with desperate, uncontrollable grief, grief of the lost and the hopeless. She clung to Monmotho's inert body, crying her heart out. The doctors tried to administer sedatives, but she would have nothing to do with anyone or anything, not even her own mother.

When the pall bearers came to take Monmotho's body, she ran, chasing after them, fell down the stairs and fainted. Nirupama had then taken hold of her. At that moment her only thought was the second life within Parna and that it had to be saved at all cost. Monmotho had left them, but they were committed to the preservation of his unborn legacy.

Monmotho had entered their lives like lightning and now he had disappeared irresponsibly and unexpectedly. Dibendra had done just the same. After this, men became less of a reality to her – they were merely ephemeral appearances or a transient presence, unreliable and impermanent in character and security. She had no faith in their existence or their fundamental assurances. She asked herself – who was God – was he male? He would be less reliable then.

*

Rai Bahadur tried to persuade Parna to come and live in their family home, knowing full well that Bonolata's presence would make the offer quite unacceptable. He was himself unnerved by grief and guilt. He felt responsible for Monmotho's death, though no one had thought of attributing any responsibility to him. Nirupama had felt inwardly that the medical drama conducted at his bedside could have been more sensible and coherent. The diagnostic games played by the conglomerate of consultants could have been avoided to some extent. These feelings were neither voiced in public, nor conveyed to him in any form or fashion. But Rai Bahadur continued to blame himself for everything, particularly for denying a home and love to his son as promised to his dead mother. He now wanted to make amends through Parna, and she of course would have none of it. She gave up her own home to live with her mother – this was primarily because she could not bear to live in the house where she and Monmotho had loved and dreamed together.

Parna was not unaware of her own desperate situation – she knew that her husband had not provided for her, that he had not had the time. But Rai Bahadur never found out the extent of Parna's destitution. Nirupama entirely approved of her daughter's stand – of her stubborn pride and spirit of independence. However unworldly and impractical she was in the eyes of others, they were qualities she recognised and respected – she was her father's daughter.

Parna had stopped crying; though the tears always shone in the deep pools of her eyes, they hardly ever descended. She became remote, rarely smiled or spoke and was easily roused to anger. She carried her child quietly. No one knew that she was living with the horror of delivering a still-born or a handicapped child. She had not told anyone that when Monmotho was taken away by the pall-bearers she had seen him smile and his hallucination of saffron-clad men had recurred, the vision reflected in her eyes. They were strange illusions no doubt, and seemed incomprehensible in the light of his religious agnosticism. Going to Brahmamandir was a matter of filial duty or social diversion for him, as he often used to say.

Finally the day came when she knew that her hours of waiting and speculating were over – she would soon find out the truth. Nirupama took her to the clinic, almost unconscious with pain: labour had begun. The pain grew even greater, rolling waves of it seemed to take her over – she sank into fathomless depths of pain until she knew no more. She only saw Monmotho, the same smiling face, the eyes twinkling with fun and laughter – he had extended his arms to hold her, but she was somehow unable to reach him – he was far, far away.