The Beloved

Frail, tall, white saree with red border, betel nut stained lips, thick bordered specs and a pair of very soft palms- that’s my Dinna for you. An excellent cook, a voracious reader, a remarkable story-teller- that’s my mother’s mother for you. An erect spine, a dauntless woman, a quick wit with sparkling humour-that’s Bani Ghosh for you. Yes, she did not have formal education, she did not know how to converse in English, she had no access to internet, and she was averse to mobile phones. She loved adda, she enjoyed roaming about in the brinks of Kolkata, she was a complete foodie, and she had the best knowledge of authentic Bengali cuisine. Back in the 1980’s her adventurous mind took her out to experience the great ratha yatra conducted by IISKCon. Her innocent devotion made her adamant. She had to beat the jostling crowd to touch the rope slinging from the huge motor-driven Ratha. She fell to the ground as the entire Ratha started moving. Her 1year old niece was with her. And the brave lady had to save the little girl from any harm whatsoever. And she let go of her right foot. The spokes of the wheel mangled her foot robbing her of her heel. She did not bother, she did not succumb. She proved all speculations wrong and began walking without any support. That’s my brave dinna for you. She shouldered all the responsibility of a wife, a daughter-in-law, a mother and a grandmother-with an incredible simplicity that helped her through all odds and adversity. My maternal family belongs to one huge big trademark Kolkata clan. They take a lot of pride in the word “bonedi”. And yes the Jorasanko Ghosh’s are renowned in their field. The clan of lawyers in Kolkata with leading attorneys and chief justices in the family- they were the babus of Kolkata. My dinna belonged to a zamindar family of North Kolkata. Brought up with excess of allowance and pamper, she was a princess to her dad. Her dad’s sudden death had crumbled the basis of the empire, and that is when she got married to my dadai and walked into 11/2 Goabagan Lane’s mansion. The 26 year old adapted to every detail of the family. She never found herself out of place. In fact it is she who changed the food habits of the household. Introducing red chili in mutton curry, making the amazing badam makha (cashew paste) with ginger and green chili; she was an immediate hit with the kids and her mother-in-law. Dinna never tolerated nonsense. It would be injustice to my document if I do not share one anecdote that makes me so very proud of the simple woman! My dadai’s mejdada, Shyam Chandra Ghosh was a very short tempered person, who was known for his anger. The entire household used to be a bit wary of his tantrums. One fine afternoon my dadai’s father, a retired attorney, was talking to his second son about his business, standing in the corridor of the enormous kitchen. However Shyam Chandra Ghosh(Second son) was not in any mood to discuss his business with his father. Being a rebel and the odd one out in a family where advocates were groomed he always was a bit defensive about his business. The conversation became a bit loud when the son accused the father of being partial to his other sons; and eventually the father lost his temper and shouted back. This precipitated into something pretty unprecedented. The short tempered man attempted to push his old father on the chest, just then something even more unprecedented occurred. A lady, then barely married for a year or two in the family, lifted the chopper(boti) in which she was cutting vegetable, and pulled this short tempered man by his shoulder and uttered exactly the following “Apni amar bhashur hote paren. Kintu bhul koreo Jodi konodin aar babar gaaye haat tolen morjada longhon korte amio du bar bhabbo na”. (You might be my brother-in-law. But henceforth if you even think of assaulting Father (your father) then I would not take time to forget decorum). It was a pinch of salt on the face of the leech. The angry young man became unusually quiet. Soon, in the evening apologized to his father and to that lady who voiced the protest against him. That lady was my Dinna. She had no idea of feminism, she did not even hear of patriarchy. She was conditioned by the world. She rejoiced when a son was born to the family and always covered her head with veil when in front of elders (ghomta or ghoonghat). But she had the courage to voice her own political bent of mind. She was a communist supporter as opposed to my Dadai who was a hard-core congress activist and a freedom fighter. An unassuming woman, who had seen the India Pakistan war, the emergency, had seen ample death but was not brazen by life. She simply loved life; she was passionate about living it in her own terms. She could love intensely and could laugh and cry aloud. She was never ashamed of anything that she did not know, neither was she unnecessarily modest of her knowledge. She could shout out loud when happy. She could cry out loud when sad. Yet she was sophisticated in her own way, she realized the world of Ashapurna Debi, and analysed it better than many scholars. She believed Sarada Ma existed with her, in her, around her. She never felt intimidated to talk to a picture of Sarada Maa. To her She was as real as Dadai. She had her specialties, which she designed for us carefully, lovingly. She was biased about me. I could somehow never be wrong. No matter how mediocre I am, to her I was a winner, through and through. If I lost in a competition, she easily concluded that it is the organizer’s bad luck. If I won a very insignificant prize, it was no less than Oscar to her. When there was a sudden power-cut she was confident that the system would be restored if I made a call to the electricity board. Whenever we left home for work or for a tour her “Dugga Dugga” (Durga-Durga) was an essential touch. She knew that we would be safe with the utterance of those two words. I would not argue about the logic behind it, but even I felt safe when she said those words. With so much love and care she spoke, I doubt whether any one in my life had ever spoken to me with that much genuine emotion. On the day of every examination after touching her feet, she used to pray elaborately keeping her palm on my head. And that was my strength. It gave the last touch I needed before I left. She has left me, now a year has gone by. But I could not yet come in to terms with her death. There’s a void. Whenever I enter her room, I feel, she has just gone out to the balcony perhaps, would return soon with her signature, betel-nut dibba. I miss her? I don’t know. I feel her, yes intensely. I saw her body being engulfed in the raging fire of the electric furnace. I was numb. That numbness is still with me. I know it is hugely psychotic, but when she was being pushed inside the electric furnace and her shape was being circled by fire, I wanted to pull her back in a sharp fear that she will be in such pain. I guess I could never believe that body was lifeless. How can it be? That lively body, who lived life king size- that person would not breathe again? Dinna has turned me into a dilettante. I know I’d never recover from the loss. I am not sure whether I lost her. In some sub-conscious sleep, during high fever, in very tense moments, I feel her soft palms on my forehead. I can smell her betel-nut fragrance mixed with a typical intoxicating smell of Pond’s dream flower talc. Wherever you are dinna…may you be safe. Dugga Dugga.