“Reborn Moon” Episode-04

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  Joyous aroma permeated all of Chaudhari Bhavan. The magic of freshly crushed cardamom rarely failed.

Without slowing the rhythm of the pestle in the brass mortar, Duggadas stole a glance at Nayanadevi, and couldn’t help flinching: she could grate a finger along with the carrot stub. It was a rare sight – in fact, the first time that he had seen her actually working in the kitchen. But going by her deftness and speed, it was becoming apparent that she wasn’t a novice.

Indeed, she had made gajar ka halwa using the grating method before: when she had been the carefree daughter of one of Kolkata’s richest men in the newly-independent India. Having had friends of diverse ethnic and regional backgrounds back then, learning new recipes had been a favourite pastime.

But things had changed soon after she was pushed into matrimony. She had resented the fact that her alliance had been decided by her father’s business and political calculations. But truth be told, she had soon become happy – when the calculations worked. Not only had marriage to Chaudhari Mayank Singh elevated her social stature, the good man was a wonderful husband as well. Her only grouse was that she didn’t get a traditional Bengali wedding that she had always dreamt of. However, within a few months of her arrival as the demure bride, Nayanadevi had more than evened the score by turning Chaudhari Bhavan into a household that she preferred it to be. It had helped that Mayank Singh was the only heir to the most illustrious family of Lakhnabad, and when he lovingly accepted his bride’s ideas, nobody else could object.

And so it had been her ancestors’ way of cooking that was followed in the house ever since. Gajar ka halwa, for instance, was now made by cooking diced carrots and then mashing, rather than grating the carrots before cooking. But today, Nayanadevi had made an exception. For the ten-year-old Raktim, her only grandson.

The little boy was a shy fellow, and never demanded anything from anyone. But Thakurma had come to know of his recent fondness for the grated version of the dessert. So today, she had decided to make it for him as a reward to the school topper of the fifth-standard exams.

It was when the halwa was finally made that she picked an exquisite cut-glass bowl from her heirloom collection.

The twinkling little bowl was the first thing that they all saw after Duggadas broke the padlock with a hammer and opened the blue aluminium box. The memory of that past day at once flooded Nayanadevi’s mind, but flowed out just as speedily, what with the tension that weighed down the present air.

There were other memorabilia too: a yellow fountain pen, a deflated football, a steel-rimmed magnifying glass, a couple of half-used water-colour tubes and a small photograph of the handsome Sukumar Chaudhari posing astride his imported racer bike. Things that not just defined Raktim and all that he was good at – academics, sports, science and art – but also pointed to the extreme affection that he had for his late father, and a passion that he shared with him: speed machines. The passion that had killed him now, at least apparently so.

But none of them could associate Raktim with the rolled sheet of thick water-resistant paper that Vikram picked out last from the box. Impulsively, Bipasha reached out to take it from him, but Nayanadevi beat her to it. Madhumita and Anshuman moved closer and peeped as Nayanadevi unrolled the certificate and read it.

“Hmm. This does certify that Raktim married Aparajita,” said Thakurma, without any shock or disapproval in her voice.

All hope left Ananya at once. When she felt someone staring at her, she turned and found that it was Aparajita. No one else saw the eye contact between the two young women. Aparajita kept her gaze fixed, and her head didn’t move a millimeter. Yet, Ananya saw a clear gesture: Raktim’s legally wedded wife was asking her to get out of there.

At once. Or else.

When Ananya quietly retreated in a nervous trance and left, no one but Aparajita was watching her. But Aparajita’s problems were far from over.

“Where exactly did you find this box?” asked Bipasha of Vikram.

“Under Raktim’s bed,” mumbled Vikram, equally shaken by it.

Bipasha couldn’t believe it, and turned to Duggadas now, “You! You put it there, didn’t you?!”

Duggadas was taken aback. Never before in all these years had Bipasha spoken to him with such disrespect or rudeness. “I know it! You are hand in glove with this impostor, aren’t you, Duggadas?!!”

Aparajita squirmed, uncomfortable more by Duggadas being shouted at than by Bipasha’s glare at her. Silently, she prayed for this to get over quickly.

“I will never accept this fraud document as proof that my brother was married!” Bipasha screamed as she tried to snatch the certificate from her grandmother.

“Hush!” warned Nayanadevi, quickly moving the document away, before ordering, “Anshuman, I think you must take your wife home now.”

Anshuman thanked the heavens above. He had been very disturbed by Bipasha’s histrionics all this while, but he hadn’t dared say a word against her until then. It was only Nayanadevi’s order that kind of gave him a right that Bipasha wouldn’t question. Even as he patted her shoulder and quietly coaxed her out of there, Bipasha continued to glare at Aparajita till she left the house.

“Take Bouma’s luggage to the west-side guest room,” said Nayanadevi, her tone very matter-of-fact.

Aparajita froze. After having remembered her name long after a single mention, this was Nayanadevi’s second surprise. ‘Bouma’ was the term lovingly and respectfully used for the ‘daughter-in-law’ of the family.

Madhumita froze, too. The old lady had never addressed or referred to her with that word.

“Wha-?” Urvashi reaction was a few seconds late. “The west-side…?” She wanted to argue, but knew better, so just walked away in a huff.

Assuming that it was expected of her to take blessings after the indicated welcome into the family, Aparajita moved to touch Nayanadevi’s feet. But she stopped when the old lady stepped back at once with a quick, blocking gesture of her hand.

“Aparajita, my dear, you are being allowed to live here only because of this legal document,” Nayanadevi said waving the certificate. “But no document or law in this whole wide world can force me to give you any blessings whatsoever.”

As the old lady turned and went up the stairs, Aparajita was left a little too stunned. She was still in a daze when she followed Duggadas who carried her red suitcase out of there.

Left alone with Madhumita now, Vikram spoke, “Aunty, I have a strange feeling that I have seen this Aparajita before, but I’m not able to recollect where.”

“I too had the same feeling when I first saw her,” said Madhumita. The smile that came on her lips was a warm one. “And I know the reason. When we meet someone our own, it always feels that way.”

Vikram wasn’t as sure.

***

“Careful, you dimwit!”

Urvashi’s voice filled the west-end guest room even as she screamed at the maid Bimla who, with Duggadas’s help, was stacking numerous shades of lipsticks, nail-polishes and all other make-up stuff on two large trays.

Aparajita was silently looking around, taking in the size of the room. At just about twelve feet by twelve, it was certainly the smallest of all rooms in Chaudhari Bhavan. It was probably meant for a single guest. Well, single was fine by her: a widow in her in-laws’ house had to be living alone. But as a guest?

“God knows where I’ll find space for all this!” Urvashi’s rant continued, though she was talking to no one is particular. “My room’s already so filled with my clothes!! Huh!”

“It’s all right, Urvashi!” Aparajita couldn’t help butting in. Then turning to Duggadas, she respectfully said, “Kaka, let the stuff remain here. I need very little space for my stuff, anyway.”

Duggadas was touched by the respectful manner in which she addressed him. Kaka. It meant uncle. A term that no youngster other than Raktim called him by in this house.

“No way!” Urvashi’s retort broke his thought. “I can’t leave expensive make-up stuff in… in a stranger’s room!”

Madhumita walked in even as Urvashi was rubbing it in, “What if something gets stolen?”

“Enough, Urvashi!” Madhumita sternly cut her short. “Mind your language when you talk to Apu Boudi.”

Apu Boudi! Apu, the usual shortened name for Aparajita; the name that her mother called her by. And Boudi, the respectful term for elder brother’s wife. Aparajita started to wonder if all this was really happening. Had she known that getting accepted into the family was going to be so easy and quick, well…

Urvashi stamped her foot and stormed out, followed by Bimla and Duggadas with the stuff on the trays.

There was an awkward silence for a while, in which Aparajita and Madhumita took turns at looking at each other, at first not together, and when their eyes did meet, they let out tentative smiles. Madhumita’s smile was more of a formal, defeated acceptance vis-à-vis Aparajita’s emotional one.

Aparajita hesitantly took a step closer, and when Madhumita did not step back like Nayanadevi had, she mustered courage to take another step and started to bend to touch her feet. But Madhumita stopped her midway, by holding both her arms.

Aparajita sighed deeply and closed her eyes, preparing for another version of a taunt.

“I wish you had come earlier.”

Aparajita did not open her eyes until in her mind she had repeated the words she’d just heard. On the day when she had lost her son, this lady was being so kind and welcoming.

Whatever emotion Madhumita’s face displayed was missed by Aparajita, because by the time she finally opened her eyes, the lady had looked away, and then left the room abruptly.

Aparajita took a deep breath, and sat down on the unfamiliar bed. She ran her palms over the cold bedspread, and the printed pattern took her back in time at once. Purple roses.

***

There were three of them in the dark Moradabadi brass vase on the side table in Raktim’s chamber. Each one identically the same shade of purple as the other two. And it was as if the petals were counted and measured before being put there. Aparajita wondered if the man picked his office team, too, in such a precise fashion. She shuddered.

She didn’t want to be in Raktim’s team. She wanted to be the team.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Miss…”

“Sengupta. Aparajita Sengupta,” she managed to mask her sudden nervousness with a confident smile as she spoke to the ravishing man who had just entered his chamber.

“Bengali?” he said amusedly, as he settled on his cushy revolving chair. “My grandmother is a Bengali, too.”

“Really?!” She made it sound genuinely surprised.

“So tell me, you wanted to see me for…”

“The Junior Accountant’s post.”

He froze for a second. “Right. Of course!”

She instantly heard the disappointment in his tone. As if he had hoped for a more dignified use of his time. He had hired people for hiring people like her.

But he was a gentleman. “You’ve got your certificates?”

She instantly leaned forward as she held out the file to him, with a bright smile on her face. She could feel his eyes involuntarily lingering all over her as he took the file. It was working.

Sitting across Raktim Chaudhari at his table, she could almost imagine herself as the one person he could not do without. She visualized him rising from the chair, coming around the table to reach her, getting on his knees, taking her hand in his, kissing it softly and asking her to marry him.

Raktim’s voice, “Oh no!” pulled her out of her reverie. “You’re not a graduate as yet?”

Really? A quiverful of awards and citations, more than a dozen wins in academics and extra-curricular activities, and the man looks only at the one thing that could go wrong for her?

“Well, Mr. Chaudhari,” she tried to sound as earnest as she possibly could. “As you’d be aware, the final year results got delayed this year, so…”

“Sorry, Ma’am,” he said, shutting the file and quickly handing it back to her. “We can’t hire you.”

“Please, Mr. Chaudhari,” Aparajita said with an extremely vulnerable expression that she had rehearsed several times over. “I need this job, Sir!”

“Sorry!” Raktim said even as he pressed the intercom button, “Send Mitter Babu in, please!”

Aparajita got up slowly, holding the file close to her chest. She would come back, she wanted to tell him. Come back and get what she deserved. Whether he gave it to her or not, she would take it!

***

Aparajita Sengupta slept peacefully on her first night in Chaudhari Bhavan.

***

It was almost three a.m., but Vikram Chauhan was still awake. His swanky bachelor pad had four bedrooms, but he was still on the couch in the hall, nurturing his fourth peg of Scotch all by himself. For the past several minutes, his eyes were fixed on a huge wall photo – of Raktim and himself. It had been a wonderful friendship. It had weathered several storms over the decades, and it had remained intact. Well, not storms, exactly. They were more like hiccups, minor disagreements. Like the last time they argued was regarding an alumni meet at their alma mater. Raktim had stubbornly preferred to instead attend a meaningless business seminar in Goa. How obstinate of him!

Vikram took a deep breath, emptied the glass in one go, and decided to go catch up on his sleep.

Something struck him just as he was about to enter his bedroom, and he stopped.

A faint smile started to emerge on his lips, and took a whole minute to turn into a grin.

The date. Of course, the date, Goddamn it!

Raktim was at the Goa conference with a hundred other people on the day of his supposed wedding with Aparajita!

Come morning, the whole world would know about her lie.

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