My uncle Debabrata Basu wrote a series of articles, about his grandmother, his aunts and his mother. This is about his mother.
Ma
by Debabrata Basu
The final character in
these sketches is my mother, Ma. Ma was born in an ordinary household.
She was dark-skinned. She had neither wealth nor beauty. Yet she
became the bride of a well-known feudal home in Baghbazar – thanks
to her horoscope, her kushti. Baba's horoscope predicted likely death at the
age of twenty-four; Ma's predicted a long married life, not early widowhood. So, my
grandfather Chordadu matched the horoscopes, and chose Ma as the
bride in the hope of avoiding Baba's predicted death.
One day, when he was
twenty-four, Baba went to a friend's house. At night, after dinner,
as he stepped on the stairs, he slipped down the stairs all the way
from the second floor to the ground floor. The impact on his head was
severe; there was no hope of survival. But the strength of Ma's
kushti overpowered Baba's. Baba returned from the hospital alive. But
the head injury caused recurrent fits of wild anger and shouting. Ma
bore all this in silence.
The Kolkata of those days,
sixty years ago bears no resemblance to today's Calcutta. This was
the era before the Bahurupis. This was the era of Hiramoti. After
dark, Hiramoti would wander the streets. With the mask of a monster,
dressed for dread, to horrify, with a long tin arm, Hiramoti would
wander the streets. Hearing the jhum jhum of the jhumkas on her
ankles, my heart would shiver. Sometimes she would be called home.
Hiramoti danced – how
dreadful that dance! - and sang in a nasal tone: “I love the flesh
of little children.” Sometimes, she would charge towards small
children. Scared, I would hug Ma tightly. Until she left, I wouldn't
leave her.
Baba worked as a clerk in
a government office. Chordadu had retired. The entire household was
dependent on the few rupees of the rental of the ground floor of the
house.
In 1941, World War II
broke out. Our country was no exception. The prices of everyday
things shot up; inflation rose sharply. In 1943 famine struck. The
fearful form of that famine had to be seen to be believed. People
died like flies; bodies lay on the road; vultures invaded the city.
Starving people begged for the starchy water in which rice had been
boiled, that rice-water that used to be thrown way was their
lifeline. No one could dream of begging for rice. The era of price
controls and rationing began.
Hour after hour, I stood
in line at the ration shop for rice. We could not afford the rice in
the black market. I was then a student of Presidency College. From my
childhood, I had worn to school and college the clothes made at home
by Ma. She bought thick cotton sheets at wholesale rates, to make
shirts for me - to go with my dhuti - and frocks for my sisters. We
wore them happily. We all knew we could not afford anything more
expensive. When I completed my B.Sc., I wore my first pair of
trousers - made by a tailor! It was a memorable event.
Since we were so badly
off, Ma asked the servants to leave. A maid would come daily; finally
we had to ask her too to go. Without a word of complaint, Ma did all
the household work. With a smile. Often when she could not bear the
pain, she would get painkillers from Doctor Mama, her brother.
At my Didi's marriage,
much of Ma's jewellery had to be sold. The rest were kept for my
younger sister's marriage. But to manage the monthly household
expenses, once in a while, she had to sell a few bits of jewellery.
After I completed my
B.Sc., knowing the state of our finances, I decided I would take up a
job. Ma said, “No. Do your M.Sc. I still have a few bits of
jewellery left.” She sold her gold at two and a half rupees a gram
to pay my fees for M.Sc. < Note: Today's price is about 2,300 per
gram>
After my M.Sc., I took up
a job, but as Ma wished, I continued my studies. Due to her
encouragement, I finally tried to become a fellow at London's
Institute of Actuaries.
Ma loved all of us
brothers and sisters enormously – but perhaps I was loved a little
more.
My Pishimas were very
beautiful and wealthy. Ma was not beautiful, fair or rich. But the
way all my Pishimas and Pishemoshais loved Ma was amazing, unique. I
have seen in the group photos the six fair and beautiful Pishimas,
dressed in finery, and in their midst, Ma with her simple cotton
sari. But you can see how close they were to Ma.
And Ma's intensely
personal relationship with her mother-in-law was unparalleled. Around
the ninety-year-old Chordidi sat her daughters, my Pishimas, all
waiting for a last word. My Chordidi spoke in a faint unclear voice,
not uttering the name of any of the gods. She said, “Bina, where
are you?”
My younger sister was
married at the age of fifteen. A year later, wiping the red sindoor
from off her head, she came back home. That day, I was deeply
grieved. But Ma's grief was far more. Hugging her young daughter to
her bosom, wrapping her with her love may have helped salve the
wounds a little.
A hundred years have gone
by since the death of Vidyasagar Mahashay, but the narrowness of
man's mind has not become any less. So when Ma said, I will marry off
my daughter again, many people even in the family did not support
her. But my grandmother supported her. And so did my Bodo Jamaibabu,
my elder brother-in-law. Then, of course, one by one, many others
stepped forward. But even then, our fears stayed, could not be wished
away: what if on the wedding day, the neighbours created trouble? My
elder brother-in-law's father, Shri Pashupathinath Ghose was in those
days a major figure among the Kayasthas in Kolkata. He told us
himself, “I shall attend. Let me see who has the guts to create
trouble at this marriage.”
But all this was nothing
compared to Ma's strong will. The marriage went off peacefully,
without a hitch.
How much I loved Ma is
beyond my ability to write. But Ma loved me even more. For years I
could not sleep at night until I hugged her.
Even today, I remember
that day. Returning home from office, I saw Ma sitting sombrely, with
a sombre face. As soon as I stepped in, she said, “Khokon, there is
a letter for you – from England.”
“Ma, where's the
letter?”
“I have kept it in
the Thakurghar. Open it after you pray, after you do a pranam.”
I rushed to the
Thakurghar. A quick prayer; then I opened the letter. Having done
well in England's highest exam, I had been selected as Fellow by
London's Institute of Actuaries.
I ran to Ma and hugged
her. We hugged each other and cried. Not tears of grief but of joy.
The long wait had at last come to an end. I was then thirty-two. Like
a child, this old boy hugged Ma and cried his heart out.
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