House-train your asura

And so it goes on. Ashtami at the old house nobody really wants to go to, Nabami -- dhunuchi naach from the (beautifully decorated) Laboni puja mandap on television and lunch under the pink and green mandap, Dashami in idle chit-chat, sitting around lazily spread over three rooms, waiting for the immersion. The men in the tv room, smoking almost incessantly and occasionally throwing up words and phrases like Mamata, Singur and "Market kichhu bojho na tomara!". Then someone would stomp out in a huff and smoke in the verandah (it's not a balcony. It just isn't. It's a baranda), glowering at the late afternoon stillness before someone else came out, the atmosphere became placatory, then companionable, and they went back in together.

The women in the room in the middle, as usual, sharing a convenient window with the dining room. It's called maajher ghor, the middle room, and it's the territory of grandmothers, aunts, much older female cousins and guests. Men always sit on the bed in the middle room if they're guests or it's time for a family adda, and off to the tv room if they want to smoke. It's unbreachable tradition.

And the kids, of course, shunted away to the furtherest rooms. Boroder kotha shunte nei. You've no business listening to grown-up talk. Whether you had a fight with the rest of the kids or not, you were packed off to the room on the other side of the house.

It's hardest in the late teens. You don't know where you should be. Or want to be. You can be boss with the kids but they're boring after a while. In the middle room you shall instantly be designated water-bringer, carrier of the paaner bata, messenger between rooms and fetcher of bags left in various other room. Not fun. But you get to hear all the gossip AND previously forbidden bits of information.

Then, late eveningish, the revelry went up several notches. There were several laudatory mentions of the excellent work done by the 'amader parar youth' last pujo during bishorjon. Which is just a honey-coated nudge to get them to work this year. Warnings were broadcasted: "Pleese keep cheeldren ayway from thaa... iye, ki jeno bole, maane thaa protima -- i-doll, thaa doorga i-doll". It's hilarious, except that no one ever notices. And the carnivalesque parade marched out. Kakimas, mashimas and aunties danced in bursts and collapsed on each other in fits of giggles right after, the aanchol tucked firmly around their waists. The men and boys dance more rapturously, all steps copied from faux-bhangra. There was a small number of dhunuchis doing the rounds too.
The more sedate stayed at home, crowding the windows till the truck (yes, we had a truck this time. Not those matadors after last years fiasco) vanishes from sight.

I heard there was major bitching in the pandal -- just like every year -- while people waited for the bishorjon folks to return, but we had enough of it at home so of course I was nowhere near the scene. Someone stormed out of the mandap -- Chatterjee Uncle I think, and ma thinks (and all the women instantly agreed) that that was a really womanish thing for him to do, petty and escapist.

I sometimes wonder if these people realise what they're saying.

So, anyway, then everybody came back and soon the houses were flooded with people coming in for the kulakuli and sindoor khela and bijoya'r pronam with sweets. And we realised we had clean forgotten about sweets for the neighbours! And S flatly declared he'd guard the roshomalai with his life. So we ran out and got random sandesh from the local shop to hold fort till baba and mesho got proper 'bhalo mishti'. I don't think anybody noticed. The street stayed alive for quite some time after the initial rush. People ran out on the streets and laughed loudly and squeaked when someone grabbed them and put a fistful of sindoor on their cheeks. It was nice to listen to.

But what I really wanted to talk about was S's reaction when ma asked him to wash his dessert plate. He looked shocked (although B and I had washed everybody elses plate and not left it for Poornimadi, who anyway had a huge stack to do the next morning). His mother looked stunned and indecisive. Everybody else noticed and sort of went quiet. Everybody except my mother. "Ki holo baba, plate ta niye jao?" she said.

S tried to be jovial and laugh it off. "Uff, mashimoni, you almost got me there. I thought tumi serious."

Ma looked completely at sea. "But I am serious. Duto meye mile korlo etota, do you own dish at least?"

And S did the unthinkable. "Ma, I can't believe tumi dariye dariye dekchho! Bolo na mashimoni ke. I won't do this! B, go wash my plate. Take it. Ja ekkhuni dhuye fel..."

"S", said ma sternly, "what is all this? I've asked you do something and you're asking your mother to interfere with it? AND ordering your little sister to do it for you? Is this the obedience you've learnt? If you're sisters can do everybody else's dishes you can do your's. I'm very disappointed in you. Now go wash that plate. I'm standing here -- go do it now."

And S did it. Not once in the whole thing did he let the this-is-a-joke smile slip from his face, but he hated the whole thing. And after he came back, he made a great show of washing his hand several times, then massaging body-lotion on it and complaining of aching fingers in very low voices to his mother, who waved him away. One dish. He washed ONE dish. "Ei jonnoi sala taratari biye korbo. Bouke diye eishob dirty work korabo. I can't get over the humiliation... I mean, really!"

"Ma wouldn't have let you," I said smugly.

"Arrey, bouer belai mashimoni'r kotha khaat-to naki? Amake kichhu korte bolle o shurshur kore giye kore dito. Eikorom obediant meye chai, dekhish tui." He said it with his usual I'm-the-clown grin, but he meant it.

Bastard. I can't believe he's family.

The charm is dead. It lived long enough.

Saturdays are not what they used to be. We've all said it in our own houses, amongst 'ourseleves'. Only earlier 'ourselves' was a much larger entity. Looked like it, anyway. But yesterday it was finally said. And yet, yesterday was smooth. Pleasant even. Or smoother and pleasanter than last Saturday. For example.

It was one of those moments when there's a lull in conversation. Ma went out with the tea tray, P-mashi was not in the room, B-mamu rushed to catch the final capsule of 'Tithi'r Otithi' (it's a god-awful Bengali daily soap. At least, I think it's god-awful. And the odds are stacked heavily in my favour) even as mashimoni was eagerly fishing out her new white orange and gold dhakai sari from piles of puja-shopping scattered all over the bed for him to see. It was quite rude, really. Not with so much as a 'Ekhhuni aschhi'. Thing is, when he later sees her wearing it, he'll first ask why he hasn't seen it before then insist she didn't show it to him and proceed to feel neglected and mutter darkly and turn his face away from dispays of future new purchases.

Family!

So anyway, that's when J and I caught each other's eyes and rolled them ceiling-wards. And R-mesho caught us at it and shook his head resignedly. Encouraged, J breathed out and said "Shotti, ki bolbo..."
"Really, how rude!" piped B.
"Ki chhilo, ki hoye gelo" muttered R-mesho.

Mashimoni made half-hearted shushing noises, especially at B, who, owing to her age, is supposed to be seen and not heard. But there was nobody apart from us in the room really, and anyway it's true enough. "I used to coax and cajole ma baba to drop in even after late evenings out." I said. "Now I don't even feel like visitng once a month."

"Now, now. Let it be." said mashimoni finally, still without any heart in it. She's just doing what she thinks she's supposed to, I thought. Stopping children from speaking ill of their elders, keeping the peace, etc. Let's not think what would have happened if we were overheard.

It really needn't have been this way, as the classic phrase of resignation goes. The House was our hub, our base. And we touched down often. I grew up in that house, dammit. Alright, so dadu and didu are not there anymore. Okay, so several people intensely disliked by their families live on till ninety but my grandparents died. Okay. Happens. We tried to get on with things, and most of us did. Good things happened too. J-mashi mellowed beyond our wildest expectations. Initially. Now she just looks shrivelled and living in a shell of daily chores and nitpicking. The only time she's fun is when she's out of that damn house. In fact, things might have been marginally better, actually. My elusive boromashi -- my mother's eldest sister -- started visiting regularly, like mashimoni and us. Saturdays did become more lively for a while. Then things started turning sour. Domestic conflicts, diminishing patience and deterioting health with advanced age, other stuff... just, whatever. The charm of the house died.

We have fun when all three families turn up on the same Saturdays. And then there is Nobo Borsho - the Bengali New Year, and Bijoya - the last day of the Durga Puja when friends, family, neighbours get together and everything, you know. And there's a lot of cooking, shopping for the best bhetki, lots of chicken (almost everybody has stopped eating mutton these days), eating, mishti-sandesh-rabri vs. ice cream-brownie-chocolate cake debate, entaar adda. We have fun sometimes even on regular Saturday meet-ups. It's not all sulk and dark mutterings and strained atmosphere and careful speech.

But the charm is dead. For good.

Anyway.

Vidi

I see. And now I shall tell.