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.