Bhaswati Ghosh
On trams and buses, in marketplaces, why even in my own house, I keep hearing about the refugees’ lack of industry, about how lethargic and sterile they are, burdening the city and the state. It’s easy to accept that as the truth, especially going by the newspaper photos from the Sealdah station. But get to know them a little more closely and they smack a slap on your face. The ones who grabbed land and built entire colonies surely didn’t lack industry? And those women in the PL camp? Father-less, husband-less, without anybody to call their own.
Who would have thought they could take charge of their future?
It is me who lacks industry, not them. I have the luxury to feel helpless about their situation. They have neither hope nor hopelessness; they merely have their own lives and those of their children. And this life they live with a zeal and dignity that doesn’t just amaze me, it stimulates and challenges me. Why, even my nutcase sister, Urmila, isn’t sitting idle waiting for a messiah to fix her life. Bravo, dear ladies, bravo!
– Manas Dutta, diary entry, March 1951
Two days later, Manas met Chitra at her house. He had exciting news. ‘Mashi, let’s have some tea,’ he said. ‘This is surely going to make you happy.’
Manas’s unusually chirpy voice brought Rani out of the kitchen in an instant. ‘Let’s hear what the good news is, Dadababu!’
‘Ei, paka meye, what does this have to do with you?’ Chitra scolded Rani. ‘You bring Dadababu water. I will make some tea.’
‘Oh, as if I can’t make tea,’ Rani said, making a face. ‘But you’ll have to tell me what you tell Jethhi,’ she said to Manas.
‘OK, OK, I will, my big sister,’ Manas said with a laugh. ‘Now, can I have a glass of water, please?’
Rani bit her tongue and sprinted to the kitchen.
Manas first relayed the news of the Gariahata PL camp to Chitra; he simply had to share his joy with her. She reciprocated his hope but felt that a lot more needed to be done to bring the camp residents out of poverty.
There was a knock on the door; Rani rushed to open it. Minoti stood at the door but Manas’s heart nearly shot through the ceiling when he saw Amala behind her. An awkward moment followed even as Chitra welcomed Amala. ‘Come, Ma, come in.’ Turning to Manas she said, ‘Manas Baba, I forgot to tell you I had invited Amala for lunch today. Why don’t you join us, too?’
A spasm of uncertainty agitated Manas. ‘Umm, nah, Mashima, don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I will come another time. You all enjoy lunch.’ He didn’t want to intrude into the space Amala and Chitra shared.
Rani proceeded in the direction of the kitchen, ostensibly with the intent of getting water for the guests. Amala and Minoti joined her. Grateful for the breather, Manas got up to take his leave but Chitra stopped him. ‘Weren’t you going to share some news?’
‘Yes, but maybe another day. Amala might find it odd to have me around. I wouldn’t want to ruin your time together.’
Chitra gently patted Manas on the shoulder to make him sit down. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. I have invited her to spend the night here, so we will have ample time for adda once you leave.’
Though Manas still felt ill at ease, he plonked down on the chair.
Rani reappeared with tea for everyone, followed by Minoti who held a plate of sweets. Amala emerged from behind the curtain next, sipping from a glass of water. She stood next to where Chitra sat, close to the door leading to the kitchen and the inner rooms. Chitra motioned for her to sit on the sofa next to her, right across from Manas, the familiar table separating them. Amala obliged.
Chitra’s glance moved to the plate of sweets and she said in mock reprove, ‘Look at this girl. Who asked you to buy sweets now?’
‘Take a bite, Mashi. Tell me how is it?’
‘Of course, I will. Manas Baba, you have some, too,’ Chitra said. ‘And you, too, dear ladies.’ One couldn’t ignore Queen Rani and Minoti, her fast friend.
Rani chuckled and said, ‘We will have, no worries. You all have some first.’
Manas gingerly picked one up and could immediately tell this wasn’t a regular, run-of-the mill sandesh. As soon as it touched his tongue, it melted. The freshness of the chhena hypnotised him enough to reach the plate for seconds.
‘I made these,’ Amala said, her face flushed with the satisfaction she remembered seeing in her Ma’s eyes whenever her father relished something she had made. Realising she might have expressed more emotion than she would have liked to, Amala quickly turned to Chitra. ‘Did you like it, Mashi?’
‘Look at you—sinking, sinking drinking water. You never told me you make such delicious sandesh!’
Amala cast a shy smile and told them how one of their neighbours had got some fresh nolen gur, the palm jaggery that intoxicated taste buds across Bengal every winter. The neighbour, Balai, had a distant cousin who had been living in Kolkata with his family since before Partition. They had a few palm trees and would have the liquid gur extracted every winter. This time Balai received a big pot to share with Bijoy Nagar residents.
‘I hope you didn’t mind that I’ve already gulped a couple of these,’ Manas said, purportedly to Chitra, but also as an apology to Amala.
‘What are you saying, Baba? Do you think Amala would mind your eating the sweets?’ Chitra winked.
‘I am glad you enjoyed them,’ Amala said softly. It wasn’t clear to whom, as her gaze remained fixed on the floor.
‘I do have some good news for Amala, Mashi.’ Manas considered it safe to communicate to Amala via Chitra and shared the information he had gathered over the last few days. Refugee Arts and Crafts helped weavers and crafts persons from East Bengal by buying their work and selling these in the market. They also trained refugees in tailoring, carpentry and pottery. Chitra’s students could produce embroidered textiles for home and decorative uses and sell this to the organisation perhaps? This wasn’t all. Manas also brought the news of a new tailoring shop in Ultadanga that employed mostly refugees. The shop had been set up by one Jogen Babu who had himself been displaced from East Bengal in the wake of communal riots.
Both pieces of news sounded like music to Amala’s ears. She wanted to ask Manas a hundred questions about how and when she could get started but remained quiet.
The glow on her face didn’t escape Manas, and he felt encouraged to continue talking. ‘Do you know,’ he said, looking at her, ‘I met Urmila and her little boy the other day.’
This worked like a charm. Amala looked at him and asked, ‘How is she doing? How is Mona?’ Her voice trilled with delight. For the little time she had cared for him, Amala had grown attached to the child.
‘Quite well, quite well. You’ll be happy to know she looks a lot better and has even made some friends at the camp. The little boy seems to be doing well, too! I can’t tell if he misses you, though,’ Manas said with a twinkle in his eyes.
Amala’s face inflated into a broad grin.
For Manas, the afternoon at Chitra’s house rolled into a giant cotton ball of mirth, banter and the happy burps off a lazy lunch. He felt a lot more at ease compared to the last time he had sat across Amala there. More importantly, he found Amala to be just as relaxed and engaged in the jokes, repartee and discussions. None of the earlier stiffness, as if someone had wiped a curtain of thick glaze off her horizon.
******
Victory Colony, 1950 By Bhaswati Ghosh Published by Yoda Press Available at: Paperback: https://www.thedogearsbookshop.com/.../victory-colony.../... Amazon Kindle: INDIA: https://www.amazon.in/.../ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa... Worldwide: https://www.amazon.com/Victory-Colony-1950.../dp/B08G4ZS2Z9
Bhaswati Ghosh is a writer and translator based in Ontario, Canada. She is the recipient of the Charles Wallace Trust Fellowship for Translation for her work, My Days with Ramkinkar Baji. Victory Colony, 1950 is her first book of fiction. Her website is Bhaswatighosh.com Read Bhaswati Ghosh in The Beacon PLAYING WITH ‘FIRE OF CREATION’: RAMKINKER BAIJ THE WHORE AS METAPHOR FOR A CITY
Leave a Reply