As usual she arrived as my watch showed the time to be sharp five in the evening. And inside I felt just so disgusted with her presence. An excessive talkative by her nature, and a lover to snack pack gossips of the locality, would never miss a single day to arrive in time in the park. I never understood the reason why Amma would always love to be charmed by her regular visits. She came almost hopping on her stick and took the same place to sit in haste beside Amma. In her very high powered specs and her regular white sari with a black border, she mumbled as if to leak out some extremely confidential fact, “you know Nilima, the new tenants who came to Dutta’s house are not married couples...”She continued her blabbering. I ignored her as usual, while Amma silently swallowed her chitchats with a mildly smiling face. Amma always gives her extra attention knowing about her life and history. As per as my knowledge, Pratimaji had been from a very rich family. Her husband was on a dairy firm business. They owned three to four bungalows in the prime places of Kolkata. After the death of her husband, her two sons stripped her of all properties and jewellery and left her starving with only a single room, which was formerly used as a store room, on the ground floor of one of their bungalows.
The park is just four buildings away from our house and it had been a regular practise for me to take Amma to the park by the advice of the doctor after her last heart-attack. I had been appointed since last two years to take care of her for the whole day from the nearby ayah centre. She is around mid seventies and a childless widow who loves me like her own granddaughter and hence I too cannot help myself falling for her and call her Amma since I have taken up this job. By now, I have been almost like her own relative and I am the only person possibly who actually knows and also keeps account of her medicines, important phone numbers, daily groceries and other small but vital things of life. I stay with Amma at her one storied house as also I have nowhere to go to after I had been rejected by my in-laws by the missing of my husband. Hence I always believe, every end has its own and new beginning.
The park had been lately renovated and beautified too, by the grace of the new local counsellor. Thanks to the new government that they had at least thought to rack up their brains for such small things in the society which in reality are so important in the neighbourhood. Every evening, children gathered to come and play in the park. A football coaching centre had also started aside with it. Evenings seemed to be a colourful fair each day, with lots of chirps and noises from every nook and corner of the park. One would also find different trolleys selling balloons and panipuris to tempt the visitors in the park by every means. There’s a lake by the greenery and beside it was a huge banyan tree. The serenity of the silent lake can bring peace to any hell of complications in life and the banyan tree stands on its roots to meditate beside the rippling water body all day long, for years. It seems to guard the lake and the park like the grandparent ever born. I have never seen except those two black swans, romancing in the water and playing hide and seek with each other. They at times remind me of my naughty episodes of flirting and being coy with my husband before marriage. Other migratory birds come in and go, nestle and again migrate to another new destination. The wintry weather left its signature with its chilling breeze and the full bloom gardens around. Few masons, at the end of their work, of the nearby upcoming building, tried to comfort themselves with a low bonfire, by the park. Abreast, was sitting the madwoman in her torn clothes, all clad in mud and dirt, reciprocating strangely with her insane happiness to the call and whistle of the masons. The local people call her “Pagli”. A sudden rabble instantly stole my notice inside the park. Amma asked me about the time by my watch. I knew the reason of her inevitable curiosity. Pratimaji had missed her visit to the park, along with her disgusting tales of the locality.
The pearly white moon clambered the starry sky and set its reign just above our balcony. The light-grey veins on its face reflected its hardships of having reached to its goal, amidst the vastness of the sky. The faded beam surrounded the white glowing ball like a promising mother. I starred at it with all my heart, and remembered my mother too. I don’t remember exactly her face, or how she used to look like. It had faded in my brain; only remains the bestowal of her memories in my heart forever. My memories regarding my mother are still alive only among her sleeping posture beside me at night, and the still lingering aroma of the lentil curry which she used to prepare and that I can smell anytime I close my eyes. I had lost my mother when I was only twelve years old and my uncle took me to his house. There I was kind of appointed as a free of cost full-time domestic service. However I had never seen my father. People used to say, my father left my mother when I was in her womb, being wooed by some red-light area woman. I remember how the local street children taunted me about my father’s affair. Then I could not really understand what all that meant. Today I know it all. I sighed. I closed my eyes and tried erasing the facts instantly and save my brain. Nevertheless, my moon everyday comes over the balcony to romance with my memories and leaves me clairvoyant of my life ahead. And so was on that night, when I was again tantalised by the marijuana moon and was almost hypnotised by its beauty. Suddenly I heard a roar of laughter. Immediately I tried drilling the dark black beauty to search for the source. I again heard husky voices of men followed by a fading agonising hum, more precisely quite girlish. I tried to look for the noise around, but sadly enough that the lamp posts planted by the municipality just could not help me at all. “Mala.... Mala...” Called me Amma from inside. I left my moon alone amidst the pacific darkness and got inside the room to attend her.
The morning mist subdued the chilling dark night. The pallid fog around could be smelt fresh along with the flowers in my garden. The only plant which always looked sickly and almost leafless was my bald Tulsi. It was the oldest, but dearest to me. Like any other day, I had completed my bath and was watering my plants. A hoarse voice from beneath dismantled my concentration. I stooped over the balcony wall and found a police van parked below. A stout tall policeman again asked me in the same voice “75/A, Prakrit Residency. Can you tell which side? A new apartment still under construction...”
“I am not sure but I guess it will be on the left of the park. You can take straight to that way and reach the park.” I replied pointing towards the direction. And they drove the van away straight towards the park.
Then I understood why the evenings felt lame without the spicy gossips of Pratimaji. She had been absent for three consecutive days in the park. Even unconsciously I was also looking out for a kind of time pass and was missing her. I felt even more disgusted with the thought that I was missing her in reality; but somehow was little worried too as she used to visit the park so very regularly. Amma was sitting on a bench by the swing and I was constantly keeping an eye on the big gate if aunty would turn up. I suddenly realised the masons were also absent there except Pagli tossing on the ground. To my surprise I found a few parts of the apartment broken and messy, left in an adverse condition. Broken concrete rafters had fallen down on the piles of bricks and sand. It just cleared my curiosity. I understood, it probably was some initiative by the policemen who were asking me about that apartment in the morning. The tea-stall owner confirmed it was totally an illegal construction and hence the promoter had also been arrested. I, however, did not want Amma to inhale the chilling dry air anymore. It could even ravage her health conditions. And so I took her slowly to walk by the lane to reach home fast. Amma knew I hated Pratimaji and so she predicted if I would keep her request to peep into her house. As I unlocked the door of the house, I asked Amma to rest inside and left for Pratimaji’s house.
On my way to Pratimaji’s house, I found Pagli shivering by the side of the devastated apartment. She was lying on the rocky bed of stone-chips with her uncovered legs apart and her one arm on her forehead. Her over-brimmed curves were bulging out of her torn dress from here and there. She looked like an enchantress with no tension or hunger for life and sleeping a happy sleep thereafter. I tried to touch her head. My fingers got trapped in the jungle of her messy hair. I felt her tepid skin. I realised she was down with fever. I tried putting her torn cloth into some shape so that it could at least cover her bare body parts and comfort her from the ravaging cold weather. However Pratimaji was missing from her home, and I found her door was locked from outside. I tried looking up to find anybody on the first floor, but found none except a lit dim bulb in the balcony. I decided to take an about-turn to return to Amma. I looked at the sky and could not find my moon up there. Silence prevailed across the dark sky along with the locality. The lamp posts by the side of the lanes were glowing like tired machines. I made my shawl tight to embrace myself with comfort. The freezing breeze pinned the skin to successfully penetrate the nerves inside. The bare ears and nostrils made it worsening to let in the cool air in the shafts and stir through the veins. My reflex compelled me to throw a peek as I approached the trashed Prakrit Apartments. To my astonishment, I could not find Pagli. My eyes tried searching her speck amidst the hide and seek of the depredated concrete pillars but they failed to find any. I made my pace faster to return back to Amma as the dinner time was already buzzing. Amma was still hooked in her favourite television soaps, as I unlocked the door.
The newspaper vendor threw the Bengali daily in a roll to the balcony and it struck the door. The sound woke me up. It was already so late in the morning. The cosy winter had made me sleep soundly the night before. I ran to the balcony fast to catch the vendor. His cycle was trailing behind in the lane. I screamed aloud to reach him faster “do you know anything about Pratimaji in the next lane?”...He shouted to reply “Hospit-a-a-al!!” He faded away with his speeding up bicycle. I was still glued to his leaving and my brain was trying to turn over the pages of reasoning and logic for what could have happened to the nosy woman in her seventies. I took a deep breath rolling over the train of my thoughts and I moved to get back inside the room.
Amma suddenly was down with fever since afternoon. I got scared being circumscribed by my superstitious thoughts. I just knew I could not lose Amma as she had been my sole soul and backbone since I left my so called “own house and family”. My Tulsi plant was also in a dehydrating condition. Regular watering it was also not helping it to grow. It has started shedding of its leaves and only a few are left there on its thin unhealthy stems. However, in such a poor health condition I did not let Amma to visit the park in the evening. Pratimaji had also stopped visiting the park after she had been hospitalised. Her health conditions were not at all very well. And in addition to that mental trauma was being supplied by her sons at every moment. It had been more than five months Pratimaji was kind of bed ridden and in which condition also she somehow could not manage herself to get even a maid to help her due to lack of money. Two times a day I made it a point to visit her. I prepared her food and also cleaned her room daily. I used to feel extremely bad about her condition and actually missed her chatterbox nature. She had been silent since then, except her twinkling eyes which wanted to share innumerable unshared words. I am always amazed when I find the best love and affection amongst them who possibly I never knew one day and finally I end up being stuck in the cobweb of such unknown relationships of happiness and its power. I bathed her and fed her with food and let her sleep comfortably on her bed.
The autumn or spring came in or not, the summer had already started to rule the season. The scorching sun seemed full energised to burn and penetrate the skin with its hot breath. The sultry season welcomed the month with hot blows and heat. I was already so tensed about Amma that I fasted my pace to almost run back to the house. To my utter surprise I found Pagli was sitting in the temple beside the park. From a distance I found her quiet and silent. As my brisk walk created noise by the friction of my sandals, she turned around on me. For the first time my eyes met her. I found her eyes glowing and watery. I suddenly realised, we never cared about Pagli for so many days that she was absent from the locality. I though knew I was getting late, but could not help myself without moving towards her. As soon as I reached her, she frowned at me. Her shapeless hair almost took a shape of a mesh. Her dark shinning skins were peeping out through her torn dress. Just that another new curve had been added to her body. I touched her abdomen. I, unnerved, found she was pregnant! My eyes were filled with water. I could probably sense the truth behind that. And hence I could presume what really happened on that night of the past winter season, when I heard a female-cry, that would have been probably nobody else other than her.
I could not sleep on that night thinking of Pagli and the future of the baby in her womb. Every time I had seen her wailing in her torn clothes, with no idea about what was going inside her. She could not even take the happiness of becoming a mother. I was afraid if she at all knew how to be a mother. Strangely enough, tears rolled down as my brain took enough time to rack on the fact. Pratimaji left us. She could not survive anymore amidst the tormenting conditions, both physical and mental. She fought so much for eight months to stay alive, to be alive. I felt equally emotionally bereft of her. There was even nobody found to do her crematoriums. The local chairman finally arranged for a priest to do it as welfare and charity. Amma though remained silent on the whole matter, but I knew, she had been rippling about everything inside her mind and brain. The only thing that was noticeable in Amma was her teary eyes. I knew it would take some time for Amma to recover from such sudden shock. It was around nine in the night, when I let Amma sleep in her bed after dinner. Amma did not take much time to fall asleep. I was neither feeling to have food. I sat in the balcony and stared at the night sky. The sky was so dark and cloudy that the moon seemed lifeless and stars seemed unborn ever. My mind started turning over the pages of its note-book and I was soaked in the memories of Pratimaji. I could not believe the woman whom I could never tolerate on any of the evenings in the park, left her small bag of money and few gold rings for my name. Unborn relationships grow unconditional, with only a few touches of care, time and love. The rains poured in asudden. It bathed me with drizzling drops but it could not force me to settle in the room. I felt the soul that rested in peace by then, was showering bliss for me. At a distance on the midst of the dark lonely lane, I could see only a few dogs running and fighting with each other, barking at times too, that was suppressed by the loud roaring of the lightning. The wet smell of rain and the muddy soak, made me feel nearer to the world of peace.
The following morning was fresh enough, indicating a new day of the new routine. The sunny bright sky had set its fair on the morning lows. Dismal enough, the last leaf of my bleak Tulsi plant had shed off. I felt so wistful that I could not save up my last hope of the plant. The newspaper vendor was getting extremely late and so I tried to throw my glance down the lane from the balcony to take a peek of him. Aside I found a few boys of the local club assembled. I tried getting clue what had happened. But I could not understand anything. Soon I found more local people joining them. I asked a passer-by about what had happened. “Somebody died last night. She’s lying on the road”, saying he walked off fast in haste.
The word ‘she’ doubtlessly pricked my mind with the worst of my anticipations. I never knew if what I was thinking would come true. I ran downstairs to reach the location hurried.
She was still lying in the middle of the road, with her torn dress inefficient to cover her full body like any other days and with her legs apart. People known-unknown surrounded her like a honeycomb mostly to see a few of her nude body parts. Streaks of blood and clots stained portions of her butt. She lay on the road in a way to happily take a rest. She was confirmed as dead. My last night’s shower of bliss cursed her for her innocence of being tormented by three unknown strangers who came to work as masons in the locality. And the punishment allotted to her was making her pregnant off her senses and then at the end of it, letting her labour on the lap of the wild night with the faithful guards like those barking street dogs. The child was safe. Somebody rescued the still very newborn girl, with an unknown fate from the den of the dogs. The club had decided to hand over the child to some orphanage. The closed eyes above her button nose did reflect her tiresome journey to this strange world. Her constant fast breathing craved for some drops of milk since her birth. I moved to the club-leader and said, “Dada, can I adopt the child?” The middle aged man smiled at me and agreed with my decision.
Today my Anamika is ten years old. She has been put to a good school in the city too. She is brilliant enough and is the darling of her granny and my Amma. Every day when I get to meet other parents of her school after the school is over, I feel proud to know that Anamika looks like me. I feel blessed and biased to become the mother of such an angelic daughter, an unborn relationship with so much of unconditional emotions and my cause to hope and dream about my last leaf of my life.
*****
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