By Nirajana Sinha
7/1/1-A Duff Lane, Kolkata-700006, West Bengal, India
Amma moves through the rooms of the old house with a calmness that could put even the lightest of breezes on a summer afternoon to shame. Clutching tightly the door frame, the handle on the old wooden cupboard and the corners of the walls that have now turned almost ashy, she puts her foot carefully, lest a concealed disaster makes her trip on the floor or worse leave a piece of furniture damaged. The only sound that would give away her movement was the jingling of the bunch of keys tied at the end of her saree; her aanchol. The same aanchol that she used to wipe food away from the corners of her daughters’ and eventually her granddaughters' mouths. After putting them through tough times, Amma accepted their voluntary retirement by offering them the sole responsibility of holding onto the keys with utmost dedication. Its been two weeks since Amma has talked to either her daughters or her granddaughters. But she doesn't mind the gap; in fact, the gap gives her the reason to still retain the landline connection and timely change the batteries of the only wall clock in the house. The old box TV remains in the bedroom for the same reason as every evening Amma switches on the news channels not to learn about the latest occurrences in the country but to extend the duration of the phone calls with her daughters and granddaughters. One lives in the USA and the other in London. The latter might have shifted to Bristol over a year ago, but Amma still calls it London. Maybe because they never took the time to explain to her the difference between London and Bristol. Maybe they never even mentioned it to her. But it did not matter to Amma because both the USA and London meant the same to her- a place where her daughters stay and where she could never reach.
But this summer was different. Not different in terms of receiving the cheque deposit in her account or phone calls every five to seven business days. They both were obedient guests to her. Amma’s daughters maintained a strict routine: sending money on the third day of each month and two phone calls each month without fail. This time the issue was something else. The mango tree in the garden glistened with raw mangoes, some the size of her round glasses. Although in other areas this would indicate the beginning of joyous summer as young children and middle-aged people alike would join hands to pluck them and turn them into aachars, jams, and whatnot, it brought forth an unlikely dilemma in Amma’s life. Known in her neighborhood and among her family members for concocting the most irresistible aam-pora shorbot, Amma had once expressed a deep desire to put the mixture in a glass bottle and sell it in the market. Needless to say, the mere thought of it had brought immense shame on her family’s honor as her in-laws shuddered at the thought of their daughter-in-law standing alone at a makeshift stall. The neighbors would think the men don't earn enough to support the family, have you ever seen your mother working in a market, do you think people would buy from you only because your shorbot is good were just some of the utterances that Amma still recalls. The disdainful words swarming around her mind would haunt her even after half a decade, making her feel embarrassed at her ambition: a word that can only be ascribed to men. Discouraged, taunted, and reprimanded, Amma swore to never make another glass. This swearing holds true even after 50 years. Amma would never bring shame to the honor of her family and how could she? A widow for 15 years with no family apart from the two daughters who live continents apart would never even let the thought of breaking the promise cross her mind. Her cataract-ridden eyes, joint pain, muscle spasms, and dry cough at night all bear testament to her dedication to honoring the family name.
However, Amma posed the biggest challenge to her family’s honor one Saturday evening when her neighbor’s son brought a handful of raw mangoes to her doorstep. Caught between “What would they think of me if I don't accept the mangoes'' and “Now, what do I do with these mangoes” Amma made the toughest call of her life by peeling them, scraping out the flesh, preparing the puree and seasoning it with different spices. She did not stop there. Her courage clawing its way to the zenith at an unbridled pace like a kite that found the momentum to float above our terraces or an eagle who moves at an unprecedented speed with its prey in mouth, made Amma add water keeping in mind the perfect ratio of puree and water to create the perfect aam-pora shorbot. The first sip she took, took her by storm as the memories of her childhood, youth, and the praises of near dear ones flooded her. The storm also brought to the surface recollections that she had carefully wrapped and kept safely hidden in a dark corner of her heart; these recollections now collected at the corner of her eyes, glistening as the light danced around her cornea. Overwhelmed, she threw out the rest of the mixture and left the kitchen to wash her mouth and remove any evidence of the bitter aftertaste of the memories. Amma then turned to the clock only to realize that her daily news program had already started. Yet Amma did not budge. She felt a force inside her chest pulling her toward the TV remote yet she stood with bare feet on the cold floor. Her eyes were transfixed at the picture of Sharoda Ma hanging from the wall, or at the seepage marks at the lower right corner of the picture: it was hard to discern. With the same blank expression, Amma took slow strides to the kitchen and picked up another glass. This time with more restraint and with a cautiousness that could put any nuclear physicist to shame prepared another glass. It was the second sip that brought tears to her eyes; not the ones that would take shelter at the corner of her eyes, but the ones that would gloriously find their way to the end of her jaw and then take a leap of faith on the floor. They formed a minuscule puddle at her feet, their circumference taking the form of small spikes. Amma watched closely as another drop offered companionship to the first one. The second one, a little smaller than its predecessor, made Amma purse her lips tightly as she took her aanchol to wipe her eyes rather vigorously until the sockets turned red. But Amma persevered. Having to raise two teenage daughters alone after the untimely demise of her husband had made perseverance a regular visitor at her home. Like her late husband’s sister who would arrive unannounced especially before lunch time after her husband passed: mostly to escape lifting a finger rather than consoling her now widowed sister-in-law. Amma gulped the drink down under just a few seconds before walking to the bedroom and turning on the TV. However, the cacophony of the representatives of different colors and flags could barely leave a mark in her memory as she became focused on analyzing the aftertaste and what spices could be added in a more or lesser quantity. What started off as hesitation soon took the turn of impatience often seen in Royal Bengal Tigers cramped in small cages barely few feet larger than their sizes; these magnificent creations of God would pace the little space they have been offered with pitiable discomposure. Amma caged in a similar way with her internalized what ifs and a newfound restlessness, walked into the kitchen and did the whole process again. This time putting in less sugar while the jingle of a new biscuit brand blared from the TV. Next came an old newspaper and a pen where Amma noted down the quantities of the now modified spices in the margin with a promise to buy said spices from the market the next morning.
This next morning witnessed Amma donned in a white saree with soft peach designs swimming at the ends which proved to be an upgrade from her regular bland white cotton saree. With the keys hanging from her aanchol she went down to the market. A journey that should have lasted for a maximum of 15 minutes took the shape of 1 and a half hours as Amma, fixated on creating the aam panna, argued with shopkeepers regarding the price point, quantity, origin, and color of the spices. After packing everything in her jute bag, she returned home and walked straight to the kitchen, the massive grin never wiping off her face. With exceptional meticulousness, something that she had only expressed on the first day of her conjugal life when she was asked to prepare patishapta for 13 people, Amma prepared a concoction that can only be compared with magic potions and nectar. But the only problem was the lack of somebody to compare it with magic potions and nectar. For the first time in the day, her grin slowly started losing courage as Amma started putting the spices neatly in plastic boxes and inside a wooden cupboard. Right on time, she started watching her news show that day with a bowl of potatoes and cauliflower as her sole companion. Chopping them slowly into little pieces, Amma thought of her daughters and granddaughters and how much they would have enjoyed the drink. But they did not call so Amma was left with “if onlys and what ifs”.
The next morning Amma took shelter in her white bland cotton saree and dusting and cooking chores as the mangoes sat at a safe distance with a dismal face. Another day passed before a miracle arrived at Amma’s house in the form of the neighbor’s son: the root of all dilemmas. He did not just stop with ringing the bell, he even demanded the aam-pora shorbot. He explained with a tender smile how his grandmother had raved about Amma’s aam-pora shorbot and he did not want to miss out on the taste. Stranded at the crossroads of the barriers that Amma is still compelled to nurture and the innocent demand of a young child, Amma stepped into the kitchen and made him an entire jar. Overjoyed, the boy took the jar after carefully listening to Amma’s instructions and ran straight toward his home. The next evening brought even more surprises to Amma’s doorstep as she opened the door to 5 more children, grinning ear to ear and asking for aam-pora shorbot. Amma did not have the heart to refuse. Or maybe she did not want to refuse. Inviting them inside the living room, she brought them each a glass. Even before she could ask them if the proportions of spices were okay, the children had gulped down half the glass. Amma watched them with a tender smile as the dark ground spices returned her gaze from the bottom of the transparent glasses. Overflowing with compliments, Amma soon realized that their hungry mouths craved more shorbot; but too shy to accept another glass the children shook their heads blushing, and ran out of the door. That evening, she again missed her daily dose of news debates and instead stayed in the kitchen to make raw mango jam, a recipe that was passed down from her paternal grandmother. Brimming with anticipation, the next evening did not disappoint her as more children came to her place. but to their utter disappointment and Amma’s absolute despair, there was not enough liquid left to feed each of them. It was then that the oldest among them brought forth a solution: he would get more raw mangoes for Amma. They soon got to work as he counted the number of mouths and Amma calculated the cost. Slipping him the money she wasted no time in getting to work, grounding the spices, cleaning the jar, and washing the glasses. The tiny hands of the boys helped her with the chores as the older boy ran through the door panting. To everyone’s relief, there were soon enough raw mangoes.
Like the clock ticking on the wall, the daily news debates on the TV, the land phone collecting dust and the creaking of the old fan, each day the children came with more mangoes, and each day they drank a glass. Sometimes a few of them would drink two but that never bothered Amma. She made them with the tenderness of a mother bird feeding her hatchling while the thin golden bangles on her arm touched each other ever so slightly as if ringing a melody. A well-oiled machinery was set where each had something to profit from. While for the children it was a delectable glass of aam-pora shorbot, for Amma, it was building a dream into a reality that she had once crushed underneath her own feet. Each morning she woke up earnestly waiting for the sun to set and each evening brought home a bag full of hope; the hope of feeling the same sense of fulfillment the next evening. Days passed and the only thing that changed in these days was her white cotton saree. Amma now wore cotton sarees with a pinch of color, the ones she had relegated to the back of her Godrej wardrobe. Some days with pink borders and on others with sage green, Amma adorned in her new sarees welcomed the children home.
The transaction lasted for about the next couple of months until the markets started filling up with more yellow mangoes than green ones. As the days reported fewer stocks, the excited children at Amma’s doorstep also started calming down. But Amma, determined to hold on to the last speck of hope, turned her days upside down to prepare a new drink with ripe mangoes for the children. And at that point, it was difficult to identify if Amma just wanted to make the children happy or fill the massive void that her daughters and granddaughters had left with her. It has been years that she nursed this massive void, cleaned and tended to it before folding it neatly and settling it at the top of the cupboard; but the void does not bother her anymore. In fact, she does not seem to feel its presence very often. It hides under the bed until night creeps in, but even then it could not bother Amma much since her regular juice-making chores made her too tired to hear its raspy voice.
Just like raw mangoes, the season of ripe mangoes also did not last long. Amma put up a large calendar with a picture of a deity with one hand raised to signify blessings, that took over most of the space; carefully she would calculate the days left and circle them with a blunt pencil. As she neared the tentative end of the mango season, she began recounting with a desperate hope that her calculations were mistaken. Never known for her mathematical skills, Amma was sure she had missed something. She went back three more times before finally accepting the fact- her face clouded simultaneously in agony and in sudden pang of fear. This fear that she felt was not unknown to her: she had felt it when her elder daughter announced that she was leaving in two days or when her husband was on his deathbed and the doctor had said “Any day now” with a pitiful look. Quietly she went to the drawer and kept the blunt pencil with a damaged diary and a bill from a tailoring shop before making her way to the kitchen. Today the kitchen felt smaller than usual as she felt almost cramped up in the tiny space. The walls felt like they were moving toward her; their weight would crush her like a tiny ant between their sand-cement-plaster bodies. She felt suffocated, the hands of the foreseeable yet unchangeable future clutching her throat with all its might and she rushed to her room away from the stack of mangoes. Although the number of mangoes in the market were slowly trickling down, the ones at her place stood still with apt attention, almost sympathising with Amma’s silent heartache. Make no mistake her heart did ache, not because she would not be able to feed the children anymore or prepare her favorite mixture but because the lack of it would again relegated her to the same old routine that she had now grown to hate. The routine was a symbol of her desperation, a cry for help almost to escape the clenching loneliness. Amma recalled how every waking minute of her life was spent in negotiating and disregarding this loneliness be it in the form of feeding pigeons that others in her neighbourhood would prefer shoo-ing away, watering the Tulsi plant at odd times or climbing the stairs to the terrace to check and recheck if the clothes had dried.
The clock on the wall kept ticking loudly, failing every time to cut through the deafening silence. But Amma did not need to be reminded of the time; she knew very well that the boys would be here in another half an hour. But what she did not expect was one of them turning up fifteen minutes earlier leaving Amma bewildered. The loneliness that she carries was too heavy but the sudden doorbell had alleviated that weight and that scared Amma to death. She felt almost empty with the weight off.
Puzzled, anxious, scared and worried at the same time, Amma could not unlatch the main door. She stood with her hands clutching her aanchol just a feet away from the door, holding the keys tightly lest they made a sound. But her hands refused to co-operate and she could not coax them into welcoming the children. The impatient child continued ringing the bell and within minutes more children joined taking part in a fun little game of “whose ring would Amma finally answer”; the symphony made Amma nauseous. She went to her bedroom and locked the door from inside, hoping and praying that the sound would stop. And it did stop as the disappointed children soon left for the nearby field taking their bats, balls and wickets with them. Some said they would come again tomorrow to check and some vowed never to return. But the ones who did show up found a huge basket of mangoes outside Amma’s doorstep and Amma nowhere to be seen. Confused, they rang the bell a few more times only to be treated with the sound of the wind. After a few minutes they too gave up, still debating on whether to return tomorrow while Amma carefully turned on the TV lowering the volume and keeping an eye on the landline phone.
By Nirajana Sinha
Comments