A Second Chance

A courtyard stood between the out-house and the main house, plastered with dung and mud, with a tulsi platform right in the middle, there since her mother’s time. As soon as her feet touched the ground, knives seemed to prick her bare skin. There was a rag to wipe her feet with outside the kitchen, and a pair of slippers that she had to slide in and out of all the time; her feet touched water hundreds of times a day. An icy cold breeze blew onto Lahana’s face and chest when she crossed the courtyard. Her old sweater and shawl of cotton and wool could barely keep out the cold. The whole village seemed to have fallen asleep as early as nine that night. A woody smell and the odour of ducks thickened the cold winter air. The stove was still lit in the kitchen. She’d left water on to boil for her father because cold water would cause phlegm to sit tight in his chest in the chill of the next morning.

Lahana wondered if she should go and put on the slippers. And then she told herself, forget it, I’ll be done in a few minutes. The night will pass and in a week, another Sunday will be dawning.

Benu Das crossed the yard at that late hour, deep in thought, hands in his pockets. He did not notice that his wife Lahana’s body shook with the cold. Benu wore a fluffy jacket on top of his full-sleeved sweater, a cap on his head, and a muffler around his neck.

No one lived in the out-house which consisted of two long rooms with discarded, torn mattresses and a few metal chests. At that time, there was often no electricity. They had been without electricity all day. Benu switched on the torch on his mobile phone to find his way. But Lahana’s feet knew the way. And she could walk through with her eyes closed. She knew what to expect next. If Benu were not preoccupied on the way back from the out-house, he would pull Lahana urgently against his body. Like a shameless man pulls an adulteress. And he would rain kisses on her eyes, mouth and nose. And then, loosening his embrace, he would fish out a handkerchief from his jacket and wipe his face, as if to remove all traces of Lahana from his skin. Lahana trembled in hatred and anger when that happened. Benu looked at his watch without coming back in, and said, ‘I’m leaving then, dear?’ The bus stop was a half a mile walk from their house. The last bus would take Benu to Kushbhadrapur. It would be eleven by the time he reached home. Would his sister-in-law, still be awake then?

‘Go safely!’ She didn’t want emotion to thicken her voice. She wanted to sound as natural as possible. She was not going to reveal her heart to Benu Das.

Lahana ran quickly through the yard, the cold prickling her bare feet and sheltered in the kitchen. She warmed her hands at the stove, as if purifying them in the fire. She heard her father, Sahadev, stir. He lay with his face covered by a quilt on a cot right outside the kitchen. She heard him exclaim softly, ‘Hare Ram!’ Those two words also fuelled Lahana’s anger. ‘Hare Ram! What did that even mean? Why couldn’t her husband take his wife home? He came to her father’s house every Sunday. That day was one such Sunday. He would return on the next. Her father’s two words compounded his pain at this state of affairs.

Once, early on a Monday morning, when Lahana gave her father water to wash his face, he said, ‘That boy doesn’t know happiness.’

Lahana wanted to retort, ‘Do I seem happy to you, Baba?’ But she didn’t. Her mother would have understood her unspoken words. Sahadev was concerned about Benu’s sorrow and his daughter’s fate. There seemed to be an invisible understanding between men.

It was not easy for her to get to bed. She had a hundred household things to do. She needed to put aside the leftover rice, dal, vegetable and fish curry in separate bowls. Fortunately, it was winter. In the summers the leftovers had to be kept loosely covered, with a basin of water nearby. She had to lock the kitchen, check if her Baba’s quilt and lamp were in place, make sure the main entrance door and windows were closed. And on the days there was no electricity, she had to scan every corner with the lamp in her hand. And once she loosened her garment and went to bed, she usually fell fast asleep.

Her bed was damp on that winter night, and cold. She didn’t feel warm even after pulling the quilt right up to her chin. The kapas cotton stuffing could not generate enough heat for one person, it needed another living being, preferably a human, or at least a pet cat or puppy to keep the warmth in. An animal in the bed. Yikes! Although many did do that. When she couldn’t keep a man, how was she going to keep the heat in by herself?

Lying on the cold, moist bed, she put her icy fingers on her open breasts and thought back to how five years ago, she was married in the month of Aghrayan. She had gone to her in-laws, after the Ashtamangala ritual at her father’s place, to be a wife. She had started hugging Benu before going to sleep when she had to stop. He had been a little strange in bed, stiff as wood, his body apparently unaffected by the touch of his young wife. And as she had lain there wondering about it, there was a knock at the door, a rap first and then a thud.

‘Thakurpo, o thakurpo, please wake up, your Dada is not feeling very well.’ Benu woke up with a start. His newlywed wife lay embarrassed on the bed, pulling up her ghomta to cover her head. Benu Das returned only in the wee hours of the morning. It was his Dada’s health one day, his sister-in-law’s, his boudi’s restless mind the next, or even a rat that had fallen into a trap inside the kitchen some other day.

Within the month, Lahana came to know of her husband’s shortcomings. His boudi sulked if he lay down with his wife. She also said mean things about Lahana’s father: a bed made of frail wood, flimsy jewellery, low quality clothes…. So, one day, packing her jewellery and other things, Benu Das brought Lahana back to her father’s house. The man might have lacked bravery, but he was not greedy; he returned her gold, and her expensive sarees. He just couldn’t return the large bed, gifted by her father, that occupied his entire room. Perhaps he and Boudi slept on it. Who knew!

It was a year now, Benu Das had been coming to see her every Sunday. Lahana felt too proud to ask him if the weekly visit had any meaning or future. He took the bus on Sunday morning, and brought fish from the market, fresh greens and vegetables, and sometimes sandesh and rosogolla. He’d sit with Lahana inside the kitchen, sometimes play a round of chess with Sahadev, help her with the utensils that were stored high up. Sometimes he’d repair electrical wires that hung out of place. They’d have lunch together and after finishing an early dinner, he’d take the bus back to Kushbhadrapur. As if it was a well-established routine. Benu Das had never surprised Lahana by arriving suddenly in the middle of the week. Neither had he ever asked, if he could stay over tonight. If he arrived early Saturday evening, then it would be possible for him to stay the night. But Benu never did that. Perhaps he still didn’t have his boudi’s permission to spend the night.

Such Sundays, dressed in routine and restrictions, tired Lahana these days. Saturday evenings even brought a slight sense of apprehension. As if something inside her didn’t want Benu Das to come on Sunday. Although she never had any respite from household chores, the fixity of this Sunday routine, created to suit Benu’s preferences, took away an entire day from her. Lahana could choose not to cook five varieties of dishes on Sunday. She could just spread her washed hair on her back on a Sunday afternoon and visit the banks of the Jamuna canal. Or she could spend some time by herself with the ducks in the thickets of the Daspara fields. She could do this any day of the week of course, but the fact that she could not do things her way on Sundays grated on her nerves.

Lahana had observed two things, and she had often considered telling them to Benu Das, but the words stuck in her throat. Their uncertain domesticity, without the slightest intimacy, didn’t even leave room for resentment or disappointment. However, it was also clear to her that her hesitation in telling Benu about her thoughts gave him a hold over her. His skin thickened with each passing day. It was as if the good man didn’t understand a thing!

For one, Benu Das had never tried to know what Lahana liked when he brought all that food and all those sweets every Sunday? He never asked what she liked eating. Benu Das only brought what he liked.

Lahana felt bile rise in her throat every time she saw Bele fish. And she felt like running away when she cooked crabs. Would Benu Das have brought those things time after time if he knew how she felt about them?

For another, when he arrived, he drank tea and ate the snacks he’d bought at the bus stop while he chatted away with her father. In the meantime, she had to deal with the gross stuff he brought, and cook it on an empty stomach!

She had never had her tea and breakfast on time. He had never come and said to her, Lahana, the samosas are getting cold, you should eat them?

After lunch, she had to wash the vessels, and clean and wipe the kitchen. And after that, she still had a little time before evening fell. Couldn’t they just go out, somewhere nearby, for a little while? Had Benu Das ever said to her, Lahana! Why don’t you put on a nice saree? How about that yellow one with the zari border and stripes? Shall we go visit the Shiva Mandir at Daspara? The forest department houses deer, and birds and other animals near the Daspara forest. That’s a nice place to visit.

Where were these things? Which Lahana liked? Where the recognition that she too yearned for a break? Benu Das never spared a thought for these things!

The household chores began to suffocate Lahana more and more. Perhaps she’d had as much to do before, but she hadn’t thought about it much earlier. Lahana was growing older, but neither her ability to carry her burden nor her desire to do so had grown with age.

Her elder brothers were married and could only live independently, leaving their old father behind, because Lahana was there to look after him. Taking care of Baba’s bathing and eating habits, washing his clothes, collecting water – the caregiving required at least one person. Lahana stayed home, and if one really thought about it, she got by with enough clothes and food because of her brothers, and so, these tasks were by duty, hers. That calculation must have been there in her Dada and her Boudi’s mind. Was there anything in this world that was not calculated? Dada could have taken Baba to his place for a few months, but how could that be done? Lahana could not be left alone. Because, although she was married, Lahana’s situation was akin to that of an unwed girl. The entire world had fixed its eyes upon her.

Lahana’s brothers and sisters-in-law sometimes came to visit Baba. Someone had to take care of the food that sang on their tongues? Their poor father was old and their sister busy with chores. So, like Benu Das, they also brought along quantities of food: fresh vegetables, fish, meat. Lahana sat in the kitchen the entire day and cooked. It’s not as if her sisters-in-law did not peek inside the kitchen from time to time. But they were enjoying a day of relaxation, free from chores, outside their own homes. They had to deal with the kitchen every day, after all!

Lahana didn’t have any respite from caring for her father, nor from managing the kitchen. The work was like a python that constricts and suffocates more and more with time. Her days passed in this manner. Her hair was messy and unkempt, oil and masala stains marked her carelessly draped saree, there were cuts on her fingertips. And inside the cracks made from those cuts were embedded the deep hues of turmeric and chilli paste. There was no one really to call her own, yet Lahana’s chores seemed unceasing.

Whenever she thought that she didn’t really have anyone who was entirely her own, her heart trembled. She had her father, didn’t she? That simple, old man who was a peon in the post office, his life spent in distributing letters. When her mother left, she told Lahana, look after your father. Lahana wasn’t married then. And looking after her father at that point of time meant coming over occasionally from her in-laws and asking after his health and needs. Just like her Dadas and Boudis came over – accompanying social formalities with fruits, jaggery, fish and meat, and clothes. Did her mother know that her daughter would have had to slog for hours in the kitchen once she came back from her in-laws? And that she would be taking care of her Baba permanently.

Lahana’s heart ached looking at her father’s unshaven face, his puffy eyes, and his forced smile through the gaps in his teeth. It was only because of him that Lahana was stuck in the house. No one would take this man, just as no one would take her. Did Baba know this? Perhaps he didn’t?

Her father nurtured an earnest hope that his son-in-law was getting back on track. Perhaps he would take his daughter back. He hesitated to ask, he had second thoughts about asking him not to keep returning. After all the man was coming to visit his own wife! Could he ask him not to do that?

But Lahana had come to realise that these visits of her husband were lifeless, like the wheels of a machine. She had no real faith in her father’s hope. She had to explain this to her father, straight away. She thought he would be better able to take it, and that later it would cause him more pain.

Lahana’s mind was firm that Sunday at the start of the month of Magha. It was the day of Saraswati Puja. Winter was leaving with Spring not far behind. The colour of the sun was changing as well. Palash blooms flowered in abundance, the evenings were thick with the smell of the mango blossoms. The four schools in the village would perform the puja in addition to the community and neighbourhood celebrations. Two of the schools had asked Lahana for help in cutting fruit, chopping vegetables and cooking khichuri. The streets were filled with boys and girls in colourful clothes. The school children had created festive pandals and gateways with paper streamers, mango leaves and flowers. Lahana was definitely going to step out that day. She recalled the final days of school. They would stay up all night to decorate the pandal. Those days seemed like the last happy days of her life.

Her father said softly, ‘Your husband will soon arrive!’ Lahana didn’t listen. She wore a yellow saree, put a flower in her hair and left. Her Baba held a biscuit in his hand with a steaming cup of tea alongside. Lahana was fasting. Everyone knew the desired outcome of worship cannot be realised without a fast.

By the time she finished the ritual anjali offerings at the girls’ school and came home with the prasad, it was twelve. She would have to bring khichuri for herself and Baba from the nearby puja in the afternoon. Lahana had decided she was not going to cook a morsel that day. The afternoon breeze carried the call of an eagle. It had been a few moments since the mike stopped playing songs. Changing times seem to hide in the yellow sunbeams. Lahana’s feet seemed to dance. Happiness! She finally had a Sunday to herself.

Benu Das was sitting at the entrance to the main house. Had the fish in the packet begun to rot? What a strange fellow, she thought. Couldn’t he just have washed and cleaned the fish and marinated it with salt and turmeric, even if he couldn’t fry them himself? It seemed as if the manhood of these men lay in their incapacity to do anything. Benu sat quietly, anger and frustration clouding his face! Fearing his son-in-law’s rage, Sahadev hurriedly said, ‘You’re so late dear, Benu hasn’t had his tea or snacks, it’s gotten so late!’

Lahana seemed surprised. Twisting her hair, along with the flower, into a bun, she smiled and said, ‘Oh Ma, look at this man! Instead of fasting and offering salutations at Saraswati puja, he is sitting in someone else’s house waiting to have tea and snacks, would something have gone wrong if you hadn’t come today?’

‘Someone else’s house?’ Benu Das shouted brusquely. ‘Am I a stranger to you? You’re my wedded wife, I come here every week to avoid people’s slander. It bothers you, does it?’

‘Seriously! Why come every week? Are you a daily wage earner that you cannot take off during the week? Why don’t you come every day? Stay here if you can’t take me back to your own house.’

Benu Das was quiet.

‘Will you come every day? Tell me?’

Lahana washed and arranged the tiffin boxes for carrying the khichuri in. ‘You won’t be able to come every day, will you? Tsk, tsk.’ Lahana put her fingers on her cheeks like in a television soap and said, ‘Fine, let it go, then you don’t need to come on Sundays either.’

‘You don’t want me to come?’ Benu Das was a little surprised, a little disappointed even. ‘What will the people call you then? Do you want to rip this marriage apart?’

‘You’re the one who’s going to lose if you don’t come.’ Clad in her yellow saree, Lahana shone like a goddess in that courtyard. ‘Where will you roam in the sun and rain? You will have digestion problems if you eat at the hotels and restaurants. Your boudi asks you to leave home every Sunday, doesn’t she? Another man visits her. The old one is appointed from Monday to Saturday, and the new one on Sundays. Ha, ha!’

Benu Das stood up irked and was about to strike her. He rushed towards her and was ready to pounce on her. Sahadev started screaming in fear. But Lahana grabbed hold of Benu’s hand. ‘Shut up! Or I will shove you out of this house, and you will leave here in your underwear! And I will send someone with those papers to break our marriage next Sunday. And if you ever cross the threshold of this house again, I will break your legs, you hear me?’

Lahana’s voice reached the lane outside their house. Benu Das stepped out onto the street. Potato, brinjals and ridge gourds lay on the threshold from the upturned packet. The fish had probably rotted, but she didn’t even feel like picking them up and throwing them away. Lahana’s tears wet her cheeks. She’d tossed that out about Benu’s boudi on a hunch, but Benu Das had not denied it. It seemed her was suspicion true.

She no longer felt like going to bring the khichuri. Her father sat glumly. She thought she would quickly boil some rice. While serving the steaming rice onto his plate, Sahadev said, ‘You’ve done the right thing, dear! Benu’s visits seemed like those of a fox. I never liked it.’

*

The air was cooler in the mornings, during the month of Baisakh. The bus had a puncture and had stopped. The passengers who had descended while the driver and cleaner changed the tyre, were all out on the road, chatting among themselves. The bus was in front of the Borotala Anganwadi. The children had formed a queue for their lunch. And the really young ones were being carried and seated. The large aluminium vessels contained yellow khichuri.

Did Benu Das know the rhythm of the woman who pumped the tubewell and helped the children wash their hands? One of the children had no strength in his arms and his legs seemed not to work. The woman wiped his hands and mouth and fed him carefully, blowing on the food to cool it down. It was the woman Benu Das had sent to her paternal home with all her things one day!

Benu Das, who had spent his entire youth afraid of losing his home, under his sister-in-law’s tyranny, felt happy at the sight of so many children licking their hands and smacking their lips and enjoying the food cooked by this woman. Lahana seemed to have transformed into the provider of food for so many children.

Lahana, aren’t you scared? Of losing your husband’s home?

The image of her laughter on that Saraswati Puja Day glistened in Benu Das’s mind. How could someone who never had her own home be afraid of losing someone else’s shelter?

The bus started moving without Benu Das inside.

Benu Das stood and observed. Could he still ask Lahana for a little rice, and some shelter, or was it too late?