Even though it had been a week since her daughter had moved back into the house, Mrs. Ganguly still started when the old red polyester curtains, fluttering in the humid breeze, caught her eye. Sometimes she would survey them from the corner of the dining room when Shreya left her door ajar. They disturbed her. They always had. She had meant to give them away to the maid after Shreya had left for college, but instead she’d packed them away into the bottom shelf of the linen closet and had almost forgotten about them.
Shreya had arrived two weeks ago, with one tan leather suitcase and a vanity case to match. Mrs. Ganguly herself didn’t care to shop anywhere more up-market than the closest affordable mall, but she could recognize a Louis Vuitton when she saw one. She didn’t ask her daughter how she happened to afford such a luxury. It was no longer her business to pry. Shreya, a white trench coat hanging elegantly over her shoulders had stalked into the verandah, where Mrs. Ganguly had been taking her evening tea. She had seen the cab roll up outside the gate, but their old faithful, Ranjabati, had scrambled to her rheumatic feet and hobbled downstairs before she had been able to issue any orders. She had sent the new boy after her to bring up the luggage. And she had watched, letting her tea grow cold, her daughter stepping out from the shabby yellow cab, looking spanking new. She saw drivers, crouched outside on the pavement, gambling in their spare time, turn around to look at this latest arrival in the otherwise unexciting Bengali neighbourhood. When the cab had rolled away and the highly strung Ranja had dried her tears, Shreya had briefly looked up at the house. For a moment their eyes had met and Mrs. Ganguly had thought she had seen a hint of a smile on her daughter’s face. She sank into the cane chair in the verandah, her back to the door, and listened for footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sound of efficient stilettos came to a halt behind her. Mrs. Ganguly waited. “The bougainvillea looks beautiful from the gate.” The first words she had heard her daughter speak in twenty years. Mrs. Ganguly sipped her tea. “It’s always looked the same,” she said.
*
Shreya still liked to eat strawberry-flavoured cornflakes. Mrs. Ganguly knew this because she discovered the cereal jar half empty a week after Shreya had arrived. She wondered how the child had ever managed to lose weight. The child. Mrs. Ganguly slammed the larder close and a muscle flickered at the corner of her lips. “Why are you pottering about in the kitchen?” Mrs. Ganguly was startled. She turned around to find her daughter, back from running, in her expensive running-gear.
“If you must run, join a gym. Girls don’t go tearing down the street here.”
“Well I’m not a girl anymore, am I?”
“Well middle aged women don’t…”
“I’m a decade away from middle age.”
“Less than a decade.”
Shreya pulled out the dining room chair and sat down to unlace her shoes.
“So you still wear bright yellow socks?”
Shreya looked surprised. “Well yes, I suppose I still do.”
“And you still like the red curtains.”
“And you still like the floral ones.”
“Red curtains clash with the pink walls.”
“Well you wouldn’t let me have red walls.”
“What kind of bedroom has red walls?”
“The kind of room that belongs to a fifteen-year-old girl who can play the drums?”
Mrs. Ganguly was caught off guard. The last line was new on the menu. Shreya padded barefoot to her room. “I’m going to shower. Stop messing around in the kitchen. Call for Ranja if you want something.” The red curtains quivering against the pink walls were abruptly blocked from view.
*
Mrs. Ganguly couldn’t concentrate on her book; alluring wafts of nicotine were drifting in from the balcony. It had been ten years since her sister had compelled her to give up that unpleasant habit but clearly the craving had remained. She knew she had a lighter somewhere. Setting her book aside, she rummaged around in the drawers of her dressing table. A shiny blue lighter lay under a ragged leather wallet which had once belonged to her daughter. She had found it in Shreya’s room the day after she had left for college, empty except for an old black and white picture of her father inside it. She wondered why she had stored it in the dressing table instead of throwing it away.
Shreya didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until she heard the familiar snap of a lighter putting a cigarette aflame.
“You smoke?”
“I have since you left for college. Though Mashi drove me to give it up ten years ago.” Mrs. Ganguly inhaled deeply and sank into the cushioned cane chair.
“It’s like eating chocolate cake when you’re cheating on your diet, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Ganguly almost smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on a diet.”
“That’s probably the reason for the two heart attacks.”
Mrs. Ganguly said nothing. It was only after darkness had enveloped the crimson hues of the setting sun that she stubbed out her cigarette and spoke again. “Mashi said she found you on that book in the internet.” She paused, contemplating another cigarette, though Shreya had stubbed out hers as well. “What did she say?”
“Facebook. It’s not a book exactly. It’s a social network.”
Mrs. Ganguly shrugged. Technological inventions did not interest her. It had been difficult enough learning how to type messages on a cell phone. “What did she say?” she repeated.
“That you had had two heart attacks.”
“And to see me before I die, I suppose?”
“No. That was my decision.”
Mrs. Ganguly took another cigarette from her daughter’s pack and lit it decisively. “I’m not going to die.”
*
Mrs. Ganguly lay in bed, her stomach growling. Dinner had been most unsatisfactory. A slender slice of grilled fish and some boiled potato. Take it easy, the doctor had said, especially at night. Dear lord, now she was craving a cigarette. At least it killed her appetite while it destroyed her lungs. She tossed and turned for fifteen minutes before finally struggling out of bed.
She found Shreya curled up on the armchair in the living room, with her laptop. Mrs. Ganguly stood at the door and marveled at the speed at which her daughter’s fingers flew over the keyboard. A gold band glistened on the left hand. She hadn’t noticed that before.
“Shreya…”
No response.
She tried again, a little louder.
“Shreya…”
She was engrossed in whatever it was that she was doing.
“Rinki!”
Shreya turned around with a gasp. “Ma! You scared me.”
“I’m sorry. You didn’t hear me when I called before.” Mrs. Ganguly stood at the doorway and fidgeted with the girdle of her dressing gown. Her face was flushed; she hadn’t used her daughter’s nick-name since she had left home.
“Is everything alright? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m feeling hungry.”
Shreya shifted the laptop to the low coffee table and stood up. “I suppose we could find you some biscuits to nibble.”
“What about some of that Chinese food you ordered in for dinner?”
Shreya looked exasperated. “You know you’re not allowed to eat that, Ma. Besides it was fried pork. No red meat for you.”
Mrs. Ganguly sighed. “You have another cigarette on you?”
| “I do…but…”
“It kills the appetite.”
“I know that, but… ” Shreya stopped, biting her lip. “What about some cake? Sponge cake? That’s quite harmless.”
“There isn’t any at home.”
“Well I could bake one. It wouldn’t take long. I do it all the time.”
Mrs. Ganguly raised an eyebrow. “You bake? You couldn’t boil an egg.”
“My roommate in college taught me.” A smile crept into her face. “We used to bake hash brownies.”
Mrs. Ganguly frowned. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“And now you bake hash brownies all the time?”
Shreya laughed. It was still the same full-throated unrestrained laughter that Mrs. Ganguly thought she had forgotten. “Of course not. I bake for Tanya.”
“Tanya?”
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Shreya reached over to straighten a cushion. “My daughter.”
Mrs. Ganguly was glad that there was a chair by the door. “I see.”
“She…she’s just left for college. She’s studying Political Science.” “Well your father would have been glad to know that both his daughter and granddaughter chose to study in England.”
“I…I think she’s going there only to be with her boyfriend.”
Mrs. Ganguly recognized the attempt to lighten the mood. Or her daughter was still every bit as frank as she had always been.
“Really? I thought young people these days used college to explore their options and not be tied down.”
Shreya looked taken aback. “Become worldly, have you?”
Mrs. Ganguly rose to return to bed. She had never cried before anyone and she wasn’t about to start.
*
When Ranjabati brought in tea the next morning, Mrs. Ganguly was awoken by the delicious smell that wafted from the tray she put down on the bed-side table. She sat up in bed and reached for her spectacles.
“What have you made today? I’m supposed to have nothing but green tea to start my day with.”
“Didibhai made cake,” said Ranja, grinning toothlessly. “She let me taste and it’s delicious. I’m so proud of her. Do you remember that once upon a time she couldn’t even make tea?”
“Only too well,” muttered Mrs. Ganguly, reaching for her steaming cup of tea.
Later she entered Shreya’s room to find her daughter stretched on the bed, engrossed in a book. She had often lain like that as a child, spending hours devouring the books from her father’s sizable collection. She had been a good child, thought Mrs. Ganguly. Perhaps she had been too hard on her.
When it had become clear that she was no longer going to hear from her daughter, Mrs. Ganguly had stripped the room off its bilious red curtains, posters of long-haired rockstars and schoolgirl photographs of Shreya with her friends. Floral curtains and impersonal paintings had turned the room into a guest bedroom but only Ranjabati knew that sometimes her mistress would sit on her daughter’s favourite window-seat for hours and emerge looking slightly worn.
Mrs. Ganguly coughed to get her daughter’s attention. Shreya looked up and smiled. “Liked the cake?”
“It was delicious. I’ve had one slice too many.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
Mrs. Ganguly hesitated before holding out the black polythene bag. “I went up to the attic and found a few of your old things. I think Tanya might like some of these.”
Shreya took the packet from her mother wordlessly. She plunged in her hand and brought out a pair of plaid trousers.
“High-waisted pants!” she exclaimed. “That’s all Tanya talks about these days.” She laughed. “I used to look so gauche in them though. I’m glad Tanya’s taken after her father. Look…” She turned the laptop towards her mother and pulled up a photograph of her daughter. Mrs. Ganguly noticed that she was nothing at all like Shreya. In fact, the strange face smiling up at her was decidedly green eyed and red haired.
“So your husband is…”
“Tanya’s father is Irish,” interrupted Shreya.
“I see. Well…she’s…she’s very pretty.” And she meant it.
“She knows not to ask about you,” said Shreya, answering the unasked question that she saw in her mother’s eyes.
Mrs. Ganguly began to fold the high-waisted pants and put it back inside the bag. “When will you see her next, now that she’s in college?”
“She’ll be back for Christmas.”
Mrs. Ganguly looked away. “You never came home for Christmas,” she said, after a pause.
Shreya bit her lip. “I was working. My scholarship didn’t give me any pocket money and…”
Her phone, vibrating on the bed, interrupted her. “It’s Tanya,” she said. She held out the phone. “Do you want to talk to her?”
“What could I have to say to her? I’m a perfect stranger.” Mrs. Ganguly stood up to leave the room.
*
When the storm clouds began to gather, Shreya stepped out into the balcony to bask in the rush of cool air. She had become accustomed to London’s grey chill and Calcutta’s oppressive humidity had been stifling. Her mother was reading the newspaper, seated in her usual cane chair. That chair had been hers ever since Shreya could remember. In the old days, tea-time had been one of the only things she had looked forward to at home. She had been permitted to sit by her mother if she allowed her to read the newspaper without troubling her by chattering. Shreya remembered nibbling on Ranja’s home-made cookies and sneaking sips of tea from her mother’s cup. The day Mrs. Ganguly had discovered Shreya swallowing from her cup instead of her mug of skimmed milk, she had been wacked several times with the rolled up newspaper. Ranja had come to the rescue and had dragged the sobbing child away. A year later, Shreya turned thirteen and decided to no longer join her mother for tea. She feasted on cookies alone in her room and poured her milk down the kitchen basin when no one was looking. These days Shreya preferred coffee to tea.
“When we were newly-weds, your father used to leave clusters of bougainvillea all over the room with messages in them.” Shreya turned to face her mother but Mrs. Ganguly still seemed engrossed in her paper.
Shreya didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Ganguly had never spoken of her husband until now. Shreya’s earliest and only memory of her father was sitting on his shoulder so that she could be closer to the giraffe in the zoo. His photographs, adorning the walls, did not look familiar. She couldn’t even remember the day he had died, although her aunt had once told her that she had watched her father’s corpse being driven away in the hearse and had told her mother not to cry because it would ‘all be alright.’
“Well that’s the first time I’ve heard you speak whilst reading the paper,” she said finally.
“Tea?” asked Mrs. Ganguly, folding the paper and tossing it under her chair.
“No. I prefer coffee. Ranja said she’ll have it ready in five minutes.”
“You picked up American habits in England?”
Shreya smiled. “Bruce is American. Jewish.”
Mrs. Ganguly raised an eyebrow.
“My husband,” explained Shreya hastily.
“I thought you said he was Irish.”
Shreya flushed and looked away. “Tanya’s father is Irish. We used to be married... a long time ago.”
Ranja came in with the coffee and Shreya reached for the cup, relieved to have something to do with her hands.
“I’ve hated the bougainvillea since your father died, but I haven’t had the heart to cut it down.” Mrs. Ganguly finished her tea as the rain came crashing down abruptly. “Don’t sit out here too long,” she said. “You’ll get wet.”
Shreya sat outside until the rain died to a gentle patter, letting the froth on her coffee settle down. She did get wet, but Mrs. Ganguly never came out to check.
*
It was past midnight by the time Shreya returned from dinner. She had lost track of time at the club, with her oldest friend. She tried to be as quiet as she possibly could as she struggled with the heavy iron gate. She knew the noise would wake up her mother, as it had the time she had tried to sneak out for a ride on her boyfriend’s bike. It had been three in the afternoon and she had agreed to meet Anurag because she knew her mother would be catching a nap at the time. As she’d leapt on his bike, she had caught a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Ganguly looking down at them from the balcony. An hour later she had tried to sneak back into the house but her mother had been waiting for her in her room. Although the brown scar on her arm had never faded, Shreya never told anyone why she was uncomfortable with hot irons.
When she finally had the gate open, she locked it behind her and stepped into the verandah that led into the garden and sat down on the grey marble ledge. She had never before appreciated just how beautiful the house, she had grown up in, was. Even now, with the cracks down the walls, faded paintwork and unkempt garden, there was a charm to it that she had failed to acknowledge as a child. She reached out to touch the leaves of the bougainvillea. She had been told that her father had planted it under his window so it could be the first thing he opened his eyes to every morning.
Mrs. Ganguly was intrigued to find a cluster of bougainvillea leaves on her dressing table the next morning. There was a pink paper napkin stuffed into its midst and the writing was familiar. She took her tea out into the dining room that day. Shreya was sitting cross-legged at the table. She put down her feet when her mother entered.
“Why did Tanya choose to live with the Irishman?”
Shreya continued to gaze into her morning coffee. The more sensitive the issue, the more brusque her mother tended to be. When her grandmother had passed away early one morning, Shreya had been awoken with the startling sunlight on her face. Mrs. Ganguly had been standing by the open curtains. “Go brush your teeth; your grandmother’s dead.” Shreya had lain in bed for forty-five minutes, too shaken to move and too scared to face the truth. A weeping Ranja had helped her out of bed. Her last memory of the old woman, who had narrated tales from the Ramayana to her every night for as long as she could remember, was the sight of Mrs. Ganguly efficiently throwing a white cloth over her body. To the frightened nine-year-old, it had seemed like it was all her mother’s fault.
Years of honing a sense of humour made it easier for Shreya to confront her mother. “Never beat around the bush, do you?”
“It seems like an unnecessary waste of time.”
Shreya swallowed her coffee slowly.
“By the time the divorce came through, I was already seeing Bruce. I think that made it look like it was my fault, even though the marriage had been on the rocks for a while. Besides, Paul and I had agreed that Natasha was old enough to make her own choices.”
Mrs. Ganguly put down her cup.
“Having an affair in front of your child? Was that wise?”
Shreya stared at her mother, indignant. “You can’t be serious.”
Mrs. Ganguly raised an eyebrow.
“I was fourteen years old when the Maths Professor moved into the room downstairs. Two months later I found your lipstick on his table when I went down to seek his help in Geometry.”
There was a long pause while Shreya waited for her mother to reply. The sound of the new boy noisily washing the dishes in the kitchen filled the room.
“It was lipstick. Not a brassiere.”
“Ma. Children know things they don’t understand.”
Mrs. Ganguly sighed. “He was a good man, Dr. Mitra. I could talk to him and…”
“Ma. I don’t want you to explain. You see…I understand.”
Mrs. Ganguly smiled. “The bougainvillea leaves were a nice touch.”
Shreya looked across at her mother and returned the smile. “Baba thought of it first.”
*
Shreya awoke with a parched throat. She stepped out of her room for a drink of cold water. The yellow glow coming from the crack under her mother’s bedroom door told her that Mrs. Ganguly was still up reading. She had borrowed Vikram Seth from her that afternoon, even though she had never really taken to reading Indian writers.
“Like the book, I presume?” she asked, stepping in with her glass of water.
There was no reply. Mrs. Ganguly had fallen asleep, reading. Shreya approached the bed to turn off the lamp. She stared down at her mother for a while and then gently removed the book from her cold hands. Dawn was just breaking and she stood by the window waiting for the crimson to spread and then turn bright. Her father had been right; the bougainvillea did look beautiful from the bedroom.
She remembered incurring her mother’s wrath as a child for stretching out across the balcony and plucking the nearest leaves. She wondered now, whether it was the danger of leaning over the railing or because plucking from the bougainvillea had been the sole privilege of her father, that had made her mother box her ears.
Tears prickled her eyes; she would never know.
Коментарі