When she woke up that morning, she found the bed empty beside her. For a fortnight now, he had been waking up earlier than she had- no matter how early she rose- to seat himself on the comfortable rocking chair in the verandah. He was old and bent and she could no longer see his head over the wooden back of the chair, but she knew he was there, rocking gently on the cushioned seat, watching the world go by two storeys below.
These days he preferred to spend his days on that old rocking chair their son had bought when they had decided to leave the old ancestral home in North Calcutta for a smaller apartment in Sunny Park, an upscale neighbourhood replete with round-the-clock security. Both their children being settled abroad with successful jobs, she could no longer find it in her to live in that large house with empty rooms, once filled with life and laughter. Now every footfall reverberated in a thousand memories, her life there a shadow of earlier days. It had broken his heart to sell the house he and his sisters had grown up in, the house where he had brought home his demure bride more than thirty years ago, the house where they had lovingly reared a family. Although they had both agreed that it would be more convenient to move into a two bedroom apartment, they knew too that it was home that they were leaving forever.
He had become weaker since the move. She realized he was unhappy and that the small rooms and shared complex stifled him. These days, she sensed that he found a strange peace in remaining in the verandah until dusk. She would even bring his meals out to him. He ate very little; sometimes nothing at all. No matter how much she cajoled or gently nagged, nothing would persuade him. She could see him growing thinner by the day and it brought tears to her eyes. He had once been such a fine figure of a man.
She brought his tea out to him that morning as she did everyday- half a cup with plenty of milk and sugar. He always had had a sweet tooth. Yet he barely touched that. She tried various preparations and flavours, but he simply wasted away on that chair, rocking gently, lost in thought. She wondered what it was he thought about. He had nothing to say these days, even to her. That didn’t stop her from carrying on a monologue. She knew he was listening, and although he did not reply, she was comforted.
“That new maid who came in yesterday is insufferable. I can’t keep her. She can’t even prepare a simple vegetable curry and yeserday she burnt the rice. When I correct her she is so offensive, my ears burn. It’s a shame really, the help we get these days. The servants of yesteryears are gone.Gone! How I miss Suleman.”
Suleman had been the cook in their house when she had arrived as a newly-wed. She had learnt more about cooking and keeping house from him than she had from her own mother, and after Supriya and Sameer were born, Suleman had turned out to be a better nurse than the woman they had hired from the agency. He was considered a member of the family and she had wept for nights after he succumbed to an attack of typhoid and died under their roof, faithful to the end.
“The Banerjee’s left for Goa yesterday. We should take a trip too. I can’t remember the last time we went on vacation. What about Shantiniketan? Arundhati is sure to let out her house to us for a weekend. It will be lovely. I haven’t been to Shantiniketan since I was in college.” She laughed softly. “You men have no eye for beauty. Even my father was bored stiff there.”
She thought she heard him chuckle and stir in his chair, but since she couldn’t see him, she wasn’t sure.
“Priya will be here today by four,” she told him, pulling her thin grey hair into a tight bun. Often, she had thought of getting a sophisticated haircut like the smart Anglo-Indian lady living next door, who was almost seventy but still wore dresses and drove a small Maruti car. When she had broached the topic with him, she had read the disapproval in his eyes and had not persisted. He was very traditional in his tastes. He had always preferred homely women with long hair and culinary skills. She had met him only once before their parents had fixed the marriage. He confessed twenty years later that he had fallen in love with her thick dark braid and the neat way in which she had pleated her sari. She had blushed befittingly and even then could not admit that in his pristine white pilot’s uniform, she had thought he looked more handsome than Uttam Kumar. Now, as he lay all shrivelled up in his rocking chair, he had lost none of his appeal for her.
Supriya would be coming today with her English husband and a son who neither looked nor talked like a Bengali. She loved her grandson, although she had not seen him more than twice since he had been born. The child displayed such open affection for both of them that her heart couldn’t but warm to him. Besides he had his grandfather’s wide candid eyes, which redeemed the fact that he resembled his father otherwise.
She was baking his favourite walnut brownies. She had learnt the recipe from an American cookbook her daughter had given her on her 50th birthday. She quite enjoyed making lasagna and chicken-a-la-kiev to take a break from dal and maancher jhol, although she would never admit it to her children. In front of them, she would turn up her nose at their continental tastes and serve nothing but good wholesome Bengali food when they were visiting.
“Your grandson will be coming today,” she called out to him. “Don’t just sit there like a marble statue. Teach him how to play Checkers.”
Checkers. It was a board game he remained undefeated at; and although she had never been able to get the hang of it, both Supriya and Sameer had been addicts of the game since they had been eight and seven years old.
She would often recall their early days of marriage when she he would chatter on cheerfully and she would listen in awe to the things he had to say, his opinions on political matters and the intricacies of his work. She remembered fondly, how her heart would bleed in fear and loneliness when he left home for weeks at a time. The television would be turned on at the news channel all day, lest his plane crashed. There had infact, been a crash, eight months after their wedding, but it turned out not to be his plane. When he called later to reassure her, she could only weep silent tears at the sound of his voice. At the risk of his job, he had taken the very next flight home. They had made love for the first time that night. These days, she was alone. At night she would feel the bed creaking as he climbed in beside her. He would never turn in until she was in bed first. It was a recent habit.
She smiled at the memories now. How differently their children had grown up, bringing home boyfriends and girlfriends by the age of sixteen, going to mixed parties, staying out late at night. But neither of them knew the thrill of falling in love with a stranger after one had been married to him for almost a year.
She arranged the first batch of brownies on a tray. Any minute now, they would be here. The doorbell rang and she opened the door. Her grandson flung himself on her, shouting, “Dimma! Dimma!”. She held him close and ran her wrinkled fingers down his almost blonde hair. Her son-in-law was waiting at the threshold, an expression of compassion in his eyes.
“How are you Ma?” he asked, stepping in.
The word “Ma” sounded alien on his lips, but she nodded. She was happy now.
“Come and see your Dadu”. She led the child into the verandah. The rocking chair was swaying gently. She didn’t see her daughter’s eyes darken and the compassion in her son-in-law’s eyes deepen. Her grandson stopped short.
“Dadu? But Mummy said he’s in Heaven, Dimma?” His innocent face was flooded with confusion and his wide eyes were distressed. His grandmother didn’t return his troubled gaze. She was staring out of the window, silent tears flowing down her wan cheeks. A gust of wind made the rocking chair swing violently as the smell of burnt brownies filled the house.
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