Tara dreamt in gestures. Fast-moving hands, fingers, eyes, eyebrows, and lips – each contributed to the conversation as gestures flowed into one another, involuntarily, unhindered; and then they became jumbled up, like a long string of meaningless words, all incoherent, disordered. She woke up with a start and found herself sweating profusely. The loose top that she had changed into just before sleeping was dripping wet and the sheets lay crumpled at the foot of her bed. She knew she had to calm herself, soothe her nerves, strained and excited by the recent series of events. She tried to pray and lay down once again. But sleep completely eluded her this time. In its place, thoughts gathered. Wordless thoughts painted in images that her mind had picked up throughout her journey in this world.

In the morning ululating women, draped in their fineries surrounded her while her mother served her rice with an assortment of fries, vegetables, and fish in a round shining bronze dish. She felt special. It was her last day of maidenhood. She was supposed to feel special, and everyone tried their best to make her feel so before she ultimately left her familiar surroundings in a trade of love.

Yet looking at her weak and pale mother, struggling hard to support herself on her wobbly knees, she felt indignant. She did not let her mother do the strenuous tasks anymore, taking them upon her young shoulders. And who will support this frail woman now? Recently she had taken to accompanying her mother whenever the old lady had to leave the house. Her mother was incapable of negotiating the Kolkata traffic all by herself anymore and Tara had volunteered to be her chaperon. With both the other siblings engaged in full-time office jobs, Tara’s creative entrepreneurship gave her ample time for these chores. In fact, she looked forward to such evenings quite eagerly.

She thought of her own helpless and different childhood. She remembered how gently yet firmly her mother used to help her even with the simplest of conversations. Language of words had been a problem for her always. As a child, she could not understand how others got their message across by simply moving their lips while she could not. She communicated with her hands and facial expressions and her mother could understand her perfectly. But when it was a matter of conversing with the outsiders, she failed miserably. It left her frustrated as well as bewildered. With a complete hearing impairment, speech was an alien territory for her; a territory which left to herself, she found quite unnecessary. It was only when she had to step beyond her home, she felt a gap.

It was her mother who had taught her, painstakingly, to lip-read. It was she, who took little Tara to Rina Aunty, her private tutor, a special educator by profession. It was her mother again who discerned Tara’s love for sketches and nurtured her talent. In short, her mother had helped her to live and succeed. Now that strength was ebbing away from her mother in the autumn of her life, Tara felt a gush of affection towards that lady, replacing her earlier awe. As if, somewhere along the journey of life she had overtaken her mother, to mother her.

Now that she was almost successful, her venture of wall art raking in some plump money, she felt a more pressing need to be there for her mom. She was contented with her life; except for her professional goals which kept evolving the moment she arrived there, she felt she had not much to ask from life. But now she felt a tinge of unhappiness. With the solemnization of her wedding, she will perhaps not have the freedom like before to be there for this woman. Possibly, her mother too would start depending on her two elder sons, leaving this youngest child to concentrate on her new domesticity. Her heart wailed silently at such thoughts. Though she had made it very clear to Avik regarding her attachment and what she thought of her responsibilities towards her parents and Avik too had promised her his full support, doubt lingered in her mind, like a persistent afterthought. After all, this was an arranged marriage. Yes, true that it had been arranged by the two of them after they came across each other on an online dating site. Both of them were looking for partners to settle down and companionship with mutual understanding was their criteria, not love. Moreover, Avik was as stone-deaf as herself. Tara did not want anything more.

Of course, love had once been there. It had showered her young and supple body with many caresses. But that was a past, buried and sealed for good, though those touches still lingered in every fold of her flesh, the joints of her bones, and every nook of her body. Those touches still whispered to her in a language that she had once shared with a man with words. The man who was willing to forego the comforts of verbal language to take his place beside her. He was the one who led her by the hand as she took wobbly steps into the world of hearts and bodies. To her and him, both were important. Love meant absolute trust and complete sharing, or at least that was what she believed it to be.

Her thoughts went back to her dreams. With a half-eaten apple in her hand, she was desperately looking for someone and calling out loud. She was searching for a person with whom she could share it. The apple kept decaying in her clutch till it ultimately became a mass of fermented fruit pulp, oozing out of the closed fingers of her fist. She was trying to free her fingers off that thing and asking someone in the shadows for help. The sticky feeling along with rapid movements and her attempts to communicate had woken her up and she found herself soaked in perspiration.

The dream – why did it keep visiting her? She thought of it as her incomplete affair with the man of her dreams. Somewhere perhaps a trace of hope had lurked, slyly evading her self-scrutiny. That hope too must have turned stale by now, like that partially consumed apple. Just that she was not aware of it.

She knew that such thoughts were blasphemous now with her wedding just in a few hours. But she was happy she was going to marry another like her. The other that had come into her life as a burst of mango showers had proved seasonal. She had walked away from him. It helped her save her dignity and also spared her the looks of sympathy. What else could she do with a man who wanted to project his deaf and dumb fiancee as one with both ears and speech? He said he could handle everything post marriage and he promised to keep her happy. She knew he would, at least he would try in every conceivable way. But she felt uncomfortable, undignified. Her body demanded as much respect as any other. The subterfuges that he was trying to force upon her, pricked her like burning needles! She was at the crossroad of love and dignity. She knew if she compromised on this, she would lose her dignity and her self-respect. So, no compromise.

Even now, she could feel the void. The raw wound of separation was yet to heal. Those pleading eyes, the hurtful looks – Samrat had told her – “Why can’t you trust me just once? Let the wedding pass without any hassle, after that, we shall have a full life to carve out as we want to!”

He had missed the point. She kept mumbling, “It’s not about trust, it’s not about us too, it’s about me. Let me survive myself!”. Still, when he went ahead with his plan, thinking he was acting on both of their behalfs, she did the only thing that she could think of.

Before posting the letter to Samrat’s parents, she read it again –

“ I have known your son for the past three years. We were classmates in Art College. Now that we have decided to tie the knot, we thought I must introduce myself properly. Since I am both deaf and mute since birth, this is the only mode by which I could properly correspond with you. I am sure we shall evolve a language of our own too, just as Samrat and I have, when and if we get to know each other better. We have no intention of carrying out the wedding without your blessings…”

And to Samrat, she had written, “Perhaps we are yet to craft a mutual language where we both shall easily understand each other’s mind. It’s not the lack of trust but a huge dent in my dignity that I am yet unwilling to undergo. For a girl without speech or hearing, her dignity is all that she has to cling to. What else will she live for? Hope you understand some day…”

She knew she had killed all her chances of getting Samrat with the strokes of her pen. Yet she waited for the reply which never arrived. In her heart she knew that his parents would never respond; still, a small part of her kept waiting till the wait itself became a part of her. She did not even realize that it was there, the ache was there till she started getting those weird dreams.

The last time she met Samrat, he was devastated; he lashed out at her with all the bitterness in his heart, born out of an unbearable pain of thwarted desire yet he understood her need to be honest. She had held him close to herself, cradling his head upon her breasts, crooning softly in his ears. In those few moments, she had given him her lifetime of love. When he left, she felt strangely hollow, as if a part of herself was gone from her forever.

Even her ever-supporting parents were not too happy with her choice. After all, Samrat was the Mr. Perfect in their daughter’s life and probably their solace in their old age. Who would otherwise take care of this physically challenged girl after them?

“I cannot even die in peace! Why did you refuse Samrat? He loved you so much and was so heartbroken!”

“ But Mama he wanted me to pose as someone I was not! Wouldn’t his parents have felt cheated? Wouldn’t they have held me responsible for the rest of their life?”

Of course, there was no answer to her logic. They could not argue anymore and kept their silence but somewhere a thin line of sulk remained like that hairline crack on a piece of porcelain. Tara knew she had lost her chances of giving her parents a lifetime of happiness.

Dating Avik was partly her way of consoling her parents who were still reeling under the shock of the broken engagement. But partly it was also to find a companion for herself. She did not feel the need to love anymore, but like many other human beings, she too desired a family of her own – a man, perhaps even a child! Samrat was her past. A beautiful past, but one without closure. She wanted to keep it like that. Avik was present. The difference between the men was the difference between the self and the other. With Samrat perhaps she could have traveled in the exotic realms of existence but she knew Avik would be her home, the anchor that she needed to remain rooted. The flamboyance of romance had faded away with the aging youth. She cherished the common sense companionship and light-hearted camaraderie that Avik offered much more than the rush of adrenaline she used to feel each time she saw Samrat. She had promised herself that she won’t compare the two men but somehow, comparisons rose in her mind without any of her conscious promptings. But she was not unhappy with the resulting analysis. In fact, she had agreed to marry quite happily. Lightheadedness accompanied her since the wedding rituals began a week back. She was happy, but somehow those dreams with their faithful recurrence each night for the past few days had cast a shadow over her happiness.

She shook herself out of all morose thoughts and tried to think of happy things. Yet she failed again. Frustrated, she logged into Messenger and pinged Avik.

• Not asleep?

She felt comforted by his promptitude.  

•  You too! Why?
• Because we both are on the verge of a new beginning
• Yes.

She could not say more. But she was smiling. Avik continued the chat, steering it toward their dream project of expanding Tara’s wall art venture in various ways. His training in accounts and finance and his present job role as one of the auditors in a middling law firm had given him insights into the pragmatics of running a business.

With every message exchanged, Tara felt lighter until finally the dead weight of gloom completely fell off her shoulders. It was dawn when they finally signed out. The red sun, the ancient witness to so many beginnings since ages, saw another. And Tara felt love slowly embracing her heart in its fluffy, warm arms. The festered apple had completely disappeared from her clutch.

About the Author:
A translator, creative writer and academician, Nabanita Sengupta holds a PhD in English. She has 2 works of translation to her credit, one volume of edited anthology of critical essays and an edited anthology of poetry. Her latest publication is an anthology of poems Three Witches’ Songs, composed with two other poets. Her research articles, poems and creative writings have been published in various journals and anthologies, both print and online. She also has an e-book of short stories to her name. 

The post Apple by Nabanita Sengupta first appeared on Prachya Review.

One such unsung simple yet heroic woman was Mira didi. A few years senior to me, she lived near our ancestral house in a small suburb of Kolkata. Her large smiling eyes held stories of deep sorrow for anyone who could read them. A buck-toothed smile always lit up her face at the slightest pretext, yet that did not speak of a carefree happiness. It was mellowed by a sad wisdom that she had acquired in her journey of life.

She was very popular in her neighbourhood. And I used to be completely enchanted by her in my childhood days. Whenever we visited our ancestral home, which was generally a biannual affair during our summer and winter breaks, Meera didi ruled over my every waking moment. As a child I would often visit their house to meet her. Each time I would notice a room that was always locked from outside and each time I would ask them who was in it. They always told me that big brother was sleeping there. I used to feel a tinge of envy for that unseen big brother who had a doting mother to let him sleep to his heart’s content. On the other hand was I, daughter of the most authoritarian mother of this world who had set up a military regime of daily chores for me. My only breathing space was these holidays when the iron clad routine of my mother was replaced by unlimited pampering of my grandparents and uncles. So each time I saw that locked room, I would be deluged under waves of self pity. How often I wished myself to be on the other side of that locked door! Much later had I realised the price that the big brother had to pay for being that so-called luxury of that room.

One particular evening, still etched strongly in my memory, revealed the mysterious big brother to me. During one of my visits to my grandparents, I walked up to Meera didi’s house, as was my usual habit, and entered through the open door. Once inside the house, I found the door to that enigmatic room open and saw a particularly handsome man sitting on the bed and staring at the floor. My curiosity got better of my manners and I kept staring at him. Finally, I was getting a glimpse of the person of whom I had only heard. He must have sensed my presence too, because he soon looked up straight towards me with his bloodshot eyes. There was something wild in his expression that scared me and I screamed, “Meera didiiiiii”! He did not move from his place but darted an angry look that rooted me to that spot. Meera didi had immediately rushed to my side, comforted me, and made me sit on a chair away from that room. That was the only day that I saw him in a long time but it left a strong impression on my mind.

As I grew up, I learnt the truth. The violently schizophrenic elder sibling of Meera didi had to be locked up in that room, particularly during the day time when there were chances of outsiders visiting their home. Jadu dada, the big brother, could not tolerate strangers. Every unknown and little known face was a threat to his mental equilibrium. At times he grew violent even towards familiar people. But there was a unique bond between the siblings. Even during his most violent fits, Jadu dada never hurt his little sister. In his worst phases too, he would take his meals only with her and be calmed down by her. Parents did not have much say in his life. In fact his violent fits often caused bodily injury to these two people; as if, shunned by the rest of the world, he took out his anger and frustration on the people responsible for bringing him to this world.

His attachment with Meera didi was of a different kind. She was the only anchor in the swift changing contours of his mindscape. In fact when he was extremely agitated or paranoid, only she could calm him down. His medicines, food, exercise, medical checkups and counselling – everything had to be handled by her and she happily took it up all. She was younger than him, yet she mothered him. She began spending most of her time in his company, taking care of him, soothing his agitated nerves and even playing with him – so much so that even her own studies took a back seat.

Once I had grown up, I heard the stories of how Jadu dada, a brilliant student and a sculptor, was everyone’s favourite and how all of a sudden everything had changed when he woke up one morning screaming incoherently about some plot to murder him. At first his family thought it was a normal nightmare and tried to calm him down. But soon it became a recurring event to the point that he started getting scared of the night. At times his distress would go up to such heights that he sobbed and pleaded for some sleep. The family had no alternative but to seek medical intervention. Thus began an unending cycle of physicians, psychologists, and psychiatrists. These stories, in hushed voices, lingered around the family and their acquaintances. As a child I did not have an access to these but later heard a number of tales of the tragedy that completely disoriented the lives of the members of this family.

Meera didi was the only one who did not lose hope in face of such a dire catastrophe. She tended to her brother’s health and to her parents’ spirit with dexterity beyond comprehension. She was only fourteen then and Jadu dada was eighteen – the age when all Indian parents dream of carving either an engineer or a doctor out of their brilliant offsprings. In this particular household, institutional education took a backseat as the parents channelled their time, energy, and money to procure a decent everyday life for their children. Gradually once things settled down a bit and Jadu became more self-dependent, and Meera didi tried to find some time for herself. Amidst all this turmoil, she did manage to scramble through her schooling and become a graduate. She did not want to go back to institutional studies any more, in fact she had lost too many crucial years to go back to get degrees. Instead she did a few courses on special education and training of children with special needs and started running a crèche for special children. Her experience had made her realise the sacrifices that the caregivers had to make, especially the working mothers, simply because our society turned a blind eye towards the needs of these people. There were not too many takers for her service initially. But her repeated visits to various counselling centres, narratives of her personal experiences, and recommendations from her brother’s doctors gradually helped people trust her and send their children to her. Thus began Meera Didi’s second journey as a caregiver. Jadu dada still remained her first responsibility but her constant attention had given him a greater grip upon his life. He still had hallucinations and fits of temper but he could muster them much better now. In fact, in some of his better days, he also helped out Meera didi with her work.

I remained an occasional visitor to Meera didi. It was during one such visits that I met Mr. Ayan Bose. He was a doting uncle to one of the girls in the crèche. He would often stay back in the crèche and help didi with sundry things. One look and I could feel his deep feelings for her. But didi was hesitant, scared. She did not want to commit to a relationship where she could not give her full attention. She knew that Jadu dada was her lifelong responsibility and she did not want another attachment to take up her time.

Sometime later, during one of my trips to Meera didi, I found the brother and sister hugging each other and crying bitterly. Mr. Bose stood quietly in a corner. I looked at him questioningly. He gestured me to keep silent. Suddenly I heard a broken voice – come here. Jadu dada was pointed his fingers at me and called me to his side. His eyes were red once again, just as I had seen the first time. But the anger had given way to a deep sadness. In fact his eyes resembled his sister’s so much that I was quite taken aback. I quietly approached him and he said – “tell your didi that Ayan is good. She should marry him. I am well enough to take care of myself now. Still, whenever I need her, I know Ayan will let her come here. But if she doesn’t marry, I shall never be able to forgive myself. I promise to be good to ma-baba too.”

He said all these in a single breath and abruptly turned away to leave the room, not giving anyone a chance to even say a word. We all stood dumbstruck. Mr. Bose was the first one to break the silence.

He held Meera Didi’s hand and softly said – marrying me does not mean leaving the crèche or dada. We can all stay together and be one big family. How and where, we can always discuss and finalize. Please don’t refuse now.

A year later Meera didi and Mr. Bose were happily married. And they quite efficiently took care of the two sets of parents as well as Jadu dada. Under their care, many little angels also found a secured shelter, giving all those parents the space to pursue their dreams as well. And my unsung hero – she happily multitasked between her various chores, her smile lighting up the lives of whoever came in touch with her.

About the Author

Dr. Nabanita Sengupta is presently working as Assistant Professor in English at Sarsuna College, affiliated to the University of Calcutta. Her areas of specialization are 19th century travel writings, women’s studies, and translation studies. She has participated in various translation workshops and presented papers in national and international seminars in India and abroad. Her creative writings have been published at various e-journals like Muse India, Coldnoon, Café Dissensus, News Minute, etc. She may be contacted at nabanita.sengupta@gmail.com.

The post An Unsung Warrior by Nabanita Sengupta first appeared on Prachya Review.