The toddler bouncing on his eighty-year-old arthritic knee was not Biswambar’s great-grandson, not even his grandson. But the product of his own octogenarian loins that the entire village had written off as too old for rehabilitation. Biswambar could hide neither his glee nor the told-you-so look. He had always felt that his life had a great purpose, but unlike others he truly believed it to be served in this lifetime itself. His heart swelled with pride as he dwelled upon the tiny wrinkled face that was the spitting image of himself.

 

His wife, Shanti, though, had done all she could to prevent this little scene of cosy domesticity from materialising. Ever so often, during their six and a half decades of fruitless togetherness, she had turned down both his requests.

 

“Die or let me marry again”.

 

The first one he silently wished and the second one he said aloud. Nevertheless, by now capable of reading his unspoken dreams, she heard both of them. It is not very clear in what order he made these oft-repeated requests, but, whatever the case, she summarily rejected both of them. She was a robust countrywoman who ate and worked like an ox. She was childless, so what? As far as she was concerned that was neither a disease nor a crime. Surely not reason enough to die just because the old man was feeling hot inside his dhoti.

 

And as far as his marrying again was concerned she had a solution to that - her nutcracker. The betel nut cracker, a silver work of art decorated with ‘minakari’ that her father had chanced upon in a Rangoon market and which was an essential item in every Oriya bride’s trousseau in those days. If Biswambar ever dared to do the unthinkable and bring home another wife, she knew just what nuts to put through the cracker. She could even hear his screams of pain. That would be some music to her old jaded ears!

 

Biswambar, though blissfully unaware of these random rumblings in his wife’s mind was not married to her for so long without knowing what she was capable of. If the worst came to the worst, he was certain she wouldn’t hesitate to bury her kitchen knives in him, in the absence of a hatchet. Thus, he held his tongue and patience, concentrating on keeping his organs in working order, waiting for time to decide when Shanti should no longer stand between him and a long line of illustrious Rays.

 

For all her carefully laid out plans, Shanti died an unheralded, unheroic and hence unsung death. She went to bed one night, as she did on all nights and unlike all mornings simply failed to wake up. Biswambar in any case had no time for death songs. He had a mission, a lot had to be accomplished and time was running out.

 

Barely had her ashes turned cold when he donned the white bandhgala , that endless years of marital strife, resentment and indifference had painted over with ivory. He thanked his erstwhile father-in-law for having given him at least something that he could still use. He still looked like a prince. So what if the prince was now an ageing maharaja who had no heirs to take over his empire? He would be changing all that soon enough.

 

Kanhu Barika hadn’t bothered to open his little barber shop that day. He had been summoned to serve the maharaja and knew he would be duly compensated for his services. Kanhu worked his way through a full body hot oil massage, trimming and dyeing and it was half a day before he was finally satisfied with the results. Fingers twirling the waxed tips of his resplendent raven black moustache, a twinkle in his eye, a song in his heart and a spring in his stride Biswambar stepped into the sunshine.

 

The Nayaks welcomed him with bowed heads and folded hands. They had been serfs to the Rays since generations and their women still worked in other households, cooking and cleaning. Rabi Nayak had never looked Raysaab in the eye. Yes, it was true that Saheb had come to them but he had no illusions that their equation had changed. Raysaab may own half the village, but at eighty he was no prize catch as anybody’s son-in-law. Despite his serfdom Rabi still had the option to refuse, an option he knew was only notional. With eleven mouths to feed that included seven daughters between twenty-one and six, he was wise enough to recognise a golden egg layer when he saw one.

 

He paraded all his daughters, even Chutki. They looked so fresh. Biswambar liked all of them. He chose daughter number three, fifteen year old Gauri. What helped make up his mind was the school uniform she had donned. The wedding was like nothing the village had ever witnessed before and money flowed like water. Gauri thought that it was all a game, a game she would easily win, when she set eyes upon her ancient beau. On her first night she saw him again and with a little womansense and a lot of disappointment realised this was no game. Biswambar closed the bedroom door behind him with a bang that reverberated through all the creaky corners of his ancestral home ensuring everybody heard him. They all did, smirking at each other at the old man's foolishness. Gauri took one look at the purpose on his face and promptly fainted. Biswambar hung around patiently, sprinkling water on her face, waiting for her to come to her senses.

 

A few months later it was difficult to imagine that the proud pregnant memsaab prowling the Ray household was the same bumbling clueless daughter of Rabi Nayak. She had completely adapted to the new set up. She enjoyed ordering the help around, even some who had once been her neighbours. And the anteroom.......that was her little secret, her doll's house. She loved the things there, seeing and touching them. Until, one day Raysaab spotted her in there and flew into a fit of rage, forbidding her from entering the room. Though she didn't faint again the sight of him still instilled fear in her heart.

 

Raysaab on his part was happier than he had ever been. His young wife was carrying his offspring and his heart felt healthier than ever before. Nothing pleased him more than showing off his new child bride. How he wished Shanti could see this. The cantankerous old woman would fly out of her samadhi. Good thing she had been put to rest along with her cursing.

 

As far as Rabi Nayak was concerned the seeds he had sown had sprouted and promised a spectacular yield. It was now harvest time. Gradually the cooking bowls in his household got smaller and there was space to turn around as his other daughters moved into the Ray mansion, first on invitation and later without it. Raysaab loved having the girls around. The house was huge enough and besides his wife had lately become quite unwieldy especially since the baby was born. The household needed care and so did he. The girls were quick learners and responded well to incentives.

 

Gauri woke up to strange sounds at night. It was probably her fertile imagination. But the muffled giggles, subdued whispers and creaky bedsprings told their own tale. The smirk on her eldest sister Gita's face and her refusal to look her in the eye confirmed her worst suspicions.

 

Soon Gita was throwing up all over the place. The visiting doctor put it down to a four-month-old pregnancy, too late for a termination. Gita refused to name the father of her child. With the household full of several males, both workers and relatives, there was some confusion though none of it in Gauri's mind.

-x-x-

 

 

With her own household shrinking drastically, Gauri's mother decides she should move in with her daughters. That way she can take better care of them. The nightly sounds have never stopped, but tonight there is something both new and familiar at the same time, perhaps a smell or a sound. Gauri gets out of bed and puts an ear to the door. Sure enough that's a known smell, the smell of her roots, her origins. And the sounds are the same ones she has heard all her life. Gauri is disappointed with her mother. The woman has no variety, no range! She is producing the same sounds for a maharaja that she did with her pauper husband! The soft mewls and hushed murmurs assail her ears as she realises that a woman will never change her caste nor a man his nature.

 

She opens the door to the anteroom, her little playground- the doll's house. It contains the most beautiful toys in the world. Trinkets, a little carved wooden box here and a pair of heavy silver anklets there, silver hairpins and gold toe-rings, a box of ivory-inlayed playing cards, the fluted end of a gramophone and some broken records, a few painted over. And an exquisite nutcracker that looks like a crocodile split lengthwise. And a saree. She has always wanted to wear the red bridal saree. It is old and has split in places, but she is helpless as her fingers pick up the pile and twirl it around her waist. And the box of blazing red sindoor, that somehow looks redder against her dusky skin than her own sindoor. And the heavy stone studded necklace. And the iron poker in the corner.

 

Biswambar hears the door open but he is too far gone to stop. Then he sees her, Shanti as beautiful as on the day he had married her. He is transfixed and a deep overflowing happiness fills his heart. But she seems to be unhappy over something. Suddenly she moves, advancing towards him. He scrambles to get up. But the awful woman lying beneath holds him in a deadly embrace refusing to let go. Shanti is almost upon him, holding something in her hand. He wants so much to talk to her, explain everything, tell her she is the only woman he has ever loved. There is a curious feeling in his chest. His lips move as if in delayed motion but he hears no sounds. He sees Shanti's arm raised holding her old iron poker, he wonders why. There are only the two of them- she and him. The rest is a slowly enveloping mist that seems to eat up even the air.He gasps trying to take in lungfuls. It all feels like a dream as he sees the poker pierce the skin and enter his flesh. Biswambar falls long before it cuts through his rib and tears his heart. He remembers the doctor telling him that if he ever was in trouble it would be due to his heart.

 

His last thought though, is why Shanti is no longer looking like the fine lass he had married but the horrendous hag he had buried.