Mrinmoyee Devi stared at her reflection in the mirror. Where was the woman who generously applied red sindoor along the parting of her long raven black hair? As her hands swayed, her conch and coral bangles used to connect in a harmonious rhythm, reminding her of her marital bliss. But fate had been cruel to the daughter of a humble headmaster from Chakdaha. The coarse fabric of her white saree irritated her smooth, ebony skin. Somewhere the unmistakable aroma of kosha mangsho wafted in through the grills of the window. How she longed to savour the slow-cooked mutton! But the norms of a conservative society dictated a widow’s diet. Frugal, insipid, and vegetarian.
“M. U. T. T. O. N!” Mrs. Baker repeated the alphabets slowly as 15-year-old Mrinmoyee jotted them down in her bound notebook. Her tongue protruded as the unfamiliar curves of the English letters wove their magic on the white paper.
“Let’s call it a day, little lady.” The Anglo-Indian lady got up from her chair. “Your father wanted to discuss something with me.”
Mrinmoyee had a fair inkling of what was about to follow. But she said nothing. And, as if on impulse, she bent down and touched Mrs. Baker’s feet.
“Mrinmoyee! What are you doing? You know…” Mrs. Baker retreated a couple of steps back, choking on her words. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed between the two. And then the English teacher exited her student’s room.
Mrinmoyee Devi tucked her Gopal Thakur to bed. She kept a copper tumbler filled with water and two pieces of sondesh she had prepared in the evening. After the customary ritual of putting God to sleep, she got up. If Mrs. Baker ever saw her favourite pupil in this situation, she would have been shocked.
“Maa. I don’t want to get married.”
SLAP! That was her mother’s response to her supposed impertinence.
“Why did you ask Mrs. Baker to leave?”
Kadambari Devi didn’t respond, but glared at her husband.
“This is the result of your liberal upbringing.”
Chatterjee Babu said nothing. The strict headmaster of Chakdaha was usually tongue-tied in front of his wife.
“As it is, it’s difficult to get a suitable boy for her. Look at her complexion. Which sane person would marry her? You tell me!”
“Maa. I could have taught at Baba’s school if I had continued my education.”
“O Maa Go. My daughter wants to remain a spinster throughout her life.”
And the melodrama continued.
The rickety bed looked forlorn. Anadi Banerjee had been a good man.
“Joy Maa Kali. I had almost given up hope. Anadi Babu is God.” Kadambari Devi didn’t attempt to wipe away her tears.
Mrinmoyee said nothing. So far, 35 prospective grooms had rejected her. It was not that she was ugly. But she had been cursed with dark skin. And that equalled a calamity in a conservative Bengali household.
Anadi Banerjee worked as a postman in the Nabadwip post office. His first wife had died of pneumonia. Time was running out, and he wanted a progeny to further his family bloodline. As a result, the dark-skinned 18-year-old Mrinmoyee who spoke a smattering of English had come into his life. His neighbours were not pleased, though. They were convinced that Mrinmoyee was useless. These half-baked memsaabs are so arrogant, they whispered amongst themselves.
She is a harbinger of ill luck, they scorned, as Anadi Babu’s dead body was brought in from the police station. A hit-and-run case. The culprit was never found. And Mrinmoyee didn’t have the guts to follow it up. She braced herself for tougher times instead. For insults—like Kolonkini.
#*#*#*#*#*
Mrinmoyee Devi pursed her lips as she kneaded the chana. She had mixed some date palm jaggery in the fresh curd cheese. Of late, she had started experimenting with different types of sondesh. It gave her a comfort she hadn’t imagined. As the jaggery melted in her mouth, she felt a sudden tinge of happiness envelope her body. If only…
On a Janmashtami evening, when her neighbours were busy celebrating the birth of Lord Krishna, Mrinmoyee Devi charted her own destiny. The chanting Vaishnavites didn’t notice the widow slipping away and boarding a cycle rickshaw.
MRINMOYEE MISHTANNA BHANDAR was a roaring success in Calcutta. Even the Englishmen stopped by to have her speciality—gur’er sondesh (sweetmeats made of jaggery). Now five women worked under the widow. It was hectic. Weddings now were incomplete without her trademark desserts. But Mrinmoyee didn’t complain. Those girls had been thrown out of society due to various reasons, and their lives had been rendered meaningless. And then they met this woman from Nabadwip.
Mrinmoyee looked at her extended family. Of course her life could have taken a different turn if she had continued her English lessons with Mrs. Baker. If Anadi Babu had been alive, she would have been nursing a baby by now. But what was the use of ‘ifs’ now? She couldn’t turn back the clock now. And truth be told, she didn’t want to.
Her future was in her hands. As Mrinmoyee Devi closed her shop, she paused for a second to breathe in the night air. It smelt of independence.
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