But my grandmother didn’t believe my father when he said he didn’t mind, and perhaps she was right: maybe my father, despite his protestations, did mind her wearing even that thin gold chain; maybe somewhere deep in his heart he did really think of it as a sign of disrespect to his dead father.
But my grandmother didn’t intend any disrespect to his memory; far from it.
I wear it because He gave it to me, she explained to me once. You know — your grandfather. It was the first thing He ever gave me — in Rangoon, soon after we were married. They have wonderful rubies there. I couldn’t bear to give it away now — He wouldn’t like it. I haven’t taken it off once in these thirty-two years — not even when I had my gall-bladder operation. They wanted me to take it off, but I made them sterilise it instead. I wasn’t going to have my operation without it. It’s become a part of me now.
Sometimes, while massaging her neck, or when she had fallen asleep in her chair, I would pull the chain out of her blouse and run it through my fingers. It was so scratched and discoloured it didn’t look like gold any more. It smelt exactly like her, of soap and starch and powder, but in a sharpened, metallic kind of way. It really was a part of her.
And then, one day in the year 1965, more than one and a half years after her trip to Dhaka, she gave it away.
One afternoon I came home from school to find the radio blaring at top volume in my grandmother’s room, upstairs. It was so loud I could hear it on the pavement, where the schoolbus had left me. I ran in and found my mother lying prostrate on her bed, with her fingers jabbed against her temples and a wet cloth draped over her eyes.
What’s going on? I asked her.
Who’s to know but God? she said. Your Tha’mma went out of the house at ten this morning and came back a couple of hours later. She wouldn’t have anything to eat — I asked her myself, I said, you’ll fall ill if you don’t eat, but who’s listening to whom? — and instead she went upstairs and turned on her radio and it’s been going like that ever since. She turns it even higher when the news comes on; it’s happened three times already.
Where did she go? I said. I was very surprised, because at that time my grandmother hardly ever left her room: we could count the number of times she had been out of the house in the last year on the fingers of one hand.
My mother shrugged again and pulled a face. Who knows where she went? she said. Who cares?
Didn’t you go up and ask? I said, knowing that the answer would be no, because at that time I was the only person in the house whom she would allow into her room.
Why don’t you go and tell her to turn it down now? my mother said. She might listen to you. It’s no use my asking her.
I ran upstairs and pushed my grandmother’s door open. I could only see her back. She was crouching over the radio, with both her arms around it, as though she were waiting for the noise to blow a hole through her.
I knew at once, the moment I saw her.
Tha’mma! I shouted. What’s happened to your chain? What have you done with it?
She turned to look at me then. Her hair was hanging in wet ropes over her face; her eyes were glazed and her spectacles had fallen off. I was frightened by the sight of her: I wished I hadn’t shut the door behind my back.
I gave it away, she said, her glazed, unfocussed eyes alighting, not on me, but on a point on the wall above my head.
Why Tha’mma? I said. Why did you do that?
I gave it away, she screamed. I gave it to the fund for the war. I had to, don’t you see? For your sake; for your freedom. We have to kill them before they kill us; we have to wipe them out.
She began to pound on the radio with both hands. I took a step backwards, fumbling with the doorknob, behind my back.
This is the only chance, she cried, her voice rising to a screech. The only one. We’re fighting them properly at last, with tanks and guns and bombs.
Then the glass front of the radio shattered as her fist drove into it. Bits of glass tinkled on to the floor and the radio sputtered and fell silent. She wrenched her hand back, gouging out flesh and skin on the jagged edges of the glass. She gave her bloody hand a shake, put it on her lap and stared at it, bemusedly, as the blood dripped down the sides of her sari, dyeing it a gentle, batik-like crimson.
I must get to the hospital, she said to herself, perfectly calm now. I mustn’t waste all this blood. I can donate it to the war fund.
It was then that I screamed. I screamed from the pit of my stomach, holding my head and shutting my eyes. I screamed until my mother and the servants came and carried me to my room, and even then I screamed and would not open my eyes.
I was still whimpering when my mother came into my room with the doctor. She patted my head and said: The doctor’s going to give you an injection so that you’ll be able to rest for a while.
I struck her hand away and said: What’s happened to Tha’mma?
Don’t worry about her, said my mother. She’s all right. Your father came with another doctor and they took her away to a nice hospital where she can rest for a few days. Doctors and nurses will look after her, and she’ll be very calm and happy. Don’t worry about her.
Why did she do that? I said. What did she want?
My mother felt my forehead worriedly while the doctor tested his syringe.
Don’t worry about Tha’mma, she said. It’s this war with Pakistan. She’s been listening to the news on the radio all the time and it hasn’t been good for her. She’s never been the same, you know, since they killed Tridib over there.
‘Killed’ Tridib? I said, as the needle slipped into my arm. Who killed Tridib? You told me it was an accident.
Yes, yes, my mother said quickly. That’s what I meant. Now go to sleep, don’t worry.
Why did you say ‘killed’? I said. What did you mean?
But the soporific glow of the tranquilliser had already begun to warm my body, and in a moment I shut my eyes and forgot.
That was the first time I had any inkling that Tridib’s death was the result of something other than an accident.
I was sent to stay with my mother’s brother in Durgapur when his body was brought back from Dhaka. He was cremated while I was away. May left for London the same day, and immediately afterwards Mayadebi and her family went back to Dhaka.
I knew nothing of what had happened, nothing — not even that Tridib was dead.
My parents came to Durgapur a week later, to fetch me, and on the way to Calcutta my father stopped the car at the great temple of Ma Kali at Dakshineshwar. I was taken aback, because I knew my father hated fighting his way through the crowds at the temple. Why have we stopped here? I asked.
Never mind, he said, and I knew at once that it was a special occasion.
We locked the car and went in, followed by a swarm of importuning pandas. My father spotted our family priest, and he came running across the great paved courtyard and led us through the crowd up to the inner temple. While we were circumambulating the inner temple, with our offerings cupped in our hands, my father put a hand on my shoulder and said: Listen, there’s something I have to tell you. A very sad thing happened while you were away in Durgapur. Tridib died in an accident in Dhaka.
He stopped and bent down to look into my face; I think he’d expected me to burst into tears. But for me ‘dead’ was just a word, associated vaguely with films and comic books. That was all; I had no means of attaching that word to a real presence, like Tridib’s. I felt nothing — no shock, no grief. I did not understand that I would never see him again; my mind was not large enough to accommodate so complete an absence.