She Won't Reveal 45

          She Won’t Reveal (45)

                      Nidhu Bhusan Das

         “What! What’re you doing.’ tis wild, like lesbian, you tit,”Sujata sniggered, taken aback as Anu huggled her. The dinner over they’re now in the room of Anu ready to go to bed.Anu giggled, only. Silence fell as Sujata chose to remain shut and observe how Anu behaved.

“Not lesbian. Love you, Sujata. That’s all. No other peer to love. Can’t we live the rest of life together? “Anu thought, confused and unsure.

“Maa and papa morose again. I’ll tell them I’ll remain with them.Arup is past. They are present in my life. Also Sujata and her son,”Anu ruminated.

”29 years now.1987. Thursday. 10^th September. Dawn.I cried for the first time. In the nursing home. Maa relieved of pain. Papa was told. He smiled. In the morning sweets were distributed in the nursing home. My birth was celebrated thus, immediately. Papa arranged it.Thammi was brought .She was so happy.Maa saw me first in her presence. So happy everyone in the family. I was three days old. Brought home. Celebrations again.Thammi invited her friends. Some of them celebrities. I was blessed.Thammi told me all this,”Anu remembered.

“Papa didn’t put up his plan. I should ask him tomorrow morning. Time to be open with him. I must share. Ready to go by what he suggests.Maybe, the plan be modified through discussion.Sujata will be with us, her son also. Sujata, you silent? Feel you think it pervert? No, dear it isn’t. I love you, rely on you, that’s all, the big deal,” she called Sujata, nudged her into laughter.

“Was thinking. Can’t you forget the bf? Parents are important. Am eager to meet mine, tomorrow positively, before I leave. My son is concerned, alone there. Have the duty to parents and son,” Sujata turned emotional, unusually

     It’s strange how they could be friends, by nature quite apart. This happens sometimes. The common attribute’s compassion. They’re compassionate.Sujata’s now sad because she cannot figure out the future of Anu which appears to be hazy and uncertain. But she’s certain of her own future, she’s charted it out.” If Anu fails to reconcile with her parents, enough is enough.Maybe, I won’t be interested any more to salvage her. You cannot go along with a fool for ever. She doesn’t know what’s good for her, and how to be back to peace, harmony and stability,”Sujata concluded.

“Sujata, dear, I understand you’re puzzled thinking how quizzical I’m. Actually I’m sadly glad. You don’t know why. The presence and going away of Arup reminds me of a story he once related to me. He said it’s real and possible. Would you listen to it?” asked Anu, eager.

“Maybe,” said Sujata, terse and reluctant.

“He later shared the audio version of the story with me,” Anu said and played the cassette on the PC in her room:

              She notices me even to-day.  She is younger than I, by seven years. I am 35.  Mother of two, Jharna has still those profound eyes though the moderate wrinkles on her face betray her dream remains unfulfilled. Her hair is graying. Five feet four inches, she does not have the graceful gait she had in her twenties. She smiles only when we are face to face, and feels free to talk to me. In fact, we often meet.

               We talk about the days when we were in our twenties. The other day, we had the same nostalgic stance during the routine tryst. ‘You are so nice, madam’, I said. ‘Don’t try to pamper, I know what I am. You didn’t care --- to know my mind.’ I would not say she is wrong --- accusing me unreasonably. During my university days I would come from time to time to our village to meet my widow mother. She would live alone at Ghagra, our village, two hours away from Dhaka by train. We have the same family tree, and the district board road separates our house from theirs. Jharna would regularly cross the road to visit my mother in the afternoon. In one such afternoon she came to my study with a cup of tea. She would make tea for my mother. Sipping, I said, ‘Your tea is so intoxicating.’ ‘Is it? ‘she asked, taking interest. ‘I am not lying, girl --- it is true’, I sought to assure her. ‘Let me see’, she said taking the cup. She sipped and smiled betraying her joy at sharing the cup with me.

             We dwelt on the tea for some time, and this led to what you would say philandering and amorous advances. Meanwhile, she was leafing through my Shakespeare, leaning forward close to me. We were breathing hot and quick. She broke the spell of silence: ‘Will you take mother away from the village when you have a job once university study is complete?’ ‘I have the mind’, I said candidly, and noticed her smile had vanished. She rose to leave, eyes brimming with tears. This happens in case of a village maiden that cannot hold back emotion. I began to rub her head embellished with long dark hair made into two neat and tidy buns. In a moment, we were kissing and cuddling on the couch. How long, I cannot remember. But the memory lingers.

            I postponed my return to Dhaka the next day. Jharna came to know about the postponement. She heard I had bathed at noon and swam across the river as we did during our school days. Many of my school mates are now working men but our friendship remains. After lunch I was lying on the couch. I was brooding over the closeness with her last afternoon and its significance when she crept into the study and planted a kiss on my forehead, desperately. I reciprocated. ‘Why have not gone to Dhaka?’ she asked, smiling, triumphantly. I felt ashamed and said laboriously, ‘I thought I should stay with my mother one day more.’ She chuckled and softly said ‘Is it? An obedient boy, indeed! When will you return then?’ I asked, ‘Are you eager to see me away from the village? ‘Do you think so?’ she snapped, her cheeks swelled. I pulled her and kissed indiscriminately for a few minutes. She gave in and lay on my lap, holding my stooped neck with two hands. I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ She said, frankly, ‘I love you. Will you remember?’ I smiled and kissed the village girl, saying ‘I shall remember and be with you for ever.’ She was assured.

             But the parents of the girl would not like to see it happen. The next 25 Baishakh (8 April) wedding songs greeted my classmate Rekhan who exchanged garland with reluctant Jharna and reddened her forehead with vermilion the next morning. It was a negotiated marriage in which the bride did not have any say. I dared not go and take her to me for life.

              We did not forget the tea party that afternoon and what followed. I remember, she said, ‘I love you.’ Last night we met and again vowed, ‘We love.’ On Face book regarding status our profiles read: In relationship with ---.’ We are in dream. Though in different countries, we dream and love. We go back to our twenties.

 Wrinkles on her face betray her dream remains unfulfilled. Her hair is graying. Five feet four inches, she does not have the grace in movement she had in her twenties. She smiles only when we are face to face, and feels free to talk to me. In fact, we often meet.

               We talk about the days when we were in our twenties. The other day, we had the same nostalgic stance during the routine tryst. ‘You are so nice, madam’, I said. ‘Don’t try to pamper, I know what I am. You didn’t care --- to know my mind.’ I would not say she is wrong --- accusing me unreasonably. During my university days I would come from time to time to our village to meet my widow mother. She would live alone at Ghagra, our village, two hours away from Dhaka by train. We have the same family tree, and the district board road separates our house from theirs. Jharna would regularly cross the road to visit my mother in the afternoon. In one such afternoon she came to my study with a cup of tea. She would make tea for my mother. Sipping, I said, ‘Your tea is so intoxicating.’ ‘Is it? ‘she asked, taking interest. ‘I am not lying, girl --- it is true’, I sought to assure her. ‘Let me see’, she said taking the cup. She sipped and smiled betraying her joy at sharing the cup with me.

             We dwelt on the tea for some time, and this led to what you would say philandering and amorous advances. Meanwhile, she was leafing through my Shakespeare, leaning forward close to me. We were breathing hot and quick. She broke the spell of silence: ‘Will you take mother away from the village when you have a job once university study is complete?’ ‘I have the mind’, I said candidly, and noticed her smile had vanished. She rose to leave, eyes brimming with tears. This happens in case of a village maiden that cannot hold back emotion. I began to rub her head embellished with long dark hair made into two neat and tidy buns. In a moment, we were kissing and cuddling on the couch. How long, I cannot remember. But the memory lingers.

            I postponed my return to Dhaka the next day. Jharna came to know about the postponement. She heard I had bathed at noon and swam across the river as we did during our school days. Many of my school mates are now working men but our friendship remains. After lunch I was lying on the couch. I was brooding over the closeness with her last afternoon and its significance when she crept into the study and planted a kiss on my forehead, desperately. I reciprocated. ‘Why have not gone to Dhaka?’ she asked, smiling, triumphantly. I felt ashamed and said laboriously, ‘I thought I should stay with my mother one day more.’ She chuckled and softly said ‘Is it? An obedient boy, indeed! When will you return then?’ I asked, ‘Are you eager to see me away from the village? ‘Do you think so?’ she snapped, her cheeks swelled. I pulled her and kissed indiscriminately for a few minutes. She gave in and lay on my lap, holding my stooped neck with two hands. I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ She said, frankly, ‘I love you. Will you remember?’ I smiled and kissed the village girl, saying ‘I shall remember and be with you for ever.’ She was assured.

             But the parents of the girl would not like to see it happen. The next 25 Baishakh (8 April) wedding songs greeted my classmate Rekhan who exchanged garland with reluctant Jharna and reddened her forehead with vermilion the next morning. It was a negotiated marriage in which the bride did not have any say. I dared not go and take her to me for life.

              We did not forget the tea party that afternoon and what followed. I remember, she said, ‘I love you.’ Last night we met and again vowed, ‘We love.’ On Facebook regarding status our profiles read: In relationship with ---.’ We are in dream. Though in different countries, we dream and love. We go back to our twenties.

             “Arup believes, foolishly, he’s the hero and I’m his heroine willing to be with him anyhow. Stupid thought, indeed,”Anu curled her lip. (continued on 26 March 2015)