A
Room Full of Presents
by
Rumjhum Biswas
Priti
looked over the
letter once again.
She had read it
three times that
morning already.
Yet she felt that
she had to read
it once again,
just to make sure
that she had read
it right. She
couldn't believe
it. Why would
he write to her
at all, let alone
after all these
years! None of
it made any sense
to Priti.
He
had not written
the letter himself.
His solicitors,
The Messrs. Dastidar
& Ray had
written it - "on
behalf of The
Late Devnath Gupta,
and in accordance
with his express
instructions".
The letter clearly
mentioned that.
Just as clearly
as it requested
her, or rather
advised her to
be present at
their office on
the fourth of
February, at ten
AM. There was
some legal jargon,
which Priti didn't
even try to understand.
She needed to
discuss this strange
event in her otherwise
very uneventful
and proper life,
with Trina.
Trina
was sensible and
calm, a natural
leader, though
she had a mulish
streak that used
to bother Priti
a lot before.
But nowadays she
was glad to let
Trina take the
lead.
Priti
dialed the number
of Trina's office.
"What
is it Ma?"
Trina's voice
was clipped and
self-assured.
A third person
might even take
it to be rude,
but Priti knew
better.
"There's
this letter, Trinu,"
she said, addressing
her daughter by
her own term of
endearment. "It's
written by Dev's
lawyers."
There
was a pause.
"Dev,
who?"
"What
do you mean who?
You know which
Dev I'm talking
about. He is dead,
did you know that?"
"Yea,
I guess so. I
mean I think I
read his obituary
somewhere, but
didn't give it
much thought.
He used to be
your batch-mate,
right Ma?"
"Yes.
Now this letter…"
"What
does the letter
say?"
"Um…
I've been asked
to see his lawyers
the week after
next. Something
about a will…
I don't know why…"
"Ma,
I'll see that
letter on my way
back home, ok?
Don't worry; I
don't think it's
anything to be
afraid about.
Unless you've
been up to some
hanky panky after
Baba died!"
"Trinu!
That's a horrible,
shocking thing
to say. What do
you mean I…?"
"Oh
Ma! Can't you
take a bit of
teasing? C'mon
now, don't be
such a prude!
All the women
of your generation
had some sort
of a crush on
him! Including
you! That didn't
stop Baba from
loving you the
way he did, or
you him for that
matter! You stay
put, I'll drop
in early, ok?"
Priti
smiled a little
as she replaced
the receiver on
the cradle. Trina's
teasing made her
feel more normal.
The letter had
startled her much
more than she
would admit. Yes,
it was true that
she had had a
crush on Dev.
But so did all
the other girls
in her class.
And, if her suspicions
were true, some
of the lady teachers
were also a little
bit in love with
him!
Dev
had been the stuff
of a Mills &
Boon romance.
He was tall, dark
and handsome,
and extremely
rich. To make
matters worse,
he had also been
a very good student.
So nobody could
say however much
they would like
to, that his father's
money had bought
him his seat at
Calcutta's most
prestigious college.
Dev could have
gone abroad to
study if he had
wanted too. Instead
he had chosen
to finish his
college here in
dusty, crumbling
Calcutta. Of course,
unlike the other
girls and boys
in his class,
he hadn't opted
for a Master's
degree in the
same subject.
Nor did he sit
for the usual
bank and civil
service exams.
He opted to study
management, securing
a seat in one
of the most prestigious
institutes in
the country.
Priti
remembered the
day he drove into
college in his
sleek red car.
It was a foreign
car, but she couldn't
remember the make.
That was more
than thirty years
ago, when anything
foreign still
drew oohs and
aahs from the
hoi polloi. He
was wearing a
short kurta, blue
jeans and Kohlapuri
chappals –
considered the
height of fashion
in her time, which
had come back
a full circle
now. Except that
women preferred
it more nowadays
than men did,
she thought ruefully
- Trina always
wore jeans under
loose khadi kurtas.
Dev
always had a bevy
of beauties from
the college around
him. He was no
less popular with
the guys, though.
Together, Dev
and his friends
formed that exclusive
circle in their
college, made
up of the beautiful
people –
smart, wealthy
and very fashionably
turned out. Priti
was never a part
of their group,
nowhere near even.
Dev,
however, was always
polite with her.
Too polite. Some
of her friends
said that the
great Devnath
Gupta was actually
afraid of the
petite, reserved
and schoolmarmish
Priti. She herself
didn't think he
was being anything
but polite. He
was courteous
and considerate
with everyone.
Secretly, he made
her feel shy and
feminine. She
was determined
that he should
never think of
her as another
girl who had fallen
for his charms.
They had remained
friendly acquaintances.
That's all.
She
had passed out
with good marks;
good enough to
allow her to go
overseas for further
studies. He had
congratulated
her with the careless
warmth that he
showered on most
of his classmates,
even those that
were obviously
not part of the
beautiful people.
She had congratulated
him too, because
he had topped
the class. He
had bought a round
of cold drinks
for everyone at
the college canteen.
They had all toasted
each other. And
then they had
moved on.
Priti
met her late husband
and Trina's father
Samaresh, during
her sophomore
year at Columbia
University. He
was finishing
his doctorate
in sociology.
They met, became
friends and then
slowly fell in
love without really
realizing it.
They both returned
to Calcutta, because
it never occurred
to either of them
not to. After
that, marriage,
a university lectureship,
Trina's birth,
several years
spent in being
a committed mother
to Trina and wife
to one of the
most respected
academics at Calcutta
University, and
then back to teaching
again.
Altogether,
her life had been
uneventfully happy.
Unless one considered
Devnath Gupta's
popping up in
her social circuit
- which was supposed
to be far removed
from his flamboyant
and sometimes
scandalous life
- every now and
then, to be events
worth mentioning.
Devnath
made a good conversation
piece though,
during dinners
and get-togethers
with close friends.
Priti had remained
in touch with
most of her school
and college mates
and they now made
up her little
circle of close
friends along
with their spouses.
Whenever the conversation
flagged, one had
just to mention
his name and one
or the other of
the ladies present
would shriek at
the prospect of
a juicy morsel,
and Priti could
rest assured of
at least half
an hour's worth
of animated and
sometimes heated
conversation.
Of course Priti
always had some
anecdote or the
other about his
escapades in college
to relate, while
the rest of her
group always had
some new gossip
about him.
The
women would sit,
happily talking
about Dev and
his escapades.
They would lightheartedly
bitch about Dev's
women, with special
focus on his current
mistress or wife.
The husbands would
mostly hover silently
around them holding
their drinks.
And, the conversation
would invariably
end with one of
the husbands present
remarking, sometimes
with ill concealed
sarcasm to his
wife, "aren't
you lucky to be
married to a humdrum
fellow like me?"
Priti
considered herself
lucky that he
had never looked
at her as a possible
fling. She had
wished once, but
only fleetingly,
that he would
flirt with her
a little, just
a little. But
after a while
she felt that
he thought of
her differently.
Something in his
body language
had convinced
her that he respected
her a lot, and
she was secretly
proud of it. She
wasn't available;
she commanded
respect, so even
a playboy like
Devnath steered
clear from making
a pass at her.
Priti's
husband had met
him too, at one
of the classical
dance and music
recitals to which
Priti and Samaresh
often went. Dev
had been as polite
and charming as
before. He had
been a little
distant perhaps,
because now he
was a business
magnate, an industrialist,
who hobnobbed
with politicians,
movie stars and
other industrialists.
Priti hadn't expected
him not to be
conscious of his
wealth and status.
But she had been
a little rankled
at the way he
seemed to look
over her once
and then at Samaresh.
She had fumed
a little about
it back home.
But Samaresh had
only laughed and
then teased her
about it. He knew
about her little
crush, the feelings
that had brushed
over her during
her college days.
Her naïve
and silly feminine
vanity as Priti
wryly referred
to it. Samaresh
often teased her
about it, even
in front of Trina.
In fact Dev was
a bit of a private
family joke, so
that even a mention
of his name brought
out impish grins
from father and
daughter.
Now,
after all these
years, after both
Samaresh and Dev
were dead, except
that the former
had died from
cardiac arrest
more than three
years ago, and
Priti had never
quite recovered
from it, while
Dev had only died
very recently
in a car accident,
that many people
claimed was not
an accident at
all, Dev had summoned
her through his
lawyers. Priti
felt confused
and a little worried.
"Ma,
this is just a
letter asking
you to be present
at the reading
out of his will,"
said Trina. She
had come down
as she had promised
and was now sitting
with her legs
stretched out,
occupying two
chairs, at the
dining table.
She held the letter
in front of her,
squinting at it
while she tried
to drink tea.
"There's
nothing to worry.
He was known as
a generous man;
maybe he's left
all his college
mates something
including you!"
This last bit
was delivered
with the trademark
impish grin.
"But
that'd be so silly,"
said Priti frowning.
"Why?"
Demanded Trina,
but Priti had
no answer to that.
"Ma,"
said Trina, putting
a friendly and
undaughterly arm
around Priti's
still slim shoulders.
"Ma, you
didn't have anything
to do with him,
I mean in terms
of business etc.
You're not related
to him. The only
relationship you
had with him goes
back to your college
days. And people
can be pretty
sentimental about
their ol' mates
y'know. I can't
think why his
lawyers would
have called you
unless he wanted
to give something
to you. His will
probably mentions
some little something
to be given to
everybody he knew
from his student
days."
Priti
looked at Trina.
"You'll be
there with me,
won't you Trinu?"
"Of
course!"
Trina
was right about
the first part,
but wrong about
the second. There
were no gifts
for any of the
girls and boys
from their class,
and nothing either
for the old Alma
Mater. But he
had mentioned
her clearly in
his will. He had
left something
for her and for
her alone. He
had left her a
room full of presents!
The
young man who
ushered in a very
nervous Priti
and a slightly
nonplussed Trina
had been very
respectful. It
turned out that
he was one of
Samaresh's ex-students.
"You
won't remember
me, Mrs. Mukherji,
er ma'm. But I
had gone to your
house once to
get some notes
from sir,"
said the young
man, standing
in front of her
and tilting a
little forward,
duck fashion.
"Won't you,
both of you, please
sit down?"
He
opened a stout
mahogany door
and ushered them
into a small office.
Priti was glad
to sit somewhere
private. She had
noticed the unfriendly
looks that a couple
of ladies had
flung at her direction.
These women seemed
to be the same
age as her, but
were dressed in
the height of
fashion. There
were some young
people too, who
were waiting in
the main hall.
"Those
are his ex-wives,"
whispered Trina
in her ear. Then
frowning, to jog
her memory, she
muttered, "I
thought he had
married four times?
Nah! The other
two were mistresses!
Ma, your ol' mate
was some womanizer!"
"Trinu!
Do be quiet. The
poor man is dead
and here you are
gossiping!"
"Oops!
Sorry!" Trina,
said with a grin.
"Anyway,
no one heard me,
so it's ok."
The
young man had
left discretely.
He must have instructed
someone to send
in refreshments,
because soon after
a uniformed bearer
entered the little
room with a tray.
The bearer respectfully
set down two glasses
of chilled water,
two cups of steaming
coffee and a plate
of cream biscuits.
"That's
nice," said
Trina, reaching
for the cup of
coffee. "Ma?"
But
Priti shook her
head. She still
didn't feel quite
comfortable in
Dev's solicitor's
office, despite
the young man's
obvious respect
for her as Samaresh's
widow. Trina looked
at her keenly
for a second or
two, then shrugged
and took a long
sip from the cup.
Priti sat straight
in her chair,
looking at but
not really seeing
the mahogany bookcase
lined walls packed
with rows of formidable
looking leather
bound books.
The
young man returned
after what seemed
at least to Priti,
a very long time.
This time he was
not alone. A bald
man with silver
side-locks was
with him.
"Ma'm,"
said the young
man to Priti,
still tilting
duck fashion despite
Trina's irrepressible
impish grin, "This
is Mr. Dastidar
our senior partner.
Sir, Mrs. Mukherji."
"Namaskar,
Mrs. Mukherji,"
said Mr. Dastidar
kindly. "We
are sorry to drag
you into this,
but Mr. Devnath
Gupta had expressly
wanted you to
have the gifts."
"I'm
afraid, I don't
understand,"
said Priti, visibly
embarrassed.
Trina
put a protective
arm on Priti's
shoulder. "Can
you tell us how
this, I mean the
gift business
came about?"
Trina looked at
Mr. Dastidar directly.
"Ma and he
were just classmates,
y'know. We weren't
expecting…"
Mr.
Dastidar raised
his palm, smiling.
"We understand
perfectly, how
you feel. I know
this is very awkward
for you ma'm,
but we have to
follow our client's
instructions.
But I can assure
you of complete
discretion and
privacy. In fact,
even Devnath Babu's
current wife is
not aware that
he has left you
anything."
"Why
would he want
to leave my mother
anything?"
Mr.
Dastidar paused.
He seemed to pause
for thought, before
clearing his throat
to speak again.
"Devnath
Gupta was a very
curious man. He
was a very public
person who had
a very private
side. Mrs. Mukherji,
he was a very
unhappy man, despite
all that he had.
To tell you the
truth, he had,
especially during
his last years,
before that very
sudden accident,
begun to rely
more on us than
even on his children.
He didn't seem
to be able to
trust anybody.
Not his family,
nor his friends.
His death is still
under investigation.
His assets which
are very considerable
will be held in
trust till the
whole thing is
cleared up."
"In
that case, how
come Ma gets these
gifts or whatever…"
said Trina interrupting
him.
Mr.
Dastidar smiled
at Trina gently.
"These so
called gifts don't
come under his
assets. As I said,
he was a very
curious man. These
are personal items.
He used to collect
them every year.
He asked us to
keep them privately
for him a couple
of years before
his, er, this
tragedy. We were
instructed to
hand them over
to you if he died
before you and
destroy them if
you departed before
him. He had a
note book, a diary
of sorts in which
he used to make
entries on certain
dates, Mrs. Mukherji.
He used to buy
the gifts for
specific dates
or occasions…"
Mr. Dastidar looked
directly at Priti,
"Those dates
concern you, ma'm,
I think. Here
it is," he
said, handing
Priti a sealed
brown paper package.
Priti
took the package
silently, almost
fearfully. It
contained Devnath's
diary. Trina was
not the only one
who sensed her
discomfort. Mr.
Dastidar and his
junior were looking
at her kindly.
Their looks seemed
to say that they
understood how
she felt, and
they did not hold
her responsible
for anything.
Priti was glad
for that, but
it didn't lessen
the awkwardness
of it all. Not
a bit. She was
very quiet on
the way back home.
And, Trina, sensing
her mood, didn't
try her patience
with her usual
prankish remarks
and jokes.
Trina
brought her seven-year-old
son along later
that evening.
"We
are sleeping over,"
she said airily
to Priti. "Jeet,"
indicating her
husband with a
dismissive wave
of her hand, "can
manage very well
for a couple of
days."
The
solicitors' had
sent over a vanload
of packages that
afternoon itself.
Trina, who had
taken leave from
her office for
that day had helped
unload and dump
the presents,
for that is exactly
what they had
turned out to
be, in the guest
bedroom.
"For
the time being,"
she had explained
to the bewildered
Priti. "You
can sift through
them and browse
at your convenience,
without jamming
the whole house.
The wrapping papers
will fetch quite
a bit from the
Bikriwallah,"
she had said,
attempting to
lighten the mood
with a joke, but
Priti hadn't smiled.
Trina
left to pick up
Binku from his
school, and inform
Jeet that he would
be alone at home
for a couple of
days, "till
ma settles down
with these gift
things a bit."
And Priti was
left to contemplate
the "gift
things" all
afternoon.
The
presents filled
up the whole room.
They were in all
shapes and sizes,
beautifully wrapped
and tied with
silk ribbons.
They covered the
queen-sized bed,
the study table,
the dressing table
and the floor
in between, in
a double layer.
The room looked
festive, like
a room in a wedding
house where the
presents had been
kept for safe
keeping. Priti
looked at this
room apprehensively,
not daring to
enter, while Trina
instructed the
two men who had
brought in the
load. The men
left shortly afterwards,
and so did Trina,
promising to return
in the evening.
Priti sat down
in the arm–chair
in her drawing
room then, holding
Devnath's diary.
And, she stayed
like that till
Trina returned
in the evening,
with Devnath's
diary still unopened
in her hands.
The
diary lay like
a stone, waiting
for the ghosts
to return to their
place of final
rest.
"Ma,"
remonstrated Trina,
as soon as she
entered the house,
because Priti
looked pale and
tired. "You're
really very troublesome!
Couldn't you get
yourself a cup
of tea at least?
Did you eat anything?
What's wrong with
you Ma, c'mon!"
This last bit
was delivered
with a clumsy
hug.
Priti
looked up at Trina
and drew Binku,
her grandson close.
The child, as
if sensing that
his grandmother
was disturbed
had crept close
to her, looking
up at her with
big brown eyes,
instead of running
around the drawing
room like he usually
did.
"I
was waiting for
you Trinu. Didn't
feel like doing
anything for myself
today."
"Hm!
Binku. You look
after Dida, and
I'll go rustle
up some food for
us."
Priti
picked the boy
up and held him
close. She smelled
Binku's sweet
child's odor and
it made her feel
calmer. She had
been feeling a
little light-headed
ever since the
letter arrived,
and it had become
worse after her
visit to the solicitors'.
Priti hadn't opened
Devnath's diary.
Not yet. She was
curious, yet afraid
of it. A part
of her didn't
want to know.
Why
had he accumulated
presents for her?
Why? And why her,
of all people?
Those questions
swam round and
round inside her
head, skirting
the answer that
waited patiently
to be revealed.
She was too old
for this sort
of thing. She
felt she had betrayed
Samaresh in some
way. She wished
he were here now.
The wish grew
into an ache.
She wanted Samaresh
here with her,
only Samaresh
and no one else.
Priti clutched
Binku tightly.
The child wriggled
in her lap.
Trina
came in after
a while and forced
her to sit with
them at the dining
table.
"Ok.
If you don't feel
like eating, I
won't force. But
at least give
me some company
and feed Binku,
Ma won't you?"
Feeding
Binku was a ritual
that involved
telling the child
stories. Priti
didn't feel up
to it, but she
led Binku to the
table. She knew
the effort of
story telling
would keep her
mind away from
that jumble of
thoughts that
was threatening
her placid life.
And, the diary
sat waiting quietly
on the side table.
She
went back to it
straight after
she had fed Binku
and eaten a little
herself. Trina
came in and sat
next to her later,
after Binku had
gone to sleep.
"Would
you like to take
a look, Ma?"
She asked in a
quiet voice.
Priti
nodded and stood
up. She picked
up the diary and
beckoned Trina.
They went into
the guest room
together.
"I'll
pick up a present
at random and
read out the date
on the tag,"
said Trina. "You
can check the
entry on the diary
for that day,
ok Ma?"
Priti
nodded. Trina
held up an irregular
shaped package
wrapped in shimmering
silver paper.
She opened it
carefully, trying
not to tear the
wrapping.
"Fifth
July, your birthday
Ma," said
Trina. "1978.
That's more than
twenty years ago!"
Priti opened the
diary and leafed
through the pages.
She read the entry
under that date:
"My
Priti, my very
own and very precious
Priti. I had this
little brass figurine
specially commissioned
for you. If you
look underneath,
you'll find your
name etched on
it. I hope you
like it. I know
you love little
Ganesh Murthis.
So I had this
made, just one
piece. One unique
piece, for my
one in a million
Priti…"
"Ma,
it really has
your name underneath!"
Trina held up
the little Ganesh
figurine for her
to see. "You
know who made
it? Goshto Kumar!
Imagine!"
Priti
took the figurine
absently. Trina
didn't seem to
have realized
the strange-ness
of the words she
had just read
out. Or perhaps
she had, but didn't
want to blurt
out her opinion,
like she normally
did with Priti.
Priti
put the figurine
down and started
to read at random.
Page after page,
entry after entry,
said the same
thing, in different
words, describing
different gifts
but referring
to the same set
of dates. The
dates were the
most difficult
to accept. He
had marked each
important day
in her life, her
birthday, her
graduation day,
her marriage day,
Trina's birthday.
And he had claimed
each date for
his own, annulling
the people dearest
to her and directly
associated with
the dates, namely
Samaresh and Trina,
and replaced them
with himself and
a child of his
own, within the
pages of the diary.
The diary contained
an imagined world,
a blissfully happy
imagined world,
inhabited by real
people. Priti,
Devnath and Trina.
Though the last,
Trina was not
really she.
It
seemed to Priti
that Devnath had
completely believed
in this imagined
relationship and
this life that
was a complete
fiction, a figment
of his own imagination.
Devnath had always
been a talented
writer. And the
story of Priti's
life now flowed
out from the pages
of his diary.
It flowed out
so strongly that
she felt that
her real life
existed within
the pages of the
diary and the
one that she was
currently living,
was a lie.
Priti
let the diary
rest on her lap;
her forehead slumped
against the palm
of her right hand.
Trina had stopped
opening the presents
by now. She was
looking at Priti
with concern.
She quietly took
the diary from
Priti's unresisting
lap and began
to read from it
at random.
The words began
to blur as Trina,
who usually never
had any patience
with namby-pamby
emotions began
to weep silently.
Priti, got up
and sat down next
to Trina. Her
cheeks were wet
too. And soon
after, while Trina
held her tightly,
Priti's shoulders
convulsed with
soundless sobs.
She wept. Wept
for having broken
a man's heart
that she had never
meant to break.
Wept because she
couldn't have
helped it, even
if she had known.
She wept and wept
as the night quietly
wore on, around
her and Trina,
and around the
ghosts that tread
softly past them
towards their
place of final
rest.
©
2008 by Rumjhum
Biswas
|