Thakuma was ninety-nine when she heaved her last breath. It was an expected occurrence, her body had started to shiver, her mouth moving in jitters, and her constant misrememberance of her son. Every night, Putul sat by her Thakuma’s side on the bed, looking at her constantly moving.
“Age-related jitters. You all must be prepared,” Dr. Ghosh remarked while leaving the corridor on the final day. Putul’s heart sank. Although never fond of her Thakuma, her absence would make the house hollow, lost without a life that had been living for ninety-nine years. Putul was born in 2001 in Kolkata at Lady Dufferin Victoria Hospital. When the nurse came out and announced the news to the family, Thakuma sighed.
“I am happy for Khokha and Arundhita. They will have another one soon.”
Thakuma wanted her only son, Sayan, nicknamed Khokha, to have a boy. When she saw Arundhita gaining excessive weight during her pregnancy and attracting unnecessary lines and acne on her face, Thakuma was happy. It is said that if a pregnant woman looks ugly, it symbolizes she is going to give birth to a baby boy.
“Meye’r maa sundori, chele’r maa bandri,” in a literal sense, implying that a girl’s mother turns pretty and a boy’s mother turns ugly, before giving birth.
“Arundhita has lost her charm. I mean, she was never on the beautiful side, but her skin tone is very fair, and her face is quite round. But, ever since the child has come inside, she is losing her elegance.” Thakuma narrated to Daadu, who, as always, listened only to not reverting. He ate his daal bhaat, got up from the table, washed his face, did kulkuchi, and left for his room.
Thakuma felt alone, talking to walls when nobody was around, or even if people were. She believed the walls talked back to her and communicated in whispers.
Putul sat beside Thakuma after Dr. Ghosh left. Arundhita came to call her for dinner, but she refused to eat. Arundhita put her hands on her tender chin and smiled, “She is aging, Putul. It is for her good.”
Putul wasn’t ready to listen. Something in Putul didn’t want her grandmother to leave.
“Give me my food here. I will eat with Thakuma.”
Arundhita did not question any further. She never got along with her mother-in-law. Arundhita always took Thakuma to be a closeted patriarch, somebody who shows the world how women should be uplifted, but deep down possesses utter hatred for them. Throughout Putul’s sixteen years of existence, she never saw them sit together and talk. They always conversed in passing. The feelings of dislike looked mutual.
Thakuma was getting intense jerks. The jerks looked more severe than ever. She called Arundhita,
“Maa, Thakuma is moving a lot today.”
“Come and have your dinner, Putul. Let Thakuma rest. Don’t bother her.”
Putul held Thakuma’s hand to stop it from moving. Looking at her reminded her of creepy crawlies, begging for their life to be taken by someone, once they have been stepped on. Putul saw that Thakuma was clinging to a white note in her fist. It looked like some old piece of paper from a book. Putul’s curiosity sparked, and she snatched it from her. It wasn’t much of a struggle to snatch a lightweight piece of paper from an already-shaking hand.
She opened the note, and it had nothing. A blank paper with a “Made In India” stamp at the bottom. Putul got confused and regretted snatching it from Thakuma. Why would you put up a fight with a dying patient for a piece of paper that holds no significance?
“Putul, dinner is ready. Come down.”
Just as she got up to leave, Putul saw a book lying on the bed. The book read, "Subh-e-Azadi." Putul picked it up and as soon as she opened the first page, she found a white-crimson colored note, crumbled and pasted on it.
Putul’s eyes were shocked. She didn’t know how to understand what was written. She looked closer but fathomed nothing.
“Are you coming down, Putul? I have to go to the gym after dinner. Make it fast. Leave her alone.”
Arundhita was angry now. Putul could feel it in the soaring pitch of her thin voice. Putul kept the book aside and tore the note from it. Thakuma made a noise.
“Eyyy”
“Did you say something, Thakuma?”
“Rehmaan”
“What?”
“His name”
Her words were muffled, but the voice had depth. There was an intricate symphony of hopeless depth when she took that name.
Putul moved down for dinner. It was boiled eggs and peanut butter sandwich, exactly the opposite of what you would expect from a Bengali household. Putul didn’t like what her mother was cooking those days. Since the time she had started going to the gym, she was trying all new recipes that didn’t just scream unnecessarily healthy, but also absolutely tasteless. But Putul had no interest in wasting her time arguing with her mother over food. She knew she had to find out about the note, and that held more importance than quarreling over eggs and peanut butter.
Putul quickly ran upstairs to Thakuma’s room and started scrolling through the book. It was a book written in 1947 during Partition. The rest of the book was full of patriotic poems written by the author, and Putul didn’t know what to make of that note.
Thakuma started breathing heavily. Putul shook. She kept that note in the book, placed it rapidly exactly where it was kept, and started to leave.
“You can never be Saad."
Putul turned back. Thakuma was speaking, her voice muffled, dazed, but clear.
“Rehmaan always wanted a boy and a grandson. He got a son, but that wretched Arundhita could never give him a grandson.”
Putul stood frozen. Thakuma was staring directly into her eyes, her eyeballs goggling at Putul’s face with dejected disgust. Putul had never seen such distaste in anyone’s eyes for her.
“I promised him before he left on that train, I would name our son after him. I was the one who gave birth to Khokha, so I should have the deciding power, right?”
Thakuma, by then, had started jerking more. Her lips kept moving here and there, and her body was losing complete hold. Putul wanted to help her, but was too scared to move close. Thakuma tried to get up.
“Thakuma, what are you doing?”
“I wanted to call him Sufiyaan. What a beautiful name, isn’t it?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“I suggested, insisted, cried, and pleaded. Please let me call him Sufiyaan. But, your ass of a grandfather didn’t let me. He belted me black and blue, broke my legs. I couldn’t walk for months. ”
“What are you saying, Thakuma?”
“He kept hitting me every day. Trying every night. Ha! He wasn't even a man, couldn’t even get me to have his child. Impotent.”
“Thakuma!” Putul shouted.
“Go ahead. Shout like your mother. She knows it. She knows your father is illegitimate, and so did that old hog. I am saying the truth. They kept his name, Sayan. I hate the way it's spelt.”
Putul couldn’t hear a word more. She started to feel dizzy. Her head spinning, everything looked faded. Everything resembled a cloud, moving in layers.
Putul was in her room when Sayan broke the news to her. Thakuma was no more. Putul got up from her bed and went to her room. Her corpse lay in the bed, cold and unmoving. She was used to seeing the body move so often that its not moving made her feel restless.
Everyone had gathered around the room already. Arundhita quickly came to Putul’s side and whispered,
“Are you alright? How come you fainted?”
Putul looked at her, still feeling out of breath and dazed, but didn’t respond.
“Is everything alright, Putul?”
“Yes, I am fine.”
Putul quickly passed to the edge of the bed, took the book from there, and left. Nobody caught her doing so. Everyone was way too busy expressing their remorse and sadness through unannounced tears and "bolo hari hori bols." Putul felt suffocated. She wanted air. As Putul descended into her room, she looked back at Thakuma, still lying as cold and lifeless as ever.
She went to her room, opened the book, and tried to read the note again. She peeked closely, tried, and squinted her eyes to figure it out. She cracked it.
“Name him Sufiyaan and our grandson, Saad. I will come and take you soon when everything is calmer again and there are no borders. I am sure this India-Pakistan thing will calm down over a few days. No way we will be two countries for long. I love you, Jaan. Please take care of the unborn. I can’t wait for you both to be mine forever.”
Putul choked on air. She knew it now. It seemed like her life had suddenly turned upside down. Her father didn’t feel like hers anymore. Everything Thakuma did started to reason with her.
Her hatred for Arundhita, her disgust for Daadu, her distaste at looking at Putul, and her love for Sayan, her son, her and Rehmaan’s son- the last strand of Rehmaan that she had with herself; she knew it all now. All the answers were floating crystal clear in front of her eyes.
Tears started trickling down her face. Her father was the only one who didn’t know. Everyone else in the family did. She felt claustrophobic in her body and clothes, she wanted to tear them apart and cry. How could she ever face her father again? The only two people who were supposed to be in the dark, her and her father, and now one person knows the secret. Only the other one is left. Putul clenched her clothes and started to cry.
A hand appeared from behind, holding her shoulders tightly. She looked back, and it was her father, staring down at her and the book she was holding.
“She is at peace now. Stop crying.”
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