We crossed the bridge, and I braced myself for Howrah. Actually the bridge was a bit of a shock. I thought it would take an hour but we did it in less than five minutes. And whilst a part of me sighed with relief, I also felt a tinge of regret that I didn't have time to watch life happening along the banks of the Hooghly. From a traffic jam. In 30 plus degrees C heat with a humidity of very.
Howrah was based on a twenty year old thought. In fact, in an irony I didn't particularly want, Calcutta itself was the recurrence of a twenty year old asthma attack. It wasn't really Calcutta though, it was my top floor sleeping berth in the second class A/C three-tier sleeper carriage, directly under the air conditioning vent. Combined with the dust of a very dusty blanket. And it wasn't really Howrah. At least, not my twenty odd year old vague memory of cow dung patties drying on every bit of outside wall space, three finger-shaped ridges on their backs: fuel for cooking fires and for asthma attacks in little kids.
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We edged and threaded our way slowly through Howrah's narrow streets, and stopped by a sweet shop for some rossogollas.
Then suddenly we were there.
I didn't remember it.
I didn't, but there were moments of deja vu.
Like the hand pump with water that smelt of iron.
Like the courtyard, no details, just a courtyard. But somehow I knew my way around.
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Bacchu-da leads us to Apun's room. Mum goes in first and sits by her elder sister's bed, in a pre-warned sort of way. She holds her hands and says something gently in Bengali. Apun is puzzled. Mum says it louder. Apun turns away and mutters something. Then she turns her head back. There's recognition. And then this I do understand: she touches my mother's cheeks and says softly in universal language, "Aiya. Is that you?". Tears. Then away again. Blank. Ashok-da hands over the sari and cash he's brought her for Puja. These are quickly stashed under the pillow. Eyes around to make sure no-one saw.
For some reason I am the one who can't bear it. My heart shatters. A daughter watching a sister watching her sister. Watching age. Watching memory.
When it's my turn, I reach down and touch Apun's feet in the Bengali custom. More tears. She has absolutely no idea who I am. I curse my lack of control.
Lunch is served. Rice and daal. Mustard fish. Mishthy-doi. Rossogollas from the sweet shop.
Apun ambles absent-mindedly into the corner of the courtyard and hoists her sari to squat down and pee in the open drain at the edge. The men look away whilst a daughter watches a sister watching her sister with a breaking heart.
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Later Ashok-da told me. Later I also heard it from Uncle S. How life now is because of what was once done. Sacrifices that when considered make the ordinary little aunty, now with dementia, walk among giants.
Later, I saw Uncle S. Hot and sweating, discomfort in the Calcutta heat in a stuffy small room on Dada's roof. Weak fan only just managing to slice through the muggy air. And yet year in and year out he keeps going back. Even though he needn't really. Not that often, anyway.
Later, I understood.
This is what duty looks like.
28 September, 2004
