Sarah Das Gupta

Word Count 634

My husband’s aunt had a difficult, even tragic, start to life. Married at fourteen in East Bengal, her husband died within six months. She found herself a widow at the age of fifteen. For the rest of her life, she had to follow the strict rules then prescribed for Hindu women in her situation. She wore only white with no jewelry. All her bangles had been broken on her husband’s death. Foods regarded as ‘hot’: meat, fish, eggs, onion, and garlic were forbidden. She ate rice only once a day.  On the last day of the lunar month, she fasted. Her food was usually cooked separately. Vegetables prepared near meat could be considered contaminated.

After the hurried end of British rule, when the sub-continent had been divided into India and the new nation of Pakistan, Pishima found herself on the wrong side of the new borders. She fled to West Bengal as East Bengal became part of the Muslim state of Pakistan. Life would not be any easier for her as a widow in Kolkata (Calcutta), the old capital of the British Raj. Widows were often thrown out by their in-laws and generally regarded as an unlucky presence at weddings and other festivals.

In the sprawling city of Kolkata, Pishima began a peripatetic lifestyle which she was to follow as long as I knew her. Always small, she seemed to shrink with age. What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in spirit. I have seen grown men shrink and grovel in her presence. Strictly speaking, she was homeless, but this did not deter her in the least.            

All her worldly goods could be wrapped up and carried in a piece of material. She would suddenly appear in a cousin’s house, an aunt’s flat, or her brother’s bungalow. After a month, she would pack up and go on her travels again. You never knew when you might see the tiny figure with her bundle, sitting on the veranda or front steps.

When I married a Bengali journalist, Pishima’s nephew, I had heard family stories about this amazing aunt but never met her. That was soon to be remedied. Coming home from my teaching job one humid monsoon afternoon, I saw a child sitting on the veranda. Many local children sat there to study as we had electric lights, unlike many in the nearby slum. As I approached, I could see this was no child but an elderly woman in a white sari. She stood up. To my surprise, she put her arms out as if to give me a hug. I knew instinctively. This was the aunt I’d heard so much about.

Once settled in, Pishima took control. The kitchen became her domain. She cooked the most delicious vegetarian food I’ve ever eaten. Widows, being banned from eating meat, have developed ways of cooking some vegetables which recreate the taste of meat. One such is Jackfruit. Pishima cooked this so that it tasted like lamb biryani. Even my husband had to agree. My favorite vegetables, bhindi (okra) and brinjal (aubergine) were equally delicious when pishima waved the magic wooden spoon! 

There were a few problems. She was horrified that we stored water in clay jugs in the main hallway where different people walked past. This apparently polluted the water! We had to take the jugs into the street, break them, buy new ones, and refill them. My husband bore the brunt of her fury. I was an innocent foreigner. There are three pronouns for ‘you’ in Bengali. The most intimate is often used for children. Pishima always used the last for me.

She disappeared from our lives as suddenly as she had arrived. One afternoon, the bundle in the kitchen had vanished, and Pishima with it.

*

Sarah is a retired English teacher who taught in UK, India and Tanzania. She lived in Kolkata(Calcutta) for many years. She was married to a Bengali journalist. While in hospital last September, after an accident, she started writing. Outside writing and reading, her main interests are equestrian sports and the countryside. She is 80 years young.