It was in the middle of a particularly delectable summer that a woman with her eight-year-old daughter made a trip to her mother’s place. The old apartment tucked away on the eighth floor of the equally ancient building was her home. It housed her rheumatic mother, her sister, and her sister’s toddler. It also housed the memories of her father and her jethu or her paternal uncle.
Huffing and puffing up the stairs, with occasional cries of protestations from her daughter she reached the apartment and rang the unrepaired bell, which hardly ever rang but which she rang anyway as an exercise in faith. The toddler peered from under the blinds and ran away and came back with her mother; radiant with a smile.
The elder and younger pair of sisters hugged and broke out in happy incomprehensible chatter when Uma — the eight-years-old-but-almost-nine daughter of the woman pointed out something, unable evidently, to control her excitement any longer. Peering in, the woman saw three trunks pulled out from under the beds of one of the rooms along with years of accumulated dust and cobwebs.
“What are these Rai?” the woman asked, startled and mildly put off by the fact that the house should be in such a state on the very day that she chose to visit.
“Didi, I wanted to merely clean the rooms when I discovered one of Jethu’s letters, and I thought of taking them out and reading all of them with you since you were coming.”
“Oh”.
Uma noticed something happening to her mother’s eyes as she seemed to force out the word. Her mother’s eyes seemed to glaze over and she went and sat amidst the dust, not caring to change her saree — which was strange, considering her mother’s proclivity for obsessive cleanliness.
Uma’s sister, the barely four-year-old Shoi, came tottering to her and looked at her expectantly, wondering when their playtime was to start but something in Uma told her that she ought to be in that room with her mother and aunt as they read those letters and so she decided to nestle in the room, taking care to stay out of their way.
The first letter that her aunt read, Uma heard was dated sometime around 1941, and from somewhere called Presidency. Her aunt read out the letter slowly — as if to savour every word.
“I am better here. They give me food and a place to sleep. They haven’t fulfilled my requests for the books, which is worrying I have to keep up with my studies. They don’t torture. I get to sleep.”
In Uma’s experience, Jethu’s were supposed to be formidable figures who ensured the utmost discipline in their homes and who would never make a fuss about getting to sleep. People just slept, like they ate and bathed. Did they not?
So, Uma decided to investigate this Jethu of her aunt and mother and flat out asked who he was and why he couldn’t sleep. Her mother initially seemed taken aback, but then softening a little, said that her Jethu was a freedom fighter and that he was writing from the jails which he was kept in.
Uma had studied about the freedom struggle and about the heroic efforts of the freedom fighters and felt greatly betrayed by her mother. She had a freedom fighter in her own family, and her mother had withheld from her this piece of information which she was sure she would have liked to tell her friends and consequently impress them. As Shoi came and snuggled in her lap she decided to pout and keep to herself but remain in the room nonetheless.
Her mother took out the next letter,
“Don’t worry, Nihar. Whatever is being said about them force-feeding us, is false. Write to mother and tell her not to worry. We have decided not to eat until our demands are fulfilled but they have not yet tried to force-feed us. They have sent my books, I hope to qualify my M.A examinations.”
“Didi, the next one is from 1943, the year grandmother died.”
“Read it, Rai”. “They won’t let me go to her, Nihar. All she ever wanted was to see me. Cooped up in that house with her idols and images praying to see me for the last time, and I can’t visit her once before she goes away. I can’t fulfill her last wish. Take care of her. I am sorry.”
Uma noticed her aunt choking up as she read the last line and mother obstinately looking away.
Shoi volunteered this time and chose a random letter from the pile of yellow, stained, powdery stack. It was dated 1945 and from somewhere called Bogura.
Uma’s mother began,
“I have a strange affliction. My skin peels and bleeds. The doctors say it is eczema. I can’t be sure. I know they are injecting something into my skin. I remain too tired to even protest. The rice has stones in them and we cannot consume it. The snakes come out at night so we have to be awake every night keeping watch.”
Uma noticed how silent the room had become, and how suddenly the summer heat had become stifling.
The last letter that they chose from the pile was dated 1946 written from Cumilla and it was after much hesitation that her mother decided to read it.
“I might not last long, Nihar. I have qualified my M.A. examinations. Can you believe it? Mother would have been proud. However I think, my resistance against the Raj made her prouder despite all the pain that it caused her. Brother dearest, my health is failing me but they haven’t broken my spirit. I regret not being able to live to see you get married but I am sure you’ll do well in life. This might be my last letter, and I have no greater joy than to die for my country. I will adore and cherish you till my last breath. I am sure, Mother will be glad to receive me”
“The last one” –
Uma’s mother said as her aunt held her head in her hands and her mother fell into a deep, quiet sob, the dirge slowly rising in the room, shattering the echoing silence.