Don't Let Him Know (12 page)

‘Old woman, my foot. She'll outlive us all,' muttered Romola under her breath.

But Amit knew Great-Grandmother wasn't really indes-tructible. He could see the little cracks, as fine as the veins on her hand. Like the time she suddenly looked at him and called him Gopal. She had been dozing in bed after telling him one of her fairy tales about brave princes and Bengoma-Bengomi, the talking birds, when she said groggily ‘Gopal, come to your mother.'

‘Gopal?' Amit, who was making a house with her playing cards on her giant four-poster bed, giggled. ‘I am not Gopal.' He knew who Gopal was. His father's father, his great-grandmother's son. Grandfather's photograph hung in the front room – a bald man with round glasses and a big belly.

‘Yes, you are my little Gopal.' Great-Grandmother's eyes fluttered open like shutters on a window. ‘Don't tease me.'

‘I am Amit,' he protested. But Great-Grandmother leaned forward. Her gums were bluish. Her eyes had turned unseeingly opaque. Like a witch from one of her own fairy tales, her claw-like hand fastened around Amit's neck.

‘Don't tease me,' she repeated, her voice steely, her papery hands rough on Amit's neck. ‘Gopal, little Gopal.'

Amit wriggled, calling her urgently, trying to break the spell. As he pushed her hands away her white sari fell away and to his horror he saw her breasts, wrinkled and flapping like washing on the line. As he gasped and twisted, Great-Grandmother abruptly let go of him. The milky darkness left her eyes as suddenly as it had come, a passing storm that had veered off course.

Amit scrambled off the bed. ‘Where are you going, Amit love?' she said. ‘I didn't finish the story, did I?'

‘Tell me tomorrow, Boroma.' Amit gathered up his books. ‘I have to show Mother my drawings.'

He wondered if he should tell his parents but decided not to. The last time he had told them about Great-­Grandmother's cold, his mother forbade him from going into her room for three days. ‘You can't be too careful,' she said.

Amit tried to tell her that Great-Grandmother's bed was his favourite place in the house but she just shushed him. Great-Grandmother allowed him to arrange her pillows into mountains and oceans, which he would then defend against run-of-the-mill pirates and fantastic demons with heads of buffaloes and tongues of fire. And she would sit there playing endless games of patience while spinning her stories full of gods and monsters.

That was why Amit loved the third Thursday of every month. That was when his mother went to visit her best friend across town. His grandmother went to her Ladies Circle monthly meeting and bingo game. Thursdays were Amit's day off from school. Romola would deposit him in Great-Grandmother's room and say, ‘Now you two look after each other. And don't get into any mischief.' That was meant as much for Great-Grandmother as it was for Amit.

‘I will just tell him stories about gods and goddesses,' said Great-Grandmother meekly. ‘Tell me, my little darling, what does the Goddess Durga ride?'

‘A lion,' Amit shouted.

‘Very good. Now draw your old Boroma a picture of the Goddess Durga.'

Scarcely had Romola left than the house erupted into frenzied activity. The coal stove had to be fired up, vegetables cut, fruits chopped.

‘This is the end,' grumbled old Mangala as she poked at the coals. ‘If Bouma finds out this time I'll lose my job for sure.'

‘We'll fry our own aubergines today,' said Great-Grandmother gleefully ‘And make some mango chutney.'

Amit helped her stir the batter while Mangala sliced the aubergines. He watched Great-Grandmother supervise the mango chutney – the bubbly golden orange syrup like thick winter afternoon sunshine with a hint of roasted red chilli, the fat slices of mango floating in it, all poured into round-bellied glass jars with glass lids. She would let him help her pour, and then he'd lick his fingers and taste the sweet sunny syrup. Sometimes little red ants would drown in the syrup. ‘Don't worry,' Great-Grandmother would reassure him. ‘If you eat the chutney with the dead ants in it you'll learn to swim.' Amit's father said that made no sense because the ants had drowned, but Great-Grandmother paid him no attention.

Great-Grandmother would stash most of the mango chutney somewhere in her room. ‘So if I wake up in the middle of the night and want some I'll have it right there. Now don't tell your mother – she'll say mango chutney is not good for you in the middle of the night.' Then she would add with unassailable logic, ‘What does she know? Your mother was not even born when I started making pickles and chutneys.'

Amit would lie on his stomach on Great-Grandmother's bed drawing pictures, while she told him stories about how Calcutta used to be covered with forests with jackals and even the occasional tiger and Great-Grandfather had been a police officer chasing robbers. If occasionally Great-Grandmother added a few extra details that hadn't been there the last time (five robbers attacking Great-Grandfather instead of two) Amit didn't mind. He'd lie on the bed smelling the clean sheets and Great-Grandmother's hair oil, watching the afternoon shadows trailing across the foot of the bed. Soon the doves in the window eaves would start gurgling, lulling him to sleep, a little boat on the gently rolling tides of her stories.

By the time Romola came home all traces of cooking were gone. The pots and pans were washed. The chutneys stashed away. The aubergine eaten. Amit had even finished his drawing of the Goddess Durga and her four children. Great-Grandmother was asleep, snoring gently, her pack of cards beside her.

Of course it never fooled Romola. She'd take one look at the storeroom and announce, ‘The sugar jar was three-quarters full yesterday morning. Now it's three-fourths empty.'

Great-Grandmother looked up from her game of patience and said loudly to no one in particular, ‘Servants. Thieves all. Can't trust anyone these days.'

Stung, old Mangala, who was pottering around the storage room, muttered under her breath, ‘That's right. Call me a thief. My hair is going white, working, working for you.' Amit would giggle and Romola would look at him and say darkly, ‘And if you tell me you're not hungry when it's dinner time, you are in big trouble, mister.' But a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as if they were all playing a game together.

Once in six months when she got her son's car and driver, Great-Grandfather's youngest sister Renu Thakurma came visiting. Renu Thakurma was a pious old lady and always had sandalwood paste smeared on her forehead. She was a good fifteen years younger than Great-Grandmother but had been widowed much earlier. Now she followed every religious rule she could find with fanatical fervour. Renu Thakurma had her own kitchen separate from the family kitchen. In her kitchen even the word ‘Meat' was forbidden.

One Sunday she came visiting when Great-Grandmother was having lunch. After Great-Grandfather died at the age of ninety-five, Great-Grandmother cropped her hair and gave up her coloured saris. But she loved fish too much to give that up. She had been raised along the rivers of what was now Bangladesh. She would recite the names of fish like a nursery rhyme – ilish, pabda, leta, boal...

When Renu Thakurma spied her eating fish, she was scandalized.

‘Why, Boudi,' she exclaimed. ‘You still eat fish?'

Caught red-handed, Great-Grandmother fumbled for a reply. ‘Well, only once a day. Besides, fish is almost a vegetable. Fruit of the river, my mother-in-law would say.'

‘Oh those are just excuses. When my husband died I turned my back on onions, garlic
and
fish and have not touched them since. It is written – those things excite our senses. You think I have not wanted a piece of ilish drenched in mustard gravy? But I told myself, “Renu, your husband could feed you ilish twice a day when he was alive. What is the use of lusting after fish now that he himself is gone?”'

Great-Grandmother stared guiltily at the fish head she had been about to crunch and put it down. Amit wanted to jump up and tell Renu Thakurma something. He didn't know what but he felt like he had to do something. Renu Thakurma peered at the plate and said, ‘Oh my, tangra! How my poor dead brother loved a good tangra curry.' With that she wiped the corners of her eyes. Great-Grandmother looked stricken. Amit glanced at his father, who was sitting there with his newspaper, not saying anything.

‘Well, um, you know these days things are different. Change you know,' Amit's grandmother said hesitantly, attempting to steer the conversation away. ‘But Renu-pishi, tell me, how is your son's job?'

But Romola, who was standing by, turned to Renu Thakurma and cut her short. ‘The doctor has said she needs to have fish,' she said bluntly. ‘He said she must have fish at least once a day.'

Amit gaped at his mother. He had never heard her lie so blatantly.

‘The doctor?' asked Renu Thakurma sceptically.

‘What's more, he said if she did not like fish she could have chicken stew instead.'

‘Chicken stew?' exclaimed Renu Thakurma clutching her breast.

‘But if she has fish every day it should be enough.' Then Romola turned to Great-Grandmother and said, ‘Eat up the fish head, Thakurma. Don't you remember the doctor said especially to eat the head? It has the good vitamins that you need.'

As Great-Grandmother chewed the fish head Amit saw beads of sweat on Renu Thakurma's forehead. Romola and Great-Grandmother exchanged triumphant looks.

‘Standing in my house telling my grandmother-in-law what she can and cannot eat, hmmph,' muttered Romola to Avinash after seeing Renu Thakurma out. Great-Grandmother didn't say anything but quietly sat on her bed while Mangala brushed her hair. When Amit dragged his feet as usual about taking an afternoon nap, she looked up and said, ‘Go now, little one. Listen to your mother.'

But the truce was short-lived. The next day Romola discovered that Great-Grandmother had been coaxing the fruit-seller into giving her mangos on credit.

‘Am I dead? Is your grandson dead?' she screamed. ‘Begging mangos from that Mohanlal. Have you no self-respect? Today when I said he was asking for too much for his Himsagar mangos do you know what that good-for-nothing said? He said, “What about all those free mangos I feed the old woman?” Just like that in front of everyone in the market. As if I was starving my own grandmother-in-law. I was so mortified I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Go eat mangos four times a day. See if I care – I'll even buy them for you. Just don't ask me to call the doctor. You are ninety-four years old. Haven't you eaten enough mangos?'

Great-Grandmother quietly went on playing her game of patience. After Romola had gone upstairs in a huff she told Amit, ‘This Thursday we'll make puffed-rice mowas. Go, run and check in the storage – see how much jaggery we have.'

But that afternoon when Amit was sitting on her bed with his crayons, Great-Grandmother looked listless. She pulled up her blanket around her and complained it was cold.

‘It's not cold, Boroma,' said Amit. ‘It's only September.'

But Great-Grandmother pulled her blanket closer and said, ‘My bones are old.'

‘Are you sick?' said Amit putting his hand on her forehead like his mother did when he had a temperature.

‘Maybe a little fever,' said Great-Grandmother. ‘But don't tell your mother. She'll just say don't eat this, don't eat that. As if at my age anything matters.'

‘Okay,' said Amit. He had no intention of telling his mother. He didn't want to be banished from Great-Grandmother's room.

‘Bring me that jar from the top of the shelf,' said Great-Grandmother. She carefully extracted a mowa, the grains of puffed rice glued together with sweet brown jaggery. ‘Eat it up before you go upstairs to your mother. We'll make more on Thursday.'

Amit sat on the bed eating the mowa. He waited for Great-Grandmother to say, ‘Don't drop crumbs everywhere. Otherwise the ants will come and eat up this old woman.' But she didn't say a word. When he looked at her, her eyes were closed and her head was lolling, her mouth slightly open. Amit touched her on the shoulder as he clambered off the bed.

‘Where are you going, little Gopal?' she mumbled her eyes still shut.

‘You've come upstairs early,' said Romola as he walked into her room. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘No,' said Amit quickly. ‘I just came up. Just like that.' He hoped by the time he woke up, Great-Grandmother's fever would have gone away as well.

But the fever just hung on. Soon she was coughing every time she tried to talk. At first Great-Grandmother wouldn't let Mangala tell anyone she was sick. She made her eat her food instead. It took two days for Amit's grandmother to realize that her mother-in-law was really ill.

‘Do you think we should call the doctor?' said Romola. ‘I gave her the cough medicine but it doesn't seem to be doing much.'

‘Well, maybe she will pull through,' said Avinash. ‘It's only been two days. I'll give the doctor a call from my office.' Amit wondered if he should tell them how long Great-Grandmother had been sick. But it was too late to say anything. He was afraid they'd scold him if they knew he hadn't told them before. Even worse, they would scold Great-Grandmother. So Amit just kept quiet.