Notun Boudi

 That morning was a sunny one. After weeks and months of rains Kolkata saw the first day of sunlight which agreed to stay from dawn to dusk. The lane in the north Kolkata had few taxis parked on either side of the road. Private cars started to park in the spaces in between just to accommodate few hours till the owners finished paying their visit at “Bhaban” Few hand-pulled rickshaws strolled from one end of the lane to the other, aimlessly, not knowing which will be their next destination.

The “shamiana” had white cloth wrapped all around with decorative plastic flowers in the entrance of 3 feet by 7 feet makeshift gate. Basu’s had to cover a bit of the footpath and the adjacent lane to make it a suitable place for visitors to sit. Some ceiling fans were mounted for that day. Only by evening they would finish their work of circling around and get stalled in the decorator companies cycle van.

As you enter the gate you would see the years old “Sodor Dorja” that stood by witnessing birth death and weddings of the house. Time has passed but the “choukath” knows how was it when “Notun Boudi” came into this house and how was it when “Dadabhai” left the house for the last time to get burnt into ashes and rest in the laps of Ganga.

“Uthon” had guests seated on green plastics chairs and white “Bel Ful” hanged in forms of wreath and garlands everywhere across the decorator company’s white cloth.

Inside the first room sat Notun Boudi infront of Dadabhai’s picture among a traffic of Brass Utensils, Bhagvad Gita, Clothes, Flowers, Food, Bhaja Mishti, Tele Bhaja and the old priest who have come here more than dozens of times to do the last rituals for various members of the family. Dadabhai glowed from his newly framed photo and Notun Boudi sat there in a pastel color saree with no makeup and sadness that her gut could feel too. She still wore her gold bangles, her thick long artistic chain because she knew this is the last time she is dressing up for Dadabhai.

Co-sisters, friends, uncles, aunt, cousins, brother in laws all are busy, everyone is doing something, footsteps climbing the staircases, rushing with trays of savories, merely brushing through people and more people, guests are being attended, tea coffee is being served, meal packets are being counted and Notun Boudi sat quietly infront of Ponditmoshai doing exactly what she is being told. Her face has aged suddenly only skin covers the cheek bones, the smile is lost, the heart is mourning, the loss is ultimate, though she knows death is only about leaving the body and its only life life and life still she can not see the body, can not touch him, can not hear him, can not love him, can not care for him. Ponditmoshai asks her to repeat after him “Pati Bhrahma, Pati Bishnu....” She keep her hands pressed together, palms touching and fingers pointing upwards, thumbs close to her heart, drooping eyes, eyebrows down, gulping lumps of tears as if they are blocks of stones. Her life had meaning only because Dadabhai was there. When he was working in the manufacturing plant she would get up early morning at 4 o' clock so that he could eat his breakfast and reach on time for early morning 7 o' clock shifts. When he retired from work the son was still in school. She was his pillar to guide through financial ups and downs. In the last days of his life she even removed the lock of the bathroom so that incase he falls down on the floor while showering she would be able to rescue him soon. She was everything for him, his friend, his wife, his caretaker, his philosopher, his opponent for trivial fights and for her he was the world.

The son has got married, lives in United States of Opportunity. He left him as a proud father, a good human being and he left him with a void. A void that no one can fulfil. He is unhappy but he is young, his body is in a position to absorb the pain, he is trying to cope up with the loss and also attend the guests. His heart is numb, it doesn’t agree to the death. He has questions for God, why did he do this to his father. He is angry at the doctors why didn’t they take the correct decisions but when he looks at Notun Boudi his mother, the only thin he feels is helplessness. 10 more days and he has to leave her behind and travel across to the other part of the world which denies him to have the same day or night time with her. He is constantly thinking what should he do so that Notun Boudi feels comfortable.

Guests and more guests are pouring in. Some are meeting each other after ages, so from the melancholy of the death conversations moves to small talks sitting in a circle on the green plastic chairs of the decorator’s company. They are obviously here for the funeral but till they face Notun Boudi sense of sadness do not creep in, call it hypocrisy or normality, upto you. Young boys of the house are all working hard to attend every guests with their food packets, tea, coffee and mishti. Old uncles think in their mind may be I am the next one to leave this world and may be my funeral will be such. More pictures of DadaBhai are being brought on a thermocol board to hang in the entrance. Pictures covered his life in a glimpse starting with a passport size black and white photo when he was a teenage boy, their sidur dan moment from his marriage, his son's birth, celebrating his son's class 12 graduation, their 25^th year marriage anniversary, their son's marriage bringing in the daughter in law for the family and the house and more moments with relatives, friends on various occasions, travels and get togethers. His life has been captured in one board and it showed all the smiles. But the pains, the cries, the tough times all of that Notun Boudi has seen and no one else. She has felt it with him. She kept him strong, she comforted him.

2 hours more or 2 days more, most of the guests will go back home, the son will go back to the land of opportunities and Notun Boudi will still be Notun Boudi of Bhaban house.