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Tatush

Bangalipatti was moist and odorous that cloudy morning. Shallow drains gleamed with effluvium and strips that went by the name…

Tatush

Bangalipatti was moist and odorous that cloudy morning. Shallow drains gleamed with effluvium and strips that went by the name of streets were lined with the detritus of slum-life. Poverty and hopelessness irradiated from the open aluminum sheet-doors that hung dangerously on rusty hinges. The air bristled with angst.

Manilal stood on an elevated square pulling at his beedi. From Purulia he had come to Delhi a few days back and he hated Bangalipatti every minute of the day. He’d thought it would take forever to track Phulmoni and her brood of five, but it hadn’t taken more than a day. Before he could even ask around there she was gingerly making her way up the dirty, winding lane. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Phulmoni,” he rasped. Her back stiffened before she strode away but otherwise his errant wife didn’t betray any sign of recognition. Dressed in printed silk, hair pinned back neatly, a bindi defining her round, determined face, tiny gold studs gleaming in her ears, Phulmoni looked sorted. She had changed, her bottom rounded with nutrition and confidence, her spine erect with an indefinable city smartness. But it was Phulmoni alright, the wife Manilal had starved, tortured and abused for years. With five children born one after the other, Manilal had been secure in his knowledge of her slavery. Twice she had run off to her uncle’s in the neighbouring village and both times they had shooed her out.

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“We don’t have food in our bellies,” they had shouted, “We aren’t your parents and yet we are expected to take care of your Ravan’s brood?”

“Of course you aren’t my parents,” Phulmoni had screamed trembling with outrage, the baby at her breast wailing with fear and shock, “No father of mine would have married me to that monster. But don’t forget uncle you are living in my father’s house, you are enjoying his property. I have a right to it too.”

“To hell with your right, shameless hussy,” the uncle shrieked, hand raised aggressively, “Just because her father had the bright idea of sending her to school for a few years, our maharani thinks she is a High Court judge. Run along, you luckless father-devourer, and don’t have the temerity to come back. There is no place for you here. If I see you anywhere near I shall break your legs.”

And Phulmoni would return to Manilal burning with humiliation and impotent anger. From her beloved husband she would get a sound thrashing and a baby in her belly to add to her miseries. And so life would go on.

About five years ago, Manilal had gone to the city for a fortnight to run an errand for the local councillor. He returned to an empty nest. Phulmoni had run away with her five children robbing him of ten thousand rupees, a few silver utensils, his watch and chain. For a long time Manilal was stumped. From where had the woman gathered courage to take the bold leap and with five hungry mouths to feed?

Manilal found himself worrying about her. The abandoned kitchen, dressing-table and the rickety shelf lined with dog-eared books — books she insisted on reading aloud to the children every afternoon his taunts and abuses notwithstanding — reminded him of her aggrieved presence.

In the years that followed all kinds of gossip drifted down to him. She had been sited once in Bodhgaya selling garlands to pilgrims. Some months later a girl of Bundi’s (his eldest daughter) age with a prominent mole on her right cheek was seen washing utensils in a wayside stall in Kanpur. With angry desperation Manilal rushed to the cities to hunt her down. Should he lay his hands on the obstinate woman he would wring her neck and go to jail. About that he was certain. But he couldn’t find her.

Nor could Manilal concentrate on his farm-work and pice-hotel business. Previously he used to drink with his cronies every night. But now he no longer felt the urge. Then, he had been an alpha-male relaxing with friends at the end of the day. Now he hated the pitying glances of fellow-drunkards in the local toddy-shop. Moreover, he had to save money for his hunting sprees and had to stay alert for any news that should come of a sudden and any action that needed to be taken on the spur of the moment.

Finally, a group of young men who had gone to Delhi to work as stone-masons in the Pahargunj area came back with definitive news of Phulmoni. She was working as domestic help in the CR Park area and living in a shanty with Noni, Mukul and Shontu in Bangalipatti. What about Bundi and Pokai? The boys couldn’t say. The she-monster must have sold his eldest son and daughter to flesh-traders thought Manilal gnashing his teeth. Without wasting time Manilal boarded the Delhi-Kalka with his stone-mason friends.

***

“Phulmoni no longer lives in Bangalipatti,” Anjali di said squatting in front of her kholi and energetically scouring a sour-smelling wok, “She now lives with an old man in his house in CR Park. She’s his house-keeper.”

Anjali di’s puckered face lighted up with glee even as she uttered the last part of the sentence. There could be no doubt in what light she saw women keeping houses for senior citizens. Manilal’s face burned with rage. He had been prepared for the eventuality of Phulmoni taking up sex-work. He would have abused her roundly, snatched away his children and returned to his village triumphantly. But to become the mistress of an old man! The news disturbed him deeply.

“Who else is there in the house?” he asked.

“Nobody. His sons live abroad. They come once a while. Phulmoni lives like a queen in that big house. The old man has admitted her children in schools. She does the housework, goes to the market, cooks for him and…”

“And?” Manilal craned his neck, the veins swollen with indignation; his mind stormy with pornographic images.

“She reads and writes,” scoffed Anjali di her mouth twisting with scorn.

“Oh, that,” sighed Manilal, “She always had that vice. Vain as a peacock she is that her father sent her to school. She must be reading newspapers to that blind old scoundrel.”

“No, no,” Anjalidi shook her head, “She reads by herself in the evenings and she writes.”

“What does she write? Lists?”

“No, not lists. Books,” Anjali di’s voice dropped a decibel and the corners of her mouth bent downwards.

“Books?” Manilal’s heart missed a beat, “What kind of books?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. She showed me once. A book this fat,” moving her finger and thumb apart half an inch, “Now I don’t know to read and write. So I don’t know the title. I just saw the picture of a woman with sindoor on her forehead. Phulmoni pointed out the name at the bottom of the book. It was hers she said.”

***

Manilal lay in a grimy bed in the shack Anjali di rented out to visitors like him. The CR Park address was in his pocket. Anjali di had got a school-going kid to write it down for him. But he hesitated to confront Phulmoni in her den. Damn, he should have lunged at her when he spotted her that first time. He should have caught her by her hair and dragged her back to Raipur. A golden opportunity missed. Manilal decided to wait for Phulmoni’s return to Bangalipatti.

Days went by, yet no Phulmoni. Anjali di’s curt reminder that her kholi could not be spared any longer and the growing slimness of his resources egged Manilal on the route to P72 of CR Park, residence of one Debashish Bardhan, retired IAS officer. Standing opposite the brown and white single-storeyed bungalow-style house, Manilal felt lost. His confidence and prowess vis-à-vis Phulmoni seemed to desert him. Taking a deep breath, looking left and right at the steady flow of foreign-made cars, Manilal carefully crossed over.

Phulmoni opened the door. Husband and wife gazed at each other for a few seconds, but before Manilal could open his mouth, Phulmoni asked him to come in.

“Who is it, Phuli?” called a deep, pleasant voice.

“My husband has come, Tatush,” she called back her voice steady with just a hint of tremble.

“Bring him in.”

Manilal entered a sunny room fitted with soft linen curtains, a cane sofa-set, stylish wooden chests and almirahs and strewn with graceful statues, books and magazines. Seated on the couch was a grey-haired, bespectacled gentleman, hands gracefully draped on the sofa handles.

“Come, sit down, Manilal,” he said cordially, “Bring us some tea, Phuli.”

Manilal found himself meekly sitting down on a far window-seat.

“I told Phuli many times to write to you about herself and her children. She refused. It wasn’t right of her. She should have informed you about her whereabouts. You are her husband.”

“I was very worried. She must come home,” said Manilal sullenly.

“Phuli, make the tea and come to the drawing room. We have important things to discuss,” called the gentleman.

***

Anjali di switched on the LED to bathe the cluttered room with a muddy light and reveal the supine figure of Manilal.

“When did you return?” she asked, “Did you confront her? What did she say? Will she return with you? Was she ashamed?”

Manilal turned to her. His eyes were vague and unfocused. “What does Tatush mean Anjali di?”

“Tatush? Never heard the word, why?”

“She calls him Tatush.”

“Who?”

“Phulmoni. She calls the old man Tatush. She won’t return with me Anjali di. Why should she? The children are happy, she is happy,” Manilal rubbed his eyes and seemed surprised with the moisture on his palm.

“Come on, how can she not return? She’s your wife. She has to be with you.” Anjali di was indignant.

“I shall leave tomorrow. I have wasted enough time here.”

“What? Leave without a fight? The men of Bangalipatti…”

“No Anjali di, I have to leave. Maybe I shall come back later to see my children.”

***

The train left the station at eventide. Manilal made himself comfortable in his second-class window-seat. Furtively, he brought out a set of books from his jhola. They were novels written by Phulmoni about her struggles, her unhappy childhood, their life together, stories about women she knew, women she had imagined. Manilal leafed through the hard covers.

“Your wife has been nominated for the Dalit Sahitya Award this year”, Debashish Bardhan had gently told him, “Phuli came to my house as a servant, but I would often find her leafing through my books and crying inconsolably. She has an insatiable appetite for reading. I encouraged her to read and write to get over her black moods. Phulmoni Mondal’s books are a craze in Kolkata. A university professor has translated them into English. At the end of the year Phuli will visit a literary meet in New York to receive a prize. What do you want Manilal? Where do you fit in Phulmoni’s scheme of things?”

The train rolled to the rhythm of Ta-tush, Ta-tush, Ta-tush…      hell, what kind of word was Tatush? What did it mean? Was it father, grandfather, godfather, sugar-daddy or lover? Manilal swayed to the train’s rhythm, Phulmoni’s books clutched in his lap, unseeing eyes skimming the fast receding landscape. It was too late. He would never know now.

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