The Onus of Ancestry (11 page)

“Thank you very much, Prithwish – you are very kind. It is quite exquisite.”

“I am glad you like it. I must go now.”

“Where is Ashish – I have not seen him – has he come?”

“Yes, yes, he should be here any minute.” He looked uncomfortable. “Will you excuse me now?”

She had no more time to think of Ashish because the
tatto –
the trousseau
–
from her mother's house had arrived with gifts for the
phul shajya
, the bed of flowers where the ceremonial wedding night would be observed. The van was full of trays loaded with gifts collected by Parna over a period of years. She was not to be outdone by the Duttas. A truck had also arrived with all the bedroom furniture. Men from the florists accompanied the procession to deck the ceremonial bed and also brought with them ornaments made out of roses, behls and jasmines for Dwita to wear on the night. Maheshwari had come with a suitcase which she had handed to Dwita saying in a hushed voice, “Here is the key, this is your jewellery case – put it away yourself and whatever happens keep the key, do not give it to anyone – I mean no one.” When Dwita had raised her eyes to meet hers, she had repeated, “Yes, child, I do mean absolutely no one.”

The bearers of the trays, the drivers of the vans, and all other members of the party were entertained to food and drink by the Duttas. Those present scrutinised the gifts, touched them, commented on their quality and cost and swooned over the clever creations of sweets and pastries. Then Nishith's mother drove away the crowd of spectators and firmly locked the door of the room where the trays had been placed. Dwita, too, had been taken aback by this spectacle of display – the families vying with each other to demonstrate their superiority and pride, wealth and aristocracy. She felt defeated by the exhibitionism and the artificial generosity. They were all absorbed in their own games and she was just a medium – a sort of chessboard on which others were busy moving their kings and queens.

In the evening she was once again subjected to intensive grooming. She was now dressed in heavy purple silk, intricately and exquisitely embroidered all over with gold thread – it had a broad border, woven in gold. Every possible item of jewellery was placed on her that could be managed without creating more ears, noses or arms. It was the Duttas' turn to outdo the Roy Chowdhurys. Even a Chinese girl had been acquired from a fashionable salon to do her hair, which had been found to be too long, thick and unmanageable for the female members of the Dutta family. The salon girl had handled it expertly, except that the result was even heavier than on her wedding day with multiple pearl pins and cumbersome gold combs, not to speak of yards of jasmine strings. The matching veil of gold tissue concealed all the elaborate artistry. Dwita wished pivately that she had cut off her hair before all this had overtaken her. She was placed carefully on a throne-like chair set at the centre of the far wall in the main reception area and another throne for Nishith stared vacantly at her. Nishith was busy receiving the one thousand, one hundred guests the Duttas had invited to the reception.

They all came up to her and she was introduced to them individually. She could hardly raise her head or fold her hands in greeting, bowed down by the weight of hairpins, flowers, tiara, armlets, ratanchurs and all. What a farce, or was it in fact deliberate punishment? She managed to keep smiling, though her jaw had begun to ache again and her head was splitting. “Poor girl, give her a sip of lemon juice – what an ordeal,” someone volunteered.

It was not until nearly midnight, when the last of the outside guests had departed and the family had eaten, that the most significant proceeding of the day began – the ritual of consummation. She had to undress, get out of most of the jewellery except a few gold bangles, the woven iron and gold band on her left hand which remained as the mark of a married woman, the red and white ceremonial shell bangles and a thin golden chain round her neck – all else became superfluous for the moment. She was given another Banaras saree to wear, a gift from her mother. It was of the palest shell pink, worked in silver all over – her mother had always had very good taste in clothes – poor Ma. She was perhaps reliving her brief moments of romance and happiness through her daughter, who in her turn had been denied the right of love or the choice of happiness.

Dwita woke up from her contemplations with the prick of a wire – they were now placing floral jewellery on her. There were bangles and armbands, garlands and crowns, long strands of jasmine worked into little hoops round her waist – still she felt lighter without the tiara, the golden waistband and the other heavy items of jewellery that she had worn all evening – some comfort at last and she sighed with relief.

Nishith was dragged into the room, Maya and Mohua pulling at his hands. The older generation was asked to leave, including Mother and Grandmother Dutta who wished very much to stay.

“Not allowed – only the young and inexperienced.”

“Agree! Agree!”

“Prithwish, come on, come forward – it will be your turn next.”

“Yes, you might as well learn now.” Nishith offered amidst all the noise and clatter.

Nishith took some vermilion and placed it on the little centre parting in Dwita's hair, which was already red with
sindoor
from two days' ceremonies. They fed each other with sweetmeats as a vow to exchange only words of love, and garlanded each other again. “What about a little show of affection – a little something?” An excited voice piped up with accompanying giggles.

“I think, that's enough,” said someone calmer.

Dwita sat motionless, smiling absently, obeyed all, past caring about events and consequences. Prithwish then intervened with a note of finality in his voice and herded the multitude out of the room. Nishith got up to close the door, locked it and came and sat down by Dwita's side, crushing the heaps of rose petals carelessly strewn over the bed. He drew her close to him, kissed her softly on the forehead and pressed her head on his shoulder. “Rest for a while, let us get our breaths back – we are both weary, far too weary – what a day.”

Dwita was happy not to have to move or act – they must have sat for minutes together, wordless and inert, until Nishith said in a quiet voice, “Come, Dwita, let us get out of our theatrical costumes, the performance is over at least for the day. I will go in and change first to give you confidence.”

Nishith emerged from the bathroom looking fresh and showered, wearing a blue silk dressing gown with Chinese dragons embroidered in black and gold thread. It was her turn now. She felt strange being in the same room with a man she had met so often yet hardly knew. Being informal and unrobed in front of him suddenly seemed an impossible feat for her. This was marriage, she told herself: stop being a fool, Dwita, get a move on –

She showered lazily, but the needles of hot water injected life into her veins and cleared her mind. She got into her pale pink silk nightdress, wrapped the matching negligee around her and emerged looking cool, if not confident. She had let her hair fall over her shoulders, brushed into submission, but had no energy to plait it – after all Mahama had always done it for her, all these years.

Nishith stood with unblinking eyes, speechless, as Dwita walked slowly towards him, swathed in silk, but no frills or lace, just the tiniest of roses embroidered in silk thread broke the plainness of the material. Was she aware of the effect of her presence on him? Probably not, Dwita seemed to live with her beauty and hypnotic charm with complete unawareness. What had begun to worry Nishith was her acceptance of everything without so much as an ounce of resistance. She had given in to his proposal rather suddenly and from then on had lived through the days as if in a dream, saying little, wearing a constant smile and unquestionable correctness. Yet he knew from experience that she was far from weak – her quiet strength seemed to give her a secret power over herself and others. He now allowed himself to wonder, when she found out what he had to tell her, how would she bear it, could she face it with equanimity and still honour her commitment to him and his family? Nishith Dutta was suddenly afraid; beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead, he felt the familiar ache in his temples creeping back. But he must not think about it – let this moment be supreme tonight, the rest could wait.

“Nishith, are you feeling well?”

“Yes, yes – why do you ask?”

“You seemed to sway for a moment–”

“That must be the effect you are having on me – Dwita, come to me, close, closer – I do feel a little dizzy.” Should he tell her now, before he passed out? He could feel it coming, the familiar waves of haziness and pain…

“Nishith, come lie down – let me call someone.”

“No, no, please don't – I will be all right soon.”

He lay down, and she brought him a glass of water. “Nishith, Nishith, can you hear me? Please just sip this.” He had closed his eyes.

Who could she call? She hardly knew where anyone was. It was a large house with many rooms, she only knew where her mother-in-law usually slept. She opened the door quietly, the night light shone dimly in the corridor and she saw a thin ray of light peeping out of the door of the next room – she knew it was the study, Maya had pointed it out to her earlier. The door was open and Prithwish sat slumped in a chair, a glass of whisky by his side, a book on his lap, gazing into the middle distance. He jumped out of his chair.

“Dwita! What is the matter?”

“Nishith is not well – I think he has passed out.” He did not seem surprised.

“As I feared. Come with me.”

They returned to the bridal chamber where Nishith lay tranquil and motionless – he seemed asleep rather than unconscious. Prithwish felt his pulse, touched his forehead, he did not stir.

“We must call a doctor, Prithwish. What's the matter with him? I do not understand.”

“No, you will not understand of course – but he does not need a doctor. It is the effect of the medicine he takes – and he must have had whisky with it. I asked him not to, at least not tonight. But I guess he needed it – Dwita, what can I say?”

“Nothing, you did your best – he did not listen. I only wish I knew more about this illness.”

“You will, you will learn a little more each day. Now, please try to get some sleep – it will not be easy I know.”

“What will I do if he wakes up?”

“He will not – not until tomorrow morning. If he does, I am next door.”

“But you must get some sleep yourself.”

“Not tonight. I am on sentry duty tonight, he is not the only one in this house who needs–” He broke off again shaking his head sadly, turned and walked briskly out of the door, closing it behind him.

*

Dwita had not slept a wink. Now she knew there was something terribly wrong with the Duttas – at least with some of them, one of whom was her husband. It baffled her. She felt helpless in the grip of a fate that was fast overtaking her, a doomed present and an unforeseeable future. She must not weaken, though, she must keep her strength and her confidence for the long, lonely battle ahead – the full extent of her problems were still unknown. Waves of fatigue rolled over her, yet she lay staring at the ceiling, eyes open and on her guard until the first rays of dawn burst into the room through the layers of curtain. She must rise and face the world.

She crept into her bath, soaked in its warmth and assurance, changed into a cotton saree, and decided to look for her mother-in-law. It was not hard to find her, she too was wandering along the corridor, guilt and concern all over her face.

“Dwita – Dwita, is he awake – how is he?”

“No, not yet. Should we let him sleep now? I will take him something when he is ready.”

“Yes, of course – and what will you do now? Do you wish to speak to me? Are you going to ring your mother?”

“No, I do not think so. You will perhaps be kind enough to enlighten me a little when the guests have gone and the house is quieter.”

“I feel nervous, Dwita, your calm frightens me. You must talk to Prithwish.”

“To Prithwish? Why me now?” A reproachful voice from behind them.

“Please, Prithwish,” his mother pleaded feebly, “Please spare me. You know Nishith – what could I do?”

“Well, let us not argue now. That can be postponed for the moment, Ma,” Dwita said, not concealing her impatience. “What is done, cannot be undone. I also ask for discretion – my mother must not find out any of this. Please see to that, won't you?”

“Ma, send some tea for us in the study,” Prithwish intervened. “I see I must speak to Dwita now, before it is too late. Would you please make sure we are not disturbed?”

Prithwish began in a deep quiet voice, looking straight into the distance, his eyes averted from Dwita's. He could not face her – the youthful honesty on her face, the dark sad eyes without any trace of accusation, dry and miserable; the pale smooth forehead that gave no hint of her inner turmoil. She sat motionless whilst he talked, his voice clear in the surrounding silence.

“The Dutta family has been cursed with mental and other illness for four successive generations. At least one member of each generation has been insane, severely retarded or disabled. The cause has never been exactly known, there is only the legend of a curse, handed down to each generation.

“Our paternal great-grandfather was the first remembered case. He married young, as his father innocently believed that a normal marital existence would perhaps cure him. But it only made it worse and he gradually turned violent. His wife produced several children – no one thought of stopping them. Two died at birth and two were retarded; our grandfather, the fifth of the brood had seemingly been the only normal one. The strain and misery of her life drove great-grandmother to commit suicide by drowning herself in a lake on the estate. Her body was found entangled in the lotus and water hyacinth. However, before dying she had left a note, cursing the Duttas to eternal damnation. The note read that her ghost would haunt the family for ever, bringing death and misery until the line ceased to exist. To this day it is believed that she haunts the family home of Benebagen.