THE LETTER

Mrs. Bose can’t remember who this Nandini is. The letter opens with a few ordinary comments and queries ... goes on to talk about a gossip on Nita…how she puts on the extra eyeliner, her hairstyle, her doling on Biren… makes a few philosophical comments about girls of her ‘type’…then a whole paragraph describing her new saree in minutest detail, promising to show it to her as soon as the vacation ends… writes about the latest movie she has seen … ends saying how she hates the vacation, that she misses the college all the friends etc.

Mrs. Bose found the letter in an old songbook where she used to write down the classical songs. She remembers her song teacher distinctly. The tall bearded man always made it a point to close his eyes during songs, whether he himself was singing it or not. Mrs Bose herself was quite a good singer. In fact it is her voice that impressed her mother-in-law, a very strict woman, always had a stern expression in her face.

Mrs. Bose had not seen the songbook in many years. This fell into her hand when she was trying to tidy up the room. She was determined to do it today. She takes a look around. There are cloths all over the place. All of them seem to be unwashed. Newspapers, new and old are lying on the floor and on the writing desk, besides the bottles of medicines in all shapes and sizes. Some of the books in the bookshelf are lying upside down and some others, just piled on one side along with the old magazines. It is on this rack that she found the songbook.

Mrs. Bose looks at the clock. It is almost six. Mr. Bose will soon return from his evening walk. She placed the kettle on the stove and reached out for the teacups. Her knees are making it increasingly difficult to perform these tasks. She decided to rearrange the kitchen too. The tea utensils should be kept at an upper shelf where she would not have to bend down to get them. The other utensils may go to the lower shelf as they are used only by Urmila, the cook maid.

She stopped for a while and sighed. This flat is much bigger than her two-room flat where she lived for more than twenty years. She didn’t even have any maid to help her. But no one could find a trace of dirt there. Even when Ani was a child. Even his toys would have to be kept in the right places when not in use. And Ani was an exceptional child too. She does not remember him arguing with her about anything — candies, extra playtime, not going to school — things that were common with her neighbours’ children. He only used to follow her around clutching her saree and looking at her with his big eyes. She never had to give him an instruction twice.

And she was a perfectionist whether it was household chores or Ani’s studies. She personally took care to check each and every lesson as long as she could. She used to cut herself out even from the family gathering if there was an examination around, much to the disgust of her relatives. She was also a great cook and loved cooking for Ani and his father. And now she does not even feel like going to the kitchen.

Mrs Bose dragged herself to the kitchen to turn the stove off. It seems like Mr. Bose will be late today. Sometime he sits in the park bench to have a chat with his friends. He has made quite a few friends here. Mrs Bose does not even know her neighbours. They seem so different from her earlier neighbours. She never thought she like her earlier neighbours. In fact she was famous for picking up fights and lecturing them. They were jealous of her because of Ani. But she knew them, understood them. She thought she would be happy to leave them. But now she misses them.

Mrs Bose suddenly remembers that she had this habit of keeping old letters. She remembers packing them before moving into this flat two years back. But she can’t remember unpacking them. They must be still lying in the old trunk. She opens the lid with some difficulty. Seems like it has grown heavier. The letters are there, lying in a polythene pack along with some brass utensils she used to utilise for pujas. She pushes off some of the newspapers from the sofa and empties the pack there. Most of the letters are from Chandra, her best friend at college. There are a few letters from her school friends too, mostly concerning about studies. Some of the most cherished letters are from her mother advising her on the duties of a good wife and mother, along with household and cooking tips. She still remembers most of them by heart. She used to read them over and again when she received them. She tries to arrange the letters chronologically though many of them do not have a date on them. The most ancient letter seems to be the one from her grandfather from Ranchi. The letter was mingled with a lot of small drawings, that of her cat ‘barababu’, the new frock he bought for her for the puja, the new spectacles of grandmother.

This Nandini seems to be a friend from the college. She found another letter from her in the pack. She remembers Nita, she was in the same college as well as the same neighbourhood. She remembers Biren too, though she never saw him. He only existed in the college gossip. She remembers Rupa, Basanti, Chitra, the gossips, the college canteen, the building, most of the classrooms, the functions, the songs, the laughter, the tears but not Nandini. It is clear from the letter that they were close friends. Why can’t she remember her? A tear rolls down Mrs Bose’s chick, this is happening very often these days. She often feels like crying for no apparent reasons. These tears baffle her. She tires to think of her college days. Where did these moments go? She doesn’t have any contact with any of the friends. She wonders what Chandra looks like now. Suddenly a fear creeps into her mind. She prays to God for her well being. At one time it seemed like her friendship with Chandra would be everlasting. But she lost contact with her almost as soon as she got married.

She started sobbing. Ani never wrote her any letter. But, he calls her twice a week. There has not been any exception to that in all these years. He called yesterday only. They had a long conversation. He enquired about her health, whether she was taking the medicines regularly. They talked about the weather in Calcutta and Connecticut. Her heart swelled with pride to know that his article on some complicated economic issues was adjudged the best by most college professors. Ani never let her down. He was always the best in whatever he did. His voice on the phone makes her fill with joy, takes her out of the dirty room and all her ailments. But these conversations cannot be placed in a polythene pack to look at later on. As soon as she puts the phone down they are gone. And she has to wait for the next phone call. But then, she thought, it gives her something to look forward to. The only thing really. She tried to read some more letters. But her eyes were getting misty. She still can’t remember Nandini.