When the proposal came for my marriage, I was just twelve years old. Back then, I was an unlettered village girl from Barisal, though I was well-known for my beauty. My husband, Pratap Narayan Roy Chowdhury hailed from a wealthy Zamindar family of Calcutta. He was a widower in his mid-forties. Despite the obvious age gap, my parents readily agreed to the match for two reasons. The first was his unbounded wealth. Second — and more importantly — he demanded no dowry which would have been impossible for my father to provide.
The marriage took place with much pomp, and I set foot in my matrimonial home in Calcutta. It was better called a palace than a home. Cavernous halls, teakwood furniture, a retinue of servants - the young, timorous Hemangini was mesmerized.
*
When I first stepped into my matrimonial home, I was awed. This palatial house and its customs were a far cry from my parental home in Barisal. There was a pantheon of deities in the puja hall, each of whom had to be worshipped and sought blessings from every day at daybreak. Then there was the huge kitchen with separate vessels for cooking vegetarian and non-vegetarian food. Amidst all these, I was at sea.
Sensing my quandary, my widowed co-sister-in-law Charushila took me under her wing. She was the widow of the deceased elder brother of my husband, Rudra Narayan Roy Chowdhury, who had died of drink. Charushila didi gently guided me through the complex maze of wifely duties supposed to be performed by me. In my turn, I was smitten with her. I had heard that before her marriage to my brother-in-law, she had attended Bethune School for a few years. Though she was a young widow, I had never seen her wallowing in self-pity. Rather, there was a quiet dignity about her that set her apart from the other women of the andarmahal.
My husband's widowed mother was the mistress of the household. My husband, her only surviving son, was the apple of her eye. She never approved of Charushila. She believed her elder son's death to be an unfortunate consequence of his wife's education and she made no effort to hide her displeasure. I naïvely believed my mother-in-law. Once I asked Charu didi why she became literate if that only meant inviting the curse of widowhood. She gave out a dry laugh.
"Yes, that is the prevalent view about widowhood. But Hem, do you know that this view has already been challenged by Gourmohan Vidyalankar in his Stri Sikshavidhyayaka, which defends women's education?"
*
In time, I grew close to Charu didi. I longed to be like her—educated, opinionated, unconcerned with society's strictures. One auspicious day, with the blessings of Goddess Saraswati, I began my lessons in reading and writing under her tutelage.
*
As the married daughter-in-law of the house, the duty of annual worship of Goddess Lakshmi had been bestowed upon me. I still vividly remember that evening — the full-moon night of autumn, on the eve of Lakshmi Puja.
I was busy cleaning the altar of the goddess when a crumpled piece of paper slipped out from beneath the idol.
For a moment, I only stared at it.
And yet, before I could stop myself, I picked it up.
As my eyes fell upon the words, the ground seemed to slip beneath me.
"Dear Nalin,
Are you so reckless to send me a letter through Khemi? You place me in grave danger by such foolishness. Don't forget that I'm a widow. The prayer room is a safer refuge for our exchange. If you have anything to convey, leave your letter beneath Mother Lakshmi.
What else can I say? You are enthroned in my heart. My life is barren. The only solace I know is that you have granted me a place at your feet. Please don't deprive me of that shelter.
Charu."
With a trembling hand, I placed the letter back in its place. Nalinikanta was a distant cousin of my husband, whom he had sheltered in our house. I heard whispered gossip that he was involved in swadeshi activities.
Secrets are tempting. They cast a spell upon the mind. The same happened with me. I started checking the prayer room discreetly every day to read the secret exchanges.
More letters were discovered.
"Charu,
You are an intelligent and educated woman. You can marry a suitable man if you want. After all, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar's efforts have legalised widow remarriage.
I don't consider myself worthy of you. My life is dedicated to the motherland. Marriage, children, domestic life — these are not meant for me.
Forgive me if you can.
Nalin."
"Dear Nalin,
Don't think that I'm seeking marriage. I have been a wife once, and yet I never knew what it was to love. I have no wish to bind myself in another marriage devoid of love.
What I have found in you, I cannot name — but it is enough for me.
Charu."
The letters were a revelation to me. For the first time in my life, something stirred within me. The vermillion in the parting of my hair, my colourful sarees, the conch-shell and iron bangles I had worn with such pride till then — all at once seemed to lose their meaning.
And for the first time in my life, I felt a quiet envy of Charushila didi.
Image source: Unsplash
