Fear and taboo in Pishimoni's time....

“The lady turned and hurried up the deserted road. In the moonlight, the narrow village lanes stood peaceful and deserted. An odd lamp glowed in a house or two, but on the whole, Kanakbari slept quietly in the cool autumn night. The silver moonshine shimmered over the sleeping village and a star splattered sky.

In his large sprawling home, the master of the house sat reading over a thick sheaf of papers. A well established lawyer, Sudhin Sengupta was one of the leading figures of Kanakbari in present day Bangladesh. He presided over a large household typical to the early 1900s – his widower father, 3 younger brothers, their families and his own wife, 3 sons and 2 daughters.

That night, he sat immersed in his studies. His large household had retired for the day. The night lay calm and silent around the house. Suddenly a servant knocked on the door with the impossible sounding news that his younger daughter had just arrived.

“Just arrived? What do you mean just arrived? She lives in Sonargaon and that’s across the river – how can –“, here he heard other doors open, muffled voices, agitated, a hushed scream. Unable to distinguish if that was one of joy or otherwise, he had heard enough to realize that something untoward had happened. Putting down his papers, he marched into the courtyard to find the women of his household huddled around, and yes, goodness, this really was his younger daughter.

She saw him before the others and ran to him, bending down to touch his feet. Putting his hand on her head, he asked calmly for he was not easily frazzled, “And where is my son in law?”

His daughter stood straight, looked at him in the eye and said she had come alone. This was too much for the household and for Mr. Sengupta. While the others stood transfixed, Mr. Sengupta sat down on the parapet heavily. His wife stared at their daughter as if turned to stone. The others stared in horror as did the new arrivals to this late night scene.

With a deep breath, as if already knowing the answer, Mr. Sengupta asked – had she been asked to leave by her in-laws? His daughter seemed surprised – why would she be asked to leave? She had left of her own accord – it was not possible for her to stay with her husband.

“And now,” said the just returned daughter, “If you do not mind, I have had a long day and I need to sleep. Is my old room still open?” While saying so, Mrinalini Devi, or Minnie, as she was lovingly nicknamed, floated away from the speechless, thunderstruck crowd and disappearing into her room, firmly shut the door.

As her door shut, there was a knock on the outside door and all the courtyard spectators looked from Minnie’s door to the outside one in trepidation. A servant opened a door and after a whispered discussion, came in to say that the boatman, Majid Bhai was insisting on meeting Karta Babu. Mr. Sengupta rose heavily and came to the door, “Majid, so late? What is it?” he asked sternly.

Majid Bhai stood on the doorstep, holding out a gold bangle. Softly and with some hesitation, Majid bhai said, “Babu, this evening Minnie moni crossed over on my boat. She was in purdah but I recognized her.”  Mr. Sengupta listened impassively.

Taking his silence to be disapproval, Majid Bhai took a deep breath, as if to gather courage and said more firmly but pleadingly, “Babu, she was alone. And she came in the night. My heart has been torn apart in thinking of how terrible must be the circumstances that drove her to come away from her marital home – oh the little child! Babu, please don’t be harsh with her! Please let her stay and at least listen to her. Ask her what sorrow pushes her to take the risk of travelling alone. Know that she is a good girl, that she comes to her own home to seek refuge! Here is the bangle she gave me as the price of the crossing. I have come to return it and plead with you to be kind with her. Oh, how my heart broke when I saw her sitting alone on my boat!”

There were a few sobs from the huddled group of women in reply to Majid Bhai’s impassioned plea. Mr. Sengupta gave the bangle back to Majid and said, “Keep it Majid. She cannot pay you for what you have done for her, but keep this as her token of appreciation.”

Majid protested, but Mr. Sengupta was adamant and since it was not in Majid Bhai’s capacity to argue with one of the most influential men in Kanakbari, Majid Bhai took the bangle. Tucking into his clothing, he walked back slowly to the jetty. Change was afoot, he thought to himself.

And no one in the Sengupta household that night, not even Karta Babu himself, realized the extent of this change. Minnie remained in her room for the next 7 days, opening her door only to receive food and give away used plates and glasses. She spoke to no one and seemed to sleep a great deal. All the women of the household tried talking to her, but no avail. They found much to their disbelief that Minnie actually seemed peaceful and happy – the only happy person in an otherwise stunned and traumatised household.  Neither did she seem ill - her appetite was commendable. Even her mother was unsuccessful in talking to her. Minnie gave the vaguest possible answers about her marital home. Her mother did not have the heart to repeat to Minnie’s worried father how irreverent these answers often were. The interaction between Minnie’s elder sister and Minnie went a little further than irreverence. But the gaggle of Minnie’s nieces and nephews who almost lived on her doorstep in excitement had by then learnt by heart every irreverent answer, to be repeated correct to the last word and intonation for generations afterwards.

Minnie’s response to all questions – wasn’t she afraid? Did she not think of what people would say? – was a placid and happy silence – like the eye of a hurricane as the storm raged about her.

Finally one day Mr. Sengupta himself came to Minnie’s door.

“You have to tell me what has happened. I have to send word to your marital home, Minnie.”

The door did not open, but after some time Minnie replied, “Why send word? Have they sent word?”

Mr. Sengupta remained silent.

“Well?” asked Minnie, “Since they haven’t bothered to know where I am, why waste your time to tell them?”

“But have you asked them? Or even told them that you are coming away? For that matter, have you taken my permission either – to come back home?” asked Mr. Sengupta sternly.

The door opened a crack and Minnie’s eyes appeared in the crack, eyebrows raised. “Take your permission? Did you take my permission when you sent me away from this house? No. You did not. So why should I take your permission if I want to come back?”

Minnie never went back to her marital home. What transpired between the two households or Minnie and her parents are not known to us. What is known is that once Minnie’s door opened, it quickly turned into the favourite room for all the children of the household. Minnie remained their much beloved Pishimoni. She passed on her love of stories, melodrama, reading, fearlessness and breaking boundaries to these children, of which my maternal grandmother was one. Minnie also quickly won back her place as the darling of the Sengupta household and lived happily ever after with her parents and brothers’ families.”

This is a slightly fictionalized account of a true story - one of my favourite stories about my grandmother’s Pishimoni – Minnie in the above account. I had heard these stories from my grandmother’s brothers and sisters – her own as well as her cousins. While each of the sisters were true followers of their Pishimoni,  the best story tellers among them were my own grandmother and her first cousin - Dr. Vina Mazumdar. In true Majumdar family style, both would almost act out the conversation between their aunt and grandfather about permissions being taken and given. Then, in stage whispers, they’d bring up some more irreverent and obviously unprintable conversation between Minnie and her elder sister, the latter brought in to convince the former on the benefits of a husband, and both my grandmother and Vinadi would collapse with laughter. Vina di gives her own account of her aunt in her autobiography – The Memories of A Rolling Stone.

Often Vina di, whom I had the privilege of knowing both as grand niece as well as a younger and admiring feminist and development worker, would tell us that our choices had multiple levels of impact. And that this was especially true for women, who were often afraid of making choices. And then she would tell us about her much loved Pishimoni, and of how her natal home adjusted to her choice at a time when it was unthinkable - and thus showed the impressionable young children that it was alright for women to be fearless, to break taboo, for men to support them, for women to be happy and eccentric and for families to leave behind a legacy of laughter, courage and deep camaraderie.