Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

“I hope it won’t be for long,” he said. “Let these troubles subside and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“What about the school?” I said.

“I’ll tell them nothing,” he said. “I’ll just say that I’m going on leave for two months.”

“Surely they will guess?”

“The headmaster’s a good man. He has not asked me to leave. Somehow,” he chuckled, “I think he will be relieved if I go.”

* * *

I knew about the ancestral house in Rajshahi: Chacha was reticent about his past, but Chachi was not. That house was a source of acrimony between them, more so when money ran short. Chacha was the second of four sons of a government official in Rajshahi, and his father had left behind land and a large family home. It was meant to have been divided equally between the brothers, but Suleiman Chacha, who did not live in Rajshahi — nor altogether in the material world — had been cheated out of his share. It existed, theoretically, but he could not lay claim to it any longer. As the end of each month drew near and Chachi’s housekeeping money dwindled, she felt a keener sense of deprivation than she ever did at the beginning of the month. At such times she would say to me, “If we got an eighth share even, and could sell that rice land, we would have enough not to worry. Then I would cook you phirni and biryani every day, and we could have ceiling fans in every room and not sweat through the summer. But will your Chacha do anything about it? People like him should never marry, just sit under a tree and be the Buddha.”

Chacha ticked her off briskly, saying, “Pipe dreams, more pipe dreams. When will you stop?” But it was this faint wisp of a possible windfall from their land that kept them both going as they dug into the backs of cupboards for small change in the last week of every month.

And now all of a sudden Chacha and Chachi were being forced to set off for Rajshahi, to claim their share of the home and land they had lost long before.

* * *

The most perplexing question about Chacha and Chachi leaving turned out to be not the job or the house or relatives and friends, but their parrot, which they would have to leave in my care. I do not like birds at close quarters. They belong in an element different from ours and that is where they should remain. I felt as much affection for the lizard that crept behind my table lamp as for the bird in the cage. Both, I hoped, would keep their distance from me.

Suleiman Chacha’s parrot was called Noorie. She looked as all parrots do, bright green, with a scarlet-purple band around a neck which seemed to be able to swivel a full circle as she watched people from her cage. Every night, Suleiman Chacha would cover the cage with a cloth, all the while muttering to the bird in a coaxing tone he used only with her. During the day, Chacha and Chachi would take turns to tempt the bird with curly green chillies and grain. The cage was large, with a swing in it. It was kept in the wide upstairs verandah overlooking the trees, so that Noorie, I thought, could envy her free compatriots at leisure.

I am being unjust, for the bird flew free in the house much of the day. As soon as Suleiman Chacha had finished his morning prayers he went to the cage and lifted the cloth with a flourish, making chucking noises at the bird, which responded with a series of clicks of its beak and a soft word or two. Chacha had taught her to say his name and half a dozen other words, a repertoire he was inordinately doting about. As parents do with young children, he would coax the bird into speech for his visitors.

Murmuring to each other, they would be thus united every morning, after which Noorie would perch on a door or, when it was available, Chacha’s shoulder as he went about his chores. Sometimes it alighted on me too, its claws poking through my thin kurta, its feathers tickling my ears. I am sure it knew I did not want it there.

“Won’t you take Noorie with you?” I asked Chachi, anxious not to be left looking after the bird.

I had followed her into the kitchen where she now sat on the floor, leaning against the door, picking rice over for stones. She peered into the rice, pushing bits of it away with her forefinger so that there were two heaps on the big plate, separated by a golden river of bell metal. She did not look up. Her voice had a tremor, as it often did these days.

“We’ve no idea where we’ll stay, how can we carry a bird with us?”

“But you do have a house, you will live there, and it’s only for a month or two.”

“I have never seen this house. It has so many of his relatives already living in it. I would be happy if they gave us a corner to sleep in.”

I felt sure she was exaggerating, being upset at leaving Calcutta so unexpectedly. I looked up with trepidation at Noorie who was perched upon the kitchen door clucking and muttering to herself, unaware of her destiny.

* * *

They left two days later. Chachi had made some parathas for the journey and packed some other dry stuff: biscuits and muri. They were taking no more than a trunkful of clothes and a bedroll. The night before they were to leave, Chacha took me around the house, showing me the electric meter, telling me about the bills that had to be paid each month. He even showed me where he kept the papers for property tax, and gave me a post-dated cheque for a payment due four months later.

“But you’ll be back by then,” I insisted.

“Of course, we will,” Chacha said, his voice tender, as if I were a child he needed to console. “This is just in case we get delayed … ”

Chachi had bought a week’s supply of crisp, green chillies and half a kilo of the grain the bird liked to eat.

“You know the sound Noorie makes when she wants a chilli, don’t you?” she said. “And remember, her bowl must have water at all times.”

“I know it is a bit troublesome,” Chacha said, “but you will need to clean out the cage every so often.”

“It’s no trouble,” I mumbled, feeling the weight of a stone in my heart.

“Talk to her every morning,” he said, “before you leave for work. She’ll be lonely with nobody in the house. She’s not used to it.”

“You will be back in no time,” I said again.

“Of course,” Chacha said. “Why would I want to stay away from my own home?”

Noorie seemed to have understood that something was afoot and had been flapping about inside the cage, making harsh noises. Before they left, I covered the cage with her cloth.

They did not want me to go to the station with them. “I don’t want Noorie to be alone when we leave,” Chacha said. “We can manage this little bit of luggage on our own.”

I watched them trudge down to the end of the lane, bent sideways by their bundles and trunk. The corners of my eyes were damp with tears and I brushed them away, feeling both impatient and nonplussed by my despondency. They vanished from sight without turning. I shut the gate and went back to remove the cloth from Noorie’s cage.

“Now it’s just you and me,” I whispered, wanting to be consoled. She stayed in the corner of her cage and would not come out.

* * *

My maudlin temper had left me by the next morning. It is strangely comforting how much distance sleep can create between events. I looked around my empire. Silence had replaced the usual morning sounds: Chacha’s gargling and loud throat-clearing as he brushed his teeth, Chachi’s series of sneezes early each day. For the first time in my life there was no-one for whom I felt obliged to vacate a chair. I could put my feet up on the table. I could be whoever I wanted to be, I was in a house all to myself in a city where virtually nobody knew me. I was filled with a sudden sense of elation and space. I flung the cover off the parrot and opened the door of her cage.