although nothing is as it was in India, even in polite, conservative, what used to be called bhadralok , Bengali society.
âWhere do they stay, uncle?â
âIn this room.â
There are no other spare rooms. It is a small house.
âThey are waiting for me to die. They expect me to move in with Sukhla-pishi.â
That would be his oldest sister-in-law, the one we call Front Room Auntie for her position at the window that overlooks the street. She is over eighty. Nothing happens on Rash Behari Avenue that she doesnât know. The rumor, deriving from those first post-Partition years, is she had driven Anil-kaku , her young husband, my oldest uncle, mad. Heâd died of something suspicious which was officially a burst appendix. Something burst, that is true. Disappointment, rage, failure of his schemes, who can say? It is Calcutta. He was a civil engineer and had been offered a position outside of Ballygunge in a different part of the city, but rather than leave the house and neighborhood, Sukhla-pishi had taken to her bed in order to die. (I should add that modern science sheds much light on intractable behavior. Sukhla-pishi is obviously agoraphobic; a pill would save us all much heartache.) Anil-kaku turned down the job and she climbed out of bed and took her seat on the windowsill. All of that happened before I was born. There had been no children â they were then in their middle-twenties â so she became the first of Youngest Unclesâ lifelong obligations.
âThis is your house, uncle,â I said. âDonât be giving up your rights.â As if he hadnât already surrendered everything.
âRights were given long ago. Her mother holds the lease.â
I should say a few words about my cousin-sister Rina. She is most unfortunate to look at, or to be around. I was astonished that sheâd found any boy to marry, thinking anyone so foolish would be like her, a flawed appendage to a decent family. Weâd been most pleasantly wrong. He was handsome, which goes a long way in our society, a dashing, athletic flight steward with one of the new private airlines that fly between Calcutta and the interior of eastern India. We understood he was in management training. Part of the premarriage negotiation was the best room in the house, that would allow him to pocket his housing allowance from the airline while subletting the company flat, and his own car, computer, television, stereo, printer and tape recorder. Heâd scouted the room before marriage since the demands were not only generic, but included brand names and serial numbers.
âI cannot say more, they are listening,â said my uncle.
It was then that I noticed the new furnishings in the room, a calendar on the wall from Gautamâs employer. This wasnât Youngest Uncleâs room anymore, though heâd lived in it for over fifty years. Heâd sobbed over Nirmala on that bed. The move to the sunny, dusty, noisy front room, rolling a thin mattress on Sukhla-pishiâs floor, had already been made. Next would be Gautamâs selling on the black market of all the carefully boxed, unopened electronics Iâd smuggled in.
âLet us go for tea,â I suggested, putting my hand on his arm, noting its tremble and sponginess. I kept an overseas membership in the Tollygunge Club for moments like this, prying favourite relatives away from family scrutiny, letting them drink Scotch or a beer free of disapproval, but he wouldnât budge.
âThey wonât permit it,â he said. âIâve been told not to leave the house.â
âThey? Whoâs they?â
âThe boy, the girl. Her.â
âRina? You know Rina, uncle, sheâs â â I wanted to say âflawed.â On past visits Iâd contemplated taking her out to the Tolly for a stiff gin just to see if there was a different Rina, waiting to be released. â â
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