She checked her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, now somewhat dimmed with age. Was this indigo too deep a blue? After all she was not family, but those who remembered would shoot covert glances at her. She would be observed and commented upon…She pulled out the bottom drawer of the old wooden wardrobe for a pair of sandals and winced. Lined up were several pairs of uneven shoes and sandals…the sole of the right footwear always about four inches thicker than the left. All made to order, heavy and ungainly. As a young girl she had often lingered in front of footwear stores, eyeing the myriad hued dainty creations on display. She was slim and willowy then, and had often fantasised about wearing a hugging pair of jeans. But even that fantasy was rudely jolted when it came to footwear. No, she was condemned to wearing concealing long skirts. Later, when she joined the bank, the regulation sari came as a relief. At least she was dressed like everyone else, and nobody would give that swift downward glance that had made her cringe in school. As she locked the door a wave of panic hit her. She paused for a moment to let it pass, and then shouldered her bag and resolutely walked down the drive.
‘Almighty God, Father of all mercies and giver of all comfort, we gather to give thanks for the life of our dear departed Ashish Mondal’ intoned the pastor. ‘Ashish Mondal’, she had heard and spoken that name with so many conflicting emotions for so many years. This perhaps was the last she would ever hear it mentioned…
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Once her mother heard that a young man, Ashish Mondal, of their own faith and denomination had been transferred to the branch where her daughter worked, she had swung into action. She suddenly recalled old friends who lived in the town he was posted in earlier, unearthed details about his family from superannuated pastors, badgered her daughter to find out his future prospects in the bank and then to invite him home. The drawing room of their old colonial bungalow was spruced up, the best crockery and cutlery fished out and displayed to welcome Ashish Mondal on his very first visit. Her mother was determined to like him, and Ashish overawed by their colonial bungalow—its sprawling compound and prime location—was polite and subdued. He came over again and again, and when the engagement was finally announced no one was really surprised. Suddenly she took centre stage at the bank. Ever little new detail in her appearance was noticed with squeals of delight by her colleagues, Neera and Mrs Naidu. Every meeting with Ashish Mondal after bank hours was graced with the appellation ‘date’ and she was merrily ragged and teased. ‘Look! She is blushing!’ ‘Where are you buying the ring from? Go to my jeweller…’ She blossomed under the affection and attention. Happy halcyon days! But she was uneasy even then. The more she interacted with Ashish the more she was struck by the sharp difference in their attitude and principles. She would suddenly wake up at night, her heart pounding, palms clammy with sweat. Something was not right. She needed more time. ‘Jitters’ laughed her mother gaily, caught up in a whirl of wedding preparations. Nakul Singh, the notorious builder, started frequenting the bank and Ashish was often seen in his company, when one sodden monsoon afternoon she went up to the terrace to close a skylight and saw a sleek black car parked flush with their boundary wall. In the car was Nakul Singh and Ashish was with him, gesturing expansively towards her home. Some of his earlier pointed questions now made sense. But the clinching evidence came when she overheard him talking to someone about measuring the compound of their bungalow some Sunday when she and her mother would be at church.
‘You won’t even let me die in peace’ screamed her mother and then sank back sobbing ‘what will become of you?’ when she heard of the broken engagement. But something greater than the engagement broke too. The bond of unreserved affection between herself and her mother was broken forever, and henceforth her mother kept herself aloof in a way that was heartbreaking. The laughter and teasing in the bank too had been replaced by awkward silences and pitying glances. Somehow, it was generally understood that it was Ashish who had jilted her.
‘….He was very hospitable’ said Alex Masih, mopping his bald pate and perspiring nape with a large chequered handkerchief. It was difficult to eulogise a man who was known to have been biggest fraud in town. A man who had spent five years in jail for fraud and embezzlement. Someone whose palatial home and swanky flats had been attached and sold. A criminal. Ashish had entertained politicos, officials, auditors and accountants in style—the ‘hospitality’ Alex had just mentioned. A gold bracelet and sundry chunky chains now adorned his expanding person. He changed his car every other year. And every year when the audit came around there was an avid expectation that he would be finally caught out, though it never happened. Managers came and went, well pleased with Ashish Mondal and his massive contribution to the growth of the bank…. The years that bought ill gotten prosperity to Ashish were not unkind to Shalu either. As laborious year succeeded laborious year, she steadily moved up the promotion ladder. She had lost her elfin slimness, and her once silky sheet of hair was now grey and cropped. She had gradually moved from shared workstations to exclusive cubicles, and finally to the manager’s swanky office. And then --the Year of Audit, she always thought of that year as the Year of Audit. When the auditors came, she merely let the documents do the talking, concealing nothing. Questions turned into interrogation, suspicion into allegation, allegation into proof . And then all hell broke loose.
Ashish Mondal hit back as only a man can. He declared that she was taking her revenge for the engagement he broke off so many years ago. He hinted at other torrid relationships that had never existed, and detailed lurid encounters that had never happened. That year she would come into a room and there would be a sudden silence. At meetings male subordinates would sprawl in their chairs, heads together, their voices murmurous, their faces adult and expert, glancing covertly at her while retailing stories to the young probationers. She faced it all alone. Her right leg was now unexpectedly her best ally, for those who wanted to support her through these vile vilifications would refer to her disability… “Who would…you know? She can scarcely walk!”
‘My conscience is absolutely clear. Otherwise, I would never have attended this memorial service’, she thought.
The pastor was now giving the benediction. ‘The Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you’ She covered her head with a wisp Chantilly lace, once intended for the trousseau that never materialised and bowed her head. ‘The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.’ The peacock-hued bit of lace slipped off her grey bowed head and fell to the floor as gently as an unheard whisper, an unanswered prayer, a sigh.
About the Author:
Professor Sarvajit Mukerji is a Professor at the Department of English, University of Allahabad. His areas of interest are Ecocriticism and Feminism. He has published around thirty papers in national and international journals. His book on T.S Eliot, The Poet and His Times was favourably reviewed. His paper published internationally, entitled “What I Learnt from Bridget” on the celebrated novel, Bridget Jones Diary, was published in 2019. Recently, his work, “Junoon: The Anglo-Indian Connection” has appeared as a chapter in Literature Across Mediums.
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