Manasi heaved her over-sized laptop bag onto her left shoulder and got out of the Uber cab. Entering her building she crossed the lobby and pressed the flickering “up” button of the elevator. As she heard the distant whir of the lift making its slow descent to the ground floor, Manasi Sengupta checked her watch. It was 10.50pm.
Keya opened the door within seconds of Manasi ringing the
doorbell.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Keya said in her
familiar tone of motherly admonition.
Manasi was too tired to respond, but Keya continued, “It’s
nearly 11pm! What would your parents say if they knew?”
As she passed the dining table on her way to her bedroom
Manasi saw how neatly everything had been laid for dinner. There was a
vegetable curry, light chicken stew garnished with tiny sprigs of coriander and
piping hot rice. Everything looked delectable in their gleaming bowls and
casseroles.
No matter how cross she might be, Keya never neglected her
duties.
*******************************
Keya was no less than a member of the Sengupta family. The close
knit family, comprising of Manasi, her elder brother Mihir and their doting
parents, were originally from Ballygunge in Kolkata. But like most other well educated
promising professionals of urban Kolkata, the children had moved away, and the
family ties were now long distance.
Mihir, a brilliant graphics designer had relocated to
Mumbai, while Manasi, armed with a postgraduate degree in Economics from the
prestigious Delhi School of Economics, shifted to Bangalore.
Mr. Sengupta’s business commitments kept him shuttling
between Delhi and his family house in Ballygunge, so Mrs. Sengupta divided her
time between staying with her two children.
Keya came to live with the family as a cheeky young girl of
three or four years of age. Her mother had only recently died of malaria. Keya’s
mother Parul had worked as a nurse for Mrs. Sengupta’s aged mother for nearly 8
years.
Neither Keya, nor the Senguptas, had ever known who her
father was. Parul had been reluctant to talk about him, and so no one ever
pressed her for details. All they knew was that Parul had been a devoted helper
and companion to her elderly employer and so Keya would be given a roof over
her head, food and clothing till she became old enough to stand on her own two
feet.
Keya was even sent to a nearby Corporation school. But after
the 7th standard she stopped showing any inclination towards
academics and begged to be allowed to discontinue her studies. She was happiest
when engaged in housework. She had a natural flair for cooking, and was a
strong and steady worker.
Manasi and Keya were
about the same age, thus inevitably they had been lifelong friends and
inseparable companions. As kids they had
shared toys, clothes and feminine secrets. Keya had always been Manasi’s
steadfast supporter in her stormy fights with Mihir. Likewise, Manasi was the
first person Keya presented her latest kitchen experiments with.
Manasi, a quiet and meritorious student as a child, grew up
to become a woman of fiery ambition. She ate slept and dreamt finance and was consequently
indifferent to cooking and housework even for her own sustenance.
While a student at DSE, she didn’t have to bother about
meals and laundry as such services were provided by her hostel, but when she
rented a flat after landing her job, her mother knew that there was only one
solution.
So Keya packed her belongings and joined her “Moni didi” in
Bangalore, and the two lived alone in peaceful coexistence, with occasional
month long visits paid by Mrs. Sengupta.
Manasi’s friends, who spent their weekends toiling over
buckets of soapy water and waging battles in the kitchen, listened to tales of
Keya’s culinary expertise and meticulous home management with bitter envy. Manasi
knew that she was very fortunate and heaved a sigh of relief every time she
thought about how a few years back Keya had nearly left them for good.
******************************
When Keya was about
18 years of age Mrs. Sengupta felt a prick of conscience. Keya was a healthy,
vivacious girl, and not at all bad to look at. Mrs Sengupta felt it would be
unfair towards her if she did not assist in finding her someone to raise her
own family with.
Finally, they had narrowed down their choices to a young
grocer’s assistant who lived in Baruipur, a few hours away from the main city
of Kolkata. The match had been suggested by their driver Srikanto who lived in
the same neighbourhood as the grocer boy Gourango.
Being liberal in their views, the Senguptas had even
arranged for Keya and Gour to meet quite a few times before their marriage.
Finally after two months of courtship Mr. Sengupta summoned them both to his
study and asked them if they were happy with the idea of marrying each other. A
discomfited but excited Gour had stuttered, grinned widely and then nodded his
head in affirmation, while Keya, her head bowed down deeply in embarrassment
gave a short nod.
But destiny had other plans for Keya. One day, two weeks
before the marriage date, Srikanto requested to be allowed to talk with Mr.
Sengupta in private. No one else heard the actual conversation but it resulted
in the marriage being broken off.
Manasi later learned from her mother that Srikanto had
discovered Gour was already married and had a wife and children in his native
village near Purulia.
Keya cried profusely for three days continuously. On the
fourth day she threw herself at Mrs. Sengupta’s feet.
“Mashimoni”, she wailed, her eyes blood-red, like that of
some wild animal; her long hair rough and dishevelled. “Please don’t put me
through such heart break again. I don’t want to get married. If something like
this happens again, I will take my life.”
Mrs. Sengupta pulled Keya to her lap and lovingly caressed
her head. The Senguptas never raised the subject again.
***********************************
Keya did not utter a word of protest when she was asked to
move to Bangalore to help out her Moni didi. Keya’s happiest hours were at
night and on weekends, when the two young women would watch their favourite
Hindi television serials or Bollywood ‘Masala’ movies. This had been their
lifelong habit and they still enjoyed giggling over the handsome male
protagonists and gasping over the melodramatic twists and turns of the plot,
just like when they had been little girls.
When Manasi occasionally went out to meet old college
friends and office colleagues or left for short weekend trips, she felt a
twinge of guilt for leaving behind Keya all alone in a strange city. Keya would
not show any overt signs of disappointment but she would just go quiet for a
few days. So Manasi tried to avoid such plans unless they coincided with her
mother’s visits.
******************************************
It was the second day after ‘Bijoya Dashami’, the last day
of the five day long Durga Pujas.
After several months
the Sengupta family were once again gathered under one roof.
Both Manasi and Mihir had taken two weeks leave from their
work for the Puja holidays. This time, there was another reason behind the
family get-together. Manasi’s father had decided to look seriously into the
matter of arranging a matrimonial alliance for his daughter.
While the siblings and their father sat in the living room, Mrs.
Sengupta supervised Keya and Raghu, their caretaker-cum-domestic help, as they rushed
in and out of the kitchen bringing in tray after tray of sweets and savoury
snacks. There were ‘singara’s, some special ‘Bijoya sandesh’ and hot and crispy
‘jalebi’s and ‘gulab jamun’s.
Manasi had been
instructed to sit still so her beautiful new chiffon sari with intricate zardozi
embroidery, a Puja gift from her mother, would not get crumpled. She and Mihir
were exchanging news and describing the various ‘pandals’ they had visited with
their old friends over the Pujas. Mr. Sengupta sat with the newspapers,
periodically checking his watch.
“You are so lucky that you don’t have to through all this,
Mihir”, Manasi said ruefully. “You found the love of your life in Mumbai. I
wish I had such a thriving social life as yours then I wouldn’t have to be
subjected to such banal traditions.”
“You have only yourself to blame Baby sis. You should go out
more, meet people, have fun, hop some clubs, try some pubs”, said Mihir, with a
mischievous wink.
“That’s enough Mihir”, Mr. Sengupta’s grave voice was heard
from behind the newspaper, “You need not make your sister a follower down your
path of decadence. It’s a wonder how such a lovely girl like Dwitipriya agreed
to marry you!”
Just then, their doorbell rang, cutting short the playful
jibes of the bickering family. Mrs. Sengupta straightened her sari while Mr.
Sengupta went to welcome the guests inside.
Mr and Mrs Banerjee, with their son Rohan, a budding
entrepreneur of the hospitality industry, had come to meet Manasi and her
family. Mr. Banerjee was an old colleague of Mr. Sengupta’s elder brother.
The Senguptas and the Bannerjees had a pleasant evening
chatting about their families and their children. Rohan and Manasi talked a bit
as well. Manasi found Rohan to be suitably well mannered and witty, and they
even found that they shared some common interests like movies, exotic cuisine, extreme
sports and travelling to remote places.
Two and a half hours later when the Senguptas bid goodbye to
the Banerjees, the atmosphere in the house was palpably light and hopeful.
Manasi and Rohan had exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch, while the
parents had decided to let the young people to get to know each other at their
own pace.
“Phew”, Mrs. Sengupta heaved a sigh of relief, “That seemed
to have gone well.”
From the corner of her eye she noticed with a half smile
that Manasi had already slipped away to her room. Her thumbs flew rapidly over
the screen of her smartphone and she had a glowing expression on her face.
**************************************
Around 2.15 pm the next day, the Senguptas’ doorbell rang
again. Mrs. Sengupta walked out of her bedroom to answer the bell. It was the
holiday season so none of their friends would abandon their afternoon siesta to
call at that hour.
Her brows were furrowed. She was having a bad day. Manasi
was acting petulant and was in a foul mood for some reason. Mother and daughter
had squabbled over trivial issues all morning.
Mrs. Sengupta asked Mihir if he
knew what was bothering his sister.
Her son dismissed the matter. “Oh,
stop fussing Ma! Moni said something about Rohan not replying her texts. She’ll
come around.”
But his mother wasn’t pacified and in a distracted frame of
mind she opened the door to find two policemen. Looking at the uniforms she could
make out that one was a higher official, possibly an Inspector or Sub-inspector
and the other was a Constable.
“Yes? May I help you?” asked Mrs. Sengupta, trying to
maintain her composure as an inexplicable cold shiver ran down her spine.
“I am Inspector Raha. Is Mr. Raktim Sengupta home?”
“He... yes he’s home. But why? Is there a problem?” By now Mrs.
Sengupta could hardly string two words together. A thousand questions were
speeding through her mind and she felt a strange premonition that something really
bad had happened.
“It’s just a routine enquiry Madam. We need to ask your husband
some questions. We have come to take him down to the Lalbazar Police Station.”
The Inspector’s impassive face tried to betray no emotions while he parroted
the words which he had clearly uttered innumerable times before.
Mr. Sengupta had now come out from his bedroom, hearing the
voices at the door. He gently moved his wife aside and said, “Yes, of course,
I’ll come with you. But what is it about? What has happened?’
The Inspector’s stony reserve thawed a bit. Mr. Sengupta
clearly seemed like a man who could take anything in his stride. “A strange
thing has happened, Sir.” Inspector Raha said, in a tone mingled with
bafflement and worry. “Three people have died an unnatural death, all around
the same time, early today morning at their house near Desapriya Park. They
were a husband and wife and their son by the name of Banerjee. We think they
have been poisoned.”
**********************************
“Why is Moni didi late
again today?”, Keya thought, clenching and unclenching her fingers as she sat
by herself on the soft carpet in the small living-cum-dining room of Manasi’s
apartment. “Doesn’t she realize that there are so many bad men out there
preying on beautiful young girls like her?”
Keya continued
muttering under her breath, “I have cooked her favourite today, ‘Palang Paneer’
and ‘Rumali roti’. Now I have to reheat it when she comes, or it will get cold.
Maybe I will serve it cold to her. Why did she go to watch the new Hrithik
Roshan movie yesterday with her colleagues? She was supposed to watch it with
me.”
But the minute Manasi
entered just before 11pm Keya’s anger evaporated. She rushed to help Moni didi
take off her bag then waited patiently outside the bathroom while Manasi began
to run her bath. Manasi poked out one hand through the edge of the door and
handed over her clothes to Keya, who took them quickly with a practiced hand.
Keya caught a glimpse
of an exposed shoulder and soft wet arms and a thrill of pleasure charged her
skin breaking into ripples of goose bumps.
**********************************
6 years ago.
Keya had saved a good chunk of money over the
years from the ‘bakshish’ or tips she got from the family now and again. Two
weeks before her marriage to that simpering fool Gour, she thrust a handful of
notes in Srikanto. Pocketing the money Srikanto
went to his employer and readily spouted the rehearsed lies.
Srikanto probably
thought Keya had become too accustomed to living with the wealthy Senguptas to
have any desire to change her circumstances.
Little did he know...
**************************************
A few days before Keya,
Manasi, and Mrs. Sengupta were supposed to be travelling back to Kolkata to
spend the Puja holiday, Keya was setting the table for dinner. She could make
out that Manasi and Mrs. Sengupta were engaged in a mock verbal sparring match
in Manasi’s room. Sometimes they lapsed in English; Moni didi always spoke
English when she was angry, so Keya couldn’t follow the conversation entirely.
But she gathered a gist of it. They were planning to start looking for a groom
for Moni di.
Keya pursed her lips
and tried to ignore the sensation of hot fury coursing through her body like
warm blood. She clenched her teeth and exhaled deeply.
“When we return to
Kolkata”, Keya decided, “I’ll ask Mashimoni to let me cook my special
‘singara’s for my new ‘Jamai Babu’-to-be and his family. They always say that
no one can make homemade ‘singara’s like I do.”
Slowly her almond shaped black eyes changed to
two glistening pools of darkness.
***************************************
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