The Bastard

When I was a small boy I could never understand why my mother disliked Bijoy-kaku (Uncle Bijoy) so much.

To me, a visit from Bijoy-kaku was a great and happy event. He brought me toffees, little toys made of bamboo and wood, bows and arrows, and once even a little toy car which had to be rubbed on the ground a few times and let go – it would shoot off to the end of the room and crash. It was so much fun !

We never had guests at home who stayed with us. All the people my parents knew were in our village and the neighbouring ones. Of course, they would visit us during Durga Puja, New Year etc, but nobody would actually stay with us. They would come during the day and leave by evening.

The only person who stayed with us, often for days, was Bijoy-kaku.

My father and Bijoy-kaku had grown up together. Kaku had left the village and sought his fortune in the city, probably not very successfully. My father had returned to his village after B.A., became a schoolmaster, and married a girl, my mother, from the adjacent village. Living in one corner of Bengal, a visit from an old friend, who brought tales of the city and all that was modern, was exciting for my father.

Bijoy-kaku seemed to like me much, much more than any of the other friends of my father. Those people would smile at me, maybe pat my head, and then ignore me. Bijoy-kaku was the only one who liked to play with me. That was strange. Nevertheless, I enjoyed every visit of his. He would play all kinds of games with me, throw me in the air and catch me, hugged me every now and then, and gave me so many toys. His eyes were never off me.

I knew that my mother would smash up the toys immediately after Bijoy-kaku left. That made it more imperative for me to play with the toys as much as I could, because I knew they would soon be gone. It was useless to plead with her to let me have them after Kaku left – she would be merciless.

Baba and I enjoyed Bijoy-kaku’s visits. But my mother would invariably have a scowl on her face when he came. It was so unlike her. Usually she was sweetness personified. She was always so kind, polite, or respectful, as appropriate, with anyone she met. But, not with Bijoy-kaku.

I was the apple of her eye. Nothing was too good for me. Whatever she could eke out of my father’s meager earnings would be spent on me, whether it was an extra new shirt for Puja, or a new pair of shoes earlier than scheduled, so that my toes would not be cramped within the old one. I could never understand why she did not want me to enjoy Bijoy-kaku’s gifts.

I was an only child, and so I was very attuned to the moods of my parents. The happiness of my father at the visits of Bijoy-kaku, and the evident anger of my mother at the same event, used to make me wonder what made my mother dislike Bijoy-kaku so much.

When I began to grow up a bit more, I sensed further nuances in the four-cornered relationship between my father, my mother, Bijoy-kaku and myself.

My mother was always as rude to Bijoy-kaku as she could be without actually insulting him.

Contrarily, he always smiled at her. Bijoy-kaku was always extremely polite to my mother. Once or twice I saw Bijoy-kaku look at my mother with an almost pleading expression. My mother was always steel-faced – no expression at all. Since I was able to notice it, I am sure my father did so as well. He said nothing, however. I found it weird, but kept quiet.

My mother was distinctly cool towards my father when Bijoy-kaku was around. Normally she would fuss over my father, a little less than she would fuss over me, but a lot all the same. She made sure that his hookah was always ready, that he had a nice glass of tea when he woke up in the morning, and was persuaded to have just a little more of whatever special dish, like hilsa in mustard, she had made that day.

But when Bijoy-kaku was around, she was almost indifferent to my father. She used to dump the food on his thali almost with anger. The hookah was not made – Bijoy-kaku would have to make it.

She was over-possessive with me when Bijoy-kaku was around. She wanted me to be with her all the time. She would pull me away from my games with him and send me off on an errand, to get something from the grocer which wasn’t really urgent. I used to moan and groan, but she insisted.

My father watched all this in his usual benign and tolerant manner.

Nothing was expressly stated, but I could sense the vibes. It made me somewhat uncomfortable, but there was nothing I could do except enjoy Kaku’s games with me, and the toys that he had brought, as much as I could before it all went away.

When I was ten, I overheard a conversation between my parents when I was semi-asleep.

“Why does that man keep coming here ?” my mother hissed at my father.

“Why not ? He is my friend”, replied my father.

“He is your friend, I accept that. But why does he play with my son so much, and bring him all these stupid toys ?”

“Well …..he has certain rights” my father said.

“WHAT rights ? What rights does he have over our child ?” my mother demanded.

“You know very well, dear” my father said.

That was the end of the conversation.

Nothing was heard from Bijoy-kaku for several years after that. By then I was well into my teens and not really bothered about toffees and toys.

Suddenly there was a post-card which caused consternation.

Bijoy-kaku had died.

My father insisted that I observe some of the rites prescribed for the mourning of an elder – eating only boiled rice and vegetables, wearing garments with no stitches, etc.

I protested.

“He was just your friend, Baba. Why do I have to do all this ?”

“He was like my brother. Please do this for me” my father insisted.

Strangely enough, my mother did not utter one word of support for me.

So I did all that was required. My mother kept totally silent. She just made sure that I was inconvenienced as little as possible while following all the prescribed rites.

Years moved on. I grew up, went to college, got a job in the city and pursued a career.

One day I got a telegram – my mother had died.

By the time I could reach my village, the funeral was over and everyone had left. There was only my heart-broken father and myself in the little house with the small garden which was already looking derelict, lacking my mother’s tender touch. Even the Tulsi plant looked crestfallen.

There was a power cut that evening. My father and I sat in the garden, me on a stool and my father on his old, but treasured, easy-chair.

There was nothing to talk about. I didn’t know what would be an appropriate thing to say, and I guess neither did my father. I watched the full moon and pictured my mother’s smiling face.

“Do you remember Bijoy-kaku ?”, Baba suddenly asked.

“Of course", I replied, puzzled.

A long silence followed.

At last he said “Your mother took from him what I was not able to give her”.

The moon disappeared behind clouds.

We sat in silence.

I looked back over the years and understood.

When the moon appeared again, my father coughed and said “let’s go in”.

I helped him off his easy-chair and led my father, the father who brought me up, to our little house.

Yes, I was a bastard.

I was created from the combined desire of two people, one of whom could not make me happen, and another who found a way to make me happen, with the tacit understanding of the other.

I am glad it happened.