The Widow of Sudin Bannerjee

Aarti woke up in her bed - alone again, and even after almost three weeks after Sudin’s death, it is one of the saddest moments of her day.

Or is she sadder when she switches off the bed side lamp at night?

She isn’t sure as yet.

It is not that Sudin was never out of their home. A successful architect like him, a partner in the huge firm, Sudin was a very frequent traveller.

So what is different now? Was it that his scent is slowly fading from the marital bed? Or is it his photo facing the bed which now sports a large sandalwood garland?

The mark of the dead?

Irritated, she gets up from her bed on knees stiff after the night and goes to the photo. Climbs on a footstool and takes off the garland. She always hated garlands. There! Minus the offending garland, his face once again seems to join the living. It is a rare photo taken by her, for a change, on their trip to attend Mohit’s graduation.

It had been a clear sunny day, and how proud they had felt as Mohit stood there, amongst his class fellows. Mohit, their only son, only child if you don’t consider the still born baby girl.

Mohit, with his thick thatch of hair, falling over his eyes - exactly like Sudin’s. The difference being the colour - Sudin’s a very handsome, very distinguished silver, already from the time when he was in his late forties.

When eighteen days ago, Sudin’s partner had rung the door bell, just an hour after Sudin should have reached the office, Aarti knew.....


Mutely, Trilok looked at her, misery and shock written plainly over his face. Her knees buckled under her and Trilok just caught her before she hit the floor.

Sudin had just reached the office parking lot when he collapsed. It was too late even as the ambulance rushed him to the hospital within a record 15 minutes.

DOA. Dead on Arrival.

Aarti wanted to say, let me sleep, wake me up when this is all over. But of course that was foolishness. There were phone calls to be made, the hardest one to Mohit.


For the next few days, her home was filled by more people than she cared to count. Cousins, friends, colleagues, once upon a time hers too, and now only Sudin’s.

The whole tamasha - the aftermath of a death. People she didn’t know existed coming up with the familiarity of long lost friends. Moving into her home and life with the sensitivity of bulldozers.

The collected gaggle of relatives were planning the post death pujas with morbid enthusiasm. Finally, she could stand it no more.

Sorry, No puja - she said firmly. Turning all the collected relatives’ mouths into disbelieving ’O’ s.

She was beyond being nice though. In this she would stick to Sudin’s wishes, no one else’s. She wasn’t answerable to anyone else.

She was dry eyed till Mohit arrived, jet lagged and hollow eyed, almost three days after Sudin’s , .. Sudin’s death.

Then it hit her finally. He was gone.

Then followed a period of rage - how could he? He was only fifty two for heaven’s sake. In great physical shape. Working out regularly, having given up smoking almost eight years ago. Maybe a drink or two every evening. How could he die? When his father had lived to seventy plus, mother too?

Damn you Sudin! Going away like that, leaving me a widow at forty-nine. Just a year after our silver wedding anniversary.

Mohit had to leave after a short stay. Take a holiday, Mum, he had begged. Come and visit me. I can try and rent an apartment nearby. Get away from here! She patted his hand.. later, maybe a little later.

Thankfully the cousins and other relatives went away soon on realising that she was serious about not having any of the myriad ceremonies. Aarti pretended not hear the thinly veiled reproach in their voices as they bade their farewells.

And then blessedly, her home was empty. A welcome respite, she hoped. One that would give her the space to sit down and digest it all.

~


Day 18 - She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth, noting listlessly that she seemed to have put on some weight. Dark circles and puffy face. Hair with much grey showing. Grey that she hadn’t minded but Sudin seemed to dislike.

When she pointed out that he had had a head full of silver for ages, he was quiet for a while and then said, “Aarti, in my mind I see you as I saw you first, with your daring, clinging shalwar kahameez...and your long jet black hair in a loose plait, all the way down to your waist..”

She had laughed then, flattered and irritated at the same time. Flattered at his memory and irritated because she felt she too should be allowed some signs of aging.

So she started taking more care of her looks, got the greys dyed, against all her abhorrence to dyes. A short while later when Sudin asked her why she didn’t consider not working in their office anymore, she was touched.

“You have worked hard enough Aarti. There are several staff members now. Why don’t you stay home and pamper yourself? Act as if you are a successful architect’s wife rather than a struggling architect’s!”

She had smiled. What would she do at home? All her life, she had worked with him, painstakingly keeping accounts and doing the routine administration work. Filing papers, following up with government agencies, town planning and what nots, while Sudin and Trilok worked almost sixteen hours a day on jobs. Their third partner - not officially, but always there. The strong anchor for their struggling firm.

Then jobs came in slowly, jobs that were in no way near their dreams of their college days. But they did bring in money.

And slowly, the firm became well known, a residential building here, an office there. And then, in the last ten years, getting plum projects.

A university campus outside Ahmedabad, a whole township in a Mumbai suburb Work load increased so much that in Bangalore, they bought an entire building. Staff strength rose to almost hundred. A branch office was opened n Mumbai as the ’command office’ for the township project.

At first it felt strange to Aarti not to be going to work along with Sudin. Mohit was already in the UK. Unsure of what really to do with her time, she would follow Sudin around as he got ready - knotting his tie as she used to for years, sitting down at the breakfast table as he half listened to her whilst reading the newspapers. Waving him bye from the front door as his car drove past from the circular drive way.

Then step back inside the house and wonder how she would fill in her day. “Read books, watch plays, go for music recitals.. do all that you always wanted to do and had no time and we had no money..” said Sudin, his voice impatient when she tried to say it to him. She didn’t have the courage to ask him how could she suddenly come up with enough friends to do all that with!

She tried to join a kitty party group and gave up after a few months, tired of the whole phoniness of it all. Joined the swimming club, tried her hand at golf. Sudin just got busier and busier. Earlier, his travelling out of Bangalore didn’t bother her. She was still looking after the administration along with kindly Mrs Coelho, an old Anglo Indian lady.

Now, with her ’banishment’ as she thought of it to herself, Aarti took to chatting to Mrs Coelho every day on the phone. Trying to hang on to the life which was hers till such a short time ago.

But slowly, that too became contrived. So many things were happening in the firm that it wasn’t really possible to be outside and still feel a part of it all. Then six months after Aarti stopped working, Mrs Coelho retired to join her daughter in Canada. At her farewell party, Aarti felt forlorn, almost bereft. Feeling her connections to 21st Century Designs fraying even more.

Who could she talk to about her loneliness? A sister in Singapore, happily married with two young children, Mohit and Sudin, made up for her family. Sudin, who was getting more and more like stranger each day, a very attractive, successful and often increasingly impatient stranger, who shared her bed two thirds of the nights.

Get out of it, Aarti! She admonished herself. Stop this binge of self pity. You don’t want to join the club of widows who are forever crying for their dead husbands. No one has any time for that.

On an impulse, she decides to start clearing up her wardrobe. That should keep her busy the whole day. But before she would open the wardrobe doors, she sees the large suitcase standing in front of it. Sudin’s things from the office.

She approaches it gingerly. There is a large Post It stuck on it in Trilok’s graceful architect’s hand “Aarti, no hurry with this. There is nothing urgent in here. All official stuff I am taking care of.. Take care, Trilok”

Let’s get that over and done with, she says and hoists the suitcase on the bed. Sudin’s favourite, tan leather, scuffed now after much travelling but still handsome. She pats it absentmindedly before undoing the clasps.


Right on top is a picture of Mohit, as a ten year old, looking like a mini version of Sudin. She smiles at it and keeps that aside, looking for her photo that she knew was always there on his desk.

One of hers, wearing a white sari with a broad red border, a matching blaze of sindoor in her parting, smiling a saucy smile (thinking back of a particularly romantic night the night before). That was her most favourite photograph of herself.

Getting a bit disconcerted when she cannot see itin its familiar wooden frame.


His Rotary membership papers, an autographed book on Hampi architecture, a pen holder withhis favourite pens, and the smaller case with his lap top. The lap top that was his life line, he would say. Not even trusting her with it.

“Aarti, darling, I know, you are familiar with p.c. s, but this laptop here is a special one.. it is my office when I am away..” She had pushed away the feeling of being shut out of one more area of his life.


Now the lap top sat there, its metallic body cool and smooth to the touch. She picked it up and was surprised how heavy the slim box actually was.

A small pile of letters sat underneath. Mostly opened. She pulled together the rattan waste paper basket and methodically got rid of what seemed like junk mail. A letter from Mohit - a man to man one. Telling Dad about his heartbreak over Emma, the English girl he had been seeing. She reads it, frowning. Disturbed because Mohit hadn’t mentioned anything about how the break came about. Happy nonetheless that he had confided in his Dad.


And then right at the bottom, a thick cream colour envelope, heavy. A bold hand addressed it to Sudin Bannerjee, Executive Director, 21st Century Designs. No address of the sender.

She opens it with curious fingers and some photos fall out.

Sudin in a towel robe, sitting on a deep sofa, his feet up on a glass table, his bifocals in his hand, smiling into the camera. Where was this? A hotel? Who took it? In a towel robe?

The second photo knocks her breath out.

Sudin sitting relaxed next to a woman, in a matching towel robe. Not just sitting next to her, but with his arm around her, the unmistakably easy intimacy of two people... two people who are....... lovers....

Her husband and this woman..

She has to sit back and close her eyes and fight the rising tide of bile to her mouth. What am I seeing here?

Then the third one, a tight close up of the woman. early thirties at the most, long dark hair, large brown eyes and a pert nose, lips with a slight over-bite. Very attractive, very confident as she smiles into the camera, and somehow also familiar.

The contents of the letter as bold as the handwriting.


Dearest,


Couldn’t wait till you saw these. See what great pictures my new toy takes! Wasn’t I right in buying it? And you thought I was being silly..when I picked it up. One doesn’t have to have the enormous monster Nikons like you do, to get good photos.. Agreed?

Looking forward to taking it with us to Mexico. Just a month till we are in Tequila land... Ola!

Any chance of a short trip to Mumbai in before that? Come on Sweet, come at least for one weekend, will you?? It’s almost a month since you were here last!

You have to see how nice our place is looking now. No, I am not going to tell you what colour wallpaper I finally chose. Come and see it.

And while we are talking about your coming over, don’t forget that there is this silly woman who is eagerly waiting for you, day and night..Especially... at ... nights.


Kisses

Shyamolie


P.S - how nice to send you a real letter, as against the emails! This really feels like the old days of snail mail!


Aarti closed her eyes again.

Why? Why? Why Sudin, why?

She sees herself reflected in the dressing table mirror. A puffy faced middle aged woman, her greying hair mussed up, still in a shapeless kaftan, crumpled from the night before.

And took again a look at the picture of the woman, Shymolie.

Smiling, confident in her youth and beauty.

Oh Sudin, is that why? Because I am a few kilos overweight? Didn’t we get older together? Didn’t we have a good life together? Doesn’t that count for something?

A trip to Mexico with her. Sudin had to attend some international conference there in the next month. Aarti had suggested that she would like to go with him. He had turned to her absently, looking up from his desk. “Aarti, the schedule is totally packed. There is hardly any time before or after the conference gets over and you know I have to rush back. It isn’t any holiday. Leave it for some other time okay??”

End of topic. She had swallowed and kept quiet. Sure there would be other times.

But there weren’t going to be any more times, were there, Sudin? What were you planning before .. before you dropped dead?

Had he decided to go away from their marriage? To a new life with Shyamolie? Or was Shyamolie just a passing fancy?

Suddenly, it was most important to find out what Sudin was planning.. Galvanized into action, she chqrged into the study (his study, as of the last few years) and plugs the lap top in. While the computer is booting, she wonders why she hadn’t noticed the utter absence of her photos on his massive desk?

Sudin, who was always taking pictures, saying he would have been a photographer if he hadn’t been an architect? Always surrounding himself with pictures of Aarti and Mohit? My good looking family, he would say..

Just like she hadn’t noticed his faint but unmistakable drawing away from her when she came to him at night?

Not noticed when he pleaded a heavy head or complained of feeling too tired to make love? Did she even remember the last time they made love?

The signs were there Aarti.. You just chose not to see them.

The computer came to life. Slowly the icons materialised on the screen.

You were wrong Sudin,, she said aloud. A lap top isn’t all that different from a pc.

The password took almost half an hour. You weren’t all that smart, either, Sudin, she almost chortled as she typed in the correct password. Their first bungalow aashiana followed by his first car number 7000 aashinana7000 and she was in the world of Sudin and Shyamolie.

And wished she hadn’t..

For it was all there.. their introduction at some function in Mumbai, almost two years ago, the first tentative mails, then the setting up of the first meeting. And all the stuff in between. Her cheeks burning, she skimmed past the more intimate talk.

What were they planning in the long run?

The more current emails.. Shyamolie getting demanding, asking when he was finally going to tell her. Her meaning Aarti! When he was finally going to come out in the open. How tired she was of this hiding. How much she wanted to be with him openly...

A gap in the correspondence from Sudin.

And in that gap, Aarti found new prayers.

Please Sudin, let me find a mail from you telling her it was all a big mistake. That you don’t want anything to do with her anymore. That you were ’going back’ to me. That you discovered that you love me still.

Let me find that, Sudin, and I shall forget everything. I promise, Sudin, let me find that you didn’t die not loving me at least a tiny little bit. Please Sudin, Please.

And then his last two mails, in quick succession - dated just a couple of days ago before his stroke.

Telling Shyamolie that he had decided to tell Her as soon as they would return from Mexico. And then move out of their Bangalore home. Then planned to fly to the UK to break the news in person to Mohit, maybe even take Shyamolie with him to meet Mohit then.

But he needed at least a month to sort out the joint finances...

Aarti wept then. Joint finances, Sudin? Is that what it had come down to? The systems that I created, ploddingly, painstakingly over years, before you got your fancy CA’s and accounting systems? The bank accounts that I forced you to co-sign with me so that we could start saving some money? The loans that we took for our first office against the collateral of my jewellery?

And who would sort out the rest of our joint stuff Sudin? Our memories, our dreams? What was supposed to happen to them?

Damn you Sudin. Damn you for doing this to me. But you know what? I am glad you died. Glad you died when you were still married to me. No matter what you were planning, at least outwardly, I won’t be a laughing stock.

I am the mother of your son. I live in our house, I carry your name, I will be known forever as the widow of Sudin Bannerjee. What has she got? Maybe a house and some gifts that you have managed to pass on to her. But for the rest, nothing...

Aarti looks at the photo again. The smile, the overbite.. the long dark hair tumbling past her shoulders.. .. She is sure she hasn’t seen her before but still the sense of familiarity persists.. the smile..

And suddenly the room swims as tears gather rapidly in her eyes. She may well have been looking at her own photo - Shyamolie, very very alike to Aarti of 25 years ago....

Slowly a picture forms in her mind....

The girl with her long black hair, her upturned nose and her slight overbite, - waiting for a mail that would never arrive, the phone call that would never come. The flight to Mexico that she would never board with the handsome, silver haired man. The girl, smiling no more.

She wasn’t even conscious of going through Sudin’s black address book, turned to S - and found a Mumbai mobile number under Mr Shyam. Her fingers punched the numbers, knowing somehow with full conviction that this had to be her.

The phone was answered after a few rings and a woman’s voice answered, hoarse, choked, unbelieving, “Who is this? Who is calling? ’

Aarti cleared her throat and said in a voice steady, but for a slight tremor,” This is Aarti here..Aarti Bannerjee, the.....the widow of Sudin Bannerjee...’