Translated fiction: Aditi moves from Bangladesh to Kolkata. She’s haunted by memories of her sister

About 35 years ago, one of the older ladies in the family had seen Sudipta appear from behind the house late in the night, two days after she had disappeared. It seemed she emerged from the big pond and approached the house on foot, her long hair loose and her clothes sopping wet.

No one had thought to ask what the eyewitness was doing at the western window of the second floor at such an unearthly hour. The next day, when the fishermen cast their nets in the pond, they immediately found Sudipta with an earthen pitcher hung around her neck. She had sunk only about a dozen feet away from the bank, so it had not been necessary for them to cast their nets all over.

The elders knew that someone trying to drown herself by tying a pitcher around the neck would never venture far from the bank. The net that caught Sudipta was cast in a circle about 20 feet from the ghat and then pulled toward the bank. Soon, it latched on to something heavy for a moment, then came undone. The men felt something because of the movement of the rope in their hands. A young fisherman went into the pond and found Sudipta after only two or three dips inside. He broke the pitcher with a kick, and the body floated to the surface.

On the following nights, someone or the other inevitably spotted Sudipta crossing the backyard garden and approaching the house in drenched clothes. A flight of stairs rose from the middle of the two courtyards that led to the balcony. Paths from under the staircase fanned out toward the east and west, north and south. Sudipta’s spirit took the western path from the garden to enter the courtyard. But nobody dared to find out where the spirit finally went.

Thirty-five years later, when Aditi was brought out of the operating theatre into the corridor to wait for the elevator, she opened her eyes once or twice in a strange trance. Prashanto squeezed her hand gently and said, “Chhordi, I am here with you.”

From the edge of consciousness, Aditi murmured something.

“Are you saying something, Chhordi?” With great effort, Aditi asked Prashanto, “Bhai, how many petnis lived in our ancestral home?”

“How many … what?” Prashanto could not think of a stranger question for his elder sister to ask him in those circumstances.

“Petni,” Aditi muttered again in a garbled tone but with conviction. Perhaps she wanted to say “pretini,” but the drugs had slurred her speech. She sank into unconsciousness once again.

Aditi had believed in ghosts and spirits for many years. She felt she was much older than Prashanto, even though he was only eleven months younger than her. Her authority over her brother had suddenly increased when she grew three inches taller than he was in her teenage years. Despite being in the same class as her, Prashanto had grown to depend on his Chhordi for life; he had realised that she was much more intelligent than he was.

After dusk, most people, young or old, did not dare to glance at the pond and the enormous mango, jamun, lychee, and jackfruit trees surrounding it from the second floor of their ancient brick-and-lime house. Sudipta had not yet become a pretini. No major trouble had yet reached that house where the four families lived, other than petty rivalries over property. However, after Partition, each one of them lived with a constant, unfamiliar terror within himself.

It was the third year after Independence. One of the four families had left the village twenty-five years ago. The men had found work in different professions in Kolkata or in other big cities in India. Almost everyone had made a life for himself. Only one elderly and unmarried man from the family continued to live in the old house.

He did not wish to die away from home.

Prashanto knew that at 18, their elder sister, Bordi, had taken her own life. Most people in that old house, including the young, knew about it. Some guessed at details, and others had a few suspicions, but nobody knew what had truly happened. By the time Prashanto was old enough to have a frank relationship with his father, Bangladesh had become independent. His father had sunk into a deep depression following his daughter’s death and had never returned to being his usual self again.

When Bangladesh became independent, their father, Binoykumar, and mother, Sujata, were 67 and 59, respectively. Although Sujata sometimes participated when the children reminisced about the house they had left behind, Binoykumar never did. Sometimes, Sujata noticed Binoykumar, who was reticent by nature, becoming even more depressed during these discussions and falling silent. Binoykumar perhaps felt guilty then and, in turn, tried to make some small talk, but by then, the thread of the conversation was lost.

During one such conversation, Aditi had mentioned the blacksmith’s daughter, whom she called Joulushi Mashi. Their house had been built on fifteen bighas of land, most of which comprised gardens or housed other tenants – five or six families of washermen, barbers, blacksmiths, potters, and the bhuinmali community of sweepers. Joulushi was 25 when she lost her husband and, being left with an intellectually disabled son, had since lived with her parents. Joulushi was not her real name; most had forgotten what it actually was. Apart from a buxom figure, she also had a beautiful face. She was fond of dressing up, too.

Joulushi decked herself in the contemporary fashions of their village. Using hair oil abundantly was considered a luxury in those times, but she generously oiled her hair, parted it in the middle, and combed it flat across either side of her forehead. She then pressed her hair down with her hands, pulling it over her ears. Her large eyes, thinly lined with kajal, were always alert and up for a challenge. She did not have to dress up overtly; a hint of makeup would give her face a gorgeous glow. Though no one dared to say it to her face, she had been named Joulushi for her lustre or radiance. She was known for being outspoken, for her sharp retorts, and for her ability to speak her mind even to Bhubankumar, Binoykumar’s elder brother, who was known as “Borobabu” in the village and was a man of great power and influence. Aditi also addressed Joulushi as Kamarjhi and respected her, as did their mother.

Aditi remembered Joulushi years later in the context of a riddle asked long ago when they used to stay in the village. Aditi had asked Sujoy, their youngest brother, what the riddle meant in the typical Borishal language. Though Sujoy was born in Kolkata, he was not totally unacquainted with the Borishali dialect.

“Kamariar mariya mariya padar mariya pa Labonger bongo mariya dudhe mishaiya kha! Can you tell me what it means?”

The word “kamaria” in the riddle prompted Prashanto to talk about Kamarjhi. Sujata remarked in a despondent tone, “She was a good soul. Who knows if she’s still living or not?”

Sujata had shared an excellent relationship, full of love and affection, with the housewives and daughters of the poorer households in the neighbourhood, especially those who lived on the premises of their manor house.

Excerpted with permission from Whispering Waves, Abhijit Sen, translated from the Bengali by Madhura Bhattacharya, Antonym Collections.