Of Broken Dreams

By Bidisha Dutta

Draaaamm …a resounding reverberation…..thannnnn…..and then trangggg…. With

decreasing intensity --- a loud crash in the small three-feet verandah which we call our

dining space. A rumbling voice, a pair of red eyes pinning the lady of house who is cowering

in a corner, wide eyed and terrified. No … not again … Trisha cowered too but there was an

inner hatred and anger deeply rumbling like the voice uttering obscenity under her breath.

Whatever she had learned diffused into the eternity. Her mind went blank. She calculated

silently how far was she into the war zone. She wanted to be invisible and clutched her

English notebook as if it can stop those steel plates from flying and crashing into the wall,

she wanted to hide in a safe spot. She measured her steps to the cot and also to the dark

corner below the dining table. Inching towards the dining table might be dangerous, she

would warrant unwanted attention. She decides to back off to the only bedroom of the

house with the only king-sized bed, balanced on block of concrete to raise the height so that

all the trunk full of things that are not used usually can be stacked away from prying eyes of

the neighbors who keep on calling in at any time of the day and that too without

permission. But then she cannot blame Ragini Aunty, whom she lovingly called Ragiamma.

She was a figure whom none of the three family members of the Banerjee household would

even want to disrespect. She is a balm to many sores of this family. But she is a carrier of

many gossips too. On dull grey days when the Banerjee house is black and bruised, it is

Ragiamma who brings the silver streaks of joy in the face of the lady and the eight-year-old

Trisha.

But through the tumultuous but familiar furor, Trisha had already backed step-by-step

enough and she could feel her small delicate back touching the soft somewhat ragged

bedsheet that hung from the four-posted bed.

She turned around as lightly as possible, climbed up the bed which was quite high for an

eight-year-old and moving to the farthest corner decided to pull the bedsheet over her face

and fake sleep.

Sleep was elusive, she strained her ears to know what was going on in the battlefield. She

wondered what the issue could be today at dinner. It was good that Ma had served her

dinner a bit early and though she takes ages in completing her meals, today she was

somewhat hungry and wanted to finish off before Baba came for his dinner. Maybe it is the

premonition that some trivial but intense drama will unfold today. She calculated again in

her mind. Yes, it’s been at least a week. So now, the time was ripe for the next one. She had

daal, a special vegetable which is called ‘echor’ it is nothing but raw jackfruit. It must be so

tedious to take the flesh out and discard what is not to be cooked. Trisha used to watch her

mother and also her grandmother, whenever she graced Trisha’s household from the big

city called Kolkata, where she stays with her younger son. It tastes yummy and somewhat

akin to another delicacy – the hot dish of mutton jhol – mutton cooked in masala gravy. This

is the veg counterpart and cooked similarly. When Grandma cooks, Trisha noticed it is less

oily and somewhat more gravy, with more of the liquid part, which tastes a tad bland. But

when Ma cooks, even young Trisha has to accept that it is really yummy. And there was that

regular ‘macher jhol’ --- rohu fish cooked in a gravy of onion, ginger and garlic with a

sprinkle of coriander and jeera powder. There was some tomato puree also added, Trisha

licked her lips. She barely had time to wash her hands when the crash landed on her senses.

Now the so-called dining area is in a mess.

Trisha knows that Ma will sit in a stupor, with her silence and agony, will curse her fate

without showing in her expressionless face and Baba will continue sitting for a while on the

dining table glaring at her. She knows showing means another volley of hurting words.

Is this what you serve to your husband who comes back home from an eight-hours grueling

duty in a boiling furnace. Trisha knew her Baba worked in a big plant, Durgapur Steel Plant.

She wanted to know more, but Ma said she can learn more when she grows up. And she can

even visit the plant in some educational tour from the school. Ma knows a lot. She was good

in studies, Trisha heard it from her Mashis, she had four of them. The youngest one was

only about 10 years older to her.

So, what went wrong today! Trisha wonders. She sucks her lips and tries thinking fast. So

this time it is not the food maybe. It might be something else. Oh wait, didn’t Ma mention

the visit of Amal Kaku, Papa’s friend in the evening! She strains her ears again. Yes, she

could hear the name mentioned in a growl and scorn from Baba. He was coughing venom

for him; Bechara Amal Kaku, he will not sleep peacefully today. Ma mentioned in a feeble

voice that she had told Baba is not at home and that it is his B-shift and he never entered

the house. But who cares! Baba’s rant knew no reason. Why did Amal Kaku have to drop in

when he knows Baba will be not at home.

Trisha could think of a million reasons … maybe he happened to pass by our house. There

are so many other Kakus, uncles, living at close corners. Baba often mentions being in the

same batch. There is that Paresh Kaku, who lived two streets down and in the same street

after a few houses lives Amlan Kaku. Then in the avenue just across the main road, lives

Shailen Kaku. So, Amal Kaku must have been crossing by and peeped in to have a look.

Why can’t he come to our house when Baba is not there. Trisha was there and Ma was

there. Trisha loves it when Amal Kaku comes. His pockets are always filled with small toffees

with golden and maroon wrappers. They make such cracking sound when you unwrap. And

once you put it inside your mouth, you feel the juicy filling melting in your mouth. It’s

heavenly. Baba also buys Trisha chocolates. It is not that he doesn’t. But not the sticky and

gooey ones. He says those kinds will only spoil Trisha’s tender teeth.

Thinking of all possibilities and tricks of having her favorite chocolates and yet not getting

those black bugs in her teeth, Trisha falls asleep quietly even before she realized or

intended to. Maybe the tooth fairy will visit her in her dreams and tell her that those black

bugs are not actually insects that creep and crawl inside and out of the teeth cavities but are

a sort of bacteria that accumulates and spread till they wear away the whole teeth. Ouch!

That might be very painful, hope the tooth fairy clarifies that part.

Why did the cycle tire come up to the window, Baba had shouted. The last Trisha heard

before slipping into a dreamful reverie. Surely the dreams aren’t going to be as rosy. As long

as they are not nightmares Trisha is good. Trisha lives in a more harrowing hell when she is

not sleeping and when she is at home. This scandalous domestic feud ensues on a regular

basis, once every fortnight, if not even frequently.

Trisha’s night was indeed restless. She was still clutching her notebook that had her

incomplete homework. Sister Maribelle would again make angry dissatisfactory faces when

they see Trisha’s half-baked work. She needed her Mom’s help. Only if she did not wait till

the last moment. But when she was about to ask her doubts in the evening, Amal Kaku had

called from the outside fence gate. Hey Banerjee, are you at home! To which Trisha’s

mother had instinctively pulled her saree pallu across her faded blouse, partly because she

was embarrassed about the tiny hole which she was too careless and ill-motivated to sew

and partly because she remembered the displeasure in Trisha’s father’s eyes whenever her

pallu slides off from her shoulder even an inch.

That distraction kept Trisha from completing her task, in the hope that Amal uncle would

put his Bajaj scooter on stand and come in. Her ears were all piqued to hear the clang and

then creaking sound of the garden gate opening. But Ma went out partially peeping through

the verandah grills and nodded that the Master of the House was still not back from work.

Amal Kaku kicked the scooter start immediately and left in a blurb of sooty fume. The

carburetor needs checking and maybe cleaning. This Trisha had picked up from Baba while

he was discussing his fuel consumption with Amal Kaku once over a breakfast of Puri and

Aloo bhaji on a more cheerful Sunday morning.

Early in the morning, Trisha woke up in a flurry. There seem to be a lot of movement around

her. Still dazed by her disturbed inadequate sleep, she hazily saw Baba pulling out a full-shirt

and trousers to get ready. While Paresh Kaku was waiting for him outside the gate with a

worried expression urging Baba to hurry. Ma was silently standing in a corner seeing Baba

off. Did Trisha see a tear glisten in the corners of her eyes! As Baba was coming out and

putting on his chappals, Paresh kaku started talking to him in a loud voice. “Banerjee, we

have to get there as soon as possible. The accident happened while Amal was coming back

from plant. He was hit by a truck and his head was crushed, spot-dead, Banerjee ….” He

couldn’t continue further. They left in a whirl, leaving fresh murky soot.

What! Trisha’s eyes were wide open. She peeped out through the faded window curtains.

What did she hear just now! Amal Kaku … ! Accident! Trisha thought she saw Ragiamma’s

shadow moving away from the adjacent fence. Was she listening, even at this wee hours of

the morning. Did Trisha see her lips curving into a strange smile!

Trisha thought hard … was it Baba’s night-long curse or was it a simple coincidence! Would

there be a divine retribution?

Trisha’s little body shivered with some treacherous thoughts.

By Bidisha Dutta