Amrita smoothed out the corner of his shirt. It was the same shirt she had bought Sandeep, her college sweetheart. That one had been size 44, unlike this one, and had been a treasured possession, unlike this one. He had worn it to their graduation ceremony. “Doesn’t Amrita have such a good eye, Ma?”, his mother had simply nodded. His mother had been a formidable woman, who rarely showed much emotion, even on a day like this, when her son was waving his freshly printed law degree in her face. Perhaps Sandeep made up for his mother’s lack of emotion by being a little too enthusiastic sometimes. Amrita had decided that Sandeep and her would live separately from the rest of the family. Mother in laws are best kept at a distance, someone on TV had once said.
She crumpled up the corner of the shirt again.
Every morning, at exactly 7 am, Amrita would emerge on the balcony of her house, in a nightgown, with a cup of tea, and the day’s crossword. There were no neighbours, only a big mango tree that stood next to her house. One need not be conservative of dignity in front of mango trees. Especially this one.
In many cultures, like Amrita’s, new parents plant a tree on the day their child is born. Amrita shared her birthday with this magnificent tree. In many ways, it was her twin. She had made sure that every year, much to the dismay of her parents, she would cut her cake out in the balcony so she could wish her mango tree a happy birthday. Like Amrita, the tree eventually grew large and beautiful, and Amrita had to pay people to get the branches out of the living room. When her parents had died, they had made certain to leave the house and the parking space in Amrita’s name. This decision had stirred up some controversy with the in laws, but Amrita was a modern, independent woman. A modern house-wife at any rate. She had tried writing books, as every bengali has attempted at some point, and on discovering that Tagore does not in fact lie waiting to be unleashed in the minds of every bengali, given up. As far as matters of the soul go, Amrita has her tree. She would sometimes spend hours (the summers were unbearable) sitting in its branches, telling it her stories. Trees were the best listeners.
“Can you at least pretend to love me?”, her husband was drunk again. Anirban was a very big man- he as an engineer at a very big firm. He spent all his energy at work, and was accomplished at what he did. He then spent all his money at that bar on Park Street. “No need to pay rent to my wife”, he often joked when anyone asked him about finances. People generally assumed he meant to highlight their happy marriage, Amrita knew better. He always gulped down whatever he was drinking when he said that.
“Of course I love you!”. Love was a complicated thing, he did not need to know everything. This, however, was easily resolved, Shiuli from next door had made mutton curry. “Go wash up, I’ve made mutton curry for you today”. He seemed satisfied with that, love was not as important as mutton curry. Anirban washed his face and came to the table. He had met Shiuli for lunch. Mutton curry twice a day was many a man’s dream come true. Amrita did not need to know everything.
That was when it had all started. The summer after that had been one of the worst ever recorded. Kolkata often had the worst summers ever recorded, and if the news was to be believed, monsoons, too. It was the summer Amrita had stopped coming out to the balcony at 7 in the morning. The once verdant mango tree now leaned towards Shiuli’s house. Amrita, clearly, was not interesting enough anymore. Had she been the pickle making type, she could have started a little business off of her balcony alone. Mango pickles would have been her specialty. Anyone who has ever had a mango-jaggery pickle is acutely aware of the sense of loss Anirban felt when Shiuli had suggested that Amrita ought to make pickles.
“But Amrita is not the pickle making type”, all she ever did do was curse at the tree these days. Perhaps he could use her recent hatred of the damn tree to convince her to move. There were some very posh , modern apartments in Rajarhat, close to work. They could finally be a normal middle class family.
“The way that I have been acting isn’t fair to you. You are the only one I have left in this world”, she whispered to her tree, hugging it with all her might. It was 3 am, the mosquitoes were buzzing happily. Her tree hummed with the cool winds of an approaching storm. Kolkata is famous for its Kalboisakhi rains. Every year, the huge mango tree threatened to fall over, or break a branch, smashing a window. Every year Anirban asked her about having it chopped down. Amrita would sooner have him chopped down. But she did not tell him that.
Kalboishakhi rains were special. They always smelled like rain before it actually rained, and they always came suddenly. Amrita took a long, deep breath. Once they had arrived, it rained incessantly, consistently, for almost two whole months. Kolkata became Venice. It was a nuisance to most people, but Bengalis. Give Bengalis enough Tagore songs about even the harshest weather and they will lie about humming happily to themselves. She wondered if her husband had noticed her absence.
He had, and turned around and gone back to sleep. He was going to that apartment in Rajarhat tomorrow. He hoped it would not rain yet.
