In this story, Mehreen Ahmed shares a powerful tale of three generations bound by blood, love, and music.
Editor’s Pick of the Week
(As the Editor’s Pick this piece will be available for free reading this week)
“Grandma, Grandma,” one stormy evening, Trina came rushing up the stairs. Grandma, who stood in the dining hall, setting a table for two, glanced at her and asked gravely.
“What is it, dear?”
“Our cow has just given birth to a beautiful calf.”
“Really?”
“When?”
“A little while ago.”
Trina panted red with excitement. She turned to Grandma for a response. To her disappointment, Grandma looked away as she took a corner of heranchalto wipe off tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Grandma?”
“Everything. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I’ll tell you later over dinner. I’m off to my evening prayers now.”
“Was that the Monsoon of 1968?”
An older Trina asked herself as she stood across the street looking at a huge building. This monstrosity now stood in reminiscence of her Grandma’s house. She remembered that evening when ominous clouds loomed over the eastern sky and gusty winds blew across in every direction; a cry was heard from the cowshed situated in the back yard of her Grandma’s house.She’d picked up the kerosene lantern sitting next to the door in the back verandah and instinctively headed out. The lantern was usually placed there on the floor in case of power outage.
Trina made a small paper boat. A piece of square paper scrap was lying on a medium sized, high mahogany table, beside a reclining armchair of moss green leather upholstery. While she waited for Grandma’s return from her prayers, she saw the piece of paper on the verandah. She picked it up, sat down on the edge of the long chair and pressed it between her palms, then against the hardness of the table. Next, she folded it into many angles and triangles, turning the paper in and out until it bore a resemblance to a small paper boat.
Down by the steps, there was a storm water drain. Trina descended the stairs and stooped over to place the boat gently in the drain. The little paper boat swerved unevenly from the pressure behind as the gushing water pushed it forward.
Grandma returned from her prayers and summoned Trina for dinner on her way to the dining hall. Trina came up the stairs and washed her hands from a mug of water set aside for the purpose before she entered into the dining room. Dinnertime was strangely quiet that night; Grandma, in no mood to talk. She seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. They had chickenkorma, ricepolauwith plain yogurt sauce, andraitawith cucumber, theraita, too runny for her taste. She poured it like gravy over herpolao, then she took it out and left it on the side of her plate. On several occasions in the past, she always got caught trying to conceal such acts of wastefulness from Grandma’s vigilant watch. Tonight, however, it was different. Grandma didn’t even notice it.
“Grandma.”
“Hmm.”
Grandma poured herself a glass of water from a floral antique jug. Water gurgled breaking through the silence.
“Our pregnant cow has given birth today?”
“Really? When?”
“Earlier in the evening.”
“But, this is so exciting,” she said. “Best news I’ve heard in a long time. Tell me about it.”
“But, I just did a while back before you went inside for your prayers. Did you forget?”
“Oh dear,” she said distractedly. “I must have. I’m in a deep dilemma, my love.”
“Why?”
“Your uncles want to sell this place.”
“What? What will happen to us? This is our home. Where would we go?”
“It would still be. Only, we would have to live in a flat.”
“But, why?”
“Because there is big money in it, that’s why. Anyway, you wouldn’t understand. Tell me about the calf.”
“Well, earlier on …”
A smile appeared in the corner of her mouth as memories came flooding back. Grandma’s house wasn’t exactly on a farm, but it had the characteristics of one. Cows were milked in the cowshed every morning near a deep well which was adjacent to the kitchen wall.She took a moment to re-imagine the house in detailed outline.
Constructed on a spacious cement floor platform, the well had a rendered, yellow finish with a round opening at the top. On the outermost periphery of the platform, a slightly raised semi-circular cemented path ran along the kitchen wall right up to the house. Maids sat on the rim of the path and either gutted fish or plucked chickens. They used the well water which they pulled up in a pail with a long rope attached to the pail’s flimsy curved wire-handle. The sullied water gently flowed away afterwards into the nearby drain. Trina often stood over the well, listening to the resonating sounds she made while the water captured her small reflection.
Trina and Grandma lived together in the house long enough to fall in love with it. Since high school was too far away from her parents’ house, her mother made this arrangement to be easier for Trina to attend school. Every evening, they had visitors. Trina’s sister, mum, dad, aunties, uncles and cousins dropped in. Sometimes, they stayed for dinner, other times not; most certainly though, they stayed for tea. A television was a luxury in those days. The family gathered around the oval table in the dining hall. And at teatime, the house came alive with chatters and laughter. Teatimes were precious.
Grandma’s tenant was an owner of a sweet shop named,Shachin’s Sweetmeat. He converted her outer house on the front yard into a sweet shop factory.Shachin’s Sweetmeatsupplied all the sweets, and the snacks required for tea. Unless the spread consisted of Shachin’s snacks, teatime wouldn’t be complete. Teacups and saucers made of Wedgwood fine-bone China decked the table to a shine. Without these delightful snacks of brown kalajamonsand white round roshogollas, and sometimes, white-flouredluchis, Grandma never felt entirely satisfied. Good times rolled on like Eid and other festive occasions. Grandma happily served tea and snacks to everybody around the table.
In fact, Shachin himself, the owner of this sweet shop, made sure that he brought Grandma the best sweets of the day. Grandma always picked them fresh from the outer house through a makeshift tin door between the house wall and the shop.
Sweets came in cone shaped parcels, made out of dried Jackfruit leaves. The leaves were sewn together with long, dried grass, threaded through them; into these cones, hot, fried syrupy sweets were packed. Crude packaging, but these were biodegradable products which facilitated in the most effective disposal, not to mention inexpensive. Improvisation wasn’t too difficult either. They could be formed into any shape, not necessarily cones.
While her children waited in the dining room, Grandma dashed to the sweet shop to grab the parcels. She hurried back with the three cones held in her conjoined hands. On her return, she turned them upside down on three snack plates to display the sweets and theluchison the dining table.
Her aunts and uncles eagerly helped themselves, but Grandma enjoyed her role in serving them. It gave her a purpose which she fulfilled selflessly.She considered this her greatest achievement. That’s why she made her rounds by laying down one white, one brown sweet, and two fluffy breads orluchison each plate. Then, she took a plate for herself and sat at the head of the table. The aroma from the butter and hot sweet caramel filled up the air.
The forget-me-not teapot, cocooned within the tea cozy, kept the brewed tea warm.A kettle, full of water, continued to be boiled on a small electric coiled stove every hour. Nestled around her children and the gentle fire from the stove, Grandma merrily poured out steamy tea into each cup, with a dash of milk. The milk was churned until it turned into pale yellowmalai—thickened cream. Threadbare pieces of it were set afloat on the sweetened tea. The rain made it even merrier.
Before they took leave though, her children would shift from the dining hall to two of the five large rooms. One of them being Grandma’s bedroom and the other, the drawing room. On her bed, the aunts huddled together and chatted about the latestsarison the market, or a recent movie they might have watched, but mostlysaris. Uncles, on the other hand, complained about a tedious day at mortgages and the share market. What a bother!
Grandma’s bedroom was a magical place. Especially, the charming wall clock. On a narrow table of back mahogany, she also had a silver closed container, where she kept herpaanparaphernalia. All herpaanholdings of drippingpaanleaves, slivered betel nuts and white lime were kept in separate smaller containers, compartmentalised within this much larger tub which was herpaan daani. Inevitably, she would open the lid of the container, and take a small, green betel leaf out of the stack and lay a tiny piece of slivered betel nut on it; swiping a line of white lime over the leaf with her index finger, she would wrap it up in a small, tight triangular shape, before she slipped it into her mouth. Closing the lid on the container afterwards, she would sit down on the cozy corner of that bed.
Her mouth became watery red in no time just from chewing the leaf full of delightful juices. Sometimes, she participated in the conversation; other times, she only listened and chewed on the betel leaf. What Trina liked most was her demeanour. If she were a defeatist, it would have shown, but she was not. Not even at the age of seventy, Grandma was just as vivacious as her daughters. When they talked endlessly about the latest Frenchchiffonsand georgettesaris, she never hesitated to give an opinion. Her favouritesaribeingdhakai jamdani, she criticised how herjamdanisconstantly ripped in the folds as a result of not airing them and leaving them far too long in thealmirah. When an aunt asked her, oh, how she’d carry on a conversation, if Trina married an English man; laughingly, she’d say, “I’ll say, come, sit, eat and go.”
Everyone laughed at that, but to Grandma entertainment and hospitality always came first.
A man came every night with a huge ladder on his shoulder, to fix the time on the grandfather’s clock on the wall. He climbed up the ladder to open the glass door of the huge clock. He manually changed the hands, which seemed quite an arduous task. But he did it with such dexterity that Trina could only admire his skills. It chimed every hour. On this occasion, the clock struck six in the evening. It was teatime.
The next day, while everybody ate in the dining hall, Trina quietly ventured out to ascertain about that squeal she had heard earlier. She walked through the rich orchards and passed through many fruits bearing oriental trees, such as the jackfruit, the indian plum, mango, and the custard apple. Lemon tree, and the berry of small, seeded round fruit of green or russet colour. Each tree was planted to epitomise her grandchildren as they were born, one after another in the house. When Trina was born, the berry tree was planted. It was huge, now.
As the tiny wick wavered in the swaying winds, she saw something vaguely afoot in the soft wiffle-waffle of the glow in the direction of the kitchen. When she got closer, she realised that the cry had come from a young maid. The maid was boiling milk on one of the two old fashioned, large wood stoves.
These stoves, which were handcrafted from clay, had big and round pot-like bottoms that held the fire. The top had a small crater—a cavity with three little humps built around it. These humps were evenly spaced to provide sufficient support for pots and pans. The spaces between these humps were U-shaped so that firewood could be positioned. The long, inclining logs thrust in a bunch all the way in; a small portion of it protruded out of the stove.
The maid sat on the floor by one such stove and blew into a steel, medium sized narrow tube. It looked like the aboriginal musical instrument, thedidgeridoo; except, while thedidgeridooproduced sound of music, this only rekindled fire. In the wick lantern light, Trina saw how the maid’s thin body stood close to the grilled square window. She clutched the vertical iron bars and looked intently towards the cowshed.
“What’s happened?” Trina asked abruptly, startling the maid.
“Come quickly,” she said in a real hurry.
Trina rushed in with the lantern shrieking, “Oh, my God!”
The pregnant cow had just given birth. The calf was still struggling to reach mum’s udder on its four infant feet. Covered in cow dung, it slid on the slippery floor. In the meantime, the storm yielded full on from the ashen sky. The downpour offered no sign of a let up and the torrential rain fell in every direction. The trees swayed, the branches creaked, and the gusty winds lacerated through them.
Oh, she couldn’t wait to bring this news back into the house— share with the family. The rain was so intense, so dark, and through it she ran, still holding the lantern. She went up all twelve steps onto the wide verandah, then into the house. Everybody had departed by then. Her parents were leaving too but only waited to say goodbye to her.
She had just opened her mouth to speak when her mum, dad, and little sister Mona, showered her with kisses, nearly suffocating her with their hugs. Grandma and Trina saw them to the door. They parted and said goodbye. The lull in the room contrasted with the raging winds outside and created a perfect condition for meditation.
By now, they had finished dinner and Grandma was clearing up. Trina went outside to wash her hands. She used the well water. She scooped it out of the pail with a mug, placed on one corner of the verandah. She held the mug by its round plastic handle, with the idle, clean hand, and poured water over the smeared hand. Once she finished, she turned around to fetch the toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste, from an overhead rack screwed into the wall.
She brushed her teeth and took another mug full of well water from the pail. As she looked down to spit out her pasty saliva, she saw that her paper boat had slumped upside down in the drain. As it got stuck along the way, the strong winds tipped it over. She finished brushing her teeth quickly, then, proceeded towards the bedroom. She looked back to see if Grandma was coming. Through the verandah and the wide wooden doors, she entered the bedroom with Grandma following soon. Grandma bolted the door and turned around to face Trina. Ready for bed, she turned off the light just before climbing in.
Darkness fell all around. Grandma was restive. Trina heard her deep sighs. In the moonlight pouring into the room from the open window, she saw her toss and turn. At midnight, when the great clock’s peal sent a cold shiver down Trina’s spine, she called. “Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“What’s going to happen to the cowshed?”
“It’ll have to go too,” she answered dolefully. “It’s late dear. Go to sleep now. You have school tomorrow.”
Trina lay awake in the unnerving silence, trying to visualise the future, the future of the house and everything that came with it, the togetherness, and her life with or without Grandma. Listlessly, she fell off to sleep.
At school time the next day, Trina felt sluggish. But, as the captain of grade seven, she had responsibilities, so she had to attend. Before leaving, however, she decided to take a quick peek at the calf in the cowshed. Breakfast was ready, but Trina paid no attention to Grandma’s calls. She ran down the twelve steps down the verandah, and into the morning’s early rays.
Birds flew sprightly from one tree to the next. Nameless birds chirped and frolicked in the orchard heavy with ripened fruits. Sometimes they sat on the branch of a tree to peck at a berry, full, plump, and free. The unbroken seed on half-eaten flesh, left it bare, as they flew quickly. These flights set off a dance of the twigs that commenced with nature in perfect harmony.
There were people in the cowshed. The milkman and his sons came to milk the cow as usual. But today, it was different. Trina watched in horror as the calf was led to the udder. No sooner had the milk began to flow, the calf was pulled away. The men milked the cow dry; the udder was then given back to the desperate calf to reclaim what little there was left. Distressing as it was, it was also nature’s law. In perpetuating the great cycle of life, every living creature lived off each other. No matter how cruel it seemed, it must be endured to keep this balance. She quietly walked back to the house for breakfast.
That evening, Trina could hardly wait to see the calf. As soon as she came home, she rushed to the cowshed. The calf lay at her mum’s feet. Some grass was stacked in the corner. She grabbed a few strands and offered it to the calf. However, considering the calf’s disinclination, she left it near her, thinking that perhaps it was not as famished as she thought it was.
She went back to the house and waited for the family’s arrival.And, they did arrive, each of them, one by one. The first ones to arrive were her uncle, Grandma’s only son, and his wife. Grandma opened the door. She greeted them, but with a forced smile. They sat down on one of the sofas of the big bedrooms. His kind wife, at least she appeared to be one, opened her bag to take out two boxes of chocolates, which she offered Trina. Trina accepted graciously. Grandma sat on a high-backed, Victorian chair and made small talk. They heard another knock at the door.
The four sisters and their husbands, including Trina’s mum and dad, as well as all the cousins came in more or less at the same time. Today, they sat in the same room. The chitchat went on. While they complimented each other on theirsarisand talked about the heat in the traffic jam, Trina and Grandma rose discreetly from their chairs. They left the clamour of high-pitched laughter and babble in the background to go to the dining room.
Just when Trina began to put the plates out, Grandma said abruptly, “I have a bad feeling. I fear that something terrible might happen today.”
“Why, Grandma?”
The Monsoon rain began with all its intensity. In the overpowering sound of the rain, they couldn’t hear the crowd’s footsteps. Grandmother’s children gathered in the dining room. Electricity was cut off. Except for the ceaseless thump of the rain into the rut of the soft mud in the orchard garden, there was nothing, nothing besides little concave—craters spread across the seabed—pearly raindrops rippled the ground’s surface.
One of the aunts lit a thin long candle, as soundless lightening cracked through the sky. The candle placed in the middle of the table, made Grandma’s face look ghastly. The party did not cease from merriment on account of the darkness. They continued to help themselves toShachin’ssweets and top up their cups to the brim, until Grandma’s son, who looked at her, over the rim of his teacup popped the question.
“Maa, did you want to sign the papers today? Or did you want to wait until tomorrow?”
He spoke with such confidence as if the deal was already done.
“What papers?” Grandma asked, trying to sound brave, but her wrinkly hands began to shake a little.
“Oh, paperwork needs to be completed to hand over the property to me, so the developers can move in,” he said.
“What about us, where would we go?” Trina looked at her Mum and asked.
“Trina, sadly this place is not safe for Grandma anymore. We would all get a flat once the building is complete. Grandma would get one as well,” Mum answered.
Trina’s anxiety was palpable; her mother’s words gave her no respite. She looked at Grandma, who sat solemnly on her chair, as her children chatted away eating and drinking heartily. They didn’t stop to think, even for a moment, whether or not it was of any consequence to Grandma that she would lose this beautiful place for a tiny flat.
“While it’s being built Maa, you can stay with us,” Trina’s eldest aunt offered. “And, as for Trina, she would have to move into the school hostel temporarily.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Grandma protested.
“Yes, what if we don’t want to move?” Trina joined in.
“Well now,” said Grandma’s son, “you’re not going to put up resistance. Are youMaa? It would only make things harder. We all know how difficult it is for you to maintain this place now that you’re on your own. You would have more security in the new flat and less break-ins.”
“Yes, I admit that this is a sprawling, big house, but it would also take my home away, my independence. The home in which your dad died and where each of you was born—a home with so many memories …”
Grandma broke down. It was never one of her strengths to contradict anyone. Today, she tried, nonetheless. Trina could only admire the feat. No papers were signed that evening as the air was too thick. Even Grandma’s children seemed a bit subdued at the prospect of losing the family home forever. Selling it was more troubling than first thought.
“Trina, do you think, living in a flat is a good idea?” Grandma asked that night as they went to bed.
“Well, a flat’s a flat, a house is a house. A flat, although small, can be comfortable with everything within reach, I guess,” Trina said thoughtfully. “But, I think, I’m going to miss the house.”
“Me too,” said Grandma sighing. “But, I don’t think we can hold off any more. I might have to sign the papers tomorrow.”
There were always moments of quietness in bed. Tonight, was no exception. Since the day was long, they dosed off quickly. However, Trina found herself in the depths of a dense rainforest. She walked through several thousands of tall, old oriental trees with in-grown roots, which swirled as deeply into the soil as it stretched across the surface. The roots were entangled in a web. Exquisite birds whistled the same tune from a Bengali song—Bou kotha kao—speak, o blushing bride.
Unimaginable long springs flowed from lofty, lush mountains meeting the stream below. At the bottom on an overhung plain rock, a musician sat and sang MonsoonRagaswith hisTanpura. The melody of the swifttaana—the notations, travelled along the deep contours of an unseen sound graph, as they cut through the fog. The music of theTanpuradroned uninterruptedly until a horrible grinding noise cut it out! Oh, it was most fearsome. In a moment, the exotic trees and the birds all disappeared. The strings of theTanpurasnapped the synaptic links broke. There was total devastation—only a wasteland remained in lieu of the music.
Trina woke up with a jolt. Soaking wet, she lay there breathing heavily. In the silent room, she heard the sedentary sound of the clock’s tick-tock filtered through the darkness. It reminded her that she existed. This familiar room and Grandma’s presence lying next to her made the most important signposts for the present. She watched Grandma’s heaving chest move up and down as the pale light of the dawn peaked through the window. If ever any of these were taken away, there wouldn’t be life the way she had always imagined. Another life, in another moment would have to be nurtured into acceptance, perhaps. Quietly, she climbed down the tall, mahogany bed, while Grandma slept. The clock began to sound, ding-dong. Five AM was upon them.
Time, rolled on incognito. Before anybody realised it, Trina finished university. It had been such a long time since she revisited this place. She stood, looking at this onslaught bereft of character. Nothing atmospheric was left even slightly resembling that place. Thinking of the lovely house that overlooked the orchard and how it was now brutally replaced with this tall and strange commercial building brought on sadness. She silently wondered if it could ever become residential again. It couldn’t have, because all along it was more lucrative to sell office blocks. Trina wondered, even if Grandma was given a flat, how could she had lived here amongst these people? The last few days of her life came back in a flash. She was in one of her aunt’s homes, dispossessed and dependent.
Her house was nothing but a broken heap of brick rubbles, piled up on chopped, stark stumps of trees, which set it apart from the usual robust green, grew deeper with every drop of rain. Cement piled up on the grassy patch; its hue, the whiteness of dry chalk. It seemed as though the Monsoon had never known the place. EvenShachin’s Sweetmeatwas flattened to the ground.
Trina did not visit her Grandma every day.However, one day she visited her. That day she couldn’t stay away. It felt she was being pulled towards her like magnet attracting the black iron ore. Grandma sat on a high-backed chair, reading a newspaper in her aunt’s lawn. Trina walked over, stepping over a thick turf. She looked at Trina and smiled faintly that afternoon. The look in her old, brown eyes was undecipherable. How her thin, weak hands clutched Trina’s wrist. This was a picture of a dejected old woman, prevailing upon her daughters, languishing in a limbo. This was a person she did not know.
“My children have kicked me out of my home!” she said.
“You will be given a modern, three-bedroom flat,” Trina tried to console her. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to fit in all your furniture. Of course, I’ll come back to live with you.”
“Furniture? It’s probably rotting even as we speak. Oh, those nice antiques,” she cried. “Take me home Trina, take me now. I want to go home.”
Something had rotten all right. It was rotten to the core, perhaps not the furniture. In a stupor, she spoke about her furniture, although she knew how it was distributed amongst her children when they moved out of the house. It was clear to Trina that she was not receptive anymore. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t talk Grandma out of her present emotional state. Trina was disgusted. Her kingdom had fallen.
A few months later, Grandma’s admittance into a hospital became necessary. Trina went to visit her every day. However, a time came, when Grandma couldn’t recognise her anymore. But this didn’t prevent her from visiting. After one of those visits, one evening, Trina came back from the hospital. She went straight up to her room and crouched on the floor drawing a suitcase out from under her bed. It was a battered, brown leather suitcase. A frayed photo album of black vinyl, lay on top of her belongings inside the suitcase. She gently took it out. She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. A sudden distant ringtone of the phone set off a terrible palpitation within her. She knew that it couldn’t be glad tidings.
She walked heavily to the other far end of the dimly lit corridor where the phone was. She picked up the handset and her hand trembled. Mum was on the phone, sobbing. She said that Grandma had passed away. She was no more. The page had turned; the chapter had ended. Once a living story now became a ballad, reverberating through the cold passage of time.
Trina breathed heavily. She staggered away from this cold building. The thought of this most unendurable loss brought a shiver to her body. The momentary joy that had once existed in Grandma’s pristine house had faded and so had the ticking of the wall clock and the tinkle of the laughter.
The rain-music remained unheard ever since. However, all wasn’t lost, at least not just yet, because this picture of the Monsoon ragas was framed within her soul in an eternal symphony. The clock continued to tick away in the silence of the dark. An indelible memory stood the test of time, long after Elvis had left the building.
Author’s Bio
MehreenAhmed is an award-winning Australian novelist/shortfiction bornin Bangladesh. Her historical fiction novel is Drunken Druid’s Editor’s Choice. Midwest Book Review and DD Magazine have also acclaimed her other works. Her recentpublications arewith Chiron Review, Kitaab International, The BombayReview, Muse India, Litro, Icefloe, Popshot Quarterly, PanoramaJournal, The Chiron Review. She has also received multiple awards and botN, James Tait, and Pushcart nominations.
About Author
Editor_Kitaab
See author's posts
