Although Sunil and Chaitali conversed in Bengali, they spoke French with the child.
‘Why don’t you teach her Bengali?’
‘She won’t be able to take the pressure of two languages.’ Both Sunil and Chaitali were of the same opinion. What was the use of teaching her Bengali—she wouldn’t need it.
Nila had seen this in Calcutta too: Bengali children were sent to English medium schools and spoke English at home, as if Bengali was a low-class language. The same logic applied there too: English helped in getting jobs, while knowing Bengali added no value. In spite of this factor, Nila had studied Bengali literature. Anirban had said this degree had no value. But she had argued that twenty-one crore people spoke this language and so it couldn’t be that worthless.It was the sixth most spoken language in the world and the written literature of this language alone went back to a thousand years. The deeper she had plunged into the language, she had surfaced with ever more valuable treasures, like coming upon a secret gold mine.
Chaitali laid the table with a variety of dishes and Nila’s mouth watered as the smell wafted towards her. As she ate the daaler bara, shukto, posto, begun bhaja, kopi bhaja, chhoto machher chochhori, rui machher paturi, shorshey ilish, chingri malaikari, chicken curry and lamb curry, Nila felt she’d been on a starvation diet for many days. She ate to her heart’s content and reclined on the sofa. Nila knew that if she asked, Chaitali would give her detailed directions of where she had found which fish and she also knew that it was of no use to her. None of these were allowed in Kishan’s house.
After the meal, Chaitali sat down in front of Sunil with betel leaves in her hand, like the grandmothers at home. ‘Are you inviting Paban Das Baul for Durga Puja this year?’
Nila put a betel leaf into her mouth and asked, ‘You have Puja here in Paris?’
‘Why not? And a big one at that.’
Sunil scratched his head. He was the president of the Puja Committee for that year and the pressures were just too much for him. He wanted to hand over some of the duties to Jayanta.
‘Why Jayanta—he’s from Bangladesh.’
‘Still, he is a Hindu.’
‘No, you’d better try Ashim Roy. Don’t you remember, last year the Bangladeshis took money to decorate the dais and then just disappeared?’ Chaitali complained.
Sunil remembered.
Nila sensed the mighty wall dividing the Bengalis. Those from Bangladesh were mostly illegal immigrants. All those unlawful, low-class people! The Bengalis from West Bengal were more Indian than they were Bengali. They’d embrace a Punjabi, Maharashtrian or Gujarati as their brothers and speak in broken French, Hindi or English. But they’d keep the Bengali in them suppressed like holding back nature’s call. Bengali was for the bedroom—secret and surreptitious.
Amongst the three Bengalis Kishanlal stood out like a sore thumb. Nila prayed fervently that the sore thumb would go back home alone, drink alone and fall asleep alone and when he woke up alone in the morning he’d find that there was no one there to make his breakfast, to tie his shoelaces; at night too he’d come back home alone and find no one there to take his shoes off, to cook, lay the table and serve him dinner. Let him talk to himself and cry in solitude.
But of course Kishan wouldn’t go home alone. Even if such a question had arisen, Sunil would never have allowed it. Nila looked at Sunil’s longish, bespectacled face and remembered this was the man who had studied with Nikhil in Presidency College. He had been to their home in Ballygunge many a times and Molina had cooked and served her son’s friend with great care. ‘Aunty really knows how to cook!’ this man had burped loudly and exclaimed many times. When Nila came home from school, swinging her braids, he had said, ‘You crazy girl, what’s the use of all this studying? Eventually you’ll have to handle the kitchen in your
‘Why don’t you teach her Bengali?’
‘She won’t be able to take the pressure of two languages.’ Both Sunil and Chaitali were of the same opinion. What was the use of teaching her Bengali—she wouldn’t need it.
Nila had seen this in Calcutta too: Bengali children were sent to English medium schools and spoke English at home, as if Bengali was a low-class language. The same logic applied there too: English helped in getting jobs, while knowing Bengali added no value. In spite of this factor, Nila had studied Bengali literature. Anirban had said this degree had no value. But she had argued that twenty-one crore people spoke this language and so it couldn’t be that worthless.It was the sixth most spoken language in the world and the written literature of this language alone went back to a thousand years. The deeper she had plunged into the language, she had surfaced with ever more valuable treasures, like coming upon a secret gold mine.
Chaitali laid the table with a variety of dishes and Nila’s mouth watered as the smell wafted towards her. As she ate the daaler bara, shukto, posto, begun bhaja, kopi bhaja, chhoto machher chochhori, rui machher paturi, shorshey ilish, chingri malaikari, chicken curry and lamb curry, Nila felt she’d been on a starvation diet for many days. She ate to her heart’s content and reclined on the sofa. Nila knew that if she asked, Chaitali would give her detailed directions of where she had found which fish and she also knew that it was of no use to her. None of these were allowed in Kishan’s house.
After the meal, Chaitali sat down in front of Sunil with betel leaves in her hand, like the grandmothers at home. ‘Are you inviting Paban Das Baul for Durga Puja this year?’
Nila put a betel leaf into her mouth and asked, ‘You have Puja here in Paris?’
‘Why not? And a big one at that.’
Sunil scratched his head. He was the president of the Puja Committee for that year and the pressures were just too much for him. He wanted to hand over some of the duties to Jayanta.
‘Why Jayanta—he’s from Bangladesh.’
‘Still, he is a Hindu.’
‘No, you’d better try Ashim Roy. Don’t you remember, last year the Bangladeshis took money to decorate the dais and then just disappeared?’ Chaitali complained.
Sunil remembered.
Nila sensed the mighty wall dividing the Bengalis. Those from Bangladesh were mostly illegal immigrants. All those unlawful, low-class people! The Bengalis from West Bengal were more Indian than they were Bengali. They’d embrace a Punjabi, Maharashtrian or Gujarati as their brothers and speak in broken French, Hindi or English. But they’d keep the Bengali in them suppressed like holding back nature’s call. Bengali was for the bedroom—secret and surreptitious.
Amongst the three Bengalis Kishanlal stood out like a sore thumb. Nila prayed fervently that the sore thumb would go back home alone, drink alone and fall asleep alone and when he woke up alone in the morning he’d find that there was no one there to make his breakfast, to tie his shoelaces; at night too he’d come back home alone and find no one there to take his shoes off, to cook, lay the table and serve him dinner. Let him talk to himself and cry in solitude.
But of course Kishan wouldn’t go home alone. Even if such a question had arisen, Sunil would never have allowed it. Nila looked at Sunil’s longish, bespectacled face and remembered this was the man who had studied with Nikhil in Presidency College. He had been to their home in Ballygunge many a times and Molina had cooked and served her son’s friend with great care. ‘Aunty really knows how to cook!’ this man had burped loudly and exclaimed many times. When Nila came home from school, swinging her braids, he had said, ‘You crazy girl, what’s the use of all this studying? Eventually you’ll have to handle the kitchen in your
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