to:
Uma Chatterjee
2, Mill Lane
York Way
York
North Yorkshire
UK
I didn’t even know Mum had ever lived in York. It sort of jolts me into a place that always makes me feel a bit weirded out, thinking of my mum as a
‘Chatterjee’ not a ‘Levenson’ – her life before Dad, and before me. I would never give up my name. It would be like giving up half of myself.
6 October 1980
Dear Uma,
I can’t believe that you’re actually coming to see us, after all this time. Ma’s gone crazy preparing for your arrival. I’m
telling you, if ABBA was touring India and coming to stay at our house, there would be less fuss than my ma is making of you!
Dida has ordered Ma to buy a silver service of knives and forks in your honour. You know, she just sits on her bed now at the top of the house like a queen and waits
for the daughter of her ‘shudurer putro’ (her ‘faraway son’) to arrive. She says it will be the highlight of her older years to see the daughter of her beloved son
Bimal sit on her bed beside her and sing.
Sorry! That’s my fault. I told her about your voice, and you’d better be prepared because you are not going to get away with visiting your Thakurma unless
you sing to her! (In answer to your question, that is what you, as the son’s daughter, should call her, and I call her ‘Dida’, because I’m her daughter’s
daughter.)
I didn’t even know Mum had a good voice. With all the singing I’ve been doing recently, why wouldn’t she have told me that she used to sing too? I’ve
never heard her, not even in the shower!
If it’s any consolation at all, I have to dance for her every day, so you and I can be the all-singing, all-dancing act together! You won’t believe the
pleasure it will give her. She has photos of you all around her bed, like a little puja (prayer).
We’ve been painting the walls, a mint-green colour, Ma chose it; she said it would make you feel cool in the heat. On every single surface Ma’s placed a
fan, and when I came in from school yesterday I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying to me, over the noise!
So I guess we’re just about ready for your arrival. You’ll find everything that I’ve described to be more or less exactly as I told you, but I want
to warn you about something.
You and I have been writing for so long that, in some ways, I feel like we know each other so well, but there are a few things that maybe I haven’t described
exactly as they are. You see, I’ve always felt free to say anything I wanted and occasionally I’ve told you things that I wanted to be true. You must realize by now that those six
wise monkeys jumping in through my bedroom window every day were a creation to entertain you! I don’t remember Baba dying (I was only two), but Ma says the monkeys arrived soon after
that. So, what I’m trying to tell you is that nothing will be quite as you pictured it.
Now I’m writing this by candlelight because we’ve had another one of the electrical power surges I’ve never told you about. They can happen at any
time of the day or night, and if they happen at night the city blacks out, but there’s something I like about the way the darkness shrinks the whole city into one room; suddenly the
birds go mad, as if to say, ‘You humans have switched off all your noise. Now it’s our turn to take over.’
There will be no more time to write again before you come, so instead of waiting for your letters, as I have done for all these years, now I am waiting for
you.
Your cousin,
Anjali x
I could read these letters over and over again, just taking in every detail. I love the feel of the thin airmail paper, almost like material, and the sound of Anjali’s
fourteen-year-old voice, which is so full energy and excitement, like Priya’s . . . These letters have so much history in them that I’m starting to understand why Mum wanted to keep
them safe.
I take out the final letter.
6 March 1981
Dear
Uma Chatterjee
2, Mill Lane
York Way
York
North Yorkshire
UK
I didn’t even know Mum had ever lived in York. It sort of jolts me into a place that always makes me feel a bit weirded out, thinking of my mum as a
‘Chatterjee’ not a ‘Levenson’ – her life before Dad, and before me. I would never give up my name. It would be like giving up half of myself.
6 October 1980
Dear Uma,
I can’t believe that you’re actually coming to see us, after all this time. Ma’s gone crazy preparing for your arrival. I’m
telling you, if ABBA was touring India and coming to stay at our house, there would be less fuss than my ma is making of you!
Dida has ordered Ma to buy a silver service of knives and forks in your honour. You know, she just sits on her bed now at the top of the house like a queen and waits
for the daughter of her ‘shudurer putro’ (her ‘faraway son’) to arrive. She says it will be the highlight of her older years to see the daughter of her beloved son
Bimal sit on her bed beside her and sing.
Sorry! That’s my fault. I told her about your voice, and you’d better be prepared because you are not going to get away with visiting your Thakurma unless
you sing to her! (In answer to your question, that is what you, as the son’s daughter, should call her, and I call her ‘Dida’, because I’m her daughter’s
daughter.)
I didn’t even know Mum had a good voice. With all the singing I’ve been doing recently, why wouldn’t she have told me that she used to sing too? I’ve
never heard her, not even in the shower!
If it’s any consolation at all, I have to dance for her every day, so you and I can be the all-singing, all-dancing act together! You won’t believe the
pleasure it will give her. She has photos of you all around her bed, like a little puja (prayer).
We’ve been painting the walls, a mint-green colour, Ma chose it; she said it would make you feel cool in the heat. On every single surface Ma’s placed a
fan, and when I came in from school yesterday I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying to me, over the noise!
So I guess we’re just about ready for your arrival. You’ll find everything that I’ve described to be more or less exactly as I told you, but I want
to warn you about something.
You and I have been writing for so long that, in some ways, I feel like we know each other so well, but there are a few things that maybe I haven’t described
exactly as they are. You see, I’ve always felt free to say anything I wanted and occasionally I’ve told you things that I wanted to be true. You must realize by now that those six
wise monkeys jumping in through my bedroom window every day were a creation to entertain you! I don’t remember Baba dying (I was only two), but Ma says the monkeys arrived soon after
that. So, what I’m trying to tell you is that nothing will be quite as you pictured it.
Now I’m writing this by candlelight because we’ve had another one of the electrical power surges I’ve never told you about. They can happen at any
time of the day or night, and if they happen at night the city blacks out, but there’s something I like about the way the darkness shrinks the whole city into one room; suddenly the
birds go mad, as if to say, ‘You humans have switched off all your noise. Now it’s our turn to take over.’
There will be no more time to write again before you come, so instead of waiting for your letters, as I have done for all these years, now I am waiting for
you.
Your cousin,
Anjali x
I could read these letters over and over again, just taking in every detail. I love the feel of the thin airmail paper, almost like material, and the sound of Anjali’s
fourteen-year-old voice, which is so full energy and excitement, like Priya’s . . . These letters have so much history in them that I’m starting to understand why Mum wanted to keep
them safe.
I take out the final letter.
6 March 1981
Dear
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