A Little Nondescript Story

A bright, chilly morning greeted her with the news of her brother’s birth. It was end of November. Happiness was written large on the faces of her Dadu, Dida and Mashi. Aadya, all of seven could not comprehend the enormity of the situation. Now, she is not one and only. Now, she has a playmate. She was both confused and happy at the same time. His birth, turned her into the grown up which she somehow never felt like. Months passed by, her tiny brother kept growing. Adya too was somehow changing. She was in the second standard now, in a reputed school. Adya’s sudden habit of stammering, bed wetting and having nightmares never bothered her parents. They were too busy raising her brother.

She wasn’t much of a looker and neither much of a student. Her grades were consistent at B+ or B just like her complexion; not radiant nor dark either. What stood out on her face were her large, Bengali eyes and a shock of thick, jet, black hair. Time flew by, was sometimes good, sometimes irksome but all the irksome moments taught Adya a lesson or two. She was in college now. Had a few suitors too but somehow Adya was afraid of men and relationships. She was the bookish kind, found solace in music and reading Rabindranath Tagore. It wasn’t that she detested men. Imaginative Adya would always daydream of having a passionate lover who would make love to her passionately, but out in the open she was forever scared of going out, even for coffee. Her relationship with men, all through, was never meaningful.

College days were finally coming to an end. With lots of memories and decent grades she leaves college behind to start her own journey. Fate that turns paupers to princes had other plans for her. Adya had tiny little dreams; dreams of becoming a career woman, making a name for herself. Within a year of leaving college however, Adya Mukherjee gets married to Auritro Chatterjee and moves to Mumbai with him. She is all of twenty one now. It wasn’t a love marriage and neither a marriage that she wanted. In the Mukherjee household Biplav Mukherjee’s words were like commandments which nobody dare ignore.

Facing the sea, Auritro’s flat was her home now. Married life was nothing spectacular though, some routine responsibilities and looking after Auritro’s parents. The one thing which stood out was their love making. Auritro was pretty good in bed. Auritro was her lover and loved her well; at least that’s what his cards, flowers and occasional chocolates which landed at the doorstep of her huge flat, through some courier or the other, proclaimed. He also pampered her with anniversary and birthday gifts.

Her husband, her lover Auritro also loved and pampered the sultry Mrs. Ghoshal and sometimes her sister too who lived with her. The Ghoshals lived on the ground floor. There was one Nikita too in Auritro’s office, of whom he was particularly fond of. Adya couldn’t do anything about it. What could she? She loved him and yet she didn’t love him. Her relationship with Auritro was so similar to her other relationships with men. Dhananjay her boyfriend in college, who loved her but didn’t marry her because he was sure Adya being a Bengali girl, his conservative household wouldn’t approve of her and her convent background. Dhananjay left Adya, never looked back. She thinks of him sometimes and weeps, hiding her tears from all; she’s pretty good at that. Adya, was somehow determined to stick through this relationship, this marriage of hers’ to Auritro. Give it her all. After all she had nowhere to go. She was born and brought up in a broken home and she didn’t want a choice between the devil and the deep sea. Baba didn’t care for her much. Her brother was everything to him and for him. Divorce was the last option for her, even if it meant being insulted by Auritro and his parents, day in and day out.

Baba was also not much bothered about Adya. It’s been two years now that she’s married. He hardly called her up, neither inquired about her daily grind. She would patiently wait for the customary Sunday phone call, on the land line, in the drawing room, where he would speak to both her in-laws first; blessing her with five minutes of his precious time.

Adya, was accustomed to Biplav Mukherjee’s indifference towards her, right from her childhood. It didn’t matter now; he was her father, after all. It mattered then when as a child she was being sexually abused by her uncles, after her brother’s birth. It went on for three years. Baba never asked her then, why did she develop the habit of stammering, bed wetting and seeing nightmares; all of a sudden and she never explained. She waited for him to ask. She’s still waiting. The phone rings in the drawing room. Leaving her chores and thoughts behind, she goes to pick it up.