Pishimoni was married into the Tagore family, prominently mentioned in ‘ Andarmahal’, all 4 generations. Be forewarned, in the mind of a curious little girl, the grandeur mattered less than the alien. My weekends were frequently spent at Pishimoni’ s house as Dadi would whisk me away most Friday evenings after school, only to return by Sunday dusk. Pishimoni called me Lalmohon, a variant of my pet name, Lali. She doted on me…
Dadi, would insist on me finishing my home work the same evening, threatening me that she would tell Ma. Ma was the only voice of reason in my indulged, cherished, nurturing childhood. But for Ma…
The home had every vestige of the expected grandeur, the genteel poor remain familiar with. The library, the ‘ awpish ghawr’, ( office), the table tennis table, the teak 4 poster beds, the oval mahogany dining table for 12, the separate kitchens, the ‘koyla ghawr’ ( coal room) and the sacred ‘ thakur ghawr’ ( puja room). A bevy of domestic helpers, but Ishaq shines the brightest, the patriarch’s personal bearer. He called me Lali Baba…
However, the little girl in me took all this in her stride, her wonderment lying downstairs with Aunty Alice. Like many others, she had returned from England and made her home brushing shoulders with the Tagores. The connection was dubious and never questioned, but my enchantment is sustained to date.
Pishimoni tried her best to restrain me from hobnobbing with Aunty Alice, to her chagrin, to no avail. I doted on Aunty Alice. Her spacious home leapt out of my books, the lace curtains with the velvet swathed pelmets, the traycloth with the handmade lace doilies, the porcelain lamps, the corduroy upholstery, and YES, the piano and the ‘lazy crazy’ mosaic tiles. An artist’s delight, of scrambled coloured chips, predominantly pink, set in relief with flecks of aquamarine, grey and mustard.
I would sneak upto her home after dinner, prime time when Pishimoni was engrossed with after dinner responsibilities. Oh the thrill of it all! Dressed in my pajamas, Aunty Alice would receive me with the curlers in her hair, neatly tucked beneath a glossy blue nylon turban. Her dressing gown, a faded russet, her feet always encased in cloth shoes. She would welcome me in and shut the door firmly, clucking unmeant euphemisms about how late it was and how naughty I was being.
What followed was a ritual, but never lost its newness or flavour, maintaining magic through the past 6 decades. I would sit me down and gorge my eyes on the feast before me. Everytime, unfailingly it happened, like the eternal dance of the predator and the prey, but never diminishing its charm, not for a second.
Aunty Alice would disappear into the recesses of her large home and reappear with the magic wand. I would watch her float down the endless hallway, an apparition, the light glinting on her curlers and the cupcakes in her hands. They were always served in a tray with the intricacies of extraordinary crochet, trimming the creamy damask tray cloth, and the cakes? They were always pink, as pink as the ‘ burhia ka baal’ (candy floss) I ate in Allahabad. Shiny fuschia pink, cracking artistically to reveal the golden, melt in the mouth, buttery cake beneath. Having served me she would sigh and sit down at her piano, her back turned to me. In time her erect posture diminished to a stoop, but the music? It transcended with every private performance! It was there in my infantile idiocy that I plonked ‘ The Devil’s March’ and gloated at the kind, kind praise she bestowed upon me.
I would return to my grandiose surroundings, scoffing and spurning the obvious vestiges of heritage, while Pishimoni would smile with poignance and say” tui baddo cchelemanush” /( you are very childish). The next morning while looking down at the ‘ phaeton gari’, ( horse dawn carriage),the patriarch’s conveyance to court and back, chewing on the raw turmeric and jaggery that Dadi insisted on, I would ache to be related to Aunty Alice!!!
Much later, after a stupendous recital conducted by Zubin Mehta at La Scala, I had shared the above anecdote, this time with reckoning and discernment. But in my heart of hearts? I wonder, does Lalibaba still live on?…
Rupa Chakravarti
Photos: Internet