Lost Words

By Saheli Mitra

Born to Bengali parents, Geet Nandi is forever lost in her world of scientific experiments, experiencing birth and death down scientific parameters. She and her brother Chitrak, enjoy boundless freedom appreciated by their bohemian mother, Shuvangi, who dies of cancer early in life.
But she had never been in want of love, as her extended family of uncles, none of who shared the ties of the womb with her parents, had made her feel belonged. Handsome army man Veer uncle from Delhi and eccentric Deep uncle from Kolkata had been her idols.
Veers NRI son Jai and Geet make a lovely couple back in USA. Every one seems happy when they decide to tie the knot. But as the wedding preparations take off, a bunch of old letters, hidden quietly for years, throw all the characters in a tizzy. The letters throw up a tale of love and lust, lost in the dark alleys of social patriarchy. Secrets, society and principles play havoc, slicing through apparently happy families.
Is love just a chemical reaction, or is it bound by social compulsions? And can nameless relationships sustain the test of love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jun 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482822069

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Saheli Mitra.

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-4828-2207-6

                            Softcover                       978-1-4828-2208-3

                            eBook                            978-1-4828-2206-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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CONTENTS

Overview Of The Book:

I

II

III

IV

Acknowledgements:

For Ma who taught me to believe in myself and

For Ajay, the man in uniform, who inspired me to write.

OVERVIEW OF THE BOOK:

B orn to Bengali parents, Geet Nandi is forever lost in her world of scientific experiments, experiencing birth and death down scientific parameters. She and her brother Chitrak, enjoy boundless freedom appreciated by their bohemian mother, Shuvangi, who dies of cancer early in life.

But she had never been in want of love, as her extended family of uncles, none of who shared the ties of the womb with her parents, had made her feel belonged. Handsome army man Veer uncle from Delhi and eccentric Deep uncle from Kolkata had been her idols.

Veer’s NRI son Jai and Geet make a lovely couple back in USA. Everyone seems happy when they decide to tie the knot. But as the wedding preparations take off, a bunch of old letters, hidden quietly for years, throw all the characters in a tizzy. The letters throw up a tale of love and lust, lost in the dark alleys of social patriarchy. Secrets, society and principles play havoc, slicing through apparently happy families.

Is love just a chemical reaction, or is it bound by social compulsions? And can nameless relationships sustain the test of love?

I

1.

T he words could still be read, though the pages had turned yellow and crisp with the typical refreshing odour of an old letter. Locked up in a green envelope in the third chamber of a bookcase, with a few others of its kind, the bits of papers had lain there for years, with little knowledge of what was happening around, quietly harbouring deep secrets. They were safe. None touched them, none cleaned the dust off them, till one day curious fingers tucked at the envelope strings. And the words found life… .

3rd March 1980.

Did the riot hit your city this year round? Crimson rays on a splurge of yellow, red shots with ornate of orange on a platter of green? Not the red of a blood soaked, ripped off body that I often get to see, not the olive green of my uniform that I must wear, but the riot of nature. Colours that you always admired. Your city, your trees, those that line the riverfront. You call them ‘Palash’ . . . no, guess you said ‘Shimul.’ The first few Bangla words you taught me apart from ‘shona bou’. Even the thought of those struggling Bengali lessons. Oh! God, after so many years I still feel a prickle of laughter. Remembering how I raked my brains to mug up and how you got irritated at my pathetic language skills. Hope I got the words correct this time, Chand.

Sleep is a distant dream tonight. One of my juniors committed suicide yesterday. Feeling very disturbed, so I write to you. For whenever I write, I can feel your warm and soft fingers curling through mine. They give me strength. But today, I am groping in the darkness, mercilessly bumping along rough patches. Sweat creeps down my spine, a fear of losing you, my adrenaline shoots up. I feel like shouting and crying, till your strong grip pulls me out again. I place you on my bed, and try telling you how much I miss you, but your hands stop me, soothingly caressing my raw skin.

Can’t write anymore. It seems I have lost my words, my breath and the void sucks me again. It’s almost like the beginning of a shattering orgasm. You must be lost in sleep, thousands of miles away. I am lost in you.¹

2.

Ma always called Deep uncle names and declared he was the worst man she has ever met. She called him mean, and an incorrigible bastard. Yet, I had a gut feeling that Deep uncle left a deep impact on her, something my arrogant mother always denied. On the contrary, Veer uncle had been the epitome of values and ethics, tales of his achievements and confidence, of his power and die-hard spirit, had been quite a topic of discussion. While, my workaholic father somehow dangled between the two males, neither matching the wit or the flamboyance of any of my uncles, keeping more to his workplace than we ever wanted him to do. My mother often complained about my dad’s attachment to work rather than to her and the kids and how the man she loved and fell for during her college days, ‘has changed over the years after marriage.’ Though I knew such complaints were order of the day among any working couple, as I grew up, I realised, I was wrong. Ma’s complaints actually spoke of a severe intellectual gap between her and my father and this void could have lead to disastrous consequences. However, we were always stuck short of a disaster as my uncles stood like the check and balance between them and saw to it that we forever cut the picture of a happy family.

My uncles, with whom neither my parents had the ties of the womb, slowly and silently became an intrinsic part of our extended family. Growing up amid so many males with contrasting features just like the drosophillas of my laboratory, helped me in achieving a stoic understanding of the average Indian male psyche that appeared quite pre-historic to me. At least that’s what I supposed. I was thus sort of hell bent to torment any man who crossed my path in future, visualising myself as the head of some matriarchal lineage.

‘Creation demands involvement of both man and woman, Geet. That’s how nature works,’ my mother would often say.

‘But mamma,’ I would protest. ‘Take a look at the animal kingdom, the females in higher mammals are always taking responsibility of putting their race forward, at times even at the cost of her own life. She dominates creation.’

‘It’s not about dominance or submission, relations are about mutual love and respect,’ mommy used to put in coolly. ‘Grow up, you will know what I mean.’

My elder brother would pitch in to enrage me, ‘Man is the provider Geet dear.’

‘Just shut up dada. Wait and watch, a day will soon dawn when artificial sperms would do the work of propagation but a womb would always be required. Hence the world could safely do away with men like you.’

Dada would burst out laughing, happy to have made me angry.

‘I believe in mutual respect Geet. I will not support your pseudo feminist ideology, they are just