gazed at her son’s soft, troubled eyes. “It is the custom, mia. That is what they do to widows so they can never marry again.”
“Why did they lock you here? Who gives you food?”
She sighed. “This is my mourning period. I must be kept in isolation. Even when that is over, things will be very different. I want you and Nitin to prepare yourselves. You will not see much of me after I come back into the house. I will no longer be a part of the family. I have to cook my own food now. Eat alone and only once a day. I can never touch meat or fish or eat spicy food or even drink a cup of tea.”
“What about chili tamarind?” asked Biren. He had not meant it to be funny, but he was relieved to see her old crooked smile.
She looked away. “No chili tamarind,” she said softly.
“When will Apumashi come to—” he was about to say “oil your hair” but stopped himself “—see you?”
She sighed. “I will not be allowed to socialize with anyone. A widow is a cursed being. Married women with children and happy families like your Apumashi are not allowed to come near us. They fear our bad luck may rub off on them. My friendship with Apu is over, I’m afraid.”
It was inconceivable! They were best friends; they told each other all their secrets. Had they not promised to live next door to each other forever? They had even planned to get their children married to one another, so that they could live together as one big happy family.
Biren was beginning to feel desperate. His words came out in a rush. “What if...if I marry Ruby? What if Nitin marries Ratna? Then you will both be in-laws. You have to be friends.”
Shibani regarded her son tenderly. His sweet, hopeful face, the feverish plea in his eyes. A tear coursed down his cheek. Biren dismissed it with a careless flick. Seeing this adultlike gesture broke her heart. Her sweet baby boy was growing up in front of her eyes.
Biren’s chin trembled. “I will marry Ruby,” he declared with manly determination.
Shibani was touched and amused at the same time. “Oh, you really want to marry Ruby, then?” She suppressed a smile. “So you think it is a good idea, after all, do you?”
“No, but...”
“I want you to listen to me, son,” Shibani said firmly. “Your father...” Her eyes filled with tears, but she controlled herself. “Your father and I did not bring you up to do things against your will. Marrying Ruby is childish talk. That is not the answer and that is not going to solve the problem. You must take care of your brother. Only you can explain things to him. Just do the best you can. Be there for him. I cannot be there for you both any longer. My life is over. Yours has just begun.”
Biren’s thin veneer of adulthood cracked and he broke down with a cry. “Why do you say that, Ma?” He sobbed. “Why do you say your life is over? Are you going to die?”
“Shush, mia,” she whispered, touching his cheek with the tip of her finger. How she wished she could cradle him in her arms and wipe those clumped eyelashes with the end of her sari. “Of course I am not going to die. This is no time to cry. I am just trying to prepare you for what lies ahead. I will be here, but I will no longer be a part of your life. A widow does not have a position in the family. I will remain in the background and you may not see much of me, but I want you both to remember me—not the way I have become, but the way I used to be. You can come and see me when you wish, but you must promise not to do so out of sorrow or guilt. Come and see me when you have good tidings and we will rejoice together. I may be cursed as a widow, but I have been blessed as a wife and mother, and nobody can take that from me.”
Through the slit in the wood, all Biren could see were her eyes. They burned with the unnatural brightness of anger at the injustice of it all.
His mother may be trapped, Biren decided, but he was not. It would be up to him to set her free.
He did not go straight back to bed. Rather, he sat on the kitchen steps by the pot of holy basil and hugged his knees, thinking. A big moon sailed high in the sky, weaving in and out of the clouds, sometimes bright, other times clumped and patchy. Biren’s thoughts churned deep and dark into his soul, trying to find glimmers of meaning through his sorrow. Surely there was something he could do.
His throat caught in a strangled sob. What would his father do if he saw what had become of Ma? Surely he would do something? But Baba was dead. He was no longer there to protect her. Biren sat up a little straighter. He had a young brother to take care of. Nitin would grow up and have his own life, but what would happen to his mother? Would she become destitute like Charulata and be forced to beg under the banyan tree?
He thought of Charulata. She had given him his name and painted it in the patterns of hopes and dreams. She must have seen in him the seed of a warrior. Baba said a warrior did not follow the dictates of others but his own conscience. Biren’s conscience told him the treatment of widows was inhuman and unjust and it should be condemned. He would fight for them.
It was on that premonsoon night, in the moonlit courtyard of his village home, that eight-year-old Biren Roy watched the purpose of his life unfold. It came to him in the parting of the clouds and the full brilliant light of the moon, an uncommon zeal that would guide his journey forward.
Owen J. McIntosh
Proprietor
Victoria Jute Mills
20th July 1880
Dear Mr. Anirban Roy,
Please accept my sincere condolences for the untimely and tragic death of your son Shamol Roy. Shamol Roy was an exemplary human being of great integrity and impeccable courtesy. He was also my most promising employee, and had the potential to go far in his career. I feel privileged to have known this young man. I saw him as a devoted husband and father and admired his honorable commitment to his family.
I would like to reassure you, Victoria Jute Mills is deeply committed to ensure your family is financially compensated in every way. To that effect, you will continue to receive Shamol Roy’s full monthly salary for the next sixteen years—by which time he would have reached the retirement age of fifty—and this includes any bonuses he may be entitled to. After that, his widow will continue to receive a monthly pension until the time of her death.
Mr. Prabhu Mallick, our mill manager, will explain to you in detail the pension scheme and other compensations available to Shamol Roy’s widow. You can also personally contact me if there is any other way I can be of further assistance.
Besides general compensation, I would like to put forward a separate proposal, which I hope you will take into serious consideration. This pertains to the education of Shamol Roy’s sons. I am well aware how committed he was toward the education of his children. I have from him a letter expressing his wishes to admit them to an English school, and to that end I am willing to personally sponsor their
