ATYPICAL BONG - (fiction)

New York had made my mother more “English” according to her self analysis theories. Being a Bengali herself, she exultantly snubbed other Bengalis, and labelled them in general, “typically bong”, for everything they did, or mouthed.
“Lots of keys, rice, and illish maach”, is what she usually associated them with. Therefore she preferred appointing white skinned freckled babysitters for me, when she traveled a thousand miles to work. Miss Scott, always ensured strict discipline at home. Fried eggs toast and juice, is what she usually propagated as a nutritional and low-fat menu card for all meals. My mother fired her after a week, when she discovered, an extra dozen of eggs missing quite strangely
.
Reluctantly, she decided to have me put, at our neighbour, Mrs Chatterjee’s.
They were a couple,only a- -year-old, settled in New York, who found comfort in simplicity. Mrs Chatterjee, appeared to me, as a symbol of the extinct. Her hair was neatly braided, with a fine straight line of vermillion, parting her hair. Her sari,was wrapped in exact folds, and she wore a bunch of golden bangles on her left hand. Her apartment was warm, flushed by radiators. Her sofas, and rectangular carpets were mostly mismatched. Her table was messily covered with a white table cloth, stained with yellow patches, upon which perched a happy plastic jar of butter cookies. As my mother chalked out the hours I had to be with Mrs Chatterjee, the only response I heard from her was “Yes,yes”, as she stressed on the last syllable of the word, in a funny accent. I assumed, she did know a bit of English. As my mother left, leaving the large wooden door to close on its own, Mrs Chatterjee walked up to me. She ran her fingers through my hair, her eyebrows twitching at the lack of oil. She climbed on to the tallest bookshelf, balancing effortlessly on a chair, and snatched out comic books of 'Feluda'.She never harped on any healthy menu card, nor did she mind, if I picked my nose, but she always had one eye hooked on me, and the other on her lentils. I felt comfortable as I sprawled out on her carpet,flipping through her album on Durga Pujo.
“Its different, you know,” she said, “Its different when people are engrossed in puchka races, and the entire city is lit with tiny rice bulbs, and your getting dolled like a bride”, she laughed. She spoke of how fish was mandatory in every Bengali household, and how her uncles use to burp proudly, after every meal. To her, unlike my mother, Tagore and “Topshe maach”, were not the same, and nor were the streets of Park Street or North Calcutta. I loved to see, how Mrs Chatterjee, was so drawn to her roots. She loved talking about Kolkata, she laughed with full force, quite unabashedly and ate without any calorie fret.
Every time, my mother came to pick me up, Mrs Chatterjee offered the left over lunch bit. With a practiced smile, my mother agreed to oblige her.
“It’s excellent”, she squealed, as she mistakenly swallowed a small fish bone, her eyes turning bloodshot. As we walked out of Mrs Chatterjee’s
my mother complained that the dal had too much oil,and the fish had too many bones.
Tuesdays, would be great fun at Mrs Chatterjee’s. We use to walk to the park, and carry a little tiffin box with dry fruits to munch on. We spent hours, imitating relatives. She sat on the grass with me, her sari stuffed messily in the center.
I remember, a couple of teenage boys jeering at her, when she asked me to take a picture,as she posed with big sunglasses and a cowboy hat. The hat had caught her fancy, in a fair last year, and since then, it had been one of her great claims. The young boys clung onto their stomachs and broke into peals of laughter.I couldn’t really do much, besides complain to my mother that night. She cared little and gulped her beer, nodding at intervals.
The next day, with the help of our charwoman, I neatly placed a few chicken fillets on the chopping board. I draped a floral shawl around me and drew a thick perpendicular line of red with my felt pen on my forehead. I giggled, at my own sight, somehow feeling beautiful secretly. I tried hunting for a maroon lipstick, couldn’t find one.My charwoman, fried the chicken fillets and I arranged them on a plate. I brought out two little bowls and poured out tomato sauce in one and Tabasco in the other. The meal looked grand and I was proud of my innovation.
As I softly made my way into my mother's room, with the meal in hand,I was disappointed to find her awake.
And she was disappointed to see what I was wearing. Without a word, she pulled out a large suitcase. I sat on her bed, tears trickling down, as my plate lay untouched and her silence pricking.
She emptied her cupboard, and mine too. Stacked up her files, her laptop,music, my toys, and we drove, somewhere far away.

…

It had been two years since I visited Mrs Chatterjee’s. My mother got a new job, and we had a new life ahead. We walked to the sea-side to celebrate. The large stretch of the turquoise ocean was spectacular. My mother yelled, “Say cheese!”,and I put on a pair of sunglasses, with a funny cowboy hat, and smiled.