Bloodline

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“Dugga…Dugga”…abaar eso Maa! (Come again dearest).

Durga got clogged on the threshold for a while, her eyes welled up and her heart not willing to go any more from her maternal home, when she heard this phrase. It’s been long she had heard those words of farewell. Almost three decades had passed away in a blink of an eye and Durga never thought she would ever be able to set her foot again inside her once standing tall maternal home with all its glory the ‘Rajbari’ in one of the busiest lanes of Park Street.

“Keshto Da...please keep my bags, upstairs. I am staying.” Durga said with a meek smile, staring at her old ailing aunt’s face.

Keshto Da, the oldest house helper of the Bagchi household wiped his tears of joy with the back of his palm and swiftly grabbed the valises and rushed towards the bedroom on first floor, at the end corner of the house that passed through a huge corridor with rows of French Windows and doors all painted in green.

Durga after caressing her aunt’s forehead sat near her foot on the bed and kept staring at her silent sleeping figure. She reminded her of the whole Bagchi clan that has disappeared somewhere in time before she could know. Her aunt was the only one alive of the Bagchi household now. The house itself was more than a century old.  It stood like a derelict from the outside but the inside was still glorious with all the imperial furniture, French windows and doors, oversea rugs and carpets that Durga’s forefathers have acquired from their visit to various foreign lands during their feudal years. Durga had seen huge grandeur from the day she gained her senses but she took it casually evermore, that she belonged to a Zamindar household.

Durga had not known its significance when she had lived here in her younger days until she got married. It was a regular affair back then in her teen age till her youthful days to go to college, come back home, have loads of conversation with her mother, her sisters and see the day pass by. When did she step into the prime of her youth and became a beautiful woman she herself didn’t realize until she fell in love with a man from the faraway lands.

He was a visiting figure to the land of the goddess. He came in a jiffy, stole Durga’s heart and even Durga from the Rajbari. Thirty long years ago Durga became so blindfolded in love with her dream man that she eloped with him to the faraway lands. And from the city where the Ganges flowed she landed to start her life in the vast reign of sands. She was married to a man from the Thar deserts and her new life started within the confines of a Pathan household and in the never ending hillocks and blazing heat of the day time.

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“Durga didi…I have set your plate in the dining area. Come before the food gets all cooled down.” One of the women maid servants came and informed her.

Durga who was still pressing on her aunt’s legs nodded in affirmation. She silently came to the dining area of the Rajbari, one of the colossal rooms of the entire house. The mahogany table had twenty chairs and it spread most imperially across the room holding silently within its chest myriad moments of guffawing, incessant conversations and the Bagchi family eating together always. A tear escaped from Durga’s eyes while the images of those bygone days danced in front of her. She had almost forgotten this part of her life and forgotten herself, that once, she belonged to this grand house.

After having lunch she sat in the huge galleria of her room on the first floor of the mansion which she then shared with her younger sisters. There was a sudden nip in the autumn air that seemed soothing to Durga and made her grow nostalgic and she began reminiscing about her past days in the Rajbari. It still seemed unbelievable to her that her whole maternal family was dead due to unexpected incidents and now she was the only biological heir and person alive of the great Rajbari, after her aunt. She was called upon by her old aunt and the moment she entered the house, her aunt handed over the will of the whole house transferred to her name.

Durga heaved a sigh…how could she accept that, when no one accepted her and her Pathan husband after her marriage to him as their son-in-law. For so many years she had struggled to be loved, accepted in the household of Pathan’s for she was entirely different to them. She sang, she danced, she sewed, she wrote poems, none of these were done by the other ladies in the house and she was looked down upon. She was ordered to stay confined just like the other women within the veil and perform tasks only, expected from her. 

Yet; she sewed beautiful curtains, sheets and filled her two rooms with various colors of spring, and the room would be filled with the sounds of her sewing machine clunking for longer hours in the afternoon when the rest of the women of the house were lost in their siesta. This became even worse and she was demeaned with various bitter words when her only son started showing interest in stitching clothes. Sufian who was barely a ten year old child was entirely different from the other children of his age. He wouldn’t go play with them; instead he would sit for hours observing his mother’s art of changing long flowing fabrics into beautiful dresses, bed linen, curtains and more. Durga taught him with great joy in her heart, the art of sewing, and finally came the day when it became the reason for them to leave the Pathan Haveli and live somewhere else.

Durga, her husband and her ten years old son left the threshold of that house and started their life anew. But to her horror she lost her husband to a fatal accident while he was travelling for one of his business pursuit. She was barely 35 years old. With a young child to take care of and a temporary house she began to make life out of her passion now. Sufian went on to study in the textile designing and grew up fast to become a renowned fashion designer and mostly stayed abroad holding myriad fashion shows of his own. Durga used all her husband’s assets for his studies. And how in taking care of the house, her son and to survive in a land where no one was their own when did life just pass by and brought the grays and wrinkles all over her skin, she didn’t realize.  But she didn’t sew anymore, she had sufficient now. And besides, her eyes had gone weak, Sufian had strictly asked his mother not to stitch anymore and she listened to him, but didn’t allow him to take away that old sewing machine away from her. It was kept in one corner of her living area looking at which now, Durga felt solace in her heart.

Durga had lost much in her life, blood relations, her soul mate, and two homes, one of her origin and one where she came as a bride. And suddenly when this letter came from her maternal home in Calcutta it brought shock as well as incessant tears from her eyes. She tried to smell her land from the letter for long, touching it and reading it again and again. 

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“Didimuni…Didimuni, open the door please.” Durga’s eyes opened to the constant banging of the door of her room by Keshto Da. She feared something has gone wrong. She checked the time piece on the side table of her bed. It was 5:00 in the morning; she hastily slipped into her housecoat and tying the knots to her waist she rushed to open it.

“Didimuni…come fast.” Saying this Keshto Da ran towards the room of her ailing aunt. She followed him too and reaching the room downstairs found out that she wasn’t breathing anymore. The whole neighborhood that was awake by now paid their condolences that day. Her last rites were done by Keshto Da, their most reliable servant. He performed all the rituals being the only male in the household.  Few weeks passed by, the huge mansion was unbearably silent, much like Durga’s silent heart, but Durga was used to the silence of her own house in Kutch, this huge mansion’s hollowness seemed much uncanny and Durga didn’t like it. She decided to leave.

One morning while she was packing her bags, suddenly there were loud knocks on the main door. She remained occupied knowing that Keshto Da will take care of it. Soon after few minutes he came huffing and said, “Didimuni...there is some young man at the door calling himself your son.”

Hearing that, Durga rushed towards the main door and was completely startled to see Sufian standing at the portico with huge suitcases resting near his feet. Durga thought no second thought and ran towards her son. “Sufian…you here?” She let her sink into his embrace and asked with a curious expression.

“Hey Ammi...thought of giving you a surprise, besides how could I lose that chance to see your maternal home which you have always missed in your heart.”

Tears rolled down from both their eyes. There was lots of catching up to do, that followed over the lunch that day. After seeing her mother’s land for few days together Sufian decided to stay here forever. He remembered how much he had seen his mother burn each day and night for being away from all her blood relations. It was time for her to be with her roots forever, besides there was no one that waited for her in Kutch except her four bedroom apartment. He told his decision to his mother and saw her eyes twinkle in delight that night. Keshto Da too was ecstatic to see the house filled with life and laughter again, after such a long period of time.

Soon within a year time the huge mansion was turned into a tavern and was named ‘Rajbari Inn’. Sufian also had a huge segment of the front portion of the house turned into his designer studio where all clothes by him were displayed. Durga was elated to see her sewing machine that looked much vintage now, kept most aesthetically in his studio with the tag, ‘From mother to son’.

Durga never thought her life would come to this turn, where once she was forbidden from being a Bagchi her maiden name, would come back here as Durga Khan. She never thought her son will ever continue the legacy of the Bagchi household over his shoulders leaving behind all his empire back in Paris that he had earned over the years of being a successful fashion designer.

We all have to come back to our roots one day, that’s where the bloodline brings us in the end. I have finally come home. I pray that my forefathers are able to accept us this time. Durga wrote this in her diary and heaved a deep sigh staring at the autumn’s starlit sky, sitting in the huge roof of Rajbari Inn, whilst downstairs the house remained eventful with Sufian taking care of it all now…

~Monalisa Joshi~