Free The Last Burden by Upamanyu Chatterjee

him, sweat irking his armpits and collar, and a lumpish fury within Jamun that now intends to hack apart his sinful flaccid body, and spirt out. He is queasy, as though a vigorous talon has gashed through his muzzle down to his belly and is foraging in his guts. His calves bubble but the warm tears feel easeful, like cleansing. His father looks shrivelled and appalling, but something baneful and primal in him craves to flail back, monster versus monster. He snarls snatchily, spite stifling rage, ‘You bastard – we should thank God that we are sons. If you’d hatched a daughter, you’d’ve bedded her – you fucking ingrate – this as recompense for what I’ve done for you –’
    ‘Jamun! Have you no shame!’ Urmila, buoying herself against the wall – appalled eyes, but her voice conveys more dread than indignation; she censures somewhat dedicatedly, as though she will be chided for not excoriating with sufficient zest, panicky in the meanwhile that without warning, without motive as usual, both husband and son will enervate each other and instead beleaguer her.
    ‘Oh, hold your tongue – ’ for through his sniffles and gulps, Jamun tastes solace when he carps at his mother; because in hisanimus, carping is easier than winnowing those words for his father that are sure to stab; yet he detests himself when he recognizes on her face the blind slackness of deep hurt, and he knows that he will loathe himself even more when Shyamanand at last is also gutted by the prongs of his son’s words.
    ‘Savour your handiwork, our sons. Fostered for decades to hate me. Like a perfect mother, you’ve kneaded them against me. You’re the saint and I the demon, but notice, they damn you too.’
    Burfi hears some of the particulars of the squabble and snickers, ‘My bout next, I imagine, with Baba.’ The next morning, Jamun, in the verandah beside the kitchen, liking the sea gusts on his inflamed forehead but not conceding so even to himself. A leaden, toss-and-turn night for Shyamanand and Urmila, in their shunned rooms, but Jamun has enjoyed the numbness of the sozzled and overtired. Urmila in the kitchen, pottering, warming milk for her husband and herself: ‘Jamun, he’s a worthless husband, but a good father. Jamun, the anger of parents is never anger.’
    ‘You suppose she’ll die? Or return?’ To use the word ‘die’ for his mother is hard, but for Jamun the euphemisms – ‘pass away’, ‘breathe one’s last’ – are impossible. From the gate Shyamanand and he gaze at the car that carries off the others – Chhana, Burfi, Pista’s aya – and Pista and Doom too, who beseech, are rebuffed, wail, are screeched at, blubber, pule and are finally permitted – to the nursing home. Shyamanand doesn’t respond. ‘She looked so . . . meaningless this morning, like . . . Burfi said you’d told him that you were convinced she’d mend. I hope you’re correct. She looked so ill.’
    Shyamanand hobbles away from the gate. Jamun stalks him. Shyamanand was too exhausted to go to the hospital. As is his nature, Jamun felt uneasy at forsaking him, and remained behind too, deeming that his father would be covertly glad for his fellowship. In like conditions, Urmila would have been patently so. Plus, Jamun wished to converse and himself be allayed.
    They subside in the uncomfortable garden chairs. Shyamanand has no idioms of solace for anyone. Too old. Jadedness has coated his soul. ‘Just five days. Getting through to you was hopeless. So we despatched the telegram. Chhana was much easier to contact. Within a minute. On the first night, Burfi stayed till sunrise in the car in the hospital parking lot because she was on the edge.’ Shyamanand slackens off. Enunciation is bone-wearying. He craves to be in a warm snugness, in darkening and silence. ‘I should die before she does, that is my leading, hoggish thought.’ Jamun wonders how he had looked for alleviation from his father who so bitterly needed alleviation