Free Kajori (Kolkata Memoirs) by Sramana Mitra Page A

deep in the water, watching over the women and children.
    Kajori looked at Shekhar, smiled. Shekhar smiled back, but did not look away. “That sari will come off in the water …,” he said.
    “It won’t!” Her cheeks felt hot as she struggled to tighten the sari around her waist.
    “Fine,” he shrugged.  “The Nuliyas will find out what a mermaid looks like.”
                  Kajori sped, caught up with the girls in the water. Shekhar followed.
    The Nuliyas bobbed on the surf, keeping vigil.
    Kajori’s wet sari clung to her body. Her long hair came loose. She was not used to wearing a sari in the sea. Until a few years back, it was okay to wear a salwar . But now, her body was changing, and all the aunts kept reminding her that she needed to cover it as much as possible. The waves, however, had a way of disarming her.   
    Feeling Shekhar’s eyes on her made her all the more awkward, as she struggled to keep herself together. The anchol of her sari tangled up between her breasts, the blouse underneath covering them became translucent.
    She gave up, waded out of the water, sat down huddled on the sand.
    Shekhar, laughing, fervently gestured her to come back in. She stuck her tongue out, and looked away.
     
    That evening, the six women were in the kitchen, supervising dinner preparations. The kitchen was large. The three clay ovens humongous. The woks such that you could cook an entire goat in them.
    Kajori stood at the door, watching.
    “Baba ordered a diamond necklace for Shekhar’s bride,” said Radharani.
    “Really? When does it arrive?”
    “What design, Didi?” asked Sudha, taking her nose close to the wok to smell the goat curry, into which the Oriya cook stirred in a blob of red chili paste.
    “ Didi , how many brinjals?”
    Kajori came into the kitchen to watch Radharani launch luchis into the oil . Radharani picked up a hot, puffy one with her fingers, “You want?”
    But from nowhere Shekhar came in and snatched the luchi that his mother held up.
    “Look who’s here!” Sudha called out. “We were just talking about the necklace for your bride.”
    “Kakima, I’m sure it’d look great on you.” Shekhar retorted.
    All the women laughed.
    “I know you’re dying to marry me, Shekhar,” quipped back his aunt.
    Shekhar gestured Kajori to follow him outside with his eyes.
     
    It was full moon. The silver surf glistened. The thunder of waves lashing on the shore became louder as they walked closer. They went some distance in silence before Shekhar stopped, turned to her. “Kajori …”
    She looked up at him curiously and saw a slight frown on his normally joyful face. The strong wind blowing from the sea sent some of her loose hair flying around.
    Shekhar hesitated.
    Kajori waited, trying to manage her sari in the wind.
    Shekhar raised his hand to touch her face, but held back.
    Surprised, she held her breath, afraid to ask what was going on.
     
     
                  AT THE END of the holidays, Kajori returned to their Bhowanipur house in Kolkata. The Darwan who kept vigil over this house was a big, heavy man with an ear-to-ear moustache. He came upstairs, called from outside: “Didimoni, Mastarmoshai has arrived.”
    The house was relatively modern, influenced by the British Colonial architecture that was often built in Kolkata in the early 1900s. Driveways led to porticos with marble staircases, which led to foyers with wooden staircases covered with rich, thick carpets.
    Kajori arranged a shingara and a sandesh on a plate, poured a glass of fresh watermelon juice, and went downstairs to the study, where her tutor waited. This was her routine every evening.
                  “Meghnad Saha is aging …” Mashtarmoshai said, taking the juice from her, drinking half the glass in one gulp. “I hope he doesn’t die soon.”
                  Kajori looked up, concerned.
    “End of science for Kolkata. Satyenbabu focuses on the wrong issues.