Mashi’s Friends

Picture Credit: Feature image shows 375 year old Zamindar Bari of Amadpur and its bonedi Durga Pujo

The tinkling of their anklets would be like the curtain-raiser of an interesting show. The huge thakur dalaan (courtyard) was like a big theatre stage of many a colours, brimming with people, the smell of cooking wafting through the kitchen. There would be a cloud of happiness arching over a constant cacophony of chatter, birds screeching from the overhead branches of the old banyan tree, the occasional passing hawker’s singsong voice, the quiet of the tulsi tola (the Holy Basil) and the everpresent music from the old gramophone floating in. The spirit of our two hundred year old heritage abode lay in its grand arcade and this huge front yard, lying beautifully enclosed central to the colossal beautiful house and under the open sky.

At night, this very stage of wondrous activities shrouded itself in a veil of mystery and magic, with the aroma of incense sticks, the light of shondyey prodeep (lamp lit to usher in evening), lying peacefully in a cover of darkness, illuminated by the light of a hanging gas lamp. Hues of shadows of passing people and the old banyan tree created magic. There would be a hypnotic quiet all around. 

There were five of us cousins whose childhood was intricately entwined in this house. My three years younger brother Topor and me, Boro Mashi’s two daughters, Mala of my age and Mishti Didi and Pishi’s son, Ishwar. The Thakur Dalaan was the centerstage of our childhood, the terrace was our meeting place for things to be discussed, books to be leaved through and pickles to be had, none of which were quite sanctioned by the adults. And our heart throb was Mashi, the youngest of Ma’s sisters, who came back to live with us after being widowed at a tender age of eighteen.

As per customs, she shed her coloured sarees, all her jewelleries and settled down to a plain white drape. Immersed in house chores throughout the day, Mashi would be the picture of a hard working soul, immersed in house work through the day and silently pouring over a book after sunset. Her vacant eyes would often ride over the blue expanse, across the river, atop its raging waves and roam yonder…as if, she was in search of her most precious jewel, her endearing smile. But her spirit, none could snatch and she continued to be our alter ego for a very long time.

The youngest amongst the elders, Mashi was the soul of us kids. She was like the open window bringing in the rare outside fresh air. A graduate in the 1940’s in Bengali Literature, Mashi regaled us with stories and poems, taught us snippets of Rabindra Sangeet. Lazy wintry afternoons would lay a blanket of peace over the grand house and us five kids would steal away from our mothers and tiptoe to the attic to face Mashi ready with prohibited tidbits for us and often she would read from a book not quite suited to our age. These were the rare and tiny windows through which we saw a different Mashi, eager to live and love life.

And Mashi had a secret, well guarded within the walls of our courtyard and held close to heart by us five children. She often told us “There’s no treasure as dear as friendship”.

Every once a month, at the end of Krishna Paksha, as Amavasya (no moon night) wraps up the sky and the ground below in a heavy blanket of impenetrable black, Mashi’s childhood friends would assemble here, on the stairs of our Durga Mandir, in their aatpoure saree (traditional style), shaat noli haar (gold chain), kaan pasha (ear studs) and musical payals (anklets). A strange fragrance of Jui phool (flower to adorn the hair) would waft through the night air. With the merry tinkling of their payal, they would dance up the stairs leading to the shrine and perch themselves like floating clouds on the steps. From the pillars of the first floor balcony, we cousins would absorb this spectre with wide eyes every month since the time we barely learnt to walk. Our evening play and studies over and the rest of the house enshrined in sleep and quiet, the last of the night lamps blown out, we five would huddle behind two of the thick heavy pillars of the first floor balcony and peep down. Mashi and five of her friends would have a merry time, we could only faintly hear their laughter and the musical notes of their voices floating through the night air on a moonless night. That was the one time we would see Mashi’s eyes light up and her unbridled laughter. Through the dark nights, with only the softest of lights falling on her face, Mashi looked surreal, like one of the heroines of her novels, lost in grief and having discovered sudden happiness. Not the Mashi we knew scurrying about household chores through the days. The light in her eyes, the lilt in her voice, her casual merry poise made us stare in awe. She looked divine. And so beautiful. 

Every Amavasya night they would come, when the sky was dark and the black moon invisible. They would sit, with their aanchal spread over the steps of Durga Mandir, their jewelleries draping them in a molten golden glow and their muted laughter floating up in the night air and to the eager ears of five curious kids. We had often tried asking Mashi who her friends were and why she never brought them inside the house to our regal baithak khana, the drawing room. We never got any definite response to this ever. Her only vague reply would be ”They don’t like intermingling with people”. And we had to be satisfied with this. Without stating this in so many words, Mashi’s quiet look at us would implore silence. At that age, with the eldest among us cousins only at the verge of her teens, that innocent age where beliefs come easy, we accepted what we saw as a mysterious and beautiful break in our daily routine of work, study and play. Shrouded in complete secrecy, this only lent more appeal in the lives of five children.

It was early 1950’s. Five or six years since India gained her independence from British rule. Girls in our village had begun attending school for a while. My parents and Uncles wanted to gift us children a sound education. At a young age, we were all packed off to Kolkata to the best boarding schools of that time for girls and for boys. We missed the grandeur, for the first time in our lives being imprisoned in one tiny room with no balcony. We dearly missed home, missed each other and most of all Mashi. All the while we were away, on Amavasya nights, all five of us sat next to different windows in different schools, staring out into the black nothingness. Mashi and her friends’ muted chatter and laughter seemed to wave through the distance and reach us.

Mashi knew that we knew. And she knew her secret was safe with us. Elders would be in their rooms during this time of the night. What always fuelled our never ending curiosity was why we always noticed them coming but never could see them leave the thakur dalaan. Maybe the fragrance in the air lulled us to sleep with their happy laughter, who knew! This was a knot of mystery only one person could ever unravel. We asked her often. Once she said “They come and leave as they please”. At one other time, she said ‘They live in their delight now what they missed in their lifetime.’

Life continued this way. Evening games with cousins in a big joint family defined the world to us. Colourful days, nights filled with huddled gossips, a stealthy run to the terrace for a secret meeting. Time flew and we grew up watching Mashi’s mysterious friends on every Amavasya night. Life had its bright colours in daylight and equal thrill in its darker shades.This continued for many years. Many a night, we were lucky to secure Mashi in one of our rooms in total privacy. Our questions were consistent. Her answers, once considered vague by us, slowly gained meaning. “They don’t like people. They only want to have a little fun.” 

Time passed. We went on to different universities, but kept trying to match our vacation timing at home. And suddenly one night, each of us were awakened from sleep by our hostel wardens. Hurrying to the one phone in the hostel, we heard in shocked silence the news. The very next morning, we rushed home.

A turn of fate, till date none of us can never come to terms with. The last night, dark and stormy, Mashi fell ill quite suddenly. And without a wait for anyone, she closed her eyes forever. Ma told us much later, she looked happy and was almost smiling in her last form. We rushed home to a grand house; our much-loved thakur dalaan greeted us with a sigh of loneliness. There remained now a grand structure without a soul. Did she depart from this world willingly, did she finally find the treasure her eyes constantly searched for? 

So unexpectedly, we lost our friend that was Mashi, her romance-filled eyes, her quiet smile. And her rendezvous with her friends. 

With overwhelming curiosity and immense heavy hearts, we waited that first Amavasya night after Mashi’s death to have a glimpse of her friends. There was no moon. The sky was as dark as dark could get. It was as if a blanket of black tightly wrapped the world, allowing none to escape its guarded secrets. We waited for long. And just when we were about to doze off behind the pillars of the balcony, we heard the all too familiar tinkling of payals. Mashi, in her finest of fineries, bright red silk, her anklets and jewellery, making their merry tinkling sound, with her long hair tied in a loose bun, secured with Jui Phool running up the stairs to the Durga Mandir. Mashi looked happy, like a child, laughing with her childhood friends. We seemed to drown in the fragrance of her flowers and the beauty which unfolded before us. We watched like statues, from another world. For an instant, did Mashi look up and smile at us?