I was then a student of class VIII or IX, a girl of around 15 years. My family used to live in the Doctor's quarters of NRSMCH. At that time we used to have a servant, AnuDidi. She was a dark, lean, sweet looking,jolly 21 year old, who had a 4 year old daughter. Her dad's house was at Kakdwip and was married to a man from Namkhana. Within days of AnuDidi's arrival we became close friends. By the end of a month she was my best friend.
During the days that AnuDidi was a part of our household, i had almost only one thing that i liked doing: talking to her. We spent hours sitting in my room; me, a rapt listener and she, one of the best story-tellers I shall ever come across. She told me about her life back home.
She was the adorable youngest daughter in her parents home at Kakdwip. Her village was many miles away from the station. She told me about all her friends, all the pranks she used to play on people while walking home from school. The way back from school was down a narrow lane in a thick clump of trees. She told me how she used to climb on one of those trees and drop things on people passing beneath in the gathering darkness and scare the wit out of them. There was a big pond beside her house. A big tree used to arch over the water as if bent down by arthritis. She and all the kids in the area used to dive into the water from the top-most branches of that tree.
She used to talk a lot about a huge snake. This particular one was a male, was half of a pair, the Nag. The female had been killed many years back in a fire started by the village people. That fire burnt down a big house standing on a big plot. But no one ever rebuilt anything on that plot. The Nag still lived in that plot, mourning his long lost mate and killing whatever livestock roamed near by. But the village people let him stay. They even started worshiping him on Manasha Puja.
AnuDidi got married when she was 16. She went to live with her husband and in-laws at Namkhana. Her in-law's house was in a village on the outskirts of the small town. Her mother-in-law hated her. Never giving her enough to eat during meals, hitting her in her husband's absence. Her husband's sister, who visited frequently, used to join her mother in the assault. But she lived on, accepting everything silently. After her child was born, she requested her husband to take her away, for their child's sake. So, they shifted to a tiny single room shanty in the heart of Namkhana.
Life became a lot easier after that. Her husband had a limp in one foot from Polio. He was a laborer in a brick factory. And they were in love. She used to pack food in a piece of cloth and tie her small daughter to her back with her sari and went to help her husband in the factory.She told me how after working together all morning they used to lie down beneath a big tree and take their mid-day siesta and talk and talk about love and life. She told me that she loved him so much that she couldn't bear to stay the whole day away from him. I still remember how she used to tilt her head to one side and smile shyly every time she said, "আমার বর!" (my husband). She told me that her husband was very good to look at and how all the neighborhood girls used to be jealous of her. She told me how they used to save money so that they could rent a small TV and adult movie CD once every week and watch it together, while their daughter slept on soundly. She told me how her life went upside down when her mother-in-law came one day and asked her son to come home with her and marry another girl. She told me how her husband left , without a proper goodbye. She waited for months in her tiny shanty room, crying and hoping that he would come back. But when all the saved money was spent and the local anti-socials started making passes at her, she had to run away to her parent's place with her daughter in tow.
AnuDidi once told me about a horrible incidence at Namkhana: a bride was hung by her neck and burnt alive in a small hut by her in-laws and husband. Later on the body was taken down and buried in a pit in the woods. The police could find no trace of the dead woman. She told me that all the women and men of the locality had gone over to watch as the police did the investigations. In her words, incidences like that happened in Namkhana every other day. And every time something like that happened they all used to go in groups and stand and watch.
Back at her parent's home she was forced to go to work. The jolly girl had come back with a huge burden of sorrow and a child in tow. There was no money to feed two extra mouths. So she had to leave her 3 year old daughter and go work in the city. After working at two other houses she came to us.
That was the story of AnuDidi. My once-upon-a-time best friend. A dark, lean, sweet, loving servant. She used to braid my hair and tell me stories, for hours at a stretch. The stories never seemed to end, there were so many. She talked on and on and i used to sit and listen, enthralled, letting the villages and lives of people in the southern most part of Bengal flash in front of my mind's eyes. I loved her as an elder sister and she used to adore me.
One day AnuDidi suddenly fell very sick. Slowly she became thinner and stopped smiling and there were stories no more. She took leave and went home, to get some rest and see her daughter. Before leaving she took a photo of mine with her. She wanted to show it to her family. And she never came back.
We waited for a while but there was no news. We assumed that she didn't want to come back to work and Mum got another servant and life went on. But i missed my stories and my friend.
After almost an year we happened to have another servant who hailed from AnuDidi's village in Kakdwip. We got to know that she had taken her daughter and left for Namkhana. She missed her husband. But she never returned to Kakdwip. Her mother-in-law and her sister-in-law had burnt her alive. Her daughter was reported missing.
During the days that AnuDidi was a part of our household, i had almost only one thing that i liked doing: talking to her. We spent hours sitting in my room; me, a rapt listener and she, one of the best story-tellers I shall ever come across. She told me about her life back home.
She was the adorable youngest daughter in her parents home at Kakdwip. Her village was many miles away from the station. She told me about all her friends, all the pranks she used to play on people while walking home from school. The way back from school was down a narrow lane in a thick clump of trees. She told me how she used to climb on one of those trees and drop things on people passing beneath in the gathering darkness and scare the wit out of them. There was a big pond beside her house. A big tree used to arch over the water as if bent down by arthritis. She and all the kids in the area used to dive into the water from the top-most branches of that tree.
She used to talk a lot about a huge snake. This particular one was a male, was half of a pair, the Nag. The female had been killed many years back in a fire started by the village people. That fire burnt down a big house standing on a big plot. But no one ever rebuilt anything on that plot. The Nag still lived in that plot, mourning his long lost mate and killing whatever livestock roamed near by. But the village people let him stay. They even started worshiping him on Manasha Puja.
AnuDidi got married when she was 16. She went to live with her husband and in-laws at Namkhana. Her in-law's house was in a village on the outskirts of the small town. Her mother-in-law hated her. Never giving her enough to eat during meals, hitting her in her husband's absence. Her husband's sister, who visited frequently, used to join her mother in the assault. But she lived on, accepting everything silently. After her child was born, she requested her husband to take her away, for their child's sake. So, they shifted to a tiny single room shanty in the heart of Namkhana.
Life became a lot easier after that. Her husband had a limp in one foot from Polio. He was a laborer in a brick factory. And they were in love. She used to pack food in a piece of cloth and tie her small daughter to her back with her sari and went to help her husband in the factory.She told me how after working together all morning they used to lie down beneath a big tree and take their mid-day siesta and talk and talk about love and life. She told me that she loved him so much that she couldn't bear to stay the whole day away from him. I still remember how she used to tilt her head to one side and smile shyly every time she said, "আমার বর!" (my husband). She told me that her husband was very good to look at and how all the neighborhood girls used to be jealous of her. She told me how they used to save money so that they could rent a small TV and adult movie CD once every week and watch it together, while their daughter slept on soundly. She told me how her life went upside down when her mother-in-law came one day and asked her son to come home with her and marry another girl. She told me how her husband left , without a proper goodbye. She waited for months in her tiny shanty room, crying and hoping that he would come back. But when all the saved money was spent and the local anti-socials started making passes at her, she had to run away to her parent's place with her daughter in tow.
AnuDidi once told me about a horrible incidence at Namkhana: a bride was hung by her neck and burnt alive in a small hut by her in-laws and husband. Later on the body was taken down and buried in a pit in the woods. The police could find no trace of the dead woman. She told me that all the women and men of the locality had gone over to watch as the police did the investigations. In her words, incidences like that happened in Namkhana every other day. And every time something like that happened they all used to go in groups and stand and watch.
Back at her parent's home she was forced to go to work. The jolly girl had come back with a huge burden of sorrow and a child in tow. There was no money to feed two extra mouths. So she had to leave her 3 year old daughter and go work in the city. After working at two other houses she came to us.
That was the story of AnuDidi. My once-upon-a-time best friend. A dark, lean, sweet, loving servant. She used to braid my hair and tell me stories, for hours at a stretch. The stories never seemed to end, there were so many. She talked on and on and i used to sit and listen, enthralled, letting the villages and lives of people in the southern most part of Bengal flash in front of my mind's eyes. I loved her as an elder sister and she used to adore me.
One day AnuDidi suddenly fell very sick. Slowly she became thinner and stopped smiling and there were stories no more. She took leave and went home, to get some rest and see her daughter. Before leaving she took a photo of mine with her. She wanted to show it to her family. And she never came back.
We waited for a while but there was no news. We assumed that she didn't want to come back to work and Mum got another servant and life went on. But i missed my stories and my friend.
After almost an year we happened to have another servant who hailed from AnuDidi's village in Kakdwip. We got to know that she had taken her daughter and left for Namkhana. She missed her husband. But she never returned to Kakdwip. Her mother-in-law and her sister-in-law had burnt her alive. Her daughter was reported missing.
Many years later I came in possession of my 1st smartphone, GPS and GoogleMap. The first time I discovered how GoogleMap functions I tracked down the nearby station and followed the rails by scrolling down and down the screen till I reached a small dot marked Kakdwip. Little way down there was another dot, near the blue stretch indicating the Bay of Bengal. It was marked Namkhana. Many times since, absentmindedly, while
fiddling with my phone, i have switched on the Maps and reached Namkhana.
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