Whispers in the Castle of Sand

Short Story by Ravi Kumar Pillai

The Chatterjees had returned from their most recent overseas trip only a fortnight back. And this morning, as the dew drops on the trembling leaves dripped silently down onto the manicured lawns, the news broke that Mr. Chatterjee died in sleep last night.

No alarm sirens were heard, and no ambulance rushed in through our main gate at midnight. Mrs. Chatterjee was asleep under the effect of sedatives, as she was habituated to. Even she knew of his silent departure only when, in the early morning, she went to his bedside with steaming coffee and gently stroked his cold and numbed hand.

Ours was a small neighbourhood, an enclave of just a dozen houses, secluded from the din and dust outside by a fort-like compound wall. All these years, we nurtured with extreme sensitivity a delicate balance and an arms-length approach respecting the privacy of each family.

When the Space Research Station was set up in this sleepy little town over half a century back, many families like us gravitated to the place. Those days, getting a government job was difficult and those who got one were treated as though they won a grand prize in a lottery. 

The twelve families in our colony came together by accident or coincidence as you might choose to call it. The composition could have as well been different - after all, there were many families in the organisation, and Providence chose the twelve of us to stay together.  

Over the years our children grew up together, went to the same school, played and squabbled together.  The routine repeated itself with near monotony.

The ladies had their kitty parties and on weekends we met at community get-togethers. Every family brought their dishes, carefully prepared and presented to the group as delicacies with their regional flavour. We could taste their nostalgia and pride in the dishes.

The children grew up and took off to prestigious campuses in India and abroad to master and excel in their chosen subjects. As grey hair invaded our heads, and soft wrinkles appeared on our faces, we wondered in disbelief how we lived as a family over the years and grew old in a wink! As if by the broadside strokes of a paintbrush, we turned veterans, retirees and pensioners. Our yesterdays coiled into the dimly lit chambers in our mind’s corners.

The Chattrejees had a single child, a cute girl who became our darling in no time. My wife and I had no children, so naturally the next-door neighbour’s doll-like daughter became our virtual child. We adored her and dreamt of her growing up and maturing just like the Chatterjees would themselves have fantasized.  

As we rushed to the neighbouring house to condole the death of Chatterjee and to join the mourning, I thought of the daughter whom I had never seen for years. My wife too would have been remembering her at that moment of grief. After all, she was the only one the Chatterjees could call their own.

I remembered him telling me one evening across a glass of wine about how his parents were butchered by violent crowds back in their East Bengal village during the crescendo days of pre-partition mayhem. His dispassionate narrative of the tragic loss of his dear ones stunned me to silence.

His journey across the border, taking refuge with a distant relative of his parents in Kolkata, his graduation from the Howrah Engineering College and his marriage to a classmate all were told to me coldly and matter-of-factly. I knew how he and his wife prided themselves in their daughter’s academic achievements. They shared with our family their joys at every step of their daughter’s growth, accomplishments and maturing.

Her marriage to the boy who came into her life in her college days did not meet with instant approval from her parents. Because they both felt, to no logic that could appeal to the daughter, that she was meant for a higher scheme of things. “Study more, become someone the whole society will be proud of, then marry anyone you choose”, they told her.

But their love for her knew no bounds and they did not want to stand against her wish. The marriage was in a mofussil town a hundred odd kilometres from Mumbai. Their high sensitivity to the Bengali culture and the lingering pains of their alienation from childhood that was prematurely cut off in the partition frenzy had imprinted a deep desire in them to marry off their daughter to someone moored in Bengali culture. But when it came to the daughter’s passionate desire, they acquiesced in silence to the union, across the boundaries of language and customs with smile and fervour.

It seemed just the other day when our entire community of twelve households bid the young couple an intimate farewell. They took off beyond sight to their distant new home. The couple settled down somewhere in the interior of the US of A.

It was odd that the newlyweds never returned to our community, even for short vacations. In all these years, we did not see them. Mrs. Chatterjee announced to us being her immediate neighbours about periodic visits to her daughter abroad.  When they returned, both parents were quite vociferous about the time they spent with their daughter and son-in-law, the places they visited together and the fun they had.

We were glad at the sweets she brought and commented admiringly, tinged with jealousy, on the gifts her daughter presented to the parents. The only regret they had was that they didn't have a grandchild. They kept the details to the bare minimum, often sketchy and we hardly complained. These visits of the Chatterjees were part of our community folklore. They often lamented about their daughter’s obsession with official duties that prevented her from flying down to India. They also casually mentioned the son-in-law’s remoteness to them. Those were enough hints not to pester them with inquisitive probes on why the young couple never paid a visit.

Years went by and the routine of narratives, periodic visits and sharing of sweets and stories from their visits continued with customary fervour. Grey hair, wrinkles on our faces and fading memories did not reduce the bondage between the Chatterjees and us.

As the gathering of neighbours burgeoned slowly and the wall clock ticked away, someone asked, “Shouldn’t we inform the daughter? Does anyone have her contact number or email?”.  There was a lingering silence. No one had any clue.

How strange! We all lived together for years. We were one extended family of sorts. But we didn’t have an inkling as to whom to inform that Chatterjee passed away.

Mrs. Chatterjee was gloomy; her eyes were hazy with unwept tears. Her voice seemed to have shrunk into her inner silence, perhaps lost in the memories of how they weaved their dreams in the early stages of life. The depths of the human mind are fathomless. When in grief, of an intensely personal nature, it was best to be left alone.  

“We don’t have anyone to inform. Just help me to get his cremation done”, she said in whispering mode, as if she was indeed murmuring to herself.

“What about your daughter? Let us at least call her or send a message?”, inquired my wife.  

She hesitated for a while. Then in a stony tone of frozenness blurted, “We haven’t had any contact with her for years”

I wondered, “What about the periodic visits, the stories they narrated on return from their numerous visits to her?”

“Those were just our fantasies. The fact is somewhere along the way we just lost contact with her and her husband. There hasn’t been any communication with her for years. Once relations are broken irreparably, when the realization dawns on you that leaving someone alone, to be within her comfort zone is the best that we could do for her, there is no looking back.”

Life is just a virtual reality. Hopes and memories are what drive us. Most of what seem realities are nothing but our imagination, our obsessions or our obstinacies.

That night after returning from the cremation ground and taking a hot shower bath, I went to sleep, brushing aside any philosophical thoughts and self-sermonizing on the frivolities of life.