Koi

Pramila has lived long. Longer than her husband, who she thought was the genesis of her life. It wasn’t easy to handle the loss. Financially, emotionally, socially, she was exposed from all ends and life was meaningless for her. But what about her kids, you ask? Well, they were grown up, with a life of their own. The girl had a complicated relationship with her partner, too complicated in her opinion, to pull in her mother into it. She gave off hints of her boat in distress, not so subtly. The boy was abroad and distance was not just in kilometres, it was there at heart as well. A year or so Pramila hardly left her house. She was 70 and she thought who could have a renewed life now.


Life has a way of showing its purpose somehow. A school friend from ages ago bumped against her in the bazaar, one day. She looked 10 years younger than Pramila and still as sassy as she was when they had met 30 years back. Bani identified the wrinkled and mentally battered Pramila at a glance. She forced her to accompany her for a cup of tea in her house, nearby. 

Old friends can quickly get up to date about themselves, 30 years of gap closed down with 3 cups of Darjeeling’s first flush and 90 minutes by the clock.


Bani had one comment for Pramila, “Amader koi marcher pran.” Meaning, we females have the life of a carp.

Koi mach er pran? Are you aware this might be a saying used in a negative connotation, for women who outlived their husbands in the pre-independence era? Raja Ram Mohan Roy worked so much.... Bani put her hand up like she was about to surrender and cut Pramila short. You know I never read as much as you. For me this saying means just like koi mach can survive outside water, unlike any other fish; we women can adapt and live outside our comfort zones. Think about it from childhood we have been doing just that, adapting ourselves in our parent’s way of living then completely changing our way of living at our husbands’, then voluntarily jumping into motherhood to put our priorities in the back seat and the list goes on if you decide to stay with your adult children. 

I have to admit, Bani carried on in a single breath that I am a bit surprised to see you in this disorderly state. You were my hero, in life. 

Have you forgotten the Prami, before you became this domesticated self, before you became Mrs Bhanu Majumdar? I haven’t. 

Bani looked at her gold watch and sprang up like a 30 year old. For a split second Pramila wondered if this is her friend Bani or her younger ghost who had re-appeared to save her from her despair. For such tight friends you would expect their souls to visit each other in times of utter distress. 

Before Pramila could come out of her day dream, Bani had already gone in the inner sanctums of her house and returned back with an old yellowed paper. She quickly shoved it in Pramila’s handbag and made her pinky swear that she will see the object stashed inside her bag, once she is calmly settled in her house tonight. 

I can’t believe I have to leave for Siliguri by tonight of all days, added Bani. But I will be back in 10 days and then we will continue the Koi talk between us two shois (friends).

A few hours later Pramila settled in her study table after dinner and finally looked at the aged yellow paper in her bag. A 18-year old Prami smiled back at her with a twinkle in her eyes. It was the photograph taken on her 18th birthday, against her wishes. Against, because it was the photograph that was to be used for finding a suitable groom. All her friends were married and her parents were not willing to let her explore education or work outside their zamindar estate anymore. That smile on her face was for the evening’s event that she had carefully planned. It wasn’t a birthday party or a evening with friends and family. It was her celebration of adulthood and ability to take control of her life. The smile was glued through out that day on her lips because she knew she will be running away from home that day. Running away alone to join the Naxalbari uprising that was in its peak in her town of Siliguri.