Indrani Dutta's "Suryamukhi's Aeroplane"

Suryamukhi’s Airplane

Indrani Dutta

Translated from Bengali by Rituparna Mukherjee

Suryamukhi looks like an air hostess again after a long time. Her long proud neck, her elbow-sleeved blouse, a slight tension in her jaws- as if the plane was due to take off in just a few minutes. And she needs to shut those overhead compartments, complete the safety briefing and all other mandates keeping that polite smile intact on her face. The handbag at her feet, a blue kerchief in her hand- I saw her wipe her forehead gently a while ago. Actually, we are at an oncologists’ chamber in a hospital in Kolkata. I was staring at Suryamukhi, my mother-in-law, seated right beside me. The doctor rambled on, jotting things down every so often in his notepad. He was probably phrasing the same thing in different ways- my ears just caught to random bits and phrases— palliative, miracle, God. My mind darted off to old memories. Suryamukhi wasn’t listening either, her eyes gave it away—they reflected the sprightly fireworks of a wedding ceremony.  

Suryamukhi had been married to a family in the suburbs, far from Kolkata. Twenty-five years ago, I too was standing at the door of the very same house waiting to be welcomed in.  And it had been a while in that ritualistic wait— clutching a live fish in my hand, the thermocol wedding tiara on my head, the parting smeared in bright red vermillion, a touchstone plate with alta and milk at my feet.  Everyone was a stranger, each of them eager, curious. Mosquitoes had begun pooling over our heads. Bamboo poles, ropes and rolls of pandal fabrics lay in the field next to the house and Suryamukhi was missing from the scene along with the barandala she needed to welcome us in. Since she was my mother-in-law, it was her customary duty to bring the newly wed son and daughter-in-law in to the house. I saw my new family members looking restlessly at their watches, heard my father-in-law’s displeased voice calling out to her- almost everyone seemed unhappily taken aback at the situation. A few considered whether to get my bed-ridden aunt-in-law to finish the ritual. My husband was about to let go of his wedding ornaments—his topor and the brass darpan--to go look for his mother. And amidst this din, there she was.

Suryamukhi was crossing the field in her slippers, her heavy silk saree crushed, hair unkempt, slippers on her feet, she held the barandala aloft in both her hands. Her gait resembled that of an airhostess stepping in slow-motion, moist grass and soil stuck to the under-sole of her slippers that spoiled the carpeted floor of the airplane. But she remained completely unaffected, as if she knew that the grass and mud would fall off once it dried, just as we fade away from life suddenly after years of pain and hardship.  

She soon crossed the field, circumvented the touchstone plate of milk and alta, and stood right in front of me with the barandala- “Had to go up to the banks of the river for good durba grass, what a strong gust of wind—!”. She was slightly out of breath while talking and in that small instant, we looked at each other. Dried leaves, strands of hay clung to Suryamukhi’s graying locks, a small caterpillar on her shoulder crawled to her neck, and the wedding lights glinted off her irises... In my mind I could see her at the bank of the river, while a large airplane taxied nearby. There, she was coming out of the craft, durba grass in her hand, descending the stairs in slow, certain steps. The strong gusts of wind from the propeller blew the dried leaves, caterpillars and ants in the surrounding trees all over Suryamukhi’s head and shoulders. And this image of her shifted fast in the blink of eye—transforming the airhostess into a mother-in-law standing in front of me all decked up in ceremonial silks. Looking at the light in her eyes, I slowly called out to my mother-in-law in my mind- “Oh you, sorceress !”

About sorcery, I have my own spells too. Before marriage, I had my boyfriend Anindya transformed by magic. One spell cast as a child had calmed my ill-tempered aunt. I have stories, many actually. But I didn’t want to think about them now, stepping into the milk and alta, to the new life… After the ceremony was over, my mother-in-law grabbed my hand- “Come inside, sorry I kept you waiting”, she said just like airhostesses do when the flight is delayed. I saw the uncomfortable faces of people around; some scanned Suryamukhi’s face one minute and my face in the next, as if in an attempt to read my mind- what did I, the new bride, think of her mother-in-law. A neighborhood sister felt it necessary at that moment to tell me stories about Suryamukhi’s habit of speaking English.

That also was a story of another wedding- Suryamukhi’s own reception, the wedding hall beaming and abuzz with people. Among the invitees, was a sahib friend of my father-in-law. He had placed the gift in the new bride’s hand and said- “Oh my God, you are so beautiful, so gorgeous, you look like a queen!” Suryamukhi hadn’t said a word, and when with a lowered neck she had smiled shyly, the sahib had said, “Can you speak English? Heard you were a graduate.” Suryamukhi had mumbled “I, I, I…” three times and fallen quiet. That first night of the couple's togetherness, my father-in-law had reprimanded his new wife so vehemently that the group of eavesdroppers had run away embarrassed. It was heard that my father-in-law had even gone to the lengths of saying Suryamukhi’s father had conned him. Apparently, she had started speaking English fluently from the day after. “Imagine how insulted she must have felt to change so drastically. The girl who barely spoke a word started spouting English like a memsahib overnight.” Although the lady underlined the insult part of the story, I felt it was simply an act of magic.

The town didn’t have a character of its own- it ran on as if a borrowed summer, a loaned winter. Strange drafts of wind would blow suddenly and surprisingly in the direction of the house and Suryamukhi would disappear. And on certain windy days it seemed to me as if her plane had landed on the river bank. It was time for Suryamukhi to turn air hostess in her prim uniform, make up and polished boots. The plane would take off from the spot where the river meandered in another direction. She would fly from the countryside, travelled from this country to another, and when the plane returned, with it came my mother-in-law in her worn slippers, disheveled as usual. She brought along myriad winds from near and far. I had always wanted to follow her and see the airplane with my own eyes, but never could. Actually, only Suryamukhi knew the winds. Sometimes in the afternoons, when I went to hang the clothes to dry, I could feel those winds but by then Suryamukhi’s aircraft would be gone, sailing through the clouds.

For me, there was nothing to see, nowhere to follow.  I would await her return. She came back late in the evening.- hair all ruffled and full of hay and twigs, dead butterflies and darners stuck to the end of her saree, a few tufts of durba grass in her hand at times, sometimes mango leaves and her eyes always brimful of light. Sometimes, she would put the durba on my head and murmur in English- ‘please, please’. It felt as if she prayed for that wind of peace and calm to blow over her family and pleaded for me not to stand in the way.

Perhaps I was guilty of that—hijacking all the peace and calm of her family. Within two months of marriage I started ‘Nataraj’  dance classes. I was the teacher. Starting off with only four or five students, the class soon had ten, fifteen, twenty. Rehearsals, shows and performance tours got me all occupied. I even rented a small shop in the market that had dance costumes and jewelry for sale. My work increased, I ran  errands, sourcing things from Kolkata, taking orders as well. I earned my own money, was able to contribute to the family as well, overall it felt really good. The only person who couldn’t put up with the sound of the anklets was my father-in-law. There would be altercations every day- “Stop this nonsense. Stop it immediately.”

But why would I ? I tried to explain, had arguments that became terrible fights towards the end. My father-in-law threatened, said unpalatable things in rage. But no one spoke for me, none stood for my defence- neither the husband nor mother-in-law, as if their mouths got bolted somehow. I calmed myself down, uttered the spell in my head. My father-in-law had sat down to eat, my mother-in-law had gone to the kitchen to bring a bowl of fish. In front of my father-in-law on a brass plate was served a bowl of rice, red spinach, thick moong dal, lime and a pinch of salt. He had just taken a glass of water and kept it beside his brass plate when he fell unconscious with his hand on his chest. What an afternoon it had been! My husband left on his bicycle to summon the doctor, meanwhile the hospital had been informed of the situation, the ambulance was due to arrive any minute. Father-in-law’s face turned blue and twisted. A sliver of sunlight fell on the shoulder, on his white vest. Ants roamed around the glass of water. Suryamukhi sat beside her husband, stroked his forehead and chest, and ran to the terrace. She came to me repeatedly and said- “Help me, oh help me please!” When my father-in-law stopped breathing, we heard the ambulance’s hooter in our lane. I ran to the terrace and saw Suryamukhi, her arms outstretched, in the heat, her face to the sky. I couldn’t spot any airplane in the sky, only crows and kites. I quietly got down the stairs without announcing my presence.

The suburbs were changing rapidly meanwhile - El Nino or something, the newspapers said. The river ran dry, the winds hadn’t blown in so long. Suryamukhi was always at home- either on the terrace or in the garden. My husband changed suddenly as well. After the births of Bablu and Tablu, he began to press me to shut down ‘Nataraj’ altogether. I was planning something bigger then- for that I needed training, more people and of course, more money. I wanted to do a course in Kolkata but he didn’t agree to it. Who would look after the children? No matter how much I tried to reason that he was there, and so was my mother-in-law, my logic would fall to deaf ears. Everything was apparently a part of my evil plan, I had spent too much time outside home, that certificates and courses were just an excuse for me to have affairs with other men.

I had to resort to magic- I used the same spell I had used to turn Anindya to a fistful of ashes. I cast the spell after a fight one day- just three words. My husband vanished the next day. There was no trace of him despite all efforts of the police. Suryamukhi grabbed my hand again and said- “Help me, please help me.” A new tomcat came the next day, wailing inside the kitchen all the time. I gave it a bowl of milk. Suryamukhi looked at my eyes for long. Then she said, “Thank you. I will feed him every day, alright? Please, please let him stay. Alright? Let him stay.”

The tomcat stayed. Nataraj’s fame spread farther, my work was praised everywhere. I had television and newspaper interviews- was hailed as a self-employed woman. The floors in the house were marble now, there were geysers in the bathroom, and my sons went to college.

El Nino’s influence was increasing significantly. The magic of the winds had completely vanished from the suburbs. The vacant fields housed high-rises, shopping centers. Blue Whale, Facebook and Whatsapp flew over from the cities. ‘Nataraj’ started offering classes for fusion dance. It was at this time that Suryamukhi was diagnosed with cancer and I had to run with her to doctors and hospitals, after all, she had no one but me. Suryamukhi and I were learning new words everyday- prognosis, metastasis, immunotherapy. We had been staying in a rented house in Kolkata for a month- the oncologist, tests, chemo were the primary reason. Everything was happening very fast. Just as large bedcovers, duvet covers, sarees, fluffed up in the sun and air only to reduce to a small pile on being ironed and folded, I experienced a capsule of my life’s happiness and grief in those five minutes sitting at the doctor’s office.

Suryamukhi looked agitated on stepping out from the hospital- she kept looking at the sky. It was stifling hot and humid in Kolkata, the leaves of the trees lay still sans breeze. Sweat trickled down Suryamukhi’s forehead. She said- “There’s a temple nearby, shall we go? We had seen it the last day, there was an aarti at that time.”

The main road was busy with buses, cars, people; the two of us walked down the footpath- there was an old sweet shop followed by a pharmacy, the smell of varnish wafted from a furniture shop nearby, sawdust lay in heaps in front of the shop. I spotted a beautifully decorated café and asked Suryamukhi- “Would you like to have tea?” Suryamukhi walked looking at the sky, she probably nodded a ‘no’. The temple lay just beyond the crossing, flowers and garlands were being sold right in front, all of it visible from the footpath where we stood. The traffic signal was green and we would cross the road once the signal turned yellow and then red. At that instant, I felt a push on my shoulders, and heard people shout from both sides of the road- “Careful! Look out!”.

I fell onto the street suddenly, caught off-guard, and first heard the sound of breaking glass, then a sound like a bomb going off. My ribcage was being crushed into pieces. The wheels of the bus had flattened me onto the street and moved ahead- the asphalt turned a deep, dense red. Somewhere a dog cried, and then everything went quiet, utterly dark- as if night had descended at dusk. The lights returned the very next moment and along with it the busy street, the vehicles and the noisy people. Looking down from way up above, I felt airborne as a feather, or a cotton husk, or a balloon floating above the ground. I realised after some time that I had wings, an insect with red and black dots. Flitting above the heads of the police and the ambulance, I saw the crowded street, looked at Suryamukhi walking to the street with her face to the sky, her arms outstretched. The sky darkened over our heads, first merely clouded, then dark, then inky with occasional purple thunder. Dried leaves started running from one end of the street to another. Suryamukhi’s cheeks cut and bled from the sharp water drops, her eyes and mouth choked with dust. The water drops, dust, leaves and branches cut Suryamukhi’s face like whiplash, ants and caterpillars climbed her hair and shoulders, numerous termites surrounded her spreading their small wings.

It was a storm that soon morphed into a tornado. A cone that had formed of dust, water, leaves, hail, caterpillars, ants and red-spotted insects spun and entered Suryamukhi’s open mouth. She was swallowing the storm in her wide mouth. The storm made its way past her lips, teeth, tongue and uvula to her throat, I heard her feeble voice cry out- “Let’s team up. Let’s do this together, Vasilisa. We need a miracle.”

The aircraft split the sky open and was descending on the main street…