Calcutta 1967, a period of revolution and poetry.
Charulata Dutta dreams to be a scholar, even if it implies going against her conservative family. Despite being the first graduate in the history of Dutta women, she soon finds herself trapped in a w...
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The attic was her own sad world. The day she returned home, dressed in white spotless saree and a huge bruise in the parting of her hair, she had woven her dreams within the dusty walls and shattered them. Outside the small quarter, her shabby white clothes hung like old curtains, shielding her from the brutal sunshine. A few upturned pots and broken furniture dotted the rough grey rooftop, and cobwebs stretched from one end of the window to the other, holding shreds of broken glass within them. No one ever ventured up, not when they were sure the oldest daughter of the house is alive. What would happen if she passed away one night? The thought intrigued Asha – it exhilarated her and depressed her in equal measure.
Even when she was married to Nilanath, things were far from perfect. Her father –in- law had pre-independence mentality, and her mother – in – law was nothing short of abusive. Nilanath himself was a mere lad, who did not dare raise his voice at anyone – not even his wife. Being on the darker side of teenage during their marriage, they were far from being lovers. Asha sought a companion in her husband, Nilanath sought a friend, someone who would care for him genuinely during his regular bouts of malarial fever. In a house teeming with multitudes of relatives, a true friend was a luxury, and Nilanath had sought that. Just before his departure to afterlife, he had thanked his weeping wife, clutched her hands in a tight grip and given her a parting kiss – the first of her life and the last of his. This, Asha deduced, had to be the best memory of their marriage. A glimpse of marital bliss just before being shrouded in white for eternity.
The pot clanked to the ground the moment she laid eyes on her sister. Charu was a beautiful woman, even though her complexion was dusky. When they were kids, someone dear to them had once mentioned Draupadi too was dark. The great queen was called Krishna due to her dusky complexion, and yet she went on to become the most powerful woman of India, and arguably to most important character of the epical saga. Somehow, Asha had always felt her sister was destined to greatness, while she was to be the epitome of obedience and adjustment – like a perfect wife. And yet, her life has concluded in widowhood: a cruel irony to her dreams of a happy household. Charu would go on to be anything she desired to, while Asha would be forever shunted away, a minor character in the epic of their lives... maybe like Madri, the second wife of King Pandu?
Someone was shaking her, asking her what was wrong with her. A male voice that sounded familiar. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from Charu, clad in red saree that enveloped her like a lover's arms. Her voluminous brown curls were fastened in a neat bun, and her face, devoid of anything to enhance her features, glowed with simplicity. Red suited her – she would look beautiful on her wedding night. Her mind couldn't help but wander to her own wedding night, when she was adorned in red and gold, with her head draped with the golden cheli and face hidden behind the heart-shaped betel leaves. When she had laid her eyes on the youthful face of her husband, she had dreamt of a bright future. His sparkling eyes and sparse beard held promises – promises of a loving family with a boisterous household filled with children. When they had decorated the face of his corpse with sandalwood, she couldn't help but reminisce his brow on their marital night – painted with sandal paste along with beads of sweat. In his corpse, sweat beads were absent.
