Before We Visit the Goddess by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Authors: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
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lives. Is that why weâre fascinated by the steadfastness of stars?
The water reaches my calves. I begin the story of the Pleiades, women transformed into birds so swift and bright that no man could snare them.
Durga Sweets
1995: Ash
T he phone call about Sabitri came very early in the morning, but that was not a problem because Bipin Bihari Ghatak was up already. In fact, he had been up for some time. In recent years, after he had turned fifty-five, sleep had become a fickle mistress. And he was not the kind of man to lie in bed wishing for its return once it had abandoned him. He had finished brushing his teeth with a neem stick, chewing on its fibrous end, relishing the cleanly bitter taste it left in his mouth. Not many people used the sticks nowadays. He had to go all the way to Taltola Bazaar to get his weekâs supply, but he didnât mind. Ever since he had quit his job as manager of Durga Sweets, he didnât have much to do.
Bipin Bihari had finished his bath, too, shivering a little because, being by necessity frugal and by nature spartan, he preferred not to heat his bathwater. Besides, the ancient heater in his one-room flat was moody. When it refused to cooperate, he had to heat water in the rice pot and ferry it from stove top to bathroom. He didnât want to become dependent on such a troublesome habit.
On the small table where he both ate and worked, he had moved aside a stack of forms (intermittently, he took on auditing jobs) and set out his cup and saucer. He had measured from a monogrammed wood box a spoonful of the premium Darjeeling tea that was his one indulgence, and poured boiling water over it. But this morning the tea would go to waste, because on the other end of the line was Sabitriâs maid Rekha, calling from the village, and crying so hard that twice he had to ask her to calm down and repeat herself.
Once he grasped what had occurred, Bipin Bihari only took the time to pull a worn kurta over his undershirt and to grab, from its hiding place under his mattress, the plastic bag in which he kept his emergency money. He thrust it into his satchel, hurried down the narrow, ill-lit stairs to the street, and hailed (for the first time in years) a taxi, though he knew it was going to be dreadfully expensive because Howrah Station was at the other end of Kolkata. He leaned forward and grasped the resin seat-back and asked the driver to kindly hurry, it was a matter of life and death. The man raised an eyebrow at that, but Bipin Bihari, who was not prone to exaggeration, was merely telling the truth.
At Howrah, he bought a ticket to Porabazar, the nearest station to Sabitriâs village, ran to the platform, and managed to wrestle his way onto the crowded train as it was pulling out. He must have looked quite ill, because a young man got up from his seat, which young people never did nowadays, and said, âHere, Dadu, you had better sit down.â At any other time, being addressed as a grandfather would have stung, for Bipin Bihari took pride in keeping himself fit, walking for an hour each evening around the park near his flat. But today he lowered himself with heavy thankfulness onto the wood bench and wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of his dhoti because in his rush he had forgotten his handkerchief. His heart was beating too fast, an erratic, dismayed drumroll. How could this have happened? Only last week he had phoned Sabitri to check up on her, and she had laughed and called him a worrywart and said she was doing fine.
On the train, a vendor was selling tea and biscuits. Bipin Bihari bought a cup, along with two small packets of Parle biscuits. He made himself drink the tea, even though it tasted appalling ( what had the man used to sweeten the brew?), and eat the biscuits, which were stale and crumbly. If his blood sugar dropped, he would be of no use to Sabitri. He focused on the rhythm of the train, which was at once jerky and soothing, to keep from
The water reaches my calves. I begin the story of the Pleiades, women transformed into birds so swift and bright that no man could snare them.
Durga Sweets
1995: Ash
T he phone call about Sabitri came very early in the morning, but that was not a problem because Bipin Bihari Ghatak was up already. In fact, he had been up for some time. In recent years, after he had turned fifty-five, sleep had become a fickle mistress. And he was not the kind of man to lie in bed wishing for its return once it had abandoned him. He had finished brushing his teeth with a neem stick, chewing on its fibrous end, relishing the cleanly bitter taste it left in his mouth. Not many people used the sticks nowadays. He had to go all the way to Taltola Bazaar to get his weekâs supply, but he didnât mind. Ever since he had quit his job as manager of Durga Sweets, he didnât have much to do.
Bipin Bihari had finished his bath, too, shivering a little because, being by necessity frugal and by nature spartan, he preferred not to heat his bathwater. Besides, the ancient heater in his one-room flat was moody. When it refused to cooperate, he had to heat water in the rice pot and ferry it from stove top to bathroom. He didnât want to become dependent on such a troublesome habit.
On the small table where he both ate and worked, he had moved aside a stack of forms (intermittently, he took on auditing jobs) and set out his cup and saucer. He had measured from a monogrammed wood box a spoonful of the premium Darjeeling tea that was his one indulgence, and poured boiling water over it. But this morning the tea would go to waste, because on the other end of the line was Sabitriâs maid Rekha, calling from the village, and crying so hard that twice he had to ask her to calm down and repeat herself.
Once he grasped what had occurred, Bipin Bihari only took the time to pull a worn kurta over his undershirt and to grab, from its hiding place under his mattress, the plastic bag in which he kept his emergency money. He thrust it into his satchel, hurried down the narrow, ill-lit stairs to the street, and hailed (for the first time in years) a taxi, though he knew it was going to be dreadfully expensive because Howrah Station was at the other end of Kolkata. He leaned forward and grasped the resin seat-back and asked the driver to kindly hurry, it was a matter of life and death. The man raised an eyebrow at that, but Bipin Bihari, who was not prone to exaggeration, was merely telling the truth.
At Howrah, he bought a ticket to Porabazar, the nearest station to Sabitriâs village, ran to the platform, and managed to wrestle his way onto the crowded train as it was pulling out. He must have looked quite ill, because a young man got up from his seat, which young people never did nowadays, and said, âHere, Dadu, you had better sit down.â At any other time, being addressed as a grandfather would have stung, for Bipin Bihari took pride in keeping himself fit, walking for an hour each evening around the park near his flat. But today he lowered himself with heavy thankfulness onto the wood bench and wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of his dhoti because in his rush he had forgotten his handkerchief. His heart was beating too fast, an erratic, dismayed drumroll. How could this have happened? Only last week he had phoned Sabitri to check up on her, and she had laughed and called him a worrywart and said she was doing fine.
On the train, a vendor was selling tea and biscuits. Bipin Bihari bought a cup, along with two small packets of Parle biscuits. He made himself drink the tea, even though it tasted appalling ( what had the man used to sweeten the brew?), and eat the biscuits, which were stale and crumbly. If his blood sugar dropped, he would be of no use to Sabitri. He focused on the rhythm of the train, which was at once jerky and soothing, to keep from
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