Those were the days when the girls in India happily got married to the “boy” their families “selected” for them; when they had to believe that their well-being was the only concern of their parents; when the parents couldn’t even imagine their vested interests being more important than their daughter’s well-being; when women were too naïve to know that there could be other reasons behind some marriages too; when they lacked any agency to do anything even if they knew about it.
In Bengal, where the story took place, girls first saw their husbands on the day of their wedding, during “Shubho-drishti” -- the auspicious glance -- the first glance that was more like a shy half- peek from behind the shiny green betel leaf. The bridal couple was supposed to fall and stay in love with each-other for this life and the next seven ones with this auspicious glance.
But Bibhubala did not like what she saw. It did not feel auspicious by any means. She certainly did not fall in love with the red, suspicious eyes and the thin, mean lips smirking under the giant white “topor” -- the fool’s cap, she thought irreverently, which is what, unfortunately, the groom’s headgear, the “topor” resembles. If she could have her way Bibhubala had absolutely no desire to be with Ranjan Choudhury her whole life, much less, her next seven lives.
How she had wished that the person behind the betel-leaf could have been Biren da or someone a little like Biren da. As she went on mechanically following the priest’s directions her mind flitted back to the many skirmishes in the neighborhood orchards as children. When they’d vie for the larger haul but when they sat under the banyan dividing their loot of the day -- bananas, coconuts or raw mangoes -- she would always find that she had been given more than her fair share. When they were older, Ma had asked Biren da to teach her Math. He would come every one of those long, sultry afternoons and painstakingly explain arithmetic and she’d be more interested in the pair of parrots on her window-sill…
She stole a look at Biren da. Of course, he was there, how could he not be at his sakhi’s wedding? His crisp dhuti-panjabi could not hide the pain in his eyes even as he smiled brightly at the guests and tried to be everywhere at the same time. Here, he was smilingly pressing the deliciously chilled mishti doi on one; there he was arranging a rajanigandha bouquet just so; and there he was, his laughter ricocheting off the walls as he chatted with Rupa, Abhi, Gagan, and their entire gang. No one could tell that his heart was breaking as he looked at his own Bibhu...sitting beside her new “swami” …
Was it only a few months ago when they had been heatedly arguing about the word?
“But Biren da, how horribly it reeks of patriarchy!” she was glaring at him “how is the husband a ugh… “master”?”
“Pagli..it is just a word!” he had smiled unruffled.
“But someone must have coined that term, na?” she had continued frowning “must have been a stuck-up man!”
The mournful shanai broke into her reverie and she glanced again at her soon-to-be “swami” -- and her heart sank to her aalta-lined feet.
If only….
But that long ago even the thought of either of them voicing their affection for each other was blasphemous, unthinkable in their “elite,” respectable Bengali ‘bhadralok’ households. So, there she was -- stuck for this life at the least.
*
Six months later, she had no reason to change her initial opinion.
Bibhu tried hard to stay ‘positive’ as her mother had advised but failed repeatedly. After all, her mother too had made a life, a kind of life, with her autocratic father. And she, as she was fond of repeating with sighs, had made all sorts of “compromises.”
For Bibhu bearing that man around was compromise enough.
And how could she live with people criticizing her all the time? Her husband found fault with each and everything she cooked, the way she dressed, the way she did her hair. He thought her chatting and laughing with the “lowly” house-helps “just showed”. Showed what? “Just where you come from!” he’d say with disdain.
And once, with a streak of the rebellious Bibhu returning, she had ventured to ask, “Why did you accept me then?”
Yes, boys, unlike girls, even way back then, could say no to a prospective match. How she wished she had been given that right.
“Refuse? And then?” he raised his eyebrows “ask your father to return that huge loan of a hundred rupees?”
He looked at her as insolently as possible and added with a derisive snort, “maybe I shouldn’t have been so considerate, a whole hundred rupees down the drain…I could have got two milch-cows for that…”.
Before you sneeze at the amount, which is way less than what you blow on a cappuccino, do remember we’re talking about early 1900s where this was more than an ordinary family’s monthly income.
So, that’s what this wedding was. Bibhubala had been a loan pay-off.
*
Then Rashmoni arrived – swaying seductively in her jamdani and benarasi saris, her full-lips betel-stained and kohl-lined eyes shining triumphantly -- the mistress, the ultimate humiliation for any wife.
And that very day Bibhubala retired to the attic with year-old Khoka.
And there she lived the rest of her life.
She was still addressed as Bouma- The Lady of the House, and Rashmoni became didibhai… By law and this title Bibhubala still ruled.
In reality her world shrunk to the little attic and bringing up Khoka.
*
“Shri Ranjan Choudhury and Family” said the deep red, curly legend on the off-white wedding-card. One of the very few cards that had been distributed. The Choudhurys were invited to the most important wedding in their village. All the important families from the neighboring villages were coming, even Lord Brighton from the next city was to attend the festivities. For Ranjan Choudhury it was the chance to impress everyone and maybe wrangle a good business opportunity.
“Wear all your jewelry to the wedding” Bibhubala was instructed even as Rashmoni sulked in her flower-bedecked boudoir. Even a Ranjan Chowdhury couldn’t flout societal norms enough to be seen at such an important gathering with his mistress instead of his lawfully wedded wife
Lawfully wedded wives did have some advantages over mere mistresses.
Bibhubala hid a smile.
This will be her night.
That night she dressed carefully and covered herself with the fine “pashmina” shawl in a rich fawn with exquisite embroidery in red and gold. It was large enough to almost entirely cover her tiny frame from her head to her toes. Ranjan nodded approvingly at the demurely draped wife as he helped her down their two-horse carriage.
In the wedding-hall, with all eyes upon them, as the Choudhury couple stood up to bless the new couple, Bibhubala suddenly shook off the shawl.
Ranjan gaped, everyone else gasped.
Bibhubala stood resplendent, glowing like a goddess in pristine white -- the color of widowhood. Shorn off a single piece of ornament on her -- neither the mangalsutra around her neck, nor the pola, the shaakha or the heirloom bangles adorning her slim wrists or the crucial crimson sindoor in the parting of her hair -- she was without a single, required mark of matrimony. Thumbing nose at her “swami” dressed as his widow, during his lifetime.
The first feminist stared defiantly at the man she would no long acknowledge as her husband.
And that is how I remember Buri Thamma -- always regal, always in pristine white.
