by Shubha Bisotra
Maa was from the smallest part of the small town of Bareilly, where houses did not even have numbers. People who visited were given landmarks like ‘the lane behind the Sharma Photo Studio’ or the house opposite Nathu Halwai. I, however, grew up in Delhi. I studied in the Janakpuri Boys School and would commute every day by my bicycle, except when it was extremely hot. We couldn’t afford the fees for the school bus. Maa was very hard working – she worked as a Subordinate Staff in a local school – but we only just got by.
Maa had fallen in love with Papa when she was twenty. He was ten years her senior. After four years of marriage, she discovered he was already married and had fathered three children. Over time, she also realised that he was an alcoholic. She made peace with both the discoveries. In those days, a woman needed a man to validate her existence. Government forms had space only for the father’s name. But she could never accept that once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic; she kept giving him another chance. She still loved him; she loved me and the little world she had built around her family.
My relationship with Papa, on the other hand, was complicated. Through my childhood, he adored me and I revered him. He would take me to Appu Ghar every Sunday and treat me with an orange popsicle on our way back. He did not drink as much back then. Every once in a while he would come home dead drunk and collapse on my makeshift bed. His secret about his other marriage was busted when I was still a toddler, so he would often talk to me about his children from the other wife, who lived in Bareilly. I grew up listening to stories about Sagar bhaiya, Preeti didi and Vicky bhaiya. I asked Maa if they were my siblings, but she never replied. He really loved them, I could tell. In a way, I was jealous too because when he lived in Bareilly he was totally sober.
The beatings came much later. Maa was working double shifts. There were days Papa would not even get out of bed. It was around this time that he gave up trying to quit drinking. He accepted the truth; so did we. People at work were tired of him too, but since it was a government job they couldn’t fire him. They made him opt for Voluntary Retirement, with a pension that dwindled to half his salary. While they were relieved, we did not know what to do with him the entire day. Maa was losing her patience and would shout at him. The first time he hit her, he spent the entire night crying like a baby. But gradually he lost the shame too.
About the same time, the letters started coming. Rajesh uncle from Papa’s office handed them to me. He lived near my school and trusted me with handing them over to Papa. The other family only had the office address.
From:
Mr. Sagar Sarthi
40/9, Middle Baazar
Barilley PO
U.P.
I ran my fingers across the handwriting. Sagar ‘bhaiya’. I felt pangs of jealousy run through my entire body. The Sagar bhaiya who witnessed the heydays of our father’s life. The one Papa took to Naina Devi for his mundan ceremony. The one who saw him at his best. The one who never got to witness a man drenched in his own vomit.
Dated: 15.06.1983
Dear Daddy Ji,
How are you and your family? I just wanted to inform you that Preeti is getting married. I know it will not be possible for you to come and participate. Although I hesitated to write this letter and I am not sure if it will reach you, I do so only with the hope that everything is well at your end. Your trunk calls have stopped, so have the money orders. Which is fine, since we are managing somehow. Take care.
Sagar
Preeti didi was getting married. I would have shown it to him. Thrown it on his face and cared less. But somehow, I did not want him to be happy. To feel the joy of his daughter getting married. I would deny him the good news. He would never know. Despite who Papa had become, Maa still wanted me to love him. I saw no point in that. Around the time he retired, my school offered to take all the Science project winners to Mumbai. The tickets were covered, but the food and lodging weren’t. On finding out that he had been sending money to his first wife, I tore the letter to pieces.
Dated: 12.12.1983
Dear Daddy Ji,
We still have got no news from your end. Mummy Ji is worried about you. Hope this letter finds you in good health. Preeti is expecting a baby. She is into her third month and is doing well. Vicky got a job at the Municipal Office as a Messenger. Mummy Ji asked me to write to you and inform you of the good news. Now that Preeti is well settled I was thinking of looking for a bride for myself. Though finances are tight, I think I will manage. We still haven’t received your call. Do inform us about your health. I hope your family and little Sanju is doing well.
Sagar
Little Sanju. The words stayed with me. Did he take me to be his little brother? He always asked about the family. He must have been my age when Papa left. It must have been hard for them. Three fatherless children. Despite everything, I think I liked Sagar bhaiya. He took care of a family which my father had abandoned.
I thought I should show it to him. For the sake of Sagar. But it would only bring him joy to hear that a grandchild was on the way or that Vicky now had a job. Yet again, I wanted to deny him the happiness. He did not deserve to know. I struggled with the decision throughout the night, staring at the ceiling. The next morning, Maa had a fresh wound on her forehead. She went about preparing breakfast without looking me in the eye. I threw the letter in a gutter.
Alcohol does kill a man, but before that, it devours his dignity. Papa went through a very bad phase about two years after he left the job. He still drank out of his pension money. But his liver was giving up. He drank and drank even if it gave him pain. We tried rehabilitation, but the withdrawal symptoms were horrendous. We gave up on it after he gulped down a bottle of aftershave lotion once in desperation.
We got accustomed to the cycle. He would drink. Feel better for a day. Be good to Maa. Buy vegetables or clean the house. Then get into a fight with Maa and hit her the next day, drink again out of shame and pass out on the streets, after which I would drag him upstairs. The letters kept coming, but none reached Papa. It was cathartic. Each day I hated him more. I wanted to deny him the joy of his children prospering.
Dated: 17.09.1984
Dear Daddy Ji,
Hope you and your family are doing well. I wish we would have a chance to talk to you. Daddy Ji, I will ask you straightaway. Mummy Ji is suffering from lung cancer. We need to take her to Lucknow for treatment. We need some money. It would be really helpful if you could contribute. We all are out of money since much has already been spent at the local hospital. She is in a critical condition. You left us in the middle of nowhere while we were too young. She is a strong woman who still made ends meet. You married again but no one was ready to marry a woman with three children. Please contact us if you still want us to believe you ever loved us.
Sagar
I sat on a bench outside my house and reread the letter several times. For over a year, because of my hate for Papa, I had led his family to doubt his love for them. Sure, he loved them, and this had filled me with jealousy. I had wanted to make sure they hated him for what he had become. Even if I couldn’t tell them so, hiding those letters was my revenge. But today, I felt sad for them. And this guilt was bigger than my hate for Papa. So I made my way home, deciding to hand him the letter.
I opened the door and saw him collapsed on the carpet. There was vomit on his clothes and all around him. Mom was sitting on a chair, sobbing, her lip bleeding. I fetched an old rag and started cleaning the mess. The next day I tore up the letter on my way to school.
