Silence of my Mother

I have grown up witnessing the brilliance of a woman who spoke very little, but had an unfathomable talent, which very few could grasp. My mother used to submerge herself in reading- anything that came her way, Bengali or English, Trash or Classic. Very rarely did she express her thoughts. Women of her time were told to marry, bring up children and keep the husband happy, and of course, they still are. She had avid faith in Ramkrishna genre of religion, but utter disdain for rituals. She spoke of Christianity and Islam, Jainism and Buddhism with equal elan and fondness. My father used to howl, seeing me with books which my mother devoured. My mother had a very calm retort- “books can only make a man better! There is no age barrier when it comes to books. Why don’t you spend more time reading!!”

Manashi Chakrabarti, my mother was born to an elite Brahmin family. Her father was a brilliant individual who was not only a pathologist, who made many path-breaking discoveries in his field, but also a devout reader of Sanskrit, Bengali and English literature. His library occupied an entire room. Hovering through his treasure of books is one of the fondest memories of my childhood. My mother was brilliant with numbers. She inherited this gift from my grandfather. The conservatism of the patriarchal family denied college education to my mother. But my grandfather home tutored her and she graduated as a private candidate. I had seen a hand written English to Bengali dictionary in the small trunk my mother possessed. I was amazed at the effort it must have taken to create something like that. My mother had later told me that my grandfather had written this for her, when she was only 10 years old- so that she can read the vast treasure of English literature that he had piled up. Dr Ganendra Chakrabarti had left no stone unturned to give her first born daughter a glimpse of the entire world within the four walls of the conservative household.

My mother was married off in her early twenties to a family equally high on education and culture. My grandfather, had left the erstwhile East Bengal (now Bangladesh), with little savings, as the villages and cities were burning with religious hatred, just to fulfill the personal ambitions of Nehru and Jinnah. Being a reputed doctor in the town, he was not harmed physically, but he had lost his life’s savings and most importantly-his faith. He was an active member of Indian National Congress. He was jailed numerous times for the anti-British movements. Until the last day of his life, he struggled to fathom the greed of the top leaders of his own party which allowed division of their motherland along religious lines. He could not understand the hatred which had spilled onto the streets overnight. Where was it all along? Where was the hatred when he had saved those lives, who had come armed with swords and axes to throw him of his house-the only place he knew to be home.

Anyway, my paternal grandfather had allocated rooms to his four sons in the order of seniority, in his new abode. My father was third on the list. One room and one common toilet for the four families. That’s the room where my mother spent the rest of her life. Prior to her marriage she played the sitar, a difficult-to-play string instrument, which required years of dedication to master. She did not carry it along to her in-laws place. She never played it again. She had numerous song books and a sweet voice. She never sang again. As I grew up, I argued with my father to move to a place of our own which will be away from the communal living. It is not that he could not afford, but he was always concerned about my cousin sisters, who we never considered anything but our own. At the same time I could see the pain in my mother’s eyes. There was a time, when she had to even cook in that single room we lived, under unforeseen circumstances.

Her silence had grown deeper. She never expressed her sadness in words. Silence was her only expression. Seeing her suffer in silence made me angry and vocal. Despite the rants of my father against my political views in my college days, my mother indulged in the new set of books I brought home. Books by Gorky, Hardy and numerous other Russian, European and Chinese literary figures. She barely discussed her thoughts, but spoke profoundly when probed. This is something she never did with others or in public. I used to scream in exasperation- “Why did you spend your life in silence!” Her retort was a one liner. “You are there, you will say all that I could not say”. She silently supported my decision, when I was only 12 years, to not have a sacred thread ceremony or “poite” – a ritual for Brahmins. Silently, she had taught me over 12 years to denounce caste as an identity.

My mother had suddenly slipped into a coma and passed away a few hours later, in June 2005, while I was pondering if I should visit my father who was in the hospital, or wait for a few days. The pattern was recurrent and he had come out of it several times. As a doctor, and not as a son, I had told my mother, in a matter of fact way, that my father didn’t have a great chance of making it- over the phone. She must have pondered in silence, if I, their only son, who was supposed to be a brilliant clinician- did not have time for her husband- his father. She did not insist me to come. She was silent. She did not want to have a life dependent on her offspring, whose life was running on a track different to hers. Her silence was enough to say that “I would live my life far from yours”. She knew that her silence and aloofness was barely understood by people around me. I never hold grudge against people who have done me wrong or harm. I take it as their shortcoming and forgiveness comes easy. My mother is my only religion and my only God. My forgiveness doesn’t extend to those who failed to appreciate her silence and aloofness. Her sainthood lies in the way she absorbed everything and never gave vent to any ill against others. Her silence at different times has been more poignant than any word ever spoken.

It remains inexplicable in many ways as to why I returned to India, when I had no family left to take care of. This decision caused a lot of hardship to my children, who were flourishing in the UK at that time, both in academics and in sports. It was felt that fierce pride in my national identity prevented me from taking up citizenship of another country. This has heavily disadvantaged my children in their choice of education and jobs. Yet, for me, my motherland is where my mother was born, lived and stayed. I don’t have the courage to visit our old house, the room where she spent all her life, emotionally shackled and silenced. A feeling barely understood or appreciated. My mother passed away in her sleep, whilst her only son could not assure her of her future, a son in whom she had invested all her silence. Little did she realise that her son would suffer in silence too.

Perhaps, not everything was in vain. I have tried to silently support many women, who thought that their lives would pass in silent suffering, oblivious to their own talents. Some had garnered the courage to stand up against all odds and flourish. They were not supported by their own family, discouraged, emotionally tortured and made to feel small, for considering their own talents and careers over the conventional pathway of “taking care of their children and husband”. The pain they had to go through made me wonder if any man, who survive in the privilege of gender superiority, be able to garner such courage. For women to come forward and assert themselves, away from the ritualistic bindings of the shackled society, can never be appreciated by men. I draw solace from the fact that I had the privilege of knowing such women, who, through their acts and not words, have beaten the odds. They tend to be the beacon of light for a million others. Much of which was taught to me, by the silence of my mother.