House of Quiet
Photo: Karan Madhok
Fiction: ‘Prosenjit forgets to react. What would he do now? How should he talk her through this? Is this what happens once you forget about being a father?’
Prosenjit stirs to the sound of Mrinalani’s footsteps, sweeping across the corridor. Her presence looms over him. She is a totem left behind by his late wife.
Mrinalani stays up late, working on her desk for a firm that operates on the other side of the world. She sleeps through entire mornings, makes lunch, but never cleans. In a way, she incorporates the house into her own chaos, churning her life into an epicentre of disorder. She has, it appears, overstayed her welcome, transforming herself into an inheritance Prosenjit did not wish to keep. Prosenjit was already tired of neighbours angling for gossip—like Mrs Borah from the apartment above theirs, who had asked the uncomfortable question last week of how long Mrinalani planned to stay with him.
“It is 4.00 in the morning, Mri,” Prosenjit shouts from the couch, still half asleep. “Get some sleep.” He squints at the clock on the wall, and, unwillingly, rouses himself. He strains his eyes over the centre table, groping for his specs, before he puts them on. Mrinalani appears at the entrance of the living room. “There was a meeting,” she says.
Prosenjit drags himself to the sink, brushes his teeth, drinks a glass of water from the pitcher on the dining table, and leaves for his morning walk. Unlike other days after her father leaves for his walk, Mrinalani doesn’t go to bed. Instead, she vacuums the couch her father sleeps in, and swaps the cushion covers for a washed, ironed set.
When Mrinalani enters Raman’s room, the overpowering smell of cigarette bites her nostrils. She coughs, walks up to the window, and pulls the curtains. Raman groans and twists, swearing under his breath. He covers his eyes with a pillow and is soon asleep again. She looks around the space, the mess evidence of how unhappy he was staying home. She picks his shirts, smells them, separating them into two bundles. She throws the fusty shirts on the floor to be washed later and neatly folds the rest. She waters the wilting pothos on his study table.
Mrinalani knows that her brother’s life in this house is as precarious as her own. While his classmates are taking exams, Raman is languishing here as the consequence of a mindless action. He was involved in a fight which resulted in the university terminating his scholarship mid-semester. Prosenjit refused to admit him into a new institution, clearly reiterating that the onus of funding his studies would be on him alone.
When Prosenjit returns from his morning walk, Mrinalani has been awake for more than fourteen hours. Sweltering in his tracksuit, Prosenjit swears by the Guwahati weather. In his willingness to care after himself, Mrinalani finds signs of redemption in her father. He no longer stays fixated on balance sheets. He walks, he cooks, he cleans, he spruces himself up. Is this is what loneliness does to a man? She remembers how when they were children: he disliked entering the kitchen, even when their mother was menstruating, and chose to stay out herself. Often on such days, he would send them to school without breakfast.
“The weather is unbelievable,” Prosenjit complains, throwing the newspaper he has bought on the centre table. “It is hardly six… and look at this heat.”
“So, it seems. I will make you some tea,” Mrinalani replies, and leaves quickly without waiting for his refusal.
Prosenjit changes into his pyjamas, tossing his tracksuit into the washer. He eases on the couch, cranes his neck towards the kitchen and when convinced that his daughter is still inside, opens the newspaper on its fifth page. On the local prime news which aired yesterday, a news flash displayed a snippet about trouble brewing in the Fancy Bazar area, with a police raid breaking into a homestay that allegedly doubled as a house of assignation. Before he can wait for the entire story, Mrinalani switches channels. The fifth page contains news from the city. Yes, the homestay is familiar—and he has been a frequent visitor.
“What are you reading?” Mrinalani asks, handing him a cup of tea.
“The horoscope,” he lies.
“Really? What does it say?”
“Just the usual. My stars might bring me some news.”
“Good or bad?”
In a way, she incorporates the house into her own chaos, churning her life into an epicentre of disorder. She has, it appears, overstayed her welcome, transforming herself into an inheritance Prosenjit did not wish to keep.
“How does it matter? Nothing surprises me,” he smiles again, placing the paper between them.
Mrinalani’s phone rings on the table. Prosenjit tries to pass it to her when she violently reaches out to pick up the device. She cuts the call and keeps it facedown.
“Customer care,” she clarifies. Prosenjit nods, trying to believe her explanation. On the desk, the phone rings again. This time, she does not bother disconnecting it at all.
It is noon when Raman wakes. He joins them directly for lunch. To announce his presence, he recklessly frisks through Prosenjit’s wardrobe, wears one of his T Shirts and smears it with a ball of snot. There are days when he would blast the speakers before being shouted at by his father. Raman’s rebellions are often short lived. He grows weary of his own revolutions and tries to undo the damage by sitting quietly at lunch. This means he doesn’t offer complaints, but neither does he offer compliments.
Prosenjit worries about Raman’s reluctance to find work to fund his education. After all, the receding image of Prosenjit’s own youth was one of exuberance, where he worked hard at the one job that he was finally able to keep. He dislikes the flippancy which his son shows for everything he has strictly abided by.
At lunch, Mrinalani’s phone rings again. She eats without paying any attention to the screeching ringtone. Prosenjit fidgets on his seat, curious to understand his daughter’s indifference. But he is aware of the thin lines between them, lines he has watered and nourished without cure. Any prying will be met with silence. He knows he has no right to interfere, to solicit justifications either for her elongated stay which only seems to solidify itself with each passing week, or her reluctance to pick up the phone.
But he has also grown restless. Mrinalani’s existence in the house is a chancy predicament. As she is, her presence restricts his movements. Prosenjit is forced to act carefully, treading on perilous ice lest his actions would be set against him when she needs reasons to affront him. He no longer wishes to return home to a litany of questions.
*
Prosenjit has developed a habit of spending the after-lunch hours reading. In the initial days after his retirement—when both Mrinalani and Raman were living away and Mala’s illness had rendered her immobile—he would bring out a couple of books from Mala’s old bookshelves and pretend to read them. Soon, however, he actually began to study the words. What had started as a distraction to fill the lacuna of office work became a fond routine. Especially after Mala’s death.
Reading was also a realization of what he could not afford while being married to her. His unemployment during the first few years of their marriage was used by Mala to justify refusing him to take charge of their fiscal needs. When she found him a job at a private bank by talking to her brother, she consolidated her position as the keeper of their family accounts, leaving little money at Prosenjit’s personal disposal, reminding him that his job was her brother’s charity. As her pyre consumed everything that had belonged to her—the furniture she brought as part of her dowry, and the clothes she bought with his money—Prosenjit refused to thrust the stacks of books on it. When the flames snaked to touch the sky, Prosenjit removed his wedding ring and flung it inside without anyone’s notice.
Mrinalani brings coffee, preparing it the way Mala did, topping the beverage with a pinch of cinnamon. She sees her father in his usual spot, relaxed on the recliner, his feet on the futon. Engrossed in his book, he barely takes notice of her. She comes and sits across from him. She hesitates passing him the cup, but does nonetheless. Prosenjit looks at the content, smells it and sets it aside.
Mrinalani sighs. This is not the first time he has shown aversion to something she prepared following her mother’s recipe. Even when Mala was alive and cooking, Mrinalani rarely found her father eating at home. There were times when she found him at inexpensive diners, eating unhealthy lunches.
With time, she learnt to make meaning out of silences.
“Here, you skipped this yesterday,” she hands him a packet of Mephentermine.
“Thanks,” he replies, closing his book. He walks up to the dining table and pours himself a glass of water.
“What are you reading?” Mrinalani asks, ogling over the cover page.
“Coetzee,” he replies, after popping the pill.
She remembers all the days when her father was absent. PTA meetings, hospital visits, parks, dinner parties, birthdays—she could narrate everything from memory. It was Mala who took charge to seamlessly organize their lives, as if she were a single parent.
“Lord, Maa would have killed you,” she jokes.
“Good thing, dead people can’t.” He smiles.
Mrinalani does not understand his need to slander her mother, even as a joke. How often did she find them quarrel? Certainly more than she could keep track of. Not only was he an insensitive husband, but also an avoidant parent. As neat as a pin, she remembers all the days when her father was absent. PTA meetings, hospital visits, parks, dinner parties, birthdays—she could narrate everything from memory. It was Mala who took charge to seamlessly organize their lives, as if she were a single parent.
The phone rings in her pocket, startling Mrinalani. She looks at the display and her face contort. Again, she disconnects the call.
Prosenjit gives her a suspicious look.
“It’s Kevin,” she admits.
“Why are you not picking up his call?”
“I don’t want to,” she shrugs.
“I see.”
Mrinalini believes that no crisis could ever coax Prosenjit into participating in his children’s lives. Her father was a hollow spaceship, jettisoned in outer space without gravity. She understands that he felt most comfortable with distance, removing himself from them, as if they were a disease that wasted his youth.
Mala’s illness had already started infecting her insides when Mrinalini met Kevin. On Mala’s insistence, the wedding was hastened. Prosenjit never showed his true emotions about the union and acquiesced to give her away, because Mala thought it was a perfect match—unlike her own. Kevin had an inheritance that did not require him to work another day of his life, and that was all that mattered to her.
“What is going on with him, Mri?”
Prosenjit surprises himself when he suddenly calls out to her.
Mrinalani looks up, astonished at her father’s concern. “He is with another woman,” she says, turning away her gaze.
The news does not alarm Prosenjit. He lets out a sigh, and nods slowly.
“That is not the bad news, deuta,” Mrinalini says, then smiles. “I am pregnant. He wants this child,” she drinks from her mug.
“I am so sorry.”
“Please, don’t be. I saw it coming.”
Saw it coming? A certain guess, sure, but it makes little sense to him. How can anyone know what is imminent? How can one foretell when someone decides to tarnish their heart and drain it of all the love? Prosenjit never did. He cannot still. His son flunked classes, got into fights, but he never saw that coming. Mala’s cancer became incurable, how long did it take him to see her end coming? And when her breathing became laboured yet remained diabolical through the end, could he foresee that her malice would be the last to leave her body? With the barrage of confessions, Mrinalani triggers the memory of a familiar attitude, of Mala’s ability to stay collected without changing feelings, regardless of adversities. Prosenjit is convinced that Mala has somehow managed to live on, becoming a shadow that thrives in Mrinalani’s anatomy every day.
Prosenjit forgets to react. What would he do now? How should he talk her through this? Is this what happens once you forget about being a father? He has believed--foolishly—that getting to know his family did not entail any actual involvement in their lives. He has taught himself to forget that his children needed him, making sure that their desperation morphed into distant echoes which could never reach him.
Prosenjit had felt nothing when Mrinalani was born. This was the first time he became aware of his insincerity. He was tired after unloading cargo the entire day and could not stand her wails that reverberated like war cries. He tried to be happy with her birth. He even spent the day’s earnings on her medicines, despite the uncertainty of finding work the next day. The financial concerns rendered him pitiable, and Mala’s condescension exhausted his desire to father his own child.
When Mala died, Prosenjit refused to light the pyre. After all, how could she seek heaven when all her life was spent in making a pandemonium for him? How could he give her the respite of purgation when she barely allowed him to spend his own salary, leaving just enough for him to seek comfort in cheap alcohol and sex? Sure, he has suffered too, but his suffering did not make him empathetic.
Now, Mrinalini’s tribulations were a loud, resounding slap. The rage he has never outgrown manifested at times like this when he became silent, unable to assuage his daughter’s misery.
“I am planning on taking up the teaching job again and will look for accommodation in Shillong,” Mrinalani finally breaks the silence growing dense around them. “I will leave. I just need some time to think things through.”
Prosenjit walks to the door, hesitates, looks back. He wants to say something but takes too long. The moment passes. Instead, he nods and leaves.
*
The day has been one of endless disappointments. Prosenjit is about to turn his car towards the flyover that leads straight into Fancy Bazar when he remembers the news from yesterday. The only alternative to that place was the slum, nestled in the outskirts of the city, facing Meghalaya. He has not been to this place in twenty years. The last time he was here, Mala had shaved his head when he was asleep, because he had asked her money for a proper haircut. Unable to look at his own reflection in the mirror, he had gone out, gotten drunk on borrowed money he had saved for this very purpose, and spent the entire night in the arms of a woman who never charged him.
Prosenjit winces at the memory.
At first glance, the lane does not appear clearly for someone unused to walking through clandestine passages, the type that allow people to dart away stealthily when police show up unannounced. The road is peppered with uneven stones, where Prosenjit squeezes narrowly between two rickety butcheries that have seen more visitors than buyers. It’s impossible for two people to cross without rubbing their bodies against each other.
As Prosenjit enters, a man coming from the opposite direction collides with him. Too young to be there, the man smells of nicotine and attar. The former, a burden and the latter, a keepsake. Prosenjit takes a sidelong glance at him. The boy must be of Raman’s age, when he was first caught smoking inside the college premises. Did his son ever come here too? He wonders.
The lane opens into a yard that houses several tents. Prosenjit looks around, a little uncomfortable to be there.
“Three thousand for an hour. No less,” a man comes ahead, offering his bid. Prosenjit complies without argument. The man takes him through a dark alley across the yard. He takes the money and leaves Prosenjit in front of a wooden door, latched from inside.
The saree slips off her shoulder, exposing a portion of her chest. Her makeup is clammy, untidy. Something about her lack of presentability tells him that she is inexperienced. He steps inside, closing the door behind him.
Prosenjit knocks. A girl in a netted silver saree opens the door. The saree slips off her shoulder, exposing a portion of her chest. Her makeup is clammy, untidy. Something about her lack of presentability tells him that she is inexperienced. He steps inside, closing the door behind him.
A creaking wooden bed has been pushed against one of the walls. Prosenjit sits at the edge of the bed, straight as a rod, anxious with his carnality.
The girl immediately sets about undressing herself, untucking the pleats of her saree, when Prosenjit stops her. He places his palm on her waist and drags her to his lap. The unease arising from his libido vanishes fleetingly as he grabs her nape, pulls her close and kisses fervidly on her lips. He slides his hand toward her chest but hesitates. Instead, he manoeuvres it toward her thighs. As his parched tongue finds its way to her bosom, he stops. The strong fragrance of mogra is too familiar for a finagled expedition. Mala used to wear it on her body after bath.
Disgusted, he orders her to move. Once away from his embrace, the girl looks conquerable. His former unease returns, tormenting him with another alien sadness.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks. The girl looks at him cluelessly.
He rises from his seat. “Do you want to run away from here?” he asks again. She doesn't reply. He knows these are hollow questions. Any answer would be silly. Any answer would allow him to imagine that he could be a generous redeemer who has not exploited a teenager after all, a morally-sagacious decision, easier to bear and justify his guilt.
Prosenjit fumbles with his wallet, takes out a few hundred-rupee notes, hands them to the girl, and storms out of the room. The pimp standing sentry at the other end of the corridor passes him a smarmed look.
“Hoi gol? Finished, already?” he smirks. Prosenjit scurries away.
*
He reaches home around midnight, drunk. Opening the door, Mrinalani smells the waft of alcohol reeling from her father.
“Where have you been?” she demands. His eyes are red. She wonders if he has been crying.
“Don’t mind me,” he walks past her, sits on the couch, and presses on his temples.
“You are 63, deuta. You cannot just go about drinking like this,” she hollers. “What is this? Vengeance? You want people to call us irresponsible? Die drunk on a road so that they can accuse us of ignorance?”
Prosenjit breaks down. He whimpers first, then cries aloud, cowering.
“Please,” he pleads, “Please don’t,” he slips to the ground, weeping.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, crouching on the floor behind him. She extends her hand and shakes his shoulder. Her eyebrows furrow. She gulps her own saliva.
She yanks the tablecloth from the dining table and covers her father. The quiet of the house rearranges itself to ask if anything has altered. For minutes, they stand glued to their spots, as if saying anything might split open the ground with new confoundments.
“Please don’t hit me. Please, please,” he keeps weeping.
Hearing the noise, Raman saunters into the living room. He exchanges glances with his sister, unable to comprehend Prosenjit’s condition. Raman pours water in a glass and hands it to her, nudging her to make Prosenjit drink it.
Prosenjit looks at the glass and the water turns red in his mind. He hurls the glass away, pouring it all on Mrinalani.
“For God’s sake, deuta. What the hell!” Mrinalani shouts at him. “I wish Maa was still alive.” she says through clenched teeth. “She would know how to deal with you.”
Now, Prosenjit laughs, nearly choking on his breath.
“That woman,” he begins. “That bitch. You kids loved her, didn’t you? What do you even know about her? Come on, tell me. I know she was a wonderful mother. What more do you know? Huh?” Pushing his weight against the couch, he stands up and without a moment’s reluctance, begins disrobing himself. Raman rushes over, trying to stop him from unbuckling his belt. Prosenjit pushes him aside. He pulls down his pants and removes his vest. “Look” he yells, facing them.
By exposing himself, Prosenjit ascertains Mrinalani’s lifelong conjectures. She is aware of the stitch marks over his abdomen that faded with time. She knows of the random traces of burnt skin, almost the size of saucer, that cover most of his chest and thighs suddenly remind her of the time when she found cigarette butts in her mother’s dustbin, which Mala kept aside for discarding used sanitary pads. Perhaps, Prosenjit does not remember that Mrinalani has seen his wounds before. Today, these wounds have found a disturbing association. Today, Mrinalani’s silent inquisitions have found a difficult, unbearable conciliation.
What is easier for Mrinalani to accept is almost revolting for Raman. There is no way their mother could have done this, he thinks. And why, why did Prosenjit never say a word? Why did he not leave her?
“I don’t believe him,” Raman says.
“I know,” says Prosenjit. “You don’t have to believe.”
Raman mopes his face, biting the insides of his cheeks. Mrinalani stands up from the ground. She yanks the tablecloth from the dining table and covers her father. The quiet of the house rearranges itself to ask if anything has altered. For minutes, they stand glued to their spots, as if saying anything might split open the ground with new confoundments.
“There is dinner in the fridge. I will heat it up,” Mrinalani offers, breaking the silence.
Raman holds Prosenjit by the arms and takes him into the bathroom where he washes his father’s face. He helps Prosenjit into the pyjamas and brings him to the dining table.
Mrinalani has cooked pork with sesame after years of struggling with the recipe. She sits next to him as he eats.
“You haven’t eaten yet?” Prosenjit asks, still wearied.
“No. I was waiting for you,” she gives him a pale smile.
As she serves him, Prosenjit looks at his plate. His eyes well up. He cannot recall the last time he had eaten this. As a child, it was a staple in the house he grew up. After marrying Mala, he gave up everything that reminded him of home, including his favourite foods. He turns to look at his children: the living, broken testimony of Mala and his afflictions. They have, Prosenjit realizes, never been Mala’s custodians, but ruins of his carelessness.
“Stay,” he says, looking Mrinalani right in the eyes, “This is your house too. Don’t leave.” For brief a moment, the walls dissolve between them.
***
Anannya Nath is an Assistant Professor of English based in Biswanath, Assam. Her short stories, poems and translations have appeared in Muse India, Monograph, Rhodora, Gulmohur Quarterly, etc. She was longlisted for the Mozhi Prize, 2023 for translating Lakshminath Bezbaroah's Assamese short story, "Madhoimaloti" into English. She can be reached at nathanannya@gmail.com. You can find her on Instagram: @_anannya.said.what_.
