“Mukundo! Is Sumi with you?”

“Ma! Why did you climb up? You could have sent for me,” Mukundo Thakur hurried to the door to lend his arms to her mother for support. Mohima suffered from arthritis and climbing the stairs to come to his room would have been quite an exertion for her.

“I thought you would be tired. You work hard, as usual.”

“Come on, Ma.”

“Is she asleep?” she asked about her granddaughter Sumedha.

“Yes. Piyali had already put her to sleep by the time I came back. Adi is asleep too, in the nursery. With all these papers to grade, I got late.”

“Bless the girl. I don’t know what would we have done but for her.”

“She has surprised me, to be honest, Ma. I didn’t think she had it in her.”

“She is devoted to Sumi and Adi like even Baishali could never have been.”

“Yes,” he concurred as he seated her on the bed.

“I… I wanted to talk to you… about something,” she toyed with the edge of the bedsheet.

“Then talk, Ma. What is the preparation and prelude for?”

“It might come as a surprise to you, but think it over, before you reply. Banerjee Babu and I discussed it at length and it sounds like the best option.”

“What?” Mukundo was wary now, but still not prepared for the bomb she dropped.

“Piyali. She is a sweet girl. And as good as a mother to the kids. You… you should marry her.”

“Ma!”

“Like I said, don’t be hasty. Think it over.”

“She is a…” he swallowed ‘baby’. Yes – that’s how he had thought of his dead wife’s much younger sister till now. But since Baishali had died in childbirth, Piyali had acted like anything, but a baby. She was suddenly a woman grown. But still…

“She is a fine girl. You are fond of each other, and know each other well. It’d be a good match, not just for children’s sake, but also…”

“Ma! I am… I don’t think I am ready for another marriage now.”

“It doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Just think it over. And don’t be so sure about not marrying. My arthritic body is hardly up for bringing up an infant and running after a four-year old. I wouldn’t even survive long enough. And aayahs are not a substitute for parents. It would be cruel to not give them a mother.”

“Does she know?”

“Not yet. We wanted you consent first. I am sure she would understand.”

“She is different, Ma. Very different from her sister. She wants a career, a life…”

“There are working mothers in the world, Mukundo. I am not saying we can’t have an aayah. Just that this two-month old daughter of yours needs a mother. And Adi too. And no other woman would be as good as their mother’s sister.”

“I don’t know, Ma.”

“Let’s talk tomorrow.”

—

“Jinke aage jee
Jinke peechhe jee”

A vivacious teenager dancing to that bollywood song was the first vivid memory Mukundo had of Piyali. Through that song’s rather pedestrian lyrics, she had threatened him with a caning should he ever hurt her sister.

“You can’t regret not having a brother, can you?” he had grinned at his bride.

“I guess not,” Baishali’s response had been lukewarm and over time he had realized that her baby sister was not to his wife’s taste. Piyali was too tomboyish and spirited for Baishali, who had domesticity written all over her.

Mukundo, however, soon developed an easy camaraderie with Piyali. Her cheeriness was by no means a sign of frivolousness. She was always up for a game of chess, or a discussion on latest political upheaval. She was rigorous about her music practice, and when Mukundo visited his in-laws or Piyali visited them, they practiced together. When she had joined university, she had decided to major in Psychology, and hence for three years she had also been his student, in the classroom as well as outside. She fought and argued with him often, and he indulged her arguments even when they were unsound. Because they weren’t so for want to intelligence, only for want to experience and wisdom that could come only with age. But she also heeded him where it really mattered, like when he pointed out her flaws and weaknesses during their music practice, or when he guided her in her studies. Mohima was right that he was fond of her. If Piyali had been closer in age to her sister and himself, their relationship might have even seemed inappropriate. But she was a baby, his little protégée. She was a student he took pride in.

For all the fondness, and for all her qualities that he had often wished to see in Baishali, he had never imagined her as his lover or his wife.

His daughter stirred in her sleep. Mukundo patted her to put her back to sleep again and then closed his eyes too. He needed some sleep.

—

He was changing Sumedha’s nappies in the morning, when Piyali walked in with the formula milk that the motherless baby survived on.

“Thanks Piyali,” he hoped he did not sound any different to her.

“You look horrible, Mukundo Babu. Like you have not slept at all. Are you sure you would be able to manage if I leave?”

It was a Saturday morning and Mukundo would be there at home with the kids over the weekend. So, she was going home. That had been their routine for last two months.

Oh the blessed ignorance, Mukundo rued. She was talking to him like nothing had changed between them.  She didn’t know of the plan his mother and her father were hatching. He wondered what her reaction would be? Disbelief? Disgust? Acquiescence?

“Don’t worry,” he had to pause to swallow the customary endearments he would have used –  ‘darling’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘kiddo’ or ‘little lady’. Some of them suddenly seemed presumptuous, and others patronizing. He settled for using her name instead. “Don’t worry, Piyali. I will handle it. You deserve the break.”

She frowned, “You sound odd.”

“Don’t be silly!” he had finished putting on fresh nappy on his daughter and took the soiled on to the bathroom.

When he came back, the baby was sucking on the bottle happily.

“Alright then. I will see you on Monday?” she motioned him to hold the bottle.

“Yes. You take care. Of yourself as well as your Baba.”

She smiled and made to leave.

“Piyali!” he called when she was at the door.

“Yes, Mukundo Babu? You need something?”

“No. Just… Thanks! Thanks a lot for everything. I could never have imagined that you would come through for all of us like this. You are the youngest, but you are the only one who seems to have a sane, working head on your shoulders.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. “You are odd today,” she mumbled before stepping out.

She would make a man very happy, he thought as he watched the milk disappear from the bottle. But it should be a man ten years younger to him.

He heard Aditya, his four-year old son, begging his maashima not to go.

“I will be back on Monday, Shona,” she assured him, “Nanu is alone, right? I must be with him sometimes.”

After a while, he went downstairs with Sumedha and found Mohima and Aditya puzzling over a new board game. Mohima looked up at him. He knew what she was asking silently.

“I don’t know Ma. Ask her. Let it be her choice.”

—

To be continued