Bimala paced up and down in her tiny room. After the bed, the almirah and the table there was no space but it didn’t matter. The closed doors allowed her to deal with her fears. She couldn’t let it out of the room. The strains of shehnai came to her ears followed by the giggles of Sumita’s friends who came down the stairs. Sumita must be ready by now, she thought to herself. She wanted to rush upstairs to see her daughter as a bride. After all, wasn’t this a reality she was always afraid to dream of?

There was a soft knock on her door. Her heart stopped. She had never felt this tense and nervous in her life. She quickly wiped the sweat from her forehead and tentatively opened the door.

“Bimala Mashi, you will do the kanyadan,” said Arjun with a finality.

“Me?….,” she fumbled.

“Yes you. You have been Sumita’s father and mother both since she was eight. You know I don’t believe in all these baseless customs. Please wear that cream coloured silk saree I got you. Hurry up, the priest will be there in half an hour.”

Arjun smiled kindly. He could feel Bimala Mashi was a bundle of nerves. His connection with her was inexplicable. Even if she didn’t tell him, Arjun knew exactly what was on her mind.

The woman who had brought him up with so much confidence and compassion, even helping him with his homework when he was a child, while his parents flew high in their careers, couldn’t still step out of some customs, that, who knows when, had been pronounced for women.

Since the day she lost her husband, she was diligently wearing the white saree, having only vegetarian food and staying away from all sacred ceremonies. This did not take away her cooking skills though, or the mirth that she felt at seeing a parrot on the balcony or the first blossoms of the roses on the terrace. After he had finished his food and washed his hands, Arjun always wiped his hands on the edge of her saree.

 Arjun took immense pride in his impeccably white school uniform, which was always whiter than his classmates. Bimala Mashi remained attentive to his every need as he moved from fifth standard to medical school.

Bimala had studied till class X and harboured hopes of becoming a nurse but everything was dashed the moment she landed in her in-law’s home at the age of 16 and it was made very clear to her that studies should be the last thing on her mind. At 18 she became a mother and at 26 a widow.

Arjun’s mother was desperately looking for a dependable hand to help her bring up her son and Bimala Mashi was looking for a home away from the taunts of her in-laws where she could bring up her daughter the way she wanted to. Gautam grocer who belonged to Bimala Mashi’s village was the catalyst in the arrangement.

Doing the dishes, cooking the food and moping the floor felt less burdensome in a home where she was showered with kindness. She gave her all to the Chatterjees, who in turn ensured proper education and a secure environment for her daughter.

Arjun and Sumita grew up together playing hide-and-seek, working on their homework and listening to Bimala Mashi’s stories in the evenings when Arjun’s parents came late from work. An indelible bond bound the three together.

Arjun finished his medical school in Kolkata and went to London for further studies while Sumita moved from college to university to study masters in English. But when the Chatterjees’ relative’s visited them there was just one thing they kept saying, “Dekhey monei hoye na kaajer loker meye.(She doesn’t look like a maid’s daughter).” These words pierced Bimala Mashi’s heart like an arrow. She just couldn’t understand why despite her achievements, Sumita’s identity always remained that of a maid’s daughter. 

The worst was yet to come though. Bimala Mashi didn’t know how to handle things when neighbours turned matchmaker. They found eligible bachelors for Sumita, like the garage mechanic next door, the apprentice at the photocopy shop, even Gautam grocer’s son, who now ran his father’s business. That Sumita had done her BEd and had become a school teacher didn’t make any difference because, to them, she always remained the maid’s daughter.

*

When Bimala wore the silk saree and walked into the mandap she could make out her fears had finally come true. The elaborately decorated mandap was empty. Although the caterers scurried in the next room putting last-moment things together, her doubts now clawed at her heart. No one would turn up. She was now sure none of the guests would turn up for a maid’s daughter’s wedding.

When Sumita declared that she was in love with Arjun and intended to marry him, Bimala had started looking for another job, another home thinking of the impending calamity. Sumita and Arjun were inseparable friends but since the time Arjun left home for his medical studies Bimala was sure that the two had got on with their own lives, were busy curving their separate destinies. She never knew that distance and email had brought them closer. From friends they had become partners for life.

But the calamity was averted when the Chatterjees accepted the love story as inevitable and immediately agreed to the marriage and the couple’s decision to settle in London. It was the relatives who couldn’t accept. They couldn’t accept that bilet pherot daktar (London returned doctor) Arjun Chatterjee would settle for the maid’s daughter.

Sumita sat in the mandap looking like a dream in her red banarasi and Arjun looked at her lovingly as he applied the sindoor on her hair parting. The mandap remained fairly empty except for Sumita and Arjun’s friends who cheered and joked. The wedding ritual was over but still no one turned up. The Chatterjee’s remained unperturbed as if they were ready for this turn of events.

Now Bimala moved to her next level of worry. The food, what would happen to all the food? Arjun’s friends called all the people living under the flyover and they sat together enjoying hot luchi and chholar dal and devoured the succulent mutton. It was a sight to behold - a sight that the maid and her daughter cherished for posterity.

 “I hope your worries are over now Mashi?” Arjun asked affectionately.

“Our wedding ceremony couldn’t have been more successful. Our relatives don’t know the kind of mutton they missed,” he laughed.

Arjun finished his dinner, washed his hands and wiped it with the corner of Bimala’s silk saree. Tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks. 

Amrita Mukherjee's latest book is Museum of Memories, a collection of 13-soul stirring short stories. She has worked in publications like The Times of India, The Hindustan Times and The Asian Age in India and she has been the Features Editor with ITP publishing Group, Dubai’s largest magazine publishing house. An advocate of alternative journalism, she is currently a freelance journalist writing for international publications and websites and also blogs at www.amritaspeaks.com