Unspoken Delves Into The Complexities Of Mother-Daughter Bond

The summer of 2024. Sixty-four-year-old Mrs G starts to reminisce about her love affair with a man she calls ‘A’. To Aisha, her daughter, ‘A’ appears to be a figment of her mother’s dementia-afflicted mind.

‘Miu, there was no A. You were happily married to Boy,’ an exasperated Aisha tells her mother. Even as it starts to seem that her mother had, for years, lived a whole other life. A life peopled by those who had together played out the obsession of love, morbid jealousy, hurt, harm and finally death. ‘Shree’s death,’ her mother whispers to Aisha.

Who were these people that her mother now spoke about at odd hours? And the death that seemed to weigh so deeply on her mind... a death that leads Aisha to the holy city of Varanasi where people go to die.

Here's an excerpt from Unspoken by Sharmistha Gooptu.

Miu had demanded the boat ride, goaded by Mandiradi. She now clutched Mandira’s hand, as they treaded gingerly on the wobbly floor. The boat rocked gently on its moorings.

‘You’ll love it, aunty.’ Mandira gushed once they were seated on the wooden planks inside the half-canopy. Aisha stretched out her arm to feel the light morning drizzle that had started.

‘Five minutes rain, madam,’ one of the boatmen called out as he picked up the oars. It was one of the row boats, with two boatmen.   
Miu had been up in her room when she had gotten back from her early morning tea with Rohan. She had refused to go down for breakfast unless she was taken in a boat on the Ganga. She had Mandira’s phone in hand, open at the boat-ride pictures.

‘The spirit of Kashi has got inside aunty,’, Mandira had grinned. Aisha didn’t mind it too much herself now that they were aboard and on way, the boat slowly gliding past others like itself and through a slushy patch into the wide waters. The ghats stretched out on either side, framing the horizon as the sun shone out again and the drizzle stopped.

Aisha watched as they left behind the majestic old palaces and low-roofed buildings with their gaudy colours and floated under the blue sky. A gentle breeze was blowing Miu’s wispy hair in her face. The placid faces of the boatmen, and the splashing of the oars in her ears created a gentle soporific effect as they moved into the deeper waters. She wondered what it would be like to spend a night on the river, hearing the splashing of the waves against her head. To sleep on a boat like the fisher folk and wake up to morning tea on the river bank. The Banarasi chai that Rohan had bought her that morning. Rohan would be game for a boat cruise. In fact, he would fairly jump. 

She didn’t mind going on and on like this on the water, past the dots of houses and people on the ghats in the far distance, passing other boats on their way carrying other people she would never know. They had to get back by noon though, so she could be in time for that afternoon’s talk. She had checked the schedule that morning, Abhimanyu Mishra’s topic for the day was The Joy of Solitude. She wondered if he would pick up from the previous day’s speech. He was good, no matter that she found some of his thoughts perplexing. He could draw you into a cocoon while he spoke, like there was only him and you there, and you listened with rapt attention.

‘See aunty,’ Mandira was pointing out the large white birds that had started to circle around them cawing loudly. Another boat passed them by loaded with women pilgrims, the chugging of its motor dwarfed by the emanating chants of ‘Jai Ganga Maiya Ki.’ Two young girls waved at them and Mrs G beamed. 

‘Do you like it, Miu?’ Aisha smiled at her mother. ‘See, we’re under our little roof here, the birds can’t come at you.’ 

‘I got some bread aunty, you want to give the birds?’ Mandira was fumbling inside her bag. Mrs G shook her head. 

‘Why aunty?’ Mandira chided. ‘They’re creatures of God, like you and me.’ 

‘Can we feed the birds?’ Aisha called out to the boatman who had spoken earlier. 

 ‘Now is ok, madam,’ he nodded. ‘But in the winter no, bird flu time, last year and year before.’

 ‘See aunty, we can feed the birds,’, Mandira was opening the packet of eatables she had smuggled from the hotel’s breakfast buffet. 

‘And do you let people row your boats sometimes, tourists I mean? She had suddenly remembered Abhimanyu Mishra’s picture on the boat, it must have been taken somewhere hereabouts. 

‘No Madam, prashasan is very strict. Some people come drunk during festival time. We have to keep life jackets.’ He pointed under the seats. Perhaps Abhimanyu Mishra had had that picture taken years ago. When the rules were not so strict. He did look much younger in it. Would Miu know if she showed it to her? Would she remember anything at all? Sometimes Miu did surprise her with some things she still remembered from long back, things that anybody might forget quite easily.  

Mandira had gotten busy breaking the bread slices into pieces and throwing them ahead into the grey-blue water. ‘Shree would feed the birds. She loved birds. All the birds.’ Mrs G peered at the packet and then the birds. 

Was this something she was remembering, something that was real? ‘Did she feed the birds when you were here, in Varanasi, Miu?’ 

Mrs G didn’t reply. She was watching Mandira. 

‘Miu, was it here that Shree was feeding the birds? Were you on a boat? Together?’ 

Mrs G nodded.

Extracted with permission from ‘Unspoken’ by Sharmistha Gooptu; published by Simon & Schuster India.

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