my two grandmothers

7/30/2019 My Two Grandmothers

1/15

My Two Grandmothers

Author(s): Andr BteilleSource: The Kenyon Review, New Series, Vol. 19, No. 3/4 (Summer - Autumn, 1997), pp. 120-133Published by: Kenyon CollegeStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/4337585 .

Accessed: 06/05/2013 12:56

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of

content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms

of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

.

Kenyon College is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Kenyon Review.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 130.203.207.233 on Mon, 6 May 2013 12:56:12 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=kenyonhttp://www.jstor.org/stable/4337585?origin=JSTOR-pdfhttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/stable/4337585?origin=JSTOR-pdfhttp://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=kenyon


2/15

ANDRE BETEILLEMY TWO GRANDMOTHERS

Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienneLajoie venaittoujours pres a peineAPOLLINAIRE

IKE most children, had two grandmothers,ut none of the childrenknew had two who were as unlikeas mine in background, ssociation,andtemperament.Mytwograndmothers erebothwidowsin straitenedcircumstances,ndtheyboth ived in the same small town whereI grew up,buttheirsocial worldswere farapart, ndI have no recollection hattheyever met.Their differenceswere, in any case, very large;what made it impossibleforthemto meetwas,of course, hemarriage f my parents,whichhadoverturnedthe worlds of both.Fromthe social pointof view, that marriagewas a recipefor disaster,all the more since neither of my parentsbelonged to the kindof affluent and cosmopolitanworld in which their match might have beenconsideredust a littlerisque,and to thatextent fashionable. n my adult ife,I have had some encounterswith that world but have not found themmoreappealing han the ones I confrontedearlier.My paternal randmotherivedin anold colonial-stylehouseon thestrandfacingthe river.Shehadcomedown in theworld,or so shebelieved,and mademy father,heronlychild,believe. She was still beautifulwhen I knewher as achild. Herparentshadcome outfrom hesouthof Franceas indigoplanters, ndthey settled in Chandannagar,orthof Calcutta,whereshe was born.I doubtthattheymademuch money,andmy grandmother arried pettyofficialwhohad come out from France n the colonial service.Shortlyaftermy fatherwasborn andjust a few yearsaftermy grandmother'smarriage, er husbanddied,a victim of cholera,which must have carriedaway manyEuropeanswho cameto seek theirfortunes n the colonies.Thus, while still in her twenties, my grandmother,nown to everyonein our town as MadameBeteille, or simplyMadame,becamea widow witha small son andhardlyany means of support.The local Frenchcommunity

I20

http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp


3/15

came to her aid and establisheda small school with the grand itle of Ecoledejeunesfilles andplacedit in hercharge.Thereshe taughtandlived,for theschool hadonly threeor fourclassrooms, he rest of the buildingbeing usedas her apartment.She devotedthe early yearsof her widowhood o theraisingof heronlyson, aroundwhom she musthave woven many dreams.Her resourcesweremeager,and she had to strain herself to maintaingood relations with thefew families of French notables in the town, the administrator,he judicialmagistrate,and the police commissioner.When I knew her, the strain wasobvious even to the eyes of a child,for by thenheronly son had shamedherby marryinga native woman.The Frenchofficialswho came andwent may have stooda little in awe ofher,for she had a majesticpresence,but on the whole theytreatedherkindly.However, she had an enemy in the parishpriest,also a Frenchman,FatherDurier,afterwhom I was namedAndreMarie.He was by all accountsa mostremarkableman,and for somereasonhe took a great ikingto my motherandso becamemy grandmother'snemy.I neversaw FatherDurier,butmymotherwasdevoted o his memory.She was an anarchist theart,whohatedall formsof authority, nd her heroeswere people who tilted at windmills.She wouldrecountwithgreatrelishhow FatherDurierhad told off the administrator,hemagistrate, ndthe police commissioner.My motherbelievedthathe could dothis because,unlikethe others,he was learnedand he was upright.She hadgreatfaith in learningand in rectitude,and believed, rather nnocently, hatthe two wenttogether.Whenin laterlife I wouldpointby name to the manylearnedpeopleI knew who werepettyschemers, hereplieddoggedly hat heycouldnot be reallylearned.She herself was not learned,andI wonderedwhatshe would have thought f she had been.FatherDurierberatedmy grandmotherbouther hardness f heart owardmymother.MadameBeteilleheardhimoutpatientlyandcourteously sbecamea goodFrenchCatholicwomanbut didnotyielda millimeter.She did not haveto put up with FatherDurier or the rest of her life. He was replacedby FatherDaniel, a tall andgauntman with wateryblue eyes, who was the firstparishpriestI can recall. He was a Frenchman f a very differentstripe from hispredecessor, nd for him, as for many others of his calling,race came beforereligion.He was condescending owardmy mother,andmy grandmother adno difficulty n establishing asy relationswith the new directorof her soul.My mothermay have prejudicedme against him, but I still rememberwithdistaste he patronizingmanner n which he wouldpatme on the head whenIgreetedhim on the street,as I was instructedby my father o do.

My grandmother'souse had a small clock toweradjacent o it, whichwas one of the landmarks f our town. The clock tower had an inscriptionrecording he name of the personwho had made the benefaction;he was myI 2 I



4/15

122 THE KENYON REVIEWgrandmother'sather or her grandfather, cannot recall which. The name,Domainde St. Pourcin,was a source of some strife between my parents.Myfatherbelieved, althoughhe did not assert his belief too strongly, that hismother's ancestorswere squiresof some sort as was indicatedby the nameon the clock tower.My motherhotly repudiated his, for she had found outfrom FatherDurierthat the Domains were commonpeople who had merelycome fromthe town of St. Pourcinand assumedaristocratic retensionsn thecolonies.True or false, my grandmother as quite capableof imposinguponthe petty officials who came out to the colonies on shortspells of service.My grandmother's ouse on the strandwas a place of some mysteryto us in our childhood.We passed it almost every day, in the evenings, andsometimesalso in theearly mornings,duringourramblesalongthe strandanddown the bankto the edge of the river, but we did not have free access toit. I wondernow what would havehappenedf we hadjust wanderedn andpresentedourselves as her grandchildren.My mother'sfierce pride stood inthe way, for she did not want us to go whereshe thoughtwe would not bewelcome.Therewas anadditionalmpediment,whichmighthavebeenthemoreimportantnein mycase.TillI was nineI hardly pokeany languageother hanBengali,andI worriedabout what I woulddo if she addressedme in Frenchor English. Perhapsmy peculiarchildhoodhas made me unusually ensitiveto the processesof social exclusion,and keeping my distancehas become apartof my naturewith somewhatmixed consequences or my career:as asociologist.In the arrangement f her household,my grandmothermaintained helifestyleof a Frenchgentlewoman iving underadverseconditions n an alienland. I am certainthat in her circumstances he would have foundliving inFranceeven moredifficult.She did, in fact, return o Francewith her infantson shortlyafterlosing herhusband,but foundlittlehelp from the peopleonwhom she thoughtshe could depend.She hadcut herrootsfromFrance,andthere was no going back to the land of her ancestors.The French n Chandannagar ere in those days an odd assortment fpeople, but we had very little to do with them, with a few exceptions.Oneexceptionwas the family Lehereux, onsistingof two brothers nd a sister,allelderlypersons n my childhood,of my grandmother'sather hanmy father'sgeneration.The two brothers ad movedto France,wherethey werejoined bythe sister who had marriedand becomewidowed in America.DuringWorldWar II they came back to Chandannagar, ut there was no suitable houseavailablefor their accommodation.My motherpromptlyoffered them ours.All the children were bundled nto a single room, my mother slept on theverandah,and the house was turnedupsidedown. My father could not sayverymuchsince the LehereuxwereFrenchwithactive connectionsn Europeand America,were highly respectable,and had supportedhis mother n herdistressbeforeshe hadacquired nimpossibledaughter-in-law. heyhadbeen,to begin with, friendsof his andnot her family.



5/15

ANDRE BPTEILLE 123

My mother either liked or disliked people intensely. She liked theLehereux amily. So she gave all of them Bengali names,which they acceptedpatiently and good-humoredly.The elder brother,a widower, was called"Dada," he widowedsister "Didi,"and the otherbrother, n amiable,elderlybachelor, was for some reason known only to my mother as "Pishima."My father,of course, called them all by their names-Alfred, Anna, andRene-although they were of an older generation.Being broughtup in theBengali etiquetteof address,we found it strange hatmy father should callsomeone Alfredwho called his own motherNora.The Lehereux nterludedid not last very long. The warin Europewassoon over, andthey went away,firstto Europeandthento the United StateswhereAnna, the sister,had been married.But while it lasted,it was full ofexcitement.We had exotic food, the parentshad expensive presents,and thechildrenwere generouslytipped.Most generousof all was a nephew, PhilDelaunay,who showedupfromtime to time and gave each one of the childrena silverrupeeand the most exquisite Belgianchocolates.Phil's mother had been the eldest of the Lehereux sisters, and herhusbandhad amassed arge estates in Comillaand the neighboringdistrictsin Bangladesh.Whatconnection heyhadwithmy grandmotherr herparents,I cannot tell. Phil was a wealthy man, but my mothersaid that he was toogenerous o remainwealthyvery long. He was a flamboyant haracter nd acharmer.He endeared imself to all of us by insisting,beforemy mother ouldthinkof a suitableappelationorhim,thatwe call him Phil eventhoughhe wasmy father'sage; only my elderbrother,who was sociallyat ease everywhere,took himupon this.This brother ecamePhil'sslave,not becauseof his wealthor even his munificence, ut because Phil was a shikari.He had shotpanthers,trapped lephants,andescaped being devouredby man-eaters.My father oldus that he had reasonto believe that Phil's stories were in fact true.Phil, ofcourse,couldnot spendthe nightin ourhome,so he traveledbackto Calcuttaby trainto his roomsin the GreatEasternHotel,whichwas as remote fromour worldas the wilds of Comilla.While all this was happening,my grandmothereld her ground n herhouse by the strand,and she must have been pleased when the Lehereuxvisit came to an end. Her house had few conveniences,but it maintainedadistinctivelyEuropean tmosphere.Wecould see fromthe outside the crotonsand the pansies,and the greenbench on the frontporchon which she sat inthe evenings,but little else besides. She orderedher meals in the Europeanway, andthey wereprepared y hercook, Paul,an IndianChristianwho wasnaturallya legend with us children.Althoughshe spoke English well andBengali moderately, he never ever allowedmy father o addressher in anylanguageotherthanFrench. My fatherspoke all three languageswell and,according o my wife, who knew him in his last days,his Bengaliwas morechastethanmy mother's;butI believe that he likedtheEnglish anguagebestof all.



6/15

I24 THE KENYON REVIEW

My grandmothermaintained possessivehold over her son:he was heronly possession.Muchof hertimewas given to the care of his needs, and thiscare showed n her attentiono detail.I was struckas a child by the meticulouscare with which his woolen clothes and socks had been darnedby her. Myfatheralwayswore westernclothes,a three-piece uit in every season,woolenin the winter, cotton in the summer.Some of his woolen suits came fromEurope,both Franceand England,and they musthave cost a prettypenny.Mygrandmother adthem alteredby a local tailor,who was made to work underher strictsupervision. he also orderedhis ties,of which he had a largevarietyin every color and fabric:wool, knittedsilk, crepe de chine, and so on. Theybore tags with captivatingnames:Au Louvre,Au Printemps,Austin Reed ofRegentStreet. When my grandmotheried, several tin boxes containingmyfather'sbest ties cameto ourhouse,andmy brothersand I looted them withlittle thought or his needs or his sentiments.The only directacknowledgmentmy paternal randmothermade of ourpresencewas through he gifts she sent us duringChristmas.These even mymotherwas not hard-heartednoughto return.My grandmotherwas reputedto be a very good cook, andshe made the most excellent cakes of which shesent us two every year,a largeone for Christmas nda smallerone for NewYear's.The taste of those cakes is still freshin my memory.The legendof Paul'scookingwas highly colored,as it turnedout whenwe had occasionto sample t aftermy grandmother'seath.His repertoirewaslimited,and the ingredientsmade availableto him by his exacting mistresswere also limited. She certainlygave him no hand in the preparation f theChristmas nd New Year'scakes thatwere thedelightsof our childhood.Whatshe ate every day must have been a simplifiedversionof the kindof westernmeal then generallyserved in railway waitingrooms on the E.I.R. line byKellner's: oup,maincourse,anddessert,each in a few simple variations.My grandmotherenerallyavoidedrice, preferring read n its place.Shehad some reasonfor herpreference,or the breadbakedin our mean-lookinglocal bakerywas of really superiorquality.This bakery n my time was runby a set of Muslim brotherswhose familyat some time must have acquiredthe art from a passingFrenchbaker.As children,we believedthateverythingthat came from Calcuttawas superior o the local product,so it was sometime before the realizationdawned on me that the bread from Firpo's thatoccasionally ound its way into ourhouse had little of the outer crispnessorthe inner softness of what was bakedevery morningacrossthe road.I willnow have to reveal thatmy grandmotherrepared nly the ingredients f herfamouscakes andset them in theirmolds;the actualbakingwas done in thesamemean-lookingbakery hatsuppliedourdailybread.We did not care much about he soupsandcustards hat must have beenservedday in and day out at my grandmother'sable,but the idea of roastbeef hadan altogether ifferentappeal. rememberhat the first dish thatPaulpreparedor us aftermy grandmotheradpassed away was somethingcalled



7/15

ANDRE BtiTEILLE I25a saute, a namethat hadfascinatedandpuzzledme as a child. Paul had a kindof understudy,who occasionallycooked for my grandmotherwhen he wasawayon leave. He was a simpleandfriendlyman called Satish.Following hecommonBengalipracticeof makingdiminutives ut of personalnames,he wasfamiliarly eferred o as Sotay,so thatwhenmy fatheroccasionallymentionedsaute, I could not tell at first whetherhe was speakingof a man or a meat.I have only one clear recollectionof visiting my grandmothern herhouse, on the eve of my departureor boarding chool in Patnaat the age ofnine.The visit musthave beenprearranged y my father.She had a majesticbearing,but on thatoccasion she was kind andconsiderate, peakinggentlyandwaitingattentively ormy answers. have no recollectionof thesubjectofourconversation, utshe gave me a silverrupee,which I was gladto haveandto keep to myself,thinking t prudentnot to mention he matter o my mother.WhenI think of it now, my sister,who was the oldest of the siblings,saw more of my grandmotherhanany of the others did. I was in any casebarelyten yearsold when she died, whereasmy sister was alreadya youngadult. It may have helpedthatshe was the only girl amongthe siblings.Butwhat probably urned he scale in her favorwas that she was the only oneamongus who spoke Frenchwithease, having earned t from the nuns of theconvent n ourtown.My sisterwas a mild and noffensiveperson,and a devoutCatholic o boot,and thattoo mayhavestood her in goodstead withthe seniorMadameBeteille.My suspicion s thatmy gentle sistermust have hada hardtime betweenherimperiousgrandmotherndherindomitablemother.But shedid not complainmuch,at least not to us, heryoungersiblings;whatshe toldherpriest n the confessionalremained, presume,a secret betweenthe two.My grandmotheriedshortlyafter joinedboardingchool,andherhouseand the school were takenover by my sister,fourteenyearsolderthan I andnow a marriedwoman.It was herhome for thebest partof her life, andthen,of course,we had the run of the house, which I remember xploringwith agreatsense of adventure.

The house tselfwas arambling ffair, ullof dustycorners ontaining ddthings n a stateof disrepair.Theoccupantmust havecollectedbits andpiecesat bargainprices,or as gifts, never havinghad the resourcesto furnishherhome with a full suit of anything hatmighthaveappealed o her taste. Therewere fiveLouis XV chairs,someLimogespottery,a few cupsandsaucers, woor three tea andcoffee pots, silk stockings,perfume ars, mostly empty,andso on. She must have sat on herLouis XV chair,drinking ea froma Limogescup andthinkingabout life as it might have been. Manyyears later, aftermymarriage, broughtback a Limogesmilkjug to Delhi,but have neverhad thetemerityto use it.In one of the darkanddustyrooms,I discoveredat the age of eleven ortwelve the books thatwere to becomemy firstliterary reasures: ld editionsof nineteenth-centurynglish poets andnovelists:Byron,Shelley, Tennyson,Scott, and others. The pages of the once handsomeedition of the Waverley



8/15


Novels had become so brittlewith age thatthey brokeunless turnedwithgreatcare. Therewas also an eighteenth-centuryditionof the poems of ThomasGray with the following neat inscriptionon the flyleaf: "This Book is 113years old (1784-1897)." Although he writingbearsa family resemblanceomy father's, t could not have been in his hand,since he was barelya yearoldin 1897. Strangelyenough, there were hardlyany Frenchbooks, or none thatI can now remember. never found out who it was that had implanted hispeculiarpreference or Englishover Frenchpoetry n my father'sthoughts.I also exploredthe back gardenwith my brotherand his friends, whowere less interested n old books. I rememberwell the lemon tree with itsobdurate horns.In my grandmother'sime, we wouldoccasionallyreceive afew lemons from which we made iced sherbet n the summer.Now the treeitself, with all its fruits,was ours to plunder.Even as a child I had a great ovefor Mediterraneanruits:oranges, emons, grapes,and many othersthat I thenknew only by name.My father was a most unassertiveperson, but he mayhave unconsciously ransferredis tastein fruitsto me, for like him, I dislikemost tropical ruits:mangoes, ackfruits,bananas,and,most odious of all, theoverripeguava.I wonder f therewas somethingpolitical n my preferenceorfruitsof the kind adoptedby the young, educatedMuslim nformant escribedso vividly by Nirad Chaudhuri in Thy Hand, Great Anarch.

I amsurethatmy grandmotherongedfor the fruitsandthe flowersof theland of herancestors,all the more acutelybecausethey were largely outsideherreach.The one animating assionof her life wasprideof race, and she hadbeen bitterlydisappointedn heronly son. She was convincedthata tropicalcountrywas a treacherous lace, and she hadreason o be fearful.She hadlosther husbandat a very young age to a treacherous,ropicaldisease. Her son,too, had fallen a victim to the darkandmysterious urrents f the country,butshe herself was determined ot to go native.She did not have the wealth northe social ease of theDelaunays,and she could not afford o visit Europeeverysummeror everyothersummer.My fatherwas too indecisiveor too gentletoabandon itherhis wife or his mother,and so led a strangeexistence betweenthe two houses. Her deathchangedhis life as it changedours as well.

My mother'smotherwas a very differentperson,althoughshe too hadsufferedgreatmisfortune n earlylife. She was not remotefrom us, but veryclose to us. She lived with us in our home, and it was she, rather hanmymother,who broughtme up until I went awayto boarding chool.My maternalgrandmotherwas named Shibani. She was born in acomfortable, houghnot affluent,KulinBrahmin amily of the Rarhiyasreniin a village in Hughlidistrict.As was the custom n hercommunity, he wasmarried,before the attainment f puberty,at the age of nine or ten to a KulinBrahmin f a neighboring illagewho was considerably lder thanshe, and,at



9/15

ANDRt BJTEILLE I27

the time of hermarriage, widowerwith a coupleof childrenby his firstwife.He was not very well-to-do,butreputed o be highlyorthodoxand learned nthe shastra.What ittle I knowaboutmy mother's ather s not frommy grandmother,whorarelyspoke of him,but frommy mother,whocould not have knownhimwell sinceshe was a merechildwhenhe died. She wasnot well disposed owardhim,notbecauseshe dislikedhimas a personbutbecause she disapproved fhis kind of person. She thoughtof him as arrogant, verweening,and full oftheprideof caste.According o her,he did not alloweven Kayasthaso touchhis feet, but, when approached y one, would take a little dust from his feetand sprinklet overhis head.I cannot udge whether his was true,but it couldhave beentrue.My elderbrother hought t was fantasticand regrettedhathecould not do the same with the Kayasthaboys who were his playmates.Oddly enough,my brother houghtof himself as a Brahmin.This mayhave been becausehe was veryclose to my grandmothernd,unquestionably,her favorite.He not only took the liberty of occasionallycallingher by hername,but,most irreverent f all, sometimesreferredo her deceasedhusbandas "MadhuMukujjay."He also played the most extravagantprankson mymaternal ncle. Oncehe escapedserious njurywhenhe placeda bel fruit ustnextto my uncle'sback whenhe was asleepon his side on a cot, and thenmybrother uietly ay downon thefloornextto thecot. As my uncle turned n hissleep,the inevitablehappened, ndhe was hurtby the bel. He took it up andflung t withall his mightat my brother,but missedhis aim. My grandmotherwas furiousandshowedthe doorto her son. My uncle did then what he haddone on several occasions:he cursedeveryone,tore his sacredthread,andmarched ut of our house. My mother,of course,soundly hrashedmy brother.My grandmotherid not thrashus butleft thatwork to herfierydaughter, ndshe only occasionallybeatmy brother,who was the appleof hereye.Mygrandmotherost herhusbandwhileshe was stillrelativelyyoungandwith small children.Then followeda sequenceof events with which readersof Bengalinovels are familiar.The lot of a KulinBrahminwidow with noformaleducationand slendermaterial esourceswas a hardone in those times.The family property,uch as it was,was appropriatedy herstepchildren,whoweregrownup and more resourceful han she. She couldnot nor did not wishto return o hernatalhome,andso was left to fend for herself.The widow moved with her childrento Chandannagar, hich was notveryfar away. Why she chose thatparticular lace I am not able to tell. Lifemusthave been hardand at times almostinsupportable. he did what widowsin herconditionhad done for generationsn Bengal. She sold her ornamentsandherutensilsandkeptthefamily goinguntilone of hersonscouldfind someemployment.She was also supported y heryoungersister,Kalyani,who hadmarriedwell and lived in a neighboringown. So far as I know, she did notacceptcharity romanyone n the town. She enjoyedsome respect rom thosewhocame to knowher in her newplaceof residence.Someof them continued



10/15


to visither even whenI wasa smallchild,andthe womengenerallyaddressedher as Bamundidior Bamunma.Somehowshe had managedo bring ogether hetatteredragments f herlife, for she rarelyspokebitterlyof anyonefrom her past.Unlikemy mother,and like my paternalgrandmother,he had been a beautifulwoman,as myfather,a fair andimpartialudgein suchmatters,pointedoutto me in later ife.But shewasfreefromall personalvanity.In mostrespects hecontinuedo livethe life of a KulinBrahminwidow. She never worea blouseor a petticoat,noteven in the winter,andheronly garmentwas a white sariwithoutanyborder.She did not use any footwear,although n laterlife my fatherpersuadedherto wear rubber lippers.The only pointof outwardappearance n which shedepartedrom her ancestral ustomwas to allow herhair o remainong. Someof herrelativeswho stillvisitedher were Brahminwidowswith croppedheads,whichwe as children oundunbearably gly. Oursistertold us thatthenunsinherconventalso hadcroppedhair,whichthey coveredwitha coif, a practicethat did not endearthem to us.By the time my mothermade her most unconventionalmarriage,mygrandmotheradceasedto worrymuch about he sanctionsof her communitywhich,afterall, hadgivenherprecious ittle aidor comfort n herdistress.Butshe continued o regulateher personal ife largelyaccording o her ancestralcustoms.She worethe dressandatethe food appropriateo a Brahminwidow.She neverdeviatedfromher vegetariandiet, although he did not bothertoomuchabout he finepointsof ritualpollutionandcookedbothfish andmeatforus in herkitchen,butneverchicken.As childrenwe sometimesried opersuadeherto tastethe meat she cooked,but she alwaysputus off good-humoredlyand withoutfuss.Shedidnotperform ujaathome,nor did she frequentemples,althoughsheobserved hecustomaryastsonamavashya ndekadashi.Herone unfailingdailyobservancewasthemorningbath n theriver,which we calledtheGanga,but which was in fact only a branchof it. She would walk every morning,barefootandin hersinglegarment,and returnhome from the river n her wetsari.Manyyears later,long after she had passedaway, I went to live in anagraharamo makea fieldstudyof a Tanjore illage.ThereI wouldsee everymorningrommyhousetheBrahminwidowsof theagraharam n theirwaytoor backfromtheirbaths n theKaveri,which flowedbythevillage.Memorieshadpushedback ntosomeremotecornerof mymindsuddenly ame alive,andmy Brahminnformants,who knew little of my socialorigin,were astonishedby my detailed knowledgeof the practicesof Brahminwidows, which theygenerously,but mistakenly,attributedo my immense earning.

For the firstnineyears,my maternal randmother as in manyways thecenterof my life. She cared for us, fed us, andput us to sleep. She cookedwell,preparingwholesomemealsfromsimple ngredients, ndtookpleasurenfeedingus well. Butas childrenwe hankered fterotherthings,those delightsof thelowermiddle-classBengaliscalled "mutton hops"and"mutton utlets,"



11/15

ANDRE BITEILLE I29

and,above all, tinned ood:pottedmeat,CrossandBlackwellOxford ausages,herrings n tomatosauce, cornedbeef, and tinnedpeaches.We did not caremuchfor vegetables,although hey were the best part of my grandmother'scuisine.The gloriesof Bengali vegetariancooking were largelythe creationof upper-castewidows, especiallyBrahmin,who were debarredrom eatingmeat and fish.Our daily fare at home was simple Bengali food prepared n mygrandmother'sitchen. dislikedalmostall thetraditionalBengalivegetables:pumpkins,brinjals,gourds of differentkinds, radishes,plantains,yams, andspinachin all its varieties.Tomatoes were rarely used in cooking by mygrandmother,nd she called thembilitibegun.She did not use sugarbutonlygurto addthe touchof sweetness,which s characteristicf thecuisineof WestBengal.I likedcauliflower ndpeasamongallvegetables,andmygrandmothercookedthemwell, eithersimply as vegetables ogetherwithpotatoes,or withfish, but they were affordableonly in the winter.Althoughwe were neverwell-to-do,we didoccasionallyhave western ood. I cannotnow recallwherethe ham and the cheese and the pate came from,but therecertainly was asecond line of culinaryexperiencebeyondmy grandmother's itchen.And Ihave alreadyconfessed that we were barbariannoughto prefer innedfoodto what she cooked for us every day.

But I mustnot be ungrateful, ven in my memory, o my grandmother'scooking. There were a few delights, and I especiallyremember wo, eachassociatedwith its particulareason, whichno doubtaddedto its charm.Thefirstwas thehilsa, which we call ilish andwhich camein therainyseason. Atthe heightof the season, the fish would be caughtwithnets near the bankofthe river,whichwas the same as the one to whichmy grandmother ent forherdailybath.I don'tthinkthatshe herselfever went to buythe fish but sentsomeone of an eveningto fetch it as the catch was being landed. We couldhardlywait for oureveningmeal then.Personally, likedbest thejuicy slicesof the fish as well as its roe fried in mustardoil; a close secondwas the fishcooked withcrushedmustard ndpoppyseeds andlaced with rawmustard ilandwholegreenchilies. The otherdelightcame in thewinter.This was thekhirmade with cow's milk-never buffalo milk-with sugarfromthe datepalm,known as natungur, andavailableonly in the winter.Thebest partconsistedof the scrapingsrom the panin whichthe milkhadbeen thickenedon a slowfire.My brotherand I endlesslyfoughtover this. I have to recordthatoverthis my grandmother as scrupulouslympartial.As childrenwe stood in awe of ourpaternal randmother,utourmaternalgrandmother e took for granted.Truth o tell, we paidlittle attention o herduring heday,but the nightbelonged o her. At nightwe invariably te in herkitchen,on the floor,and out of bell-metalutensils.Before I went to school,I slept with my grandmother,s did my brother,on a largeplankbed undera mosquitocurtain,which invariablyhad a hole or two. It was her duty, onwhich I insisted,to kill or driveaway all the mosquitoes.



12/15


The pleasureof going to bed lay in the stories she had to tell us inorder o inducesleep.Those storiesareamongthe most vivid recollectionsofmy earliestchildhood.The atmospherewas unhappilymarredby the quarrelsbetween my brotherandme over the choice of storiesat which he generallyprevailed,being her favorite.Mygrandmother'storieswere partof a long, oral tradition. he knew nolanguageother hanBengali,but n that anguage he was a fairlyregular eaderof books. I doubt,though,that the books she usuallyreadin the afternoonswere the principalsources of the stories she told us at night. There werehair-raisingales of robbersand monstersand ghosts; fabulous romancesofprinces,merchants, ndbeautifulwomen;and stories from the Ramayana, heMahabharata,nd the Puranas.She loved the Ramayanabest of all andkeptus enthralledwith heraccountsof the destruction f the golden city of Lankaby the armyof monkeys.In fact, Lankakanda as a bywordwithher.Whenwe first learned he pleasuresof pillow fightingand carried hings to excess,she would call out from the kitchen. "There s Lankakanda oing on in thebedroom."Whenwe werebeingdisobedient ndputting hings n disarray, hewould tell us to puteverything ight. "Otherwise, our motherwill come, andthere will be Lankakanda."Personally, liked best the storiesaboutghostsanddacoitswhereasmybrother's avoriteswerethosethatrelated o Lankakanda.My grandmotheradher own stock of ghoststories,which sherepeated ver and overagainwithoutcausing any boredom.My favoritewas the one about the travelerwho wasreturning ome at the dead of nightthrough wilderness.He was veryrelievedto find a companion arryinga hurricaneanternwith a fund of stories.Aftersometime,the conversationurned o ghosts,and thecompanion xplained hatghostsoften impersonatedrdinary ersons,exceptthat one could alwaystellwho they were from theirfeet, which were turned he wrong way round.Thetraveler'seyes movedinevitably o the feet of his companion,who gave hima mockingsmile andinstantlyvanished nto the night,lanternand all.Dacoits were anothermatter.They usuallyworked in groups, large orsmall. Sometimesa large gang of them would entera village in the middleof the night with sticks, swords,and even guns, and the rich people wouldbe so frightened hatthey would surrenderheir cash andjewelry withoutamurmur.Buttheycould also be methodical ndpainstaking.Then theywouldquietlydiga tunnel ordayson end andsuddenlyappearn the deadof night nthe moneylender's trongroom where he invariably lept. My grandmother'sdacoitsfollowed the practiceof smearing heirbodies with soot and mustardoil so thatnobodycould catchthem or hold themfast. Even as a childI wassomewhatskeptical,and sometimes askedher if she had had any personalencounterswith dacoits. She would then smile shyly and say thatthey wereonly stories.So into thenightwe wouldbe lulledto sleep by my grandmother'sstories, accompanied y the cries of jackalsfrom the fieldsin the winterandthe croakingof frogs in our gardenbeforethe rains.



13/15

ANDRE BETEILLE I3I

We did not always sleep in thebedroom,but in the summersalso on theverandah r the terraceon mats withmosquito oils burninghrough henight.I am not sure now that we had electricfans in all the rooms to begin with,buttheywere added n due courseof time.Eventhen,my grandmother oulduse a palm-leaf an to cool herself andus, and to drivethe mosquitoesaway.We certainlynever hadany electricfan in the kitchenwhere we ate. I do notrecallbeinggreatlybotheredby theheat,butmosquitoeswereanothermatter.Therewereplentyof those in ourhouse,andeven more andlargerones in mypaternal randmother'souse, which was closer to the river.My brother nd Iwouldcompeteoverkilling themosquitoes,and I usuallywon,beingthemoredetermined nd single-mindedof the two.Like most boys we liked outdoorgames betterthan indoorones, andmy brothereasily outshone me on the playingfield. Sportswere-and stillare-his passion,and he playedbothfootballandhockeyin the first divisionleaguesin Calcutta,no meanachievement.My grandmotherometimes oinedus in our indoorgames, simplecardgames,and Snakes andLadders,whichwe generallyplayedwhen it rainedoutside.She usuallylet us win at these,to our mutual atisfaction, or, as theysay in French,perdreaujeu, gagnerenamitie: ose at play and win at friendship.I must not leave the impression hatmy grandmother'smotional ifewithhergrandchildren as entirelyuntroubled. he cloud in her horizonwasanold maidservantalledBillo, who workedand ived withus. She wasa Hariby caste,the lowestamongtheBengalicastes,butalso a strong-willedwomanwho, whenaroused,would not be crossed even by my mother.Whereasmyelderbrotherwasmy grandmother'savorite, t was I who was Billo's favorite.Actually,it was my eldest brother,eight yearsmy senior,who was her realfavorite,but he was away in boarding chool while I was growingup, so Ibecamehis surrogaten Billo's eyes because was saidto resemblehimcloselyin both appearance nd temper.Billo guardedme againstwhat she believedto be unfairtreatmentbetween the two remainingbrothersby everyone,andespeciallymy grandmother.My motherhad a fierytemper,andBillo stoodupfor me whenever was harshly reated, or rightreasonsor wrongones.Billo was providedwith food and clothingin our home, and she alsoreceiveda cashwage,which musthavebeenquitepaltry.She savedevery coin,andit was believed that she was not above a little bit of pilfering.Whatevershe couldputtogether,by fairmeansorfoul, wasdevoted o one sole purpose,and that was to indulge us, especiallymy eldest brotherand me. I greatlysavored he forbidden nacksshe bought romthe bazaarand made me guzzlein secrecyfrommy mother,my grandmother,ndmy brother.Naturally, wasattached o her. My grandmother,n her part,was not above attributingmymeanandspitefulways to the maligninfluenceof our lowbornmaidservant.As a child I had an evil temper; histoo my grandmother oulddescribe n thecolloquialBengali phraseas "therageof a Chandala,"ndmy brotherwouldtake up the refrain,addingfurther o my rage.



14/15


Ourfamily stereotypeswere mainlythe creationof my grandmother.was headstrong,ntelligent,andfearless;her opinionof my couragewas basedon the simplefact thatI did not believe in ghostsandwas preparedo go outinto the garden n the darknessof night,which my brotherwas not able todo. "Thatboy," she would say of me with some warmth,"has the courageof a dacoit."My grandmother as occasionallyvisitedin ourhome by herrelatives.These were all people from her natal home:cousins, nephews,and nieces.She too occasionallyvisited her sister'shome, althoughI do not recall everseeing her sister,who had probablydied while I was still very small.Thosewho came were an odd assortment,mostlyelderlypersonsof rusticmannerand appearance.They did not seem to have any hesitation n eatingwith usandmaking hemselvesgenerallyagreeable.Much ater,afterwe hadmovedtoCalcuttaandmy grandmotheraddied,my motherreestablished ontactwitha firstcousin,my grandmother'soungersister'sdaughter,who was theeldestsurvivingrelativeof hergeneration. t was withherson, who was a geologist,then servingwith a scientificresearch aboratory,hatI stayedthe firstnightwhen I came to the Universityof Delhi in 1959.My grandmotherad otherrelatives who were sociallydistantbut whoneverthelessnhabitedhermind.I suspect hatshe was well connected hroughhermother.She alwaysreferredo Surendranathanerjias "Mejomama,"uthe mighthavebeen a secondor evena thirdcousin of hermother.The Bengaliuse of kinshipterms makes it difficultto determinehow near or distantaparticularelativemightbe. I never triedto find out how she hadlived in hermother'shome beforeher marriage,but thatwas so far in the past thatshemighthave let it wander nto fantasy.My grandmotherwas not in any sense a social snob, and she wascompletely nnocentof themodemartof name-dropping.Where, hen,did hercelebratedMejomama omein? Thathad to do with my presumedntelligence.Herview of it had beenformedby herobservation f a peculiarhabitof mine.WhenI was very small, I took to collectingpieces of printedpaper,mainlycinemahandbills,whichI arrangedccordingocolor,shape, ize, andcharacterof print,even thoughI was unableto read whatwas printed. hadhugepilesof them,whichI stored n an ugly, tin box. I could sense when even a singleone was missing,andI wouldfly to her anddemand ts immediate eturn.Shewas greatly mpressedby my abilityto detectthe loss of the smallestpiece ofprintedpapereven beforeI had learnedmy alphabet,andthis she attributedto my unusual ntelligence.That is whereher Mejomama ame in, for shenaturally ssumed hat sucha man musthave beenveryintelligentandhopedthat in laterlife I would be like him.I tookmyreputationor intelligence o heart.AfterI hadlearned o read,I accostedherwith one of my primersandasked her to readit. She lookedatit, andsaid, "Sillyboy, do you thinkyourgrandmotheran readEnglish?"wasexpecting hisand saidwith anindulgent mile,"Sillygrandmother,his is



15/15

ANDRt BETEILLE I33

notEnglish, t is French."Thatof courseconfirmed eropinionof my superiorintelligence.Thevisitorswhocame to see her nextweretoldthatheryoungestgrandchildwas a kshanajanma, prodigywho had learnedto readBengali,English, andFrenchall at once andwithoutever having been to school. Shecould easily make a couple of months nto a couple of days and,as easily,overlook he detailthattherewas a private utorwho came to give me lessonsat home.Despiteherownlapse ntoadversity,mygrandmother aintained strongsense of respectability nd evenof familypride.Shegenerallyhandled ervantswithease,rarely reatinghemharshlybutexpectingandreceiving hedeferencedue to an upper-castewomanof good family.Let me say at once thatBillowould be the first personto fight for her on that account.She judged ourplaymatesby theirspeech andmannersandhad a shrewdsense of the kindsof family they came from. She was not free from the pride of caste andwould not wish to be free fromit, althoughshe knew very well that not allBrahminswererespectable. he wasabsolutely ecure nherconviction hatherowngrandchildren ererespectable ndwell-born,a convictionobviouslynotsharedby everyone n our town.Myfathercaredvery muchforgood mannersandwas oftenembarrassedy his strong-willed ndimpetuouswife. He wouldthenturnto us andsay in English,"Say whatyou will, yourgrandmother asa lady,"neverfailingto add,"to themannerborn";he would then be thinkingnot only of his own motherbut also of my othergrandmother.

my two grandmothers

Documents