Cloud-capped Roof

Sambrita Chakraborty

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Most of my childhood days were spent at my mamabari (lit. maternal uncle’s home). Through the alleys of Behala one has to reach Senbari. My grandfather had three brothers and three sisters who were married off to different parts of the city, and the rest of the family set up house at 88/6 Satyen Roy Road. By turning back memory the images become more vivid - square shaped like a shoe-box, the wall plaster worn away at places by the passage of time, on the left a plant creeping up the water pipe. Mamabari of my childhood days is ever painted in the colours of Thakumar Jhuli. I imagined myself as the prince on the winged pakshiraj horse while swinging on the collapsible gate outside. The garden behind the house became Africa and I, Shankar. From the first floor to the second, and from there to the rooftop, weaving new stories at every step of the house was my many a day’s lullaby. But, most of all, the rooftop was the ultimate kingdom of my fairy tales.

The rooftop of the Behala house is especially dear to me. I have spent so many years in that house and I cannot remember a single afternoon that wasn’t spent on the roof. Everyday when the sun began its preparation to retire for the night's sleep, I would reach the rooftop. Skipping the stairs with my little steps to the roof. The vast sky overhead, as if lying on its back stretched from one horizon to the other. The house was situated at a distance from the main road and was far from its clamour. The silence was peaceful, and I made the silence my friend. At one corner of the roof was the attic or chilekotha ghar. It was an exciting place. Stacked with bookcases containing books of Russian folktales covered in coloured paper, and mostly red coloured books on politics. On the two walls of the room hung two faded world maps. In the wall in between was a cabinet with my aunt’s law books, hard as bricks, with protruding teeth. On top of the cabinet was an old rotary phone. It was long out of order and the line was disconnected. But my delight in turning the dial to hear the ‘krik’ sound and importantly say “Hello” into the receiver was no less than gobbling up cotton candy at a fair. A small bed occupied the middle of the room, furnished with the same mattress throughout all seasons, taken out to wash at times. In the scorching summer afternoons when I fell asleep on that flower-printed mattress while devouring Gaidar’s Timur and Friends, my grandfather would carry me downstairs in his lap before evening fell.

On the left - where the stairs lead to the roof was fuldidun’s little flower garden. At times I earned a two-paisa logence by watering the plants, then again when I had mischievously torn a flower or two, I received a slight twist of the ear as well. On the right was a staircase leading to another rooftop above, still above was the water tank. The tank sizzled in the heat of the summer and stayed put in the winter months of poush-magh.

The rooftop was quite airy. On the left - where the stairs lead to the roof was fuldidun’s little flower garden. At times I earned a two-paisa logence by watering the plants, then again when I had mischievously torn a flower or two, I received a slight twist of the ear as well. On the right was a staircase leading to another rooftop above, still above was the water tank. The tank sizzled in the heat of the summer and stayed put in the winter months of poush-magh. Along the walls of the roof were two rooms for washing clothes. From the taps there, water fell like the rapid mountain stream and filled the floors within minutes. Monididun washed clothes standing in that water – ‘chhap chhap thash thash’. I used to play on the roof going from one end to the other - raced with myself and built a make-believe foreign restaurant with my toys. Sitting under the shade of the attic, I read stories of Alice to my loving doll Sweety. Sometimes, Chhordi came to the roof for some fresh air between her college studies and we drew squares on the ground and played hopscotch. In one corner of fuldidun’s flower garden water was kept in an earthen pot for the birds. And all kinds of fat, fluffy and colourful birds came to the pot for a drink. I sat quietly at a distance and watched them. At times, I endeavoured to sketch the birds with my colour pencils. Though the elders could never quite figure out the difference between the bubbles and the birds in my drawing book.

In the middle of all this, Monididun washed the clothes and the soggy saree, pantaloon, fatua, shirt etc were hung on a rope stretched across the rooftop. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun dried the clothes easily. At that time, I stood on my big toes and peered over the railing to watch the football match in the field behind the house. During this time every day, the boys of the neighbourhood divided themselves into teams and kicked on a half inflated football, for their goal post they had brought a few bricks from the construction site nearby. And as the football gradually deflated, the light of the day fainted as the sun began to descend along the sky. By this time, Manididun’s clothes were dried up and the lingering smell of the wet detergent mingled with the smell of dusk. The sky was filled by the restless movements of the birds rushing to their nests. The sun had almost disappeared by the time Monididun came to pick up the dried clothes. Slowly, the lights in the house came on, the flash of light in the nearby houses became visible in their windows. Slowly, the sound of daily life was heard from below. There it is, the rumbling sound of the water flowing downstairs and then a splash. Fuldadu must be taking a shower after returning from the office. And isn't that the music of the serial at 6? Chotodidu must finally be able to sit in front of the TV after finishing all chores around the house. I roamed around on the roof as these thoughts came to my mind, I knew, didu would call for me, saying,

“Come inside, it's time for the evening puja, Ma must have returned from work by now call there once, see Dadai has brought your favourite sweet from Panna - the jalbhara talshash, on his way back from his meeting, go study your book on the Bengali alphabets - you still write your ‘p’ a little crooked, ish! I think I’ve missed the serial, don’t forget to latch the door when you come down.”

Translated from Bengali by Dipanwita Bhattacharyya

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Author bio

Sambrita Chakraborty is currently pursuing her third year in Bachelor of Arts (Honours) degree in History, under Jadavpur University. An avid reader and a film buff, her ideal day consists of relaxing with a copy of Terry Pratchett and a warm cup of tea. Her area of interest spans archaeological studies and ancient civilizations, especially the ancient Egyptian civilization.

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