Old letters - 3
When I moved to the U.S., my aunt, my father's eldest sister, gave me one of her sarees. "This saree is very special to me," she said. I don't know how many times I've kicked myself for not asking why.( If only I hadn't been so horribly tongue-tied, that pistachio green dhakai saree, instead of sitting dumbly in my suitcase, would have become a conjurer of memories from an unusual life.) I could have asked that question any time in the eleven years that followed, before my aunt passed away at sixty seven from agonizing complications caused by her lifelong illness. It's too late now.
The thing is, I was more than usually shy with this aunt because I hadn't known her in my childhood, hadn't sat with my arms around her neck while she chatted with my mom or fallen asleep in her lap like I had done with my other aunts. In fact, I hadn't even met her before I was twelve. She had broken multiple social and moral (according to her father) conventions through her marriage and had been disowned. This was perhaps not surprising given how spirited and independent she had been as a child and young woman, once being arrested for joining a political demonstration from which a neighbour bailed her out since her father refused to. An old granny had predicted darkly that she would cause her parent a lot of heartache. Although some siblings, including my dad, kept in touch with her after her marriage, all I had were overheard whispered conversations and an off-hand remark from my father once that he had a sister I hadn't met. She and her family were never at our teeming summer family gatherings. In fact, she was never even mentioned in front of my grandfather; her banishment from the family was complete. Ironically, she was probably the child who was most like my brilliant and iron-willed grandfather, even down to her lean frame and shared chronic disease of rheumatoid arthritis. My aunt lived a life that was very difficult in some ways and extremely rich in so many others...perhaps you cannot have one without the other.
Of all the old letters in my possession, I especially treasure the three long missives written by this aunt to her big brother (my dad), not because she eventually became a well known person in her sphere or because the family secrecy surrounding her brought an aura of intrigue to my childhood; neither is it because, once I got to know her, she treated me with unfailing affection, but because of the clear, lively stream of thought that flows from her pen in unadorned prose in an uncluttered hand. Her letters bypass all formalities (common to their time) and jump straight into whatever topic is being discussed; there are basically two - a relatively objective but passionate interchange the siblings are having about what kind of marriage is better, "love marriage" or "arranged marriage" (they each had one) and the very personal and touchy subject of her ostracization from the family.
Although my aunt thinks that her kind of marriage (where the partners choose each other and slowly get to know each other before tying the knot) is superior, she delights in her brother's happiness in his arranged union, remarks on their good fortune in each having the kind of marriage that suits him / her and gently reminds him that men in arranged marriages are prone to being selfish and he might want to give that some thought.
The letters about how her family has treated her (not only was she disowned by her father, several siblings cut her off too) express deep hurt but hardly any bitterness. Both siblings took pride in their plain-speaking and did not hold back while criticizing and aiming zingers at one another (my dad's I'm guessing at based on the responses) and yet, the letters never gave me the feeling that I was witnessing an ugly fight. Instead it seemed to me that they were totally open with each other because they trusted the other person to understand; no matter how blunt the words, they took time to explain because they fully expected the other person to hear and respond. If I had been in my aunt's place, I would have turned inward and shut down to protect myself (sometimes these days I feel like I have very effectively and permanently shut myself off from the world...as in "I do not want your flowers or arrows"). But she was someone who walked straight into the line of fire, taking the blows and asking with genuine puzzlement "why would you do this to me?"; never turning away from life and never doubting that, asked reasonably enough, life would provide her with a reasonable answer.
The thing is, I was more than usually shy with this aunt because I hadn't known her in my childhood, hadn't sat with my arms around her neck while she chatted with my mom or fallen asleep in her lap like I had done with my other aunts. In fact, I hadn't even met her before I was twelve. She had broken multiple social and moral (according to her father) conventions through her marriage and had been disowned. This was perhaps not surprising given how spirited and independent she had been as a child and young woman, once being arrested for joining a political demonstration from which a neighbour bailed her out since her father refused to. An old granny had predicted darkly that she would cause her parent a lot of heartache. Although some siblings, including my dad, kept in touch with her after her marriage, all I had were overheard whispered conversations and an off-hand remark from my father once that he had a sister I hadn't met. She and her family were never at our teeming summer family gatherings. In fact, she was never even mentioned in front of my grandfather; her banishment from the family was complete. Ironically, she was probably the child who was most like my brilliant and iron-willed grandfather, even down to her lean frame and shared chronic disease of rheumatoid arthritis. My aunt lived a life that was very difficult in some ways and extremely rich in so many others...perhaps you cannot have one without the other.
Of all the old letters in my possession, I especially treasure the three long missives written by this aunt to her big brother (my dad), not because she eventually became a well known person in her sphere or because the family secrecy surrounding her brought an aura of intrigue to my childhood; neither is it because, once I got to know her, she treated me with unfailing affection, but because of the clear, lively stream of thought that flows from her pen in unadorned prose in an uncluttered hand. Her letters bypass all formalities (common to their time) and jump straight into whatever topic is being discussed; there are basically two - a relatively objective but passionate interchange the siblings are having about what kind of marriage is better, "love marriage" or "arranged marriage" (they each had one) and the very personal and touchy subject of her ostracization from the family.
Although my aunt thinks that her kind of marriage (where the partners choose each other and slowly get to know each other before tying the knot) is superior, she delights in her brother's happiness in his arranged union, remarks on their good fortune in each having the kind of marriage that suits him / her and gently reminds him that men in arranged marriages are prone to being selfish and he might want to give that some thought.
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