Recap: Since Lata was home last, her mother has joined a feminist book club, her baby-cousin Molly is about to tie the knot, Boro Jethu’s son Goopy has emerged from the closet, Momo has fathered two — two! — children, and Ronny Banerjee has cast Pragya Paramita Sen in his magnum opus.

Pixie!” her father’s voice rang out,“Come and see who’s here.” Pixie Das Biswas, eight-going-on-18, rolled her eyes at her grandfather and muttered, “What do I care? It’s not like it’ll be Lata.” She clapped the iPad shut. 

“Carefully, shonamoni,” her grandfather mumbled. This generation was far too casual with expensive things, Dr Das Biswas felt. But he could never bring himself to say the words out loud to Pixie. After all, it wasn’t exactly the child’s fault. Her parents were just as bad. Bappa was always throwing his fancy phone on the bed, and Nisha’s slender silver laptop was flung about like a paperback. 

“Lata Ghosh,” Pixie said, cutting into his thoughts, “is the only person in Calcutta I like other than you, Dadu. Don’t get me wrong. I love a lot of people in Calcutta. Thammi, Pishi, Babun Dada, etc., etc. But like and love are different things.”

Dadu patted her hand in gentle agreement, although he wasn’t sure he understood the sophisticated semantics of like and love. Pixie sighed theatrically, left the bed and peeped into the corridor from behind the curtains. A hum of conversation punctuated by crystal splashes of laughter echoed from the drawing room. She visualised the setting easily. 

Her father must be ensconced in the egg-yolk yellow wingback chair he’d ordered online from London, talking about chelo kebabs or the old job in London or the new job in Jamshedpur. Her grandmother must be fluttering about him, slipping in trivia about London, which she had visited several times in the last four years and which she loved talking about knowledgeably. Pixie’s mother, Nisha, preferred to sit on the window ledge, so she could both tower over the conversation — correct her mother-in-law on the finer points of London geography — and escape discreetly when Posto needed to be fed. The guests must be all squished together on the leather three-seater recliner-sofa — also ordered online by her father from London — which, in Pixie’s opinion, clashed horribly with the wingback.

Her father called out again. “Pixieeee! Where are you?”

In Calcutta, much to Pixie’s anxiety, her dad became someone else. Simultaneously regressing into the past (constantly talking about 2,000 years ago) and jumping into the future, where he seemed exactly like all these boring uncles they met in the city whose faces merged into a generic uncle-face. Like a whirlwind, Bappa rushed about in Calcutta: favourite bookstore to favourite school friend’s mother’s house to favourite car mechanic’s garage to favourite something-or-the-other. It was exhausting. And the more her dad rushed about — favourite singer’s live concert, favourite fish fry place — the tighter her mother’s smile became. And the tighter her mother’s smile, the colder Pixie’s grandmother’s kitchen.

“Nisha quit when Posto was born,” Bappa was telling someone. “Now I think she is ready to go back to work.”

“I’m not sure I will find something suitable in Jamshedpur though,” Nisha added coldly. 

An unfamiliar female voice began to say something, but Pixie’s grandmother got there first. “Of course, you’ll get a job in Jamshedpur, it’s a city. But it would be better if you stayed on in Calcutta, Nisha, with the kids. Get a good job here. Babu can come and go.”

At this point, Pixie decided to make a rapid entrance. Between her dad’s insane whirlwinding and her mother’s moods, the last thing she wanted was a public fight. Her mother could manage Calcutta for about a week with good humour.

Today was Day 8. And while Pixie agreed with her grandmother’s well-meaning suggestion and would much rather stay on in the city with Dadu, she knew what Nisha really thought of that idea: suicide or homicide.

“Hello Pixie,” they all chorused. A beautifully wrapped present was thrust at her. 

They were, predictably, an Uncle and Aunty — exact same type she’d been meeting all week, the Aunty in a soft, cloud-like kurta paired with tights, and the Uncle in an open-necked Burberry shirt — Pixie knew it was Burberry because her dad had the exact same thing — and their son, a boy Pixie reckoned was somewhat taller than her, in a US Army T-shirt. He was sitting stiffly between his parents, frowning into his lap. Posto was crawling around his feet, using his knees to stand up. The boy had a semi-interesting dog tattoo on his hand.

“Hello,” Pixie said in his general direction. The boy frowned deeper into his lap.

“Pixie,” her mother gushed, her voice, which was icy five seconds ago all sunshine-and-brownies now. (God! Adults!)

“Meet Josh. He is only a year older than you. Josh lives in Jamshedpur too. Now say hello to Tilottama Aunty and Vikramjit Uncle.”

“You and Josh better become friends quickly,” Tilottama Aunty said, her long silver earrings tinkling, “You will see a lot of each other over at Jampot.”

“What’s Jampot?” asked Pixie.

“Jamshedpur is affectionately called Jampot,” the Aunty clarified.

“Oh,” said Pixie, “I actually thought of a pot of jam.”

Everyone laughed, “You can see she takes after me,” Bappa beamed.

“The real name of Jamshedpur is Kalimati,” Josh offered sullenly, and then sank deeper into his frown.

“Very good, Josh,” Bappa said in an encouraging voice — the sort of voice parents use when they are certain of their own offspring’s innate superiority.

“Tea?” Pixie’s grandmother now stood up. Nisha swung Posto up into her lap and told everyone, “It’s time for Posto to have his tea too. Just excuse me for a bit.”

The drawing room lightened. 

The Uncle and the Aunty — wait, what were their names again? — leaned back a little, and now started speaking to Bappa in Bangla. In her years with Bappa, Nisha had learnt to speak Bengali fairly well, but Bappa’s friends tried gamely, at least when not drunk, to keep the conversation to a mix of Hindi and English, with a smattering of Bengali, when she was around. Pixie knew what the subject would now be: Kolkata. How changed, how good, how bad, blah blah blah.

“Do you want to see a bird’s nest with eggs in it?” Pixie walked up to Josh and asked. 

Josh jumped up immediately.

“It’s in our balcony,” she said, “There’s a mother pigeon sitting on the eggs. She’s not too friendly but doesn’t mind me.

If you come up to the terrace, I can show you Sourav Ganguly’s house.”

Pixie’s grandparents lived in Behala, and as Bappa had never tired of telling his British friends, just a stone’s throw from Sourav Ganguly’s house. On Ganguly’s wedding day, Bappa’s friends had had a snooping party on the terrace, food and all.

“Why do you have an accent like Sherlock?” Josh asked, after the nest had been admired from a safe distance. They stood next to each other in the balcony as the evening light faded from the sky and the cricket game in the alley grew boisterous.

“I lived in London for four years. I didn’t really want to move back,” Pixie replied.  “Your parents allow you to watch Sherlock?”

“Oh, I don’t depend on my parents. I hang out a lot with my mother’s students. They let me watch anything.”

Josh’s estimation immediately shot up in Pixie’s eyes. She had been prepared to pity him.

“Have you been to London?” she asked.

“Twice,” Josh said, “But I don’t like big cities much; Jampot is nice.”

The conversation reached a lull. A certain transaction of power had been conducted swiftly and silently by that Josh. Pixie wanted to withdraw her kindness, make him unsee the bird’s nest.

“Your brother is cute,” Josh said, finally.

At that cutting blow, Pixie said shortly, “Excuse me a second.”

Back in the drawing room, she opened the fridge and started glugging cold water directly from a bottle. She loathed Josh. The adults were yammering on in the background.

“Ronny is going to be the keynote speaker,” Vikramjit was saying. “And I can see it’s going to end up as a sort of a reunion party. I asked Aaduri if she would come. She didn’t say no. Maybe we can invite Lata Ghosh too? How long is she staying in India?”

“She didn’t have a return ticket yet,” Pixie supplied, walking up to her dad’s chair.

Bappa smiled, “Our Pixie is in love with Lata-di.”

At that, Vikramjit Uncle extended his palm and swatted her cheek playfully. “Get in line, Pixie,” he said. 

(To be continued)

This is Chapter 7 of The Romantics of College Street, a serial novel by Devapriya Roy for t2oS. Find her on Instagram @roydevapriya or email her at theromanticsofcollegestreet@gmail.com