As soon as Bishwambhar Babu entered the house, he began calling out, “Gita’s Ma! Oh, Gita’s Ma! Where are you?” Hearing his voice, a woman stepped out of the room with her head covered in her sari’s pallu—and the moment I saw her, I was stunned.
This mother of seven sons—nobody ever said she had a daughter. I say “had” because if she did, and if the girl were alive, I would definitely know. Now, you must be wondering—who am I? I moved into the house next door two years ago with my parents and younger sister, Tuni. The woman addressed as Gita’s Ma, we call her Dimma (grandma). I go to college with Ronit, the eldest son of her youngest son. Since we live next door, we’re very close friends. Not once have I heard Ronit mention an aunt.
Anyway, I made up my mind—I had to get to the bottom of this “Gita’s Ma” mystery. Determined, I started eavesdropping on their conversation.
Bishwambhar Babu came up to Dimma and said,
“How are you, Gita’s Ma?”
Dimma nodded, “I’m well. And you, Thakurpo (younger brother-in-law)? It’s been ages since your blessed footsteps entered this house. How is my little sister? Why didn’t you bring her along?”
Bishwambhar Babu laughed, “Ah, Bou-thaan (sister-in-law), you haven’t changed a bit! You still ask everything while standing in the courtyard.”
Dimma clicked her tongue and said, “Come in, come in.”
Bishwambhar Babu looked around. Where once stood a thatched bamboo house, there was now a tidy brick home with a tin roof. The room was clean and simple. A mat was laid out on the bed, and a wooden sofa set stood nearby. On the wall hung a garlanded photo of their elder brother. A small table by the bed held some essentials.
A minute later, he called out to the boy accompanying him, “Hey, bring the sweet jar. Gita’s Ma loves ledikeni.”
Dimma brought tea for Bishwambhar Babu while the sweets were served. As they sipped tea and chatted, they spoke of many children in the family—but not once did the name Gita come up. After about an hour of spy work, I gave up and returned to my room. Though, to be honest, there was another reason—I saw Dimma distributing sweets to everyone and she brought some just for me.
Still, I stayed alert to pick up any clues. But all I heard, up until bedtime, was the same call: “Gita’s Ma!”
Ronit had once told me that his grandfather had a habit of going for morning walks. So, waking up early the next morning, I noticed their front door was already open. That meant he had gone out. I quickly plucked a neem twig, chewed it, and started walking down the road at random, hoping to catch him.
Luckily, before my effort went in vain, I spotted him talking to someone from the neighborhood. After that, he resumed his walk. I followed him. After a bit, he turned and said,
“What’s this, young man? You go for morning walks too? That’s nice. I’ll have company to chat with now. The whole area has changed so much in these past few years.”
Near the house, I gathered some courage and casually asked, “Dadu, as far as I know, Ronit’s father and uncles are seven brothers. They don’t have a sister, right? So why do you call Dimma ‘Gita’s Ma’?”
He burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a long story. I can’t tell you now. I’ll tell you some other time.”
For three days in a row, we chatted about many things, but he never revealed the story of Gita’s Ma. Then he returned to his home in Kolkata—and I, too, slowly gave up my detective dreams and went back to being an ordinary person.
Six months later, my inner detective, lying dormant like Kumbhakarna, suddenly woke up when I overheard Ronit’s eldest uncle on the phone:
“Okay, Jethima, I’ll inform Gita’s Ma about your visit.”
I was sure now—I’d get some new clue about Gita. If necessary, I’d even skip college to stick close to this woman and uncover the truth once and for all.
But after seeing the eldest Dimma, I nearly gave up the whole detective business. I’ve never seen a fiercer woman. She gives ten replies for every single question. I once heard that women use around 16,000 words a day—well, this woman probably used three times that number. Who knows what storm she might cause just upon hearing the name “Gita”!
But one good thing—she brought along a live goat. The meat would surely be delicious. All of us—me, Tuni, four uncles, four aunts, kids—21 people in total—sat together for lunch. The eldest Dimma was serving everyone, and our regular Dimma was helping her.
Seeing less meat on Ronit’s plate, the eldest Dimma said, “Gita’s Ma, pass me the meat bowl, will you?”
Tuni stopped eating and stared with wide eyes. Seeing her, the eldest Dimma said sweetly, “What’s wrong, Tuni? Not eating? Was the food not good?”
Tuni replied, “No, it’s delicious. I’m just thinking…”
Eldest Dimma: “Then what? Why’d you stop eating?”
Tuni: “I’ve never seen Gita-di. Even the uncles who live abroad visit sometimes. But she’s never shown up—not even once.”
Eldest Dimma: “How can she visit? She never existed.”
Startled, I blurted, “What do you mean, never existed? What happened to Gita-di?”
Suddenly, silence fell across the room—you could hear a pin drop. That silence almost choked the little detective in me. After a few seconds, the eldest Dimma burst out laughing and said, “Your Gita-di was never even born. How could she come?”
The words struck me so hard I didn’t even notice when the rice fell from my hand. My whole body went numb—except my ears.
She continued, “Our grandfather-in-law used to call me Rita’s ma after my daughter was born. When your Didima—that is, Saudamini—came into the family, her mother-in-law wasn’t around, so grandfather-in-law couldn’t give her any gold. Instead, he handed her a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and said,
‘From now on, care for this as your own child. One day, Gita will take human form and come to your lap.’
After that, everyone started calling Saudamini ‘Gita’s Ma’—first in whispers, then openly. But though she bore seven sons, she never had a daughter. So Gita never came to life in this house.
There were five of us sisters-in-law. I was Rita’s ma, Saudamini became Gita’s Ma, then came Sita’s ma, Mita’s ma, and the youngest, Hita’s ma. All of us are still here—except Gita. Our grandfather-in-law passed away with the sorrow of never seeing Gita. To honor his wish, we kept Gita alive in name.
Isn’t that right, Gita’s Ma? Did I say anything wrong? Even with seven sons, my brother-in-law called you nothing else but Gita’s Ma.”
Embarrassed, Dimma covered her face with the edge of her sari. Seeing this, the eldest Dimma snapped,
“Finish your food quickly, everyone. Do you think we don’t get hungry too?”
That night, I was pacing on the balcony. Sleep just wouldn’t come. I kept thinking—what a shocking story. How can someone be addressed by the name of a child that was never born? And all this time, I kept imagining that Gita was a sister who had passed away. Never once did I think there could be another kind of story.
Remembering I had college the next morning, I lay down on my bed. In my dream, Gita’s Ma scolded me with a smirk,
“You’re no detective. You’d be better off focusing on your studies.”