The Immolation

 The Immolation

Tathagata Anuradha Mukhopadhyay

(The Bengali Version "Satidaha" was published in a Puja number in 2025)

 

I've known Jyotishman since we were kids—we grew up in the same neighbourhood and even studied together till class four. Jyotishman was the gifted one: top student, talented in every way. After class four, he got into a prestigious missionary school in Chandannagar, while I didn’t make the cut.

Some people seem blessed with everything by fate—Jyotishman Bagchi was one of those. Tall, lean, curly-haired, dreamy eyes, and razor-sharp mind. Next to him, I always felt invisible—in studies, sports, extracurriculars, you name it. He was miles ahead, and my self-esteem took a hit.

Despite all that, Jyoti actually liked me—maybe even respected me because I wrote a bit from a young age. My stories used to get published in school and college magazines, and people generally appreciated them. After college, one of my novels ended up in a popular Puja magazine’s festive edition, and suddenly I switched from hobbyist to professional; I even earned a bit of name recognition.

Whenever we met on the street, Jyotishman would ask, “So, writer, what’s new?” 

“What do you care? Do you even read my stuff?” 

He’d shake his head, “Nah, but Sreemoyee’s a huge fan.”

Sreemoyee was the most sought-after girl in the locality; striking eyes, radiant beauty, convent education, rich, modern despite her small-town roots. Boys pined for her attention, uncles rushed to help her, older men stole glances, even rickshaw pullers never said no; she lit up every place she went. That she loved Jyotishman was a given; that she liked my writing to me seemed a complete impossibility.

I was more surprised the day Sreemoyee herself came over and started talking to me.

At that time, I’d finished my MA in Bengali and was looking for a job while writing on the side. One morning, sitting on Dulal’s tea-shop bench and smoking, I saw her rickshaw pull up. She paid, walked straight over, and beamed her hello—our faces were familiar, but we’d never spoken before.

“Shrikumar Basu?” she asked. 

“Yes. And you’re Miss Ghoshal—Sreemoyee? You live in that pink house, right?” 

“Yes!”—she brightened even more—“I read your ‘Smriti Sandhya’ in the Puja magazine. I loved it. Since then, I have kept drifting between Smriti, the memory, and Sandhya, the twilight.” She smiled, dodging my cigarette smoke.

 

“Thank you,” I said quietly, crushing out my half-finished cig.

“Oof, you wasted it?” 

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s nothing. They say passive smoking’s even worse, you know. But what really surprises me is that you read Bengali books at all.”

She tilted her head, giving me a look both challenging and playful. “Why, is Bengali not my mother tongue?”  

“Of course. It’s just that English-medium-taughts these days usually don’t care for it. But you’re different, and I like that.”

She suddenly changed tone, as only women can: “But I do have a complaint about your story.” 

My pulse quickened. “Go ahead.” 

“You were far too cruel to Sandhya. The poor girl—she received nothing from life, not even the comfort of her boyfriend, Rajat. She faded away, just… disappeared, swept into silence.”

“That’s the nature of twilight, isn’t it?” I replied, a gentle smile playing at my lips. “It’s only ever a brief wonder before the dark.”

She pondered this, lips parted in surprise. “I never thought of it like that! And even the name ‘Smriti’—there’s a double meaning, isn’t there?”

I simply smiled, letting silence do the work.

“You wove it in so delicately,” she marvelled, “I’d never have caught on if you hadn’t told me.”

“That’s what happens,” I said, tracing an imaginary stage in the air, “When you reach a certain height, people start seeing all kinds of layers in your work—sometimes more than the author ever intended.”

“Oh, stop, now you’re just being modest,” she said with a laugh.

“Not at all. Remember that Satyajit Ray film with the street scene where a lamp post light was out? Critics came up with all kinds of hidden meanings, but later the director admitted he hadn’t even noticed it! Can you imagine?”

Sreemoyee burst out laughing.

That was the beginning. From then on, whenever we met—sometimes on Dulal’s bench, sometimes at the riverside in the evening—we’d chat, most often about literature and cinema. Our conversations got closer; we even dropped the formalities. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking maybe Sreemoyee liked me. I found myself caring more about how I dressed, and even began using a cheap cologne to hide any stink of sweat.

Then, one day, when I got a little too close, Sreemoyee suddenly drew back. In a low voice, she scolded me, “No, Shrikumarda, no. I respect you. Don’t lower yourself like this…”

My ears tingled with humiliation—a deep, invisible blush blooming in my dark skin, not the easy crimson of the fair, but an inward bruise. That night, washing my face, I discovered myself all over again in the mirror: short, dark, thinning hair, pockmarked, oily cheeks. No one would lend a hand even if a bull hit me in the street. Good looks win everywhere.

After learning my place, I started avoiding Sreemoyee. Heard from whispers that she was seeing Jyotishman now. The sting never faded. Every encounter with her felt like brushing against nettles. I decided I had to leave this small town, to get away from her.

By then, I’d decided writing would be my profession. Things started out okay—some stories and a few books got published. But the money wasn’t enough, so I reluctantly took up some tutoring jobs. I learned firsthand that unless you’re a big name, writing Bengali stories doesn’t pay the monthly bills.

Meanwhile, Jyotishman had finished engineering and was off doing management studies in Ahmedabad, busy crafting his glittering career beyond our small world.

That’s when I got a call from Mumbai. A Bengali director there was blown away by my novel “Smriti Sandhya” and wanted to adapt it into a Hindi TV serial. He’d spoken to some famous actresses for the lead roles and was willing to pay a good sum for the rights, plus pay per script episode.

The money was much more than what I’d ever earned writing, and going to Mumbai also meant leaving Sreemoyee—and the past—behind. So, one day, I packed my bags and left for Mumbai.

 

Luck was on my side. “Smriti Sandhya” got great TRPs and more scriptwriting jobs quickly followed—but sadly, none were based on my own novels. I got caught up translating others’ stories for TV, sacrificing my own creativity in the process. The next five or six years flew by in work; the money was decent, but I didn’t even notice when my creative spark faded away.

 Nothing lasts forever. A few flopped serials later, scriptwriting offers dried up. I was left with no work and, after ages, turned back to my own writing. I tried finishing the half-written novels I’d set aside, only to find my writing had lost its edge. There’s a huge difference between writing someone else’s script and creating your own plot from scratch. Six years back, when I first moved to Mumbai, publishers and editors would invite me to write, but I’d been too busy to accept. Now, when I approached those same publishers, they ignored me—no one replied to letters or emails; the phone just rang, and no one picked up. Nature abhors a vacuum and, sure enough, new talented writers had taken my place.

 When funds dried up, I left Mumbai and returned to my little hometown in West Bengal. After leaving the city, I barely had any contact with Sreemoyee, though I heard she’d married Jyotishman. This time, in the one month since I’d been back, I hadn’t seen her—seems she’d moved away with her husband.

 After facing rejection after rejection, one day I took my new novel manuscript to my old publisher in Kolkata, hoping a face-to-face would help. It didn’t. After a month with no reply, I called them.

 “Come on, sir,” they said, “nobody wants these relationship stories anymore. Write a fast-paced thriller based on a contemporary event—something with speed, some sex and violence added in. Otherwise, you’ll have to take the risk—self-publish. We’ll handle the process; you just cover the cost.”

I returned home that evening, stung by humiliation. At the station, I suddenly ran into Sreemoyee. She looked faded in a simple sari and blouse, tired and nothing like her old radiant self.

“Oh, Sreemoyee? You—you’re still living here?”

“Yes,” she replied, “after my father passed away, we sold the house and rented a place in Champatala now…”

Because Champatala was on the way to my house, I offered her a lift. She didn’t say much in the rickshaw, but I could tell things weren’t going well for them. Now she taught in a school in Howrah —a job not chosen, but endured. Life had cornered her. As she climbed down from the rickshaw, Sreemoyee Bagchi invited me to visit their home.

I went the next afternoon—not to bond, but out of curiosity. I mean, with an IIM-graduate husband, Mrs Bagchi should have been living abroad, or at least in some swanky high-rise in Delhi or Mumbai—definitely not in a ramshackle two-room rental in Champatala.

Jyotishman was home. The radiance of his youth was gone: a protruding belly, sagging pouches under his eyes. He greeted me with a forced enthusiasm, then proceeded to launch into a barrage of self-aggrandising stories. According to him, Bengalis know only boring nine-to-five jobs—he was determined to show the world otherwise. “Business success? Watch me,” he scoffed. 

He’d recently started a livestock venture—cows, goats, sheep—on a farm in Adisaptogram, supplying milk and meat. Poultry? Too pedestrian for him. He’d even leased a prawn enclosure in the Twenty-four Parganas, just to stay ahead. 

Only after this show did the real request surface: would I lend him a couple of lakhs? He had a cash flow issue, but he’d repay within a month or two, with interest.

I caught the quick, subtle shake of Sreemoyee’s head—she was silently begging me to refuse.

As I was leaving, Sreemoyee walked me downstairs. “Could you come by tomorrow, Shrikumar-da? Around noon? There’s so much I have to say… and Jyoti won’t be home then…”

I sensed forming of a new story; the lifeblood of any writer. The next day at two, I arrived at their flat. Sreemoyee was waiting, nervous but determined. She ushered me in. Sensing my unease, she tried to reassure me, “Don’t worry, Shrikumarda. Jyoti’s gone to Kolkata. He won’t be back till evening.”

“How did things end up like this?” I asked, idly scrolling through my phone.

“I’m really unhappy, Shrikumar-da. After his MBA, Jyoti landed two good jobs, but lost them both—caught stealing.”

“Stealing? Jyotishman?” I couldn’t believe it. As I fidgeted with my phone, I discreetly switched on the voice recorder. This might come in handy later.

 

What followed was an avalanche: sacked from his jobs, obsessively pursuing wacky business schemes, burning through bank loans, dodging debt collectors, finally forcing Sreemoyee to sell her ancestral home to pay off debts, forging her signature to empty their account, coming home every night dead drunk, hurling insults if she dared protest—and, in the end, forcing her to sleep with his rich friends.

“I never really knew him, Shrikumar-da. Beneath that golden exterior, I failed to see the greedy, foolish beast inside,” she sobbed. I put my hand on her back. Suddenly, she clung to me as though drowning, burying her face in my chest. “Save me, Shrikumar, please save me from this hell…” Her voice was ragged, desperate.

I’d written scenes like this for TV scripts. Emotion can sweep a woman off her feet ever so suddenly. I lifted her chin, kissed her deep on the lip. She didn’t resist this time. Her tongue twined with mine, hungry for comfort. I held her tightly and let her collapse onto her own bed.

 “Love me, Shrikumar...” she whispered.

 

The day after that incident, with the audio recording safe on my phone, I vanished to my uncle's house in Kolkata, making sure Sreemoyee could not find me, no matter how hard she tried. Calls from her kept coming; I let them ring. Her messages, I deleted unread. My mind was ablaze with the plot and permutations of a new novel. I needed solitude, an uninterrupted expanse of time.

 Seven months later, my new novel ‘Satidaha’ appeared in one of the most respected Puja annuals. It was the rise and fall of Sati Ghoshal, a beguiling beauty. I hadn’t simply transcribed Sreemoyee’s life—I darkened Sati with several more unforgiving brushstrokes. A woman, shrewdly using everyone to climb, who in the end is destroyed, manipulated into self-immolation by her own husband, Diptimoy. Around this framework, I wove in side characters, fateful coincidences, measured doses of sex and violence—without ever straining the boundaries of credibility. The narrative ended with Sati’s fiery death—was it self-inflicted, or was she murdered? I left that for readers to debate.

‘Satidaha’ was a huge hit—I had two publishers vying for rights, and people were talking about the book everywhere, in magazines and on social media.

 After ages, I saw Sreemoyee’s name flash across my phone screen. This time, I answered.

"Congratulations. After so long, I finally read something new from you. It’s very well written."

“How are you, Sreemoyee?”

“Why did you do it, Shrikumar-da? I never hurt you.”

In my heart, I retorted—You once held my hopes, then hurled me aside like an untouchable, remember? For your sake, I smothered my creativity, grinding out others’ scripts until I was hollow. Just as Delilah cut off Samson’s hair and left him powerless, you robbed me of my only gift. Isn't that harm? To reclaim what was stolen, I had to use you. Aloud, I just said, 

“Is it because some of your life found its way into ‘Satidaha’?”

“No,” she replied, “Not that. But how did Jyotishman learn everything that happened that afternoon, down to the last detail? Why did you tell him, Shrikumar-da? I trusted you. I was already burning, moment to moment. Why did you need to rub salt into my wounds?”

To myself, I thought—Didn’t you once go along with your husband’s wishes, share your bed for his gain? Now you claim to be the saint Sati?

“You told him, didn’t you?” Sreemoyee repeated.

After a long pause, I said, “Why don’t you ask him how he found out?”

Sreemoyee hung up.

***

I heard the news of Sreemoyee Bagchi’s death two days later, in the paper. A tiny column, ten lines at best, with the headline: "Housewife Immolates Herself." They found a suicide note. Even then, her husband Jyotishman was in police custody—the authorities weren’t ruling out murder.

I was deeply disappointed!

I’d expected Sreemoyee to discover that I’d sent that afternoon’s audio clip to Jyotishman; I’d hoped she’d confront me, demand to know why, and I’d relish her helpless rage. The game had just begun. But she slipped out just like that, vanishing in flames. Damn. She ruined the fun.

 

Mumbai 

15 March 2024