Hinglal

It was the morning of an October. The fragrance of fresh shiuli flowers fallen upon the dewy mowed lawn of the mansion had filled up the entire place like a magical rendition. It was the Pujo season in Kolkata and the city was filled with mirth and rejoice. However much beauty Hinglal wished outside the city was for within the walls of the mansion too, it was not possible now. For today, the fallen shiuli was for mourning. Hinglal’s master, Soumik Gangopadhyaya, and more fondly known as Ganguly Babu, was no more. But a grief-stricken and still dumbfound Hinglal had no time to mourn. He was busy with the preparations for his funeral.

Ganguly Babu was a renouned artist in the city of Kolkata, popular for his demonstration of the “little things of joy” as he called them, playing with his colours and bringing art to life. Ganguly Babu was a very generous man who loved helping the needy, but alas could never help himself. Ganguly Babu realised at a very early age that he was not akin to heterogamity. During his prime, talking or even thinking of anything of the sort would lead to social alienation and that is why Ganguly Babu decided to keep his mum about his affinities and released all of his energy in his artwork. His art made him great and he amassed an empire for himself! He never married, but was a family man. Ganguly Babu was especially fond of his brother’s daughter-in-law, Tara, who he adored like his own daughter. But Tara was not his favourite still. It was Hinglal – a boy of 12 he had called in for helping the family with the daily household chores 40 years ago. And over the course of time, Hinglal became a part of his family.

Hinglal worked in the family for about 40 years. He revered Ganguly Babu as his own, not just because he picked him up from the streets and gave him a life, but because he taught him how to read and write, a luxury only a handful people could afford in those days, and treated him like his own son. Today, after 40 years of servitude, Hinglal was seeing his worst nightmares come true. His master was dead.

Hinglal would wake up at 5 am every morning and make tea for his master – warm liquor tea with the morning newspaper, as his master preferred, to the mild tune of Rabindra Sangeet on the radio. By that time, Ganguly Babu would wake up too and wait in the verandah of the mansion for his daily cup of tea and bundle of newspapers. But that morning, when Hinglal went to the verandah with his master’s particulars, he did not find him there at all. Hinglal went to his bedroom to check if he was awake. Ganguly Babu was fast asleep. Hinglal was aware how the old age had taken a toll on Ganguly Babu’s health, so he let him sleep till he finished the rest of the chores. An hour later, when he saw Ganguly Babu was still not awake he went to check again and his worst nightmare came true. Hinglal immediately called the ambulance and Ganguly Babu’s younger brother and the rest unfolded very quickly.

It was around 2 PM now. The mansion was filled with police and guests from all over. His family members who had left him years back to his own misery were here too to lament over the departed soul, or to act so to get a hold of a share of his property. He saw Sumita Boudi (Bengali term for “sister in law”) crying her lungs out, when only a few months ago she had cursed Ganguly Babu of foulness and bias towards Tara Boudi, the youngest daughter-in-law in the family. None of these was surprising to Hinglal. After all, he had also grown old with Ganguly Babu seeing family feuds too. Hinglal kept himself distracted from the drama and the grief by busying himself in the kitchen, making tea for everyone. Everybody in the house consoled everyone, except one – Hinglal. What of him?

Hinglal carried the tray of tea cups to the living room where everyone was seated. The men in the family seemed to have been heatedly arguing over something.

Ganguly Babu’s brother said, “That’s enough! This was my late brother’s last wish and God forbid his soul will not be at peace if I do not honour it! Soumik sacrificed everything his whole life for the happiness of others. This is the least we can do.”

The advocate and police officer nodded.

Ganguly Babu’s brother called out to Hinglal and said, “We are all appalled by the sudden death of Soumik, Hinglal. You haven’t spoken a word. What is it?”

Hinglal paused for a minute and said, “Those shiuli flowers... they were all extra fragrant this morning. Now I know why... they wanted to make it easier for master’s sufferings to end.”

Everyone sighed. Ganguly Babu’s brother handed him a copy of a document that apparently everyone in the room had in their hands. It read:

“This is the Last Will and Testatment of myself, Soumik Ganguly, aged about 80 years, living in XXXXXXX, Kolkata, West Bengal.

I hereby bequeath the following properties to the following person in the event of my death:

1. My resort at Lonavla to Sumi, my neice, who lives in Mumbai, hoping that she will take good care of the property and the business.
2. My 2bhk apartment in Bhubaneshwar to my grandson, Bharat, who lives in Puri, hoping that he will use it for his personal residence.
3. 25% of the gold reserves to each of my brother’s daughters-in-law, Sumita, Bhargavi, Shailja and Tara, as a token of love and appreciation for their relentless care to me.
4. My Fixed deposits to my brother’s sons – Raichak and Utteerna.
5. All of my shares to my brother’s sons – Bashab and Binit.
6. The gold statue of Ganesh and the jewellery in the custody of the Family Jeweller to Tara, as well as the Insurance policy I made for her expecting child.
7. The bank reserves and silverware to my Brother.
8. The Mansion, car, and whatever else he wishes to Hinglal and a further sum of Rs. 3 Crores be deposited to Hinglal’s bank account even though his services to me and my family can never be repaid.

This Final Will and Testament shall be executed by my only brother. May God’s willing bring everyone happiness and prosperity.”

Hinglal started shivering in tears holding the paper in his hand. He did not understand much of it, but he definitely understood that he was being bequeathed an enormity of wealth that could never amass working as house-help. And that is when Hinglal cried. He never expected much of his master, but Ganguly Babu’s generosity gave away much more than he could have ever expected of his master. Hinglal was in a mix of emotions.

He said, “A man like him deserved to live longer.”

Sumita Boudi was not happy, nor was Shailja Boudi. But for what is worth, that one piece of paper that day proved that kindness and selflessness pays off in ways we can never understand.