Lady Chatterjee's Lover

CHAPTER ONE

A History of Her Story

In the sharp echoes of bird melodies on a fine summer morning, Lady Chatterjee, a war widow confined to her cottage and the two local shops near it, decided she had to do things differently.

As all sudden decisions go, hers had spurred because of the slippage of tolerance for the cruelty of ill-timed jokes, usually delivered by a relative or a padosi (neighbour). People, Lady Chatterjee had discovered, were a rather cumbersome sort for company and this was why her only interaction with them was in her villa on the death anniversary of her husband. The late colonel had died three months into their marriage, before Lady Chatterjee had even had a chance to kiss him.

Separation by war is a dedicated hurt that festers long after wars end, wars being a lot of old men talking and bragging and young men trying to prove their patriotism with death and sacrifice, which is barely remembered by the world after it ends. Death is the unavoidable factor here, and war is the avoidable one, but guess which one is chosen again and again.

Lady Chatterjee was only twenty nine now, her beauty the talk of the town, and her aloofness a snide comment coupled with that appreciation. As beauty goes, people like complimenting beautiful people for the said beautiful person in context to accept and be grateful for that appreciation. The failure to accept these compliments, the lack of acknowledgement creates a distaste that is not so easily washed away. This was the case with Lady Chatterjee. One of the most beautiful women in Calcutta, Lady Chatterjee had been married off to an army colonel without much consideration of her choice, or even meeting him in person. The dowry had been plenty and the promises of pride and honour to be added to the Chatterjee name had been abundant. Lady Chatterjee had had to take the bullet and forget all about the love of her life, a person so dear to her it had taken her 5 years for her to even come to terms with the grief that came with losing a love that had felt so alive, so enchanting. Her husband's death had never really maimed her, all her grief on his death anniversary was directed towards that lost love, a love that had disfigured her in permanent ways.

Love had changed Lady Chatterjee in ways that ensured the words of people, meant to strike her life knives, affected her less than stray leaves that would gather on her freshly cleaned porch - a bother, but then not really.

Lady Chatterjee often thought, what would have happened if she would've married the love of her life, the one love that promised a happiness that was both annihilation and salvation. Who doesn't wonder about the possibility of seeing through a first love? No matter how wrong or unlikely it seems? Who doesn't want to be one of those exceptions? Exceptions that turn into novels and films?

But those are only rare exceptions, Lady Chatterjee was made aware of that in the most brutal ways one can be made to understand reality, a slap in the face so hard it makes your ears ring.

That first love is where our story begins, and for Lady Chatterjee? That is where it ends everyday, because the passing of years does not dull the ache a first love leaves behind, if it ever leaves.