Mei’s Wallet
Bashari Chakraborti
“How is it you have a man’s wallet, Mei?” I asked my great-grandmother as she extracted her wallet from the inner folds of her jainsem, woven from top-quality mulberry silk. The question had been brewing within me for some time now, bubbling up like the steam from the tea kettle on our stove.
I had just started going to school and had started noticing things. Men wear shirts with pants and carry wallets. Women wear skirts with blouse or jainsem with blouse and carry purses.
Mei’s eyes twinkled, and she settled onto the creaky wooden chair, the wallet cradled in her lap.
“Gifted, Keith,” she replied, her voice a low murmur. “By an Englishman.”
The room seemed to hold its breath. An Englishman in Shillong? The hills were our sanctuary, removed from the bustling huge cities. How had Mei met him? Had he come to Shillong seeking adventure or solace? Had Mei ever travelled to England? How old was that wallet? How is it that there was always some money in her wallet?
My mind raced with questions, but I dared not voice them all.
“Why a wallet?” I pressed, my voice barely audible. “Why not a purse?”
Mei’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes in a storm. She turned in the creaky chair and levelled her gaze at me. Then she just shrugged and looked away.
I lost the courage to prod her anymore. I was just used to the way our family behaved around Mei. We obeyed her; no one asked any questions. Even Papa, who danced on the edge of Mei’s generosity, knew better than to pry.
Papa would always send me to Mei to get pocket money for my candies and school stationery. And he would skim away more than half the money Mei gave me. “Your Mei is rich, Keith” he would say. “Her wallet is always full. She retired from the Meghalaya Electricity Board as a senior officer. She has a fat pension.”
Mei would often shout at Papa. “Useless fellow. Living off my grand-daughter’s income. My dkhar son-in-law was a gem, God bless his soul. He treated my daughter like a princess. God bless her soul.”
When the Khasis call someone “Dkhar,” it’s their subtle way of saying, “You’re an outsider, but we mean it in the nicest possible way.” Mamma told me Mei had been quite cross at her daughter for choosing a Dkhar husband. But when he and Mamma’s mother passed away leaving behind a tiny, helpless baby, Mei, with a chilling calm, took my baby Mamma in and granted a posthumous pardon to her son-in-law for being a Dkhar.
When I was ten, Mei fell very sick. Mamma took her to many doctors and hospitals. She even took a month’s leave from office and took Mei to a Khasi herbal hospital. Mamma stayed with Mei to take care of her.
Only Papa and I were at home. “My bidi packet is over Keith. Get your Mei’s wallet,” he said, his eyes darting like a thief. I got the wallet. Papa took all the money. Then as though on an impulse he kept a two-rupee note back into the wallet. “For your toffees, Keith,” he muttered, guilt etching lines on his face.
The next day Papa said, “I need kwai. Get that two rupee note I left in Mei’s wallet.” He seemed to have forgotten he had kept it there for me to buy toffees.
I got the wallet and found two two-rupee notes. Papa looked at me weirdly but took only one note and left. I had also started chewing kwai lately. Kwai, the Khasi betel nut would bring a lot of warmth when I walked home from school in the chilly weather. I decided to spend the last two-rupee note in Mei’s wallet for my kwai.
The next day, in the midst of my Maths period, I was called out of class. Papa was there, waiting to take me home. A chill ran down my spine as he quietly said, “Mei is gone.” She had passed away that morning.
As we reached home, the scene was surreal. A crowd had gathered around Mei, their murmurs blending into a haunting chant. I strained to hear, catching only fragments: “May she eat kwai in the house of God now.”
Mei’s passing left a void, but soon life settled into routine. Mamma kept Papa on a strict budget for his bidi, kwai and kyat. With Mei gone, he could no longer ask me to get money from her. He started drinking more kyat. God knows where he got the money from! Mamma said he stole from her purse.
The wallet remained, its secrets hidden, until one day, I remembered. That two-rupee note that was still there. I thought I would take it and buy some kwai. I took the wallet with me to the pan kwai shop. When I opened the wallet to pay the shopkeeper, I noticed two two-rupee notes. I paid the shopkeeper with one note and kept the other in the wallet.
I would buy kwai for myself and my friends. But still a two-rupee note would always remain in the wallet. Once when the ice-cream vendor had parked his cart in front of our school gate, I bought ice-cream for myself and my whole class. Ice-cream was quite a novelty in our hills back then, and money was in short supply in the hands of twelve and thirteen-year-old boys like us. So one can imagine the elation I felt when I treated my friends. I looked up to the sky and whispered a prayer for Mei. “May she eat kwai in the house of God.”
Every morning, I slipped the wallet into my pocket, and every night, I tucked it away in my cupboard. Mei’s wallet never seemed to run out of money. It was tempting to believe in its magic, but I was old enough to know better. Someone had to be replenishing it, and my best guess was Mamma.
Mamma had recently been promoted to Chief Engineer of the Public Works Department, yet she never increased Papa’s allowance. Their arguments over money were frequent and heated. I hated this atmosphere at home. So, in secret, I began transferring some of the wallet’s notes into Papa’s shirt pocket. And now his pocket never ran out of money and home seemed quieter and more welcoming.
“Please study hard, Keith”, Mamma scolded me after I failed my 11th exams. “I want you to become an engineer. With this performance you cannot crack the entrance exam. You will not get a seat under any quota.”
I hated going to 11th when all my friends went to 12th standard. I started bunking school and taking a taxi to someplace nearby like Jowai, Sohra, Dawki. Munching on local delicacies, puffing on a bidi, and sipping on some “exclusive” imported whisky from my trusty flask – pure bliss. I would then top it up with a kwai and a pan and take a taxi back home.
Mamma seemed to figure out that my expenses had increased. She must have started putting a lot of money in Mei’s wallet. Still, I never faced a situation when Mei’s wallet ran out of money.
Mamma was furious when they didn’t let me fill out the form for the 11th exams again because of my stellar attendance record. But maybe she wasn’t as mad as she pretended to be, considering she kept slipping cash into Mei’s wallet. I mean, what kind of mother who’s absolutely livid with her son for failing and dropping out of school would keep giving him money, right?
I’m sure Mamma had grand dreams of me marrying the youngest daughter of some fabulously wealthy family. Or better yet, the only daughter, just like dear old Papa did.
Years flew by. I did get married to the only heiress of a rich family. And Mamma facilitated our romance.
Akor worked at Mamma’s office. I met her when I started dropping and picking up Mamma every day in her car when she fractured her leg.
“Come with me, Akor. Keith will drop you home”, Mamma would tell her. And after Mamma got down, she would insist that I drop Akor home, a good ten kilometres from our house.
After our marriage, tradition led me to my wife’s parents’ home. I carried Mei’s wallet with me. Though I knew Mamma would not be there to put money in it, the wallet had become a part of me and I could not bear to part with it.
There, in the dim light of our shared cupboard, I placed Mei’s wallet. I had a faint hope Akor would hear my almost empty wallet’s call for sustenance and put a few notes in it.
The next day, my craving for whiskey decided to make an appearance. I hesitated, torn between pride and need. Could I ask Akor, my wife, or my new in-laws for money? Instead, I clutched Mei’s wallet and ventured to the wine shop.
“Give me the smallest bottle of my usual drink”, I said to the boy at the counter. The boy either did not hear me or because of habit handed me my usual size. I opened the wallet with shaky hands, praying to Mei. “Do not embarrass me before this guy, Mei. Please let there be enough money for this bottle.”
And of course, just like always, there was enough money for this bottle. And many more bottles after that. My wife had now taken on Mamma’s role, I presumed. Soon, Akor started pestering me to take on some work. I danced away, a master of excuses. In case I just had to take it on, I performed so badly that the employers threw me out. Once I could not escape the job of a salesman she’d got me at the biggest electronics showroom in Shillong. I managed to turn away some customers and fall on the wires of some TV sets, sending them hurtling to the ground. Akor shouted at me. She was so angry, her fury echoed Mei’s reproach of Papa.
But maybe she wasn’t as mad as she pretended to be, considering she kept slipping cash into Mei’s wallet. Just like Mamma had. No wife who was so angry with her husband for being lazy and a drunkard would give him so much money, right?
Some more time passed. Akor had got a promotion and a new boss. She spent more hours working and travelling with the new boss. When she was home, she just ignored me. My in-laws berated me like Mei berated Papa.
I hated being at home. I often went to Mamma’s house. But Papa was ill and Mamma was ill-tempered after her retirement. So, I hated it there too.
Loneliness drove me to the club, where cards whispered promises and fate dealt its hand. Strangely, despite all that she said and did, Akor kept putting money in Mei’s wallet, bailing me out of my gambling debts and refilling my whiskey glass. I was confident that Mei’s wallet would never run out.
One day, as the monsoon clouds clung to the hills of Shillong, I hurried to the club in a bid to outsmart the clouds with their threat of a downpour. I dashed into a man. An Englishman. An Englishman in Shillong? Is he here seeking adventure or solace? In seconds, my mind travelled the years back to Mei’s small room and creaky chair. Her wallet in the folds of her jainsem.
Shaking myself out from my reverie, I extended my hand. “I am Keith”, I said. “What is your name?”
“I am Keith too”, he said, shaking my hand. “Quite a coincidence, we deserve a hug”, he added, drawing me into a good ten-second hug.
We went in and sat at the card table. “Deal the cards”, I said to Englishman Keith. We played for a long time. As cards shuffled and fortunes wavered, I kept losing money.
“I will pay you right away Keith”, I said putting my hand in my pocket to draw out Mei’s wallet. Not finding it, I put my hand in my other pocket. I did not find it there too.
“This is the first time I have stepped out of home without my wallet,” I told Englishman Keith.
“My wallet,” he repeated after me and laughed out loud.
“Never mind Keith,” he said. “It is ok. All ok.”
Panic surged and I ran from the club, retracing my steps like a desperate detective in a bid to find Mei’s wallet. My lifeline.
I searched every place I had ever been to, every nook I had visited, every little corner I had frequented. Mei’s wallet had vanished into thin air.
A deep sense of misery engulfed me. I hardly ate, I hardly slept, I lay in a daze all day.
And then came the dreams—Mei’s voice, soft as moonlight, telling me. “Buy your own wallet, Keith,” she said. “Fill it with the sweat of your labor.” In those nocturnal visits from Mei, I glimpsed redemption—a path beyond dependency, where Mei’s wallet no longer held sway.
*
About the Author
Bashari Chakraborti works a day job of crunching numbers but is enchanted by the world of words. Her writing journey began on her blog. She wrote her first novel, "My Slice of the Sky," which won the Ukiyoto Woman Writer of the Year 2024 - Fiction award. She has also penned several short stories, with this one being awarded the Deodar Prize runner-up spot and another making the shortlist for the BWW RK Anand Prize and Out of Print Magazine. Bashari finds inspiration in everyday life, firm in her belief that even the dullest moments can spark a good story—or a laugh!