19

Apu had not yet told anyone about this—not even his Didi.

The other day, at noon, when he had stealthily opened his father’s book-laden wooden trunk, he had discovered this strange secret in one of the books inside.

The shadow of the bamboo grove in the courtyard had not yet stretched long from east to west; it was high noon, and the shade lay pooled in one spot, like the shadow of that ancient ashwattha tree on the vast plains of Sonadanga.

One afternoon, in his father’s absence, he shut the door to the room and secretly opened the book-trunk. With breathless eagerness, he began opening one book after another, looking at the pictures for a while, then checking to see if there were any good stories written inside. He opened one book and saw its name written on the cover: Sarva-darsana-sangraha. He did not understand a single thing about what this meant or what subject the book was on. The moment he opened it, a troop of silverfish scurried out from under the faded marbled paper and scattered for their lives. Apu brought the book to his nose and took a sniff. What an old smell! He adored this scent from the thick, earth-coloured pages—it always reminded him of his father. Whenever he caught that scent, for some reason, it made him think of his father.

The binding was of very old marbled paper, and the cover had flaked off in several places. It was this old book that held the greatest fascination for him. And so, he hid it under his pillow, put the other books back, and closed the trunk.

It was in this very book, which he read in secret, that he one day came across the most peculiar thing! A thing that would startle a person to hear, but there it was, written in the book in printed letters; he had read it himself. Describing the properties of mercury, the author had written that if you fill a vulture’s egg with it and leave it in the sun for a few days, then place that egg in your mouth, you will gain the power to travel through the sky.

Apu could not believe his own eyes. He read it again—and again.

Later, after hiding the book in his own little broken-lidded trunk, he went outside and was lost in wonder as he mulled over the words.

He asked his Didi, “Do you know where vultures build their nests, Didi?”

His Didi could not say. He asked the boys of the neighbourhood—Satu, Nilu, Kinu, Patal, Nera—all of them. Someone said, not here; on a tall tree in the north fields. His mother scolded him, “Where do you wander off to in the middle of the afternoon!” Apu went inside and pretended to lie down to rest. He opened the book and read that passage again. Astonishing! Did no one know of this easy way to fly? Perhaps no one else’s house had this book, only his father’s; perhaps no one else had ever read this part, and it was his eyes alone that had chanced upon it after all this time.

He buried his face in the book and inhaled again—that old, old smell! Any remaining disbelief about the truth of what was written in it vanished from his mind.

There was no need to worry about the mercury—he knew parad meant quicksilver. There was mercury on the back of mirrors, and they had a broken mirror at home; he could manage that. But where was he to get a vulture’s egg?

Some days, after the midday meal, his Didi would call out, “Come and listen, Apu, come see something fun!” Then she would take a handful of rice from her plate, go into the bamboo grove by the house’s back gate, and call out, “Aay, Bhulo-tu-u-u-u!” Having called, Durga would look at her brother with a smiling face and wait in silence, as if the gate to some fabulous land of mystery were about to open before their very eyes. As the dog suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, Durga would raise her hand and exclaim, “There he is! Did you see where he came from?” She giggled with delight.

Day after day, Durga found immense amusement in this business of feeding the dog. You call out, and there’s no one anywhere, all is quiet around you! Placing the rice on the ground, Durga would close her eyes; her heart would thump with a flutter of hope and curiosity; she would think to herself, Maybe Bhulo won’t come today. Let’s just see where he comes from! Could he have heard me from so far away today?

Suddenly, a sound from the dense thicket!

In the blink of an eye, tearing through the jungle of creepers and leaves, panting, Bhulo would arrive like a shooting star from some unknown place.

At once, a thrill would run through Durga’s entire body. Her face and eyes would light up with wonder and amusement. She would think to herself, He hears me perfectly! But where does he come from? All right, tomorrow I’ll try calling just a little more softly and see if he can still hear me.

To savour this pleasure, she would endure her mother’s scolding and, at every meal, eat a little less herself just to save some rice on her plate for the dog.

Apu, however, could not find what was so amusing about his sister’s calling the dog. He had no time for his Didi’s girlish pastimes. He did not even glance at the gaunt dog eating greedily, but thought only of the vulture’s egg.

At last, he found a lead. At the foot of Hiru the barber’s jackfruit tree, the cowherds would tie up their cattle and go to the householders’ homes to ask for oil and tobacco. Apu went and spoke to his neighbourhood’s cowherd. “You all wander through so many fields—do you ever see a vulture’s nest? If you can bring me a vulture’s egg, I’ll give you two paisa.”

Just four days later, the cowherd came to the front of their house and called for him. From a pouch at his waist, he produced two small, dark-coloured eggs and said, “Look here, Thakur, I’ve brought them.” Apu quickly stretched out his hand. “Let me see.” Then, turning them over and over with delight, he said, “Vulture’s eggs! Are you sure?” The cowherd presented a mountain of proof. There was no reason to doubt whether they were vulture’s eggs; he had risked his own life to collect them from the top of some tall tree somewhere, but he would not give them for less than two annas.

Hearing the price, Apu saw only darkness. “I’ll give you two paisa,” he said. “And will you take my cowrie shells? I’ll give you all of them, a whole tin canister of cowries—all of them. The big, golden-hued ones—want to see? I’ll show you!”

The cowherd seemed far shrewder than Apu in worldly matters. He would not agree to anything other than cash. After much haggling, the price came to a standstill at four paisa. Apu begged and borrowed from his Didi, managed to collect two paisa, and paid the cowherd to take the two eggs. On top of that, the cowherd took some cowries as well. These cowries were Apu’s lifeblood; at any other time, he would not have parted with them even for half a kingdom and a princess’s hand, but what was a game of cowries next to the joy of flying in the sky!

Holding the eggs, his heart felt as light and buoyant as an inflated rubber balloon. At the same moment, a shadow of a doubt seemed to arrive in his mind, something that had not been there before; it appeared, ever so faintly, only after he had the eggs in his hand. Before evening, sitting by himself on the stump of the jamun tree that had been cut down near Nera’s house, he began to think: Will I really be able to fly? And where will I fly to? To my uncle’s village? To where Baba is? Across the river? To where that star has risen, high in the sky, like a shalik or a myna bird?

That very day, or perhaps the next, just before evening, Durga was looking for a scrap of cloth for a lamp wick. As she was rummaging through the pile of torn rags used for making wicks, which was tucked away beside the pots and pans on the shelf, something fell from behind her onto the floor with a thud. It was dark inside the room, and she could not see well. Durga picked it up from the floor, came outside, and said, “Oh my, two big eggs, what are they doing here? Ehh, they’ve fallen and smashed to bits! Look, Ma, what bird has laid eggs inside the house!”

It is best not to dwell on what happened next. Apu did not eat that night… there were tears… a great commotion. His mother recounted the story at the ghat: “The things this boy gets up to! Oh my, I’ve never heard of such a thing—have you, Sej-thakurjhi? That a person can fly with a vulture’s egg! That cowherd boy from their house, that little scoundrel, he must have told him. He went and got two crow’s eggs or something and told him, ‘Here, take these vulture’s eggs.’ And my son apparently bought them from him for four paisa. The boy is so naive, what can I even tell you, Sej-thakurjhi—what am I to do with this child?”

But how was poor Sarbajaya to know? Not everyone, after all, has read the Sarva-darsana-sangraha, nor does everyone know the properties of mercury.

Otherwise, wouldn’t everyone be flying in the sky?