18

That day, Apu had gone to the fishermens’ quarter to play with cowrie shells. It was well past two, perhaps even half-past two in the afternoon, and the sun was blazing. First, he went to Tinkori the fisherman’s house. Tinkori’s son, Banka, was in the shade of the guava tree, shaving down a strip of bamboo. Apu asked, ‘Hey, want to play cowries?’ Though he was keen to play, Banka said he had to go to the boat right away; his father would scold him if he played games. From there, Apu went to Ramcharan the fisherman’s house. Ramcharan was sitting on his veranda, smoking his hookah. Apu asked, ‘Is Hriday home?’ Ramcharan said, ‘Why are you looking for Hriday, Thakur? For a game of cowries, I suppose? Go on now, Hridey isn’t home.’

Wandering about in the midday heat had made Apu’s face flush. Disappointed after a few more stops, he was nearing the tamarind tree by Baburam Parui’s house when his face suddenly lit up with joy. A lively game of cowries was in full swing under the tree. All the players were boys from the fishermens’ quarter, save for Pattu, who was from the Brahmin quarter. Apu didn’t know Pattu very well, because Pattu lived in a part of the neighbourhood that was a long way from Apu’s own. Pattu was a little younger than him; Apu remembered that on his very first day at Prasanna Gurumashai’s pathshala, he had seen this same boy sitting quietly, stuffing a tal-leaf into his mouth and chewing on it. Apu went up to him and asked, ‘How many cowries have you got?’… Pattu pulled out his cowrie pouch to show him. It was a tiny pouch woven from red thread—a thing he was extremely fond of. ‘I brought seventeen,’ he said. ‘Seven of them are sona-gete. If I lose, I’ll go get more…’ Then he showed off the pouch and said with a smile, ‘How do you like it? This pouch can hold a whole pon of cowries.’

The game began. At first Pattu was losing, but then he started to win. Only a few days earlier, Pattu had discovered that his aim in the game of cowries had become unerring; it was this that had tempted him, with high hopes of a grand victory, to come so far. According to the rules of the game, whenever Pattu, from his position above, took careful aim and with a deft tuk of his large cowrie sent another shell spinning out of the playing square, his face would shine with boundless delight. Afterwards, he would gather his winnings, stuff them into his pouch, and, in a transport of greed and joy, glance at it again and again to see how much more was needed to fill it up.

A few of the fisherboys conferred among themselves. One of them said to Pattu, ‘You have to shoot from another hand’s-breadth away, Thakur. Your aim’s too good!’

‘Hey, why should I?’ Pattu said. ‘Is it a crime to have a good aim? Why don’t you win, then? I haven’t stopped any of you.’

Then he looked around and saw that all the fisherboys had banded together. Pattu thought, I’ve never won so many cowries before. I won’t play any more today—if I do, will I even be able to get these cowries home? And with an extra hand’s-breadth handicap! I’ll lose everything. Suddenly, he clutched the little pouch of cowries and said, ‘I’m not playing with a handicap. I’m going home.’… Then, seeing the looks on the fisherboys’ faces and the cruel glint in their eyes, he instinctively tightened his grip on his cowrie pouch.

One of them stepped forward and said, ‘Oh no you don’t, Thakur. Trying to run off with your winnings, are you?’… And with that, he suddenly grabbed Pattu’s hand, pouch and all. Pattu tried to pull free, but he wasn’t strong enough. He said, his face clouding over, ‘Hey, let go of my hand!’ Someone shoved him from behind. He fell to the ground, but he did not let go of the pouch. He understood that this was what they were trying to snatch! Once down, he tried with all his might to press the pouch to his stomach; but he was just a little boy, and not very strong at that—how long could he fight against the robust, older boys of the fishermens’ quarter? A moment later the pouch was knocked from his grasp and went flying, the cowries scattering in every direction.

It wasn’t that Apu hadn’t felt a little pleased at Pattu’s misfortune, for he too had lost many cowries. But seeing Pattu fall, and especially seeing him being beaten so helplessly, something clenched in Apu’s chest. He pushed through the crowd and went forward, saying, ‘He’s just a little boy, why are you hitting him? Hey, let him go—let go!’ He then tried to help Pattu up from the ground, but a fist from someone behind him struck him, and for a moment he could see nothing. Then, in the pushing and shoving, he too fell to the ground.

Apu would surely have received a merciless beating that day, for his girlish arms and legs had no strength, but just then Niren came down the path, and the opposing gang scattered. Pattu had been hurt quite badly; Niren helped him up and brushed the dust from his clothes. As soon as he had recovered a little, Pattu began looking all around him—of the scattered cowries, only one or two remained; the rest had vanished, even the cowrie pouch itself. Then he moved closer to Apu and asked, ‘Apu-da, you’re not hurt badly, are you?’

Niren scolded them both for coming so far, at high noon, to play cowries with the fisherboys. Niren had started a little pathshala for the neighbourhood boys in Annada Ray’s chandimandap to pass the time, and he urged them both to come and study there from the next day. As he walked, Pattu could think of only one thing: My beautiful cowrie pouch, the one I begged Chhibas for—it’s gone! If I win cowries and don’t want to play anymore, what business is it of theirs? It’s my choice!…

As soon as he got home, Apu said to Durga, ‘Didi, I left a bent stick near the post by the shiuli tree, and I suppose you’ve broken it in two?’

Durga had indeed broken it. ‘Oh, honestly! Such a fuss over a bent stick! Is your head so full of nonsense you think you won’t find another stick if you look in the bamboo grove? As if there’s a great shortage of sticks!’

Apu said with a crestfallen face, ‘Of course there is! You go find me a stick just like it! I spend ages finding one, and you just break it to pieces—that’s just great!’

Tears welled in his eyes.

Durga said, ‘I’ll get you as many as you want, what’s there to cry about?’

The bent stick was a strange and wonderful thing in Apu’s life. The moment he held a dry, light, bent stick—thick at the base and tapering at the end—his mind would thrill with delight, and strange fantasies would awaken. With a bent stick in hand, he could wander alone all morning or all afternoon along the paths of the bamboo grove or by the river; he would imagine himself a prince, a tobacconist, a traveller, a general, or even Arjun from the Mahabharata, and he would murmur to himself, narrating imaginary events that, were they to happen to him in that state, would fill him with joy. The lighter the stick and the more perfectly bent it was, the more complete his joy and his fantasies became; but Apu knew just how difficult it was to find such a stick. He had to search for ages to find a single one.

Apu tried his utmost to ensure that no one ever saw him wandering about with his bent stick. He feared that if people saw him talking to himself in this way, they would think he was mad, or something else, and so he took care to avoid crowded places or anywhere someone might suddenly appear, preferring to roam by the river, along the secluded paths of the bamboo grove, or under the tamarind tree behind their own house. He was extremely careful that no one should see him in this state. If, on a rare occasion, someone did happen upon him, he would immediately bite his tongue in embarrassment and drop the stick, lest they think something of it—he felt a terrible shame about it.

Only his sister knew. Didi had caught him in this state once or twice, so what was the use of hiding it from her? That was why he asked her plainly about the bent stick. With anyone else, Apu would never have been able to mention it for shame; although no one knew of the mysterious relationship between Apu and his bent stick, Apu felt as though everyone knew, and that if he spoke of it they would all mock him for being mad. Who could possibly understand that, if he got his hands on a bent stick, he could forget all about eating and drinking and spend the whole day alone by the river or on some deserted forest path in a state of sublime bliss!…

He had pleaded with his sister, ‘Don’t tell Ma about this, Didi!’… Durga had not told.

She knew Apu was a little mad. A great wave of affection would wash over her for him, her little, foolish, darling brother. What was the point of telling Ma about these things?…

The day before the Madhu-sankranti festival, Sarbajaya told her son, ‘Go invite your Master-moshai for tomorrow—tell him to have his midday meal here.’

The meal consisted of coarse-grained rice, papaya dalna, fig shuktuni, banana-stem ghonto, prawn curry, banana fritters, and payesh.

Her mother had put Durga in charge of serving. Utterly clumsy, she placed the bowl of dal before the guest with such fearful caution it was as if she expected someone to start scolding her at any moment. Niren was not used to eating such coarse rice; he had no idea how people could eat curries cooked with so little oil and ghee. The payesh was made with watery, diluted milk; one taste was enough to dampen half his enthusiasm for the dessert. Apu, however, was eating with great joy and gusto; only once or twice before had their house seen such a feast—for him, this was a memorable, festive day! ‘Have a little more payesh, Master-moshai…’ He himself was repeatedly asking his sister for this and that.

When he returned home, Gokul’s wife said with a smile, ‘Do you like Dugga, Thakurpo? She’s lovely to look at. Ah! A poor man’s daughter, her father has no money. Who knows whose hands she’ll fall into? She’ll suffer her whole life long. Why don’t you marry her, Thakurpo? You’re from a matching family, and the girl is divine. What a lovely, doll-like pair the brother and sister make!…’

Returning from the survey camp, Niren took the path through the mango orchard behind the village. As he made his way down a narrow, overgrown track, he saw a girl emerge from the orchard onto the path ahead of him. He recognised her—Apu’s sister, Durga. He asked, ‘Hello there, is this your family’s orchard?’

Durga looked back over her shoulder, grew shy, and said nothing.

She then stood to the side of the path to let Niren pass. ‘No, no,’ Niren said, ‘you go on ahead. It’s a good thing I ran into you. I ended up by a pond over that way and have been exhausted trying to find the path. The forests you have in this part of the country!’

As she walked, Durga suddenly stopped and tried to crane her neck to look at Niren’s face. As she did, a few fruits of some kind fell from inside her sari onto the path.

‘Something just fell, little one!’ said Niren. ‘What fruits are those?’

Bending down to pick them up, Durga said hesitantly, ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Wild yams.’

‘Wild yams? Are they good to eat? How do you eat them?’

Durga found this question extremely curious. That a learned man with spectacles did not know something a five-year-old child knew! She said, ‘You don’t eat this fruit, it’s bitter.’

‘Then why were you—’

In a bashful tone, Durga said, ‘I was just taking them—to play with.’… She remembered that it was about this boy with the spectacles that her aunt had jokingly spoken of her marriage. She was terribly curious to get a good look at him. But she hadn’t been able to on the day of the Madhu-sankranti festival, and she couldn’t today, either.

‘Tell Apu to bring his books tomorrow morning—will you tell him?’

As she walked, Durga nodded in assent.

A little further on, she pointed to a side path and said, ‘It’ll be a very direct route for you if you take this path.’

‘All right, I’ll find my way now,’ said Niren. ‘Let me walk you a little further. Can you go on your own?’

Durga pointed with her finger and said, ‘That’s our house just a little way on. I can go this little bit by myself. You don’t need to—’

Niren had never had a good look at Durga before. Only in her brother Apu had he seen such beautifully expressive eyes. It was as if the deep, cool, verdant calm of a secluded village path lined with mango and bakul trees lay half-slumbering within those large eyes. The dawn had not yet broken; the lazy dark of night’s end still clung to them. And yet, they brought to mind the morning, the waking of so many slumbering eyes, the trips of so many maidens to the ghat, the nectar-filled festival of new awakenings in house after house, the fragrance of incense at window after window.

Durga stood for a while, fidgeting. Niren thought she was trying to remember something she wanted to say. ‘No, little one, let me walk you a bit further,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll pass by the front of your house.’

Durga hesitated, then smiled, pressing her lips together. Niren felt that she was about to speak now. But in the next moment, Durga shook her head to indicate that he need not accompany her, and set off on the path towards her home.

It was midday. Coming up to the roof to collect the laundry, Gokul’s wife peeked in at the door of Niren’s room. In the heat, Niren had tossed and turned on his bed for a while before giving up on sleep, spreading a mat on the floor, and starting a letter home.

Gokul’s wife laughed and said, ‘You’re not asleep, Thakurpo? I thought you must have fallen asleep. You barely touched the banana-flower ghonto today—you left it on your plate. You ate it all the other day.’

‘Come in, Boudi. How could I eat the ghonto? Such rustic ways; it was so spicy I could barely see what I was eating—which part was the ghonto and which was what?’

Gokul’s wife leaned her head against the doorframe and, out of habit, stood with the lower half of her face pressed into her sari-end.

‘Heavens, Thakurpo, you’re putting on such city airs! Is it that no one where you come from eats even that little bit of spice?’

‘Forgive me, Boudi, but if that was “that little bit,” then I’m not leaving this place without trying your “a lot”! Whatever will be, will be—in for a penny, in for a pound! Go on then, one day, cast aside all shame and put in as much chilli as you like.’

‘Oh, what will become of me! Do you think I’ve put away my grinding stone out of shame, Thakurpo? Just listen to him—says he’s in for a penny…’ Laughter brought tears to her eyes. After composing herself, she said, ‘So, what’s the heat like where you are, Thakurpo?’

‘Where I am? In Calcutta, or out west? How hot it is out west, how could you possibly understand from here! You can’t understand it from Bengal. In the month of Baisakh, can anyone sleep inside at night? You have to douse the roof with water in the evening to cool it down and then sleep there at night.’

‘And the place where you live, how far is it from here?’

‘It’s about a two-day journey by train from here. If you board the morning train at Majherpara station today, you’ll arrive late tomorrow night.’

‘Tell me, Thakurpo, I’ve heard that around Gaya and Kashi they’ve cut through mountains to lay the railway tracks—is that true?’

‘It’s true. Huge mountains, covered in jungle on top—when the train goes through them, it’s completely dark, you can’t see a thing. They have to light the lamps inside the carriages.’

Gokul’s wife asked eagerly, ‘But don’t they collapse?’

‘Why would they collapse, Boudi? Great big engineers built the tunnels, they spent so much money. You think they’d just collapse? Is this the step-ghat at Raypara that’s crumbling twice a day?’

Gokul’s wife could not understand what an ‘engineer’ was. She asked, ‘Is the mountain made of earth or stone?’

‘There are some of earth, and some of stone. No, Boudi, you are a complete village rustic. Tell me, how far have you ever travelled by train?’

Gokul’s wife laughed again with amusement. Squeezing her eyes almost shut and tilting her face up slightly in a childlike manner, she said, ‘Oh, I’ve been so far—all the way to Kashi, Gaya, Mecca! That time a few years ago, I went with my husband’s aunt and Satu’s mother to see the Jugal Kishor temple at Aranghata. That was the one and only time in my whole life I’ve been on a train!’

This young woman could, in a short time and from the slightest thread of conversation, weave around herself a net of laughter and amusement that Niren found delightful. She was one of those people who have such an inexhaustible store of joy in their hearts that, with or without reason, the inner spring of delight overflows its vessel and infects others. These days, Niren found himself secretly waiting for her to appear—and feeling disappointed when she didn’t; he even felt a little secret pang of wounded pride.

‘Well, Boudi, why don’t all of you come, and I’ll take you on a tour of the west.’

‘The people of this house are going to go touring the west! You are a strange one, Thakurpo! Who would stand guard over the brinjal fields on the north pasture then?’

At the end of her sentence, she let out another peal of mocking, amused laughter. A moment later, growing serious, she said in a low voice, ‘Listen, Thakurpo, will you do something for me?’

‘What is it? Tell me first.’

‘I’ll tell you if you agree!’

‘I can’t sign a blank paper, Boudi! I’m studying law, you know. First I’ll hear what it is, then I’ll give my answer.’

Gokul’s wife left the doorway and came into the room. From within her sari she took out a paper-wrapped bundle and said, ‘Will you keep these earrings and give me five rupees?’

Niren asked in a tone of surprise, ‘Why, may I ask?’

‘I can’t tell you that now. Will you give it to me, Thakurpo?’

‘First tell me what the money is for. Otherwise—’

Gokul’s wife said in a low voice, ‘I’m sending it somewhere. Look, can you tell me what the address on this letter says in English?’

Niren read it and said, ‘Your brother, isn’t it, Boudi?’

‘Hush, hush, don’t you say a word to anyone in this house. He’s written asking for five rupees. Where would I get it, Thakurpo? You know how dependent I am. So I thought, these earrings—please give me the five rupees, Thakurpo. Does the poor boy have anyone else in this whole world?’… Gokul’s wife’s voice grew thick with tears.

Niren said, ‘I’ll give you the money, Boudi, be it five rupees or ten. You can pay me back whenever you can. But I can’t take the earrings—’

Gokul’s wife shook her head playfully and said with a smile, ‘That won’t do, Thakurpo. Oh, you are a fine one! And what if I die in your debt, and you—no, that won’t do. You must take them. All right, Thakurpo, I have a lot of work to do downstairs.’

She walked swiftly out of the room, but upon reaching the top of the stairs, she turned and came back, saying again in a low voice, ‘But don’t tell anyone about the money, Thakurpo! Not a soul—understand?’

From under the quilt, Durga called out with immense delight, “Opu, oh Opu!”

Apu had been awake, but until now he had not said a word. He answered, “Didi, will you close the window? Such a cold draught is coming in.”

Durga got up, closed the window, and said, “Do you know when Ranu’s didi’s wedding is? It’s not long now. It’s going to be a grand affair, with an English band. Have you ever seen an English band?”

“Yes, they all wear hats when they play, with these great big horns—and a massive drum. I’ve seen them. And they play another kind of horn, a black one, not so big, called a flute—such a wonderful sound it makes. Have you ever heard a flute?”

Durga was thinking about something else.

Yesterday afternoon, she had gone to visit Khurima in the other neighbourhood. After this and that, Khurima had asked, “Dugga, where was it you ran into Thakurpo?”

She had said, “Why, Khurima?”…Then she recounted the story of that day. In a playful tone, she had said, “He’d lost his way, Khurima, can you imagine—all the way to the Garh pond—deep inside that forest—”

Khurima had laughed and said, “I was just talking about you to Thakurpo yesterday. I was saying—‘She’s a poor man’s daughter, Thakurpo, her father hasn’t the means to give her anything, but she’s a very good girl—not like the girls of today, you know. Why don’t you take her?’ So Thakurpo was asking all about you—he said he’d seen you somewhere on the path to the ghat—that he’d lost his way and ended up somewhere—all that. And then for the last three days I’ve been saying I’ll have my father-in-law speak to your father. It seemed to me Thakurpo was agreeable; it seems you’ve caught his fancy—”

Durga let the calf out of the cowshed and tethered it in the sun, it was true, but on other days she at least did some of the housework, whereas today she had no desire for it at all. On some days, a mood like this would come over her; on those days she could not be confined within any boundary—something would lead her by the hand, wandering from lane to lane, from neighbourhood to neighbourhood. Today the breeze felt somehow beautiful, the morning neither warm nor cold, and there was the sweet scent of lemon blossoms in the air—something stirred in her mind, though she could not say what it was.

Leaving the house, she went over to Ranu’s. Bhuban Mukherjee was a man of means, and this was his first daughter’s wedding; it was going to be a very grand affair indeed. The firework-maker had come and was haggling over prices. Sitanath, the region’s most famous roshunchowki player, had also been booked. For the occasion, droves of relatives had begun arriving from various places. The courtyard was abuzz with their children.

A great joy filled Durga’s heart—in just a few more days, so many fireworks would be lit right here in this house. She had never seen any real fireworks, except for one she had seen once at the Gangulys’ Phuldol festival; it shot up into the sky with a whoosh, seeming to touch the very clouds before falling back down, a magnificent sight!… Apu called them haui-baji.

After midday, when her mother spread her anchal on the veranda floor and fell into a light sleep, she slipped out of the house again. It was the middle of Fagun, and the sun’s heat had grown intense. In a constant hot wind, the yellow leaves of the large neem tree in Ranu’s garden were twirling and twirling as they fell. There was no one about. From the direction of the Neras’ house, someone was banging on a tin can. There was a sound—a long, low bu-u-u-u. A kaachpoka! Almost without thinking, Durga quickly balled up her anchal in her fist and looked around with startled eyes.

Not a kaachpoka, but a sudarshan beetle.

The fistful of her anchal loosened on its own. She began to approach the beetle on tiptoe, full of eagerness. It had settled on the path ahead, its wings marked with tiny dots, like flecks of white and red sandalwood paste.

A sudarshan beetle—not really an insect, but a god. To see one was a great stroke of luck—she had heard this from her mother, and from many others. She cautiously sat down on the dust, then touched her hand first to her forehead and then brought it near the beetle, repeating over and over in a rapid chant—Sudarshan, keep us safe and well… Sudarshan, keep us safe and well… Sudarshan, keep us safe and well (this was the exact phrase she had heard others say). Then she added a few words of her own to the mantra—Keep Apu well, keep Ma well, keep Baba well, keep Khurima from the other neighbourhood well—then, after a moment’s thought and hesitation, she said—keep Nirenbabu well, Sudarshan, let my wedding be with him, and let there be fireworks and music, just like at Ranu’s didi’s wedding.

Overwhelmed by its devotee’s offerings, the beetle was spinning around in the dust in distress. Durga, having prayed to her heart’s content, reverently stepped around it and went on her way.

Through the gaps in the trees and plants along the neighbourhood paths, she could glimpse the sky of early Fagun, a deep blue, almost the colour of a peacock’s throat.

Through the middle of the sheora thicket ran the narrow path to the river ghat. On both sides of the lane were mango groves. The hot breeze, sweet with the scent of mango blossoms, was cooled by the drone of bees and jewel beetles in the woods, the cuckoo’s call in the shade-deepened groves.

Beyond the gardens lay the field of Chorkotola. Shadows had fallen across the grassy expanse. Durga searched for seyakul berries among the bushes—there weren’t many left now; they fall from the branches at the end of winter. Just the other day she had eaten so many seyakul from a tree in the middle of that high mound, but there were none left now. They had all fallen; dried berries like peppercorns lay carpeting the ground beneath the dense bushes. A flock of shalik birds was chirping inside a thicket; as Durga drew near, they flew away.

Another powerful wave of happiness washed over her. The nearness of the festival, the prospect of staying up all night at Ranu’s didi’s basor and listening to the songs—

In her joy, she felt like running from one end of the field to the other.

She spread her arms out wide like wings, spun around a few times, and then ran for a short distance. She wanted to fly!… The body was a light thing, after all—if only she could cut through the air, her arms spread like wings!

For the sheer pleasure of the sound, she deliberately stomped on the heaps of dry, fallen leaves, walking on with a loud crunch-crunch. The breaking leaves filled the air with a dusty, dry smell, part earthy, part bitter.

A little way ahead lay the dirt road that led towards the Sonadanga field. A bullock cart was heading down the country path, its wheels creaking and groaning. A frame of freshly cut bamboo twigs had been erected, with a quilt and a torn red-bordered sari draped over it to form a canopy. Inside the canopy, a little girl was crying in the monotonous, relentless way of a child as the cart moved along—probably a peasant girl from some village, on her way from her father’s house to her husband’s.

Durga stared, transfixed, at the cart.

After the wedding, she would have to leave them all—Ma, Baba, Apu—and go somewhere far, far away, just like that. Would they even let her come back whenever she wanted? She hadn’t thought about this until now—this garden, the vasaka bushes, Rangi the cow, the jackfruit tree in the courtyard that she loved so much, this smell of dry leaves, the path to the ghat—to leave all this behind forever! The little girl inside the canopy was probably crying for this very reason.

Just beyond the dirt road, after crossing another small, fallow field, was the river.

Were the fishermen on the other side catching any fish? Khoyra? If they came to this bank, she could buy two paisa worth and take them home. Apu loved to eat khoyra fish.

After returning home, in the evening, she spent a long time arranging her doll’s box. Her mother, while trying to fill the lamp, had spilled a lot of kerosene on the floor; its smell filled the air, and the breeze felt a little warm. She had almost finished arranging the dolls when Apu came in and said, “Did you take the little mirror from my box, Didi?”

“Hmph. That mirror is mine. I’m the one who found it first, under the bed. Go on, I’m keeping the mirror in my box. What’s a boy going to do with a mirror anyway?”

“What do you mean, it’s your mirror? Ma brought that mirror from Khurima’s house for some festival, and I asked her for it first. No, Didi, give it back.”

Before he had finished speaking, he sat down by his sister’s doll’s box and began rummaging inside for the mirror.

Durga slapped her brother across the cheek. “You little rascal! Here I am arranging my dolls and you come and start making a mess of everything. Get out! You’re not to touch my box. I won’t give you the mirror!”

But before she could finish, Apu threw himself at her, pouncing on her neck, pulling at her rough tangle of hair, scratching and biting until she was beside herself. In a voice choked with tears, he cried, “Why did you hit me? Don’t you think it hurts? Give it back! I’ll tell Ma! I’ll tell her you stole the alta from Lakshmi’s basket!”

At the mention of stealing the alta, Durga flew into a rage. Grabbing her brother’s ear and shaking him, she landed several slaps, one after another. “I took the alta? I took the alta, you good-for-nothing, mischievous monkey? And what about you? You prized the cowrie shells off Lakshmi’s basket and hid them. Shouldn’t I tell Ma about that?”

Hearing the shouts, cries, and sounds of fighting, Sarbajaya came running.

By then, Durga had her hand clamped on Apu’s ear and had nearly forced him to the ground. Apu, for his part, was clutching a fistful of Durga’s hair with all his might, pulling so hard that Durga couldn’t lift her head.

Apu had been hurt more. Crying, he said, “Look, Ma! She took my mirror out of my box and put it in hers. And she won’t give it back. She slapped my cheek so hard.”

Durga protested, “No, Ma, look, I was arranging my doll’s box, and he came and—”

Sarbajaya came and landed several heavy blows between her daughter’s shoulder blades. “A great big girl like you! Why do you have to lay a hand on him all the time? Don’t you know there’s a big difference between him and you? A mirror! What in God’s name do you need a mirror for? With every little thing, she goes and attacks him. To hell with it! The doll’s box… just you wait—”

Without finishing her sentence, she snatched up her daughter’s neatly arranged doll’s box and, with a single pull, flung it out into the courtyard.

“A great big girl with nothing to do but eat and roam from house to house! And it’s always the doll’s box, the doll’s box! I’m going to take all this junk and throw it in the bamboo grove right now! I’ll put an end to your games once and for all!”

Not a word came out of Durga’s mouth. The doll’s box was her life; ten times a day she would arrange it—the dolls, the tinsel, the dyed scraps of cloth, the custard apple, the nat fruits collected with so much effort, the tin-framed mirror, the bird’s nest—everything was now scattered somewhere in the dark courtyard. She could never have imagined that her mother could so mercilessly throw her doll’s box away! It held so many things, gathered with such difficulty from so many places.

Not daring to say a word, she stood there, stunned.

Even to Apu, the punishment seemed too harsh. He said nothing more, went quietly to his bed, and lay down.

It was late. The smell of kerosene rose from the floor. Mosquitoes from the bamboo grove whined inside the room. After sitting for a long while, Durga went and lay down in silence.

Through the broken window, the Fagun moonlight fell on her bedding. From the direction of the ruined homestead, the sweet scent of lemon blossoms drifted in.

For a moment, she thought of getting up and gathering her doll’s box and the scattered things. Would anything be left by morning? All those precious things! But she didn’t have the courage. What if Ma hit her again for trying to get them?

A long time passed. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her. Apu called out fearfully, “Didi?” Before Durga could answer, Apu buried his face in the pillow and burst into loud sobs. “I won’t do it again… Don’t be angry with me, Didi… I beg you.” His voice was choked with emotion.

Durga was surprised at first. Then she sat up and tried to quiet her brother’s crying. “Don’t cry, shush, shush, if Ma hears she’ll scold me again. Shush, you mustn’t cry. Alright, I’m not angry. Don’t cry, silly. Shush.”

She was afraid that if their mother heard Apu crying, she might hit her again.

With much effort, she managed to stop her brother’s tears. Then, lying down, she began to tell him stories, especially the story of Ranu’s didi’s wedding. After this and that, Apu put a hand on his sister’s arm and whispered, “Can I tell you something, Didi? You’re going to marry the schoolmaster.”

Durga felt a pang of shame, but at the same time, an intense curiosity. But she was too embarrassed to discuss such matters with her little brother, so she remained silent.

Apu said again, “Khurima was telling Ranu’s mother this afternoon. Apparently, the schoolmaster has no objection.”

Her curiosity became too much to bear. In a dismissive tone, she said, “Oh, she was? Go on with you—the things you say!”

Apu practically sat up in bed. “I’m telling the truth, Didi, I swear on you! I was standing right there, and they started talking because they saw me. They’re going to have Baba write a letter to where the schoolmaster’s father lives.”

“Does Ma know?”

“I was going to ask Ma when I came back, but I forgot. Should I ask her, Didi? I don’t think Ma has heard. Khurima said she would call Ma aside tomorrow and tell her.”

Then he said, “You’ll get to ride on so many trains, you’ll see. The schoolmasters live very far from here—you have to go by train.”

Durga remained quiet.

She had seen a picture of a train—it was in one of Apu’s books. Very long, with many wheels, and an engine at the front where they put in a fire, and smoke came out. The whole train was made of iron, and so were the wheels—not wooden like a bullock cart’s. There were no thatched huts near the railway line; there couldn’t be, they would burn down. After all, doesn’t fire shoot out from its funnel when it runs! She stroked her brother’s arm and said, “I’ll take you with me.” After that, they both grew quiet and prepared to sleep. As she drifted off, one thought kept returning to Durga’s mind: the god Sudarshan had heard her prayer. It was only today that she had asked him—the god was so merciful. Ma was right about that.

Apu said, “They’ve bought such a beautiful sari for Leela-di. Her uncle bought it today in Ranaghat for the wedding. Sejojethima said it was a Baluchar sari.”

Durga said with a smile, “Do you know a rhyme?… Pishi used to say it,

On the sandy banks of Baluchar, a word I have to say— I saw a peacock chick in a buffalo’s belly today, my friend