Bibhas De's Short Stories, Volume 1

EMBELLISHED
MEMORIES

STORIES SET IN THE RUGGED EAST OF INDIA

a FreeBook by
Bibhas De

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

We were renting a British colonial era bungalow in an outskirt area of Silchar, called Tikarbasti. From the main road, itself a dirt road, you followed a narrow dirt lane for may be some twenty meters. Then suddenly, a field opened up in front of you, with the broadside of an oblong white building facing you. In the middle there was a semicircular projection containing the sitting room fronted by a round veranda. This gave the house the look of a historical building. It was known as R. M. Nath's Bungalow.

If you stood in the veranda and looked ahead, then at about 2 o'clock there was a house at some distance which we knew as the house of Jaladhar Babu. At 9 o'clock there was a house in which two young ladies lived, whom we addressed as aunts: Suruchi-pishi and Sukeshi-pishi. This was the extent of our neighborhood.

Behind the bungalow were two rectangular ponds, one behind the other. The first one, next to the house, had its short side parallel to the house. It was rather featureless, clear-water pond. During a major earthquake that occurred about this time, fish were seen frantically jumping out of the pond. The clam water was good for 'skipping' pottery shards, at which we children developed some expertise. Behind this Small Pond was the Large Pond, with its long side parallel to the house. The special thing about this pond was that its banks were raised. So you had to walk up the bank to see the water. Its water was a mysterious greenish dark, and near the edges, logged by creepers called Kalmishak. These spinach-like leaves could be picked, fried and eaten with rice.

About the vegetation: Right in front of the house, at about 1 oclock, was a very ancient and thick-trunked Aola tree (also called Amloki) with long and strong branches. It bore marble-sized tart fruit. Just behind the house, at 4 o'clock was another tree which I remember bore tiny fruits called Looklooky. You had to take this fruit and knead it between the palms of your hand for a while before it was soft enough to eat. Later in life I asked many people, but nobody recognized that fruit or that name or that procedure. These trees gave the house some character. But the real point I want to get at is the Shaora tree, which stood in the far corner of the Large Pond, at 7 o'clock.

Now, the Shaora tree to the treedom is what a haunted house is to the housedom. The tree has low, strong, horizontal branches. On the lowest branch, at evenings, the grotesque female ghost Shakchunni sits, dangling her spindly legs almost to the ground. She waits to catch children who dare to go under the tree after dusk, and make a meal of them. Every Bengali mother warns her children: Do not go under the Shaora tree after dark.

The Shaora tree and the mysterious pond together created a sinister arena to which, after dark especially, we children gave a wide berth.

But as if that were not enough, the house itself was reputed to be haunted. It was said that the British denizens of yesteryear still lived in the house. Indeed, my favorite uncle who often came visiting us from Haflong, had occasion to give substance to this legend. One night, something woke him up, and he thought he heard noises - a tintinnabulation - from the dining room. He took a peek, and saw, under dazzling light, sahebs and mems sitting around a long dinner table, and laughing and talking in Ingreji and eating with kata-chamoch. This silverware is what made the noise he heard.

During my uncle's visits, he and my father and some other adults sat around a round table and played a game called Planchette - a kind of seance. The lights were turned off, and a candle was lit. Many hair-raising hints about the house being haunted arose from the seance. That made an already bad situation worse for us. Luckily, my elder sister and I were of an age to not completely understand that we had to be afraid of these happenings.

Back to the Large Pond. Local legend had it that a deola ('of the spirit world') Rohu fish lived there that was very ancient and very large. No one I knew ever saw the carp, but everybody believed that it was there. Some heard big splashes that were unexpected in this pond. It was said that a great many able fisherman had tried to catch the fish with great many techniques, without success. The legend had it that whoever caught this fish would die. I spent many hours of daylight on the raised banks of this pond, and once heard a big splash. When I looked where the sound came from, I saw disturbance in the water and nothing else. I thought it might be a big snake, as huge snakes infested the area around our house then.

So now you get the picture: The house of Jaladhar Babu, the house of Suruchi-pishi and Sukeshi-pishi, and the Shaora tree - these three locations defined the perimeter of our world - the region we were allowed to roam freely, as long as we would be home at meal times and study times.

I recall wondering if the Shaora tree, the carp and the house - if all these were somehow connected, may be through some very ancient pact. Did the Shakchuni, the ghost carp and the ghost sahibs and ghost mems collaborate against us? Would we have the ghost of chance against them if they jointly decided to do us harm?

Eventually, we left that house, and rented another place in Itkhola, across from the mosque. Because of this mosque the area had to be holy, I thought, so we would be permanently out of that sinister world. And it seemed that we were. The story ended for us.

One day a couple of years later word spread across the town (it was amazing how word spread in that town solely by word-of-mouth) that the deola carp had been caught! This was very big news - and people rushed to have a look. We could not, as Tikarbasti was too far for children to go alone. But we heard eyewitness accounts.

It turned out that the then renter of the house - let us call him Abhoy Babu, a vigorous and powerful young man - had decided to drag the pond end to end with a large fishing net, leaving no possibility for anything to escape. And the carp was snared. It was larger than anything ever seen in the fishmarket of Fatak Bazaar. What is more, it looked positively prehistoric. Its scales were large, thick and hard. They were dark except where overgrown with green moss. It almost looked like an organic combination of a fish and a clump of vegetation. It smelled awful - a smell no one recognized. The eyes were positively terrifying. After being brought to dry land, the fish thrashed around with such power that nobody could control it. Several people had to beat it with sticks until it was subdued. Eventually, it died simply from being out of water.

A triumphant Abhoy Babu decided to have a big feast - there would be fish kalia, fish fry, fish head curry and so on. It was difficult to cut the fish with the normal implement, so an axe and a big blade called ramda were pressed into service. Finally, manageable-sized pettis and gadas (steaks) could be cut. Abhoy Babu's wife personally did the cooking, and the family sat down joyfully to the evening meal.

Although the cooking was very fine, the flesh was as tough as Dunlop rubber. Nobody could even bite off a small chunk. Suddenly then, and at long last, the wife had a premonition. She ordered the servant to take the entire fare, and place it in a large gamla (large, shallow pot) under the Shaora tree. This was done.

That night the house itself came alive. Sounds were heard that, from the reports, were much like the sounds my uncle had heard. Abhoy Babu's young children spoke of sahebs and mems walking about the house, speaking Ingreji. Nobody could sleep that night. Everyone was glad when sunlight came.

Early that morning, the whole family went to see what happened to all the carp preparations that had been consigned to the Shaora tree. They were all gone, the gamla licked clean.

From top to bottom: Front view of the house; front and side view; rear view, showing the near pond, now completely logged with water hyacinth and fenced off; the long approach to this secluded house from the main road.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Shortly before the train from Silchar arrives at the bustling, busy gateway named Badarpur Junction, it makes a whistle stop. This is Badarpur Ghat, a sleepy little village in the Nineteen Fifties - the time I speak of. But this had a large claim to fame - the ancient temple of the goddess Kali on the river, and right next to the railroad tracks. Ghat means a river landing, consisting generally of a few rustic steps. The temple consisted then of the shrine, a large paved courtyard, and assorted rooms to house the priests and any overnight visitors. But mostly itinerants and indigents - mostly of Bihari extraction - spent the night in these latter rooms. The temple complex sat in an aura of mystery in the light-and-shade pastiche of the woods with large, spreading trees. The goddess here was said to be 'awakened'. This means that she is alert and attentive so that if you prayed to her, some beneficial result was likely to follow.

Kali takes on various forms. In her most benevolent form she is Kali the Preserver. Her image is generally done in white, with other soft colors. A virulent, punishing form is Kali of the Cremation Ground. She is done in black and garish red and other sinister dark colors. From her black face, a blood red tongue sticks out and droops downward a considerable distance. She has four flailing arms. In one arm she holds a broad sword dripping fresh blood. In another arm on the opposite side she holds, by the hair, a severed head dripping fresh blood, from a man she has just dispatched. The image is so disturbing that a child seeing it for the first time usually breaks out crying and could probably be psychologically affected for the rest of his life.

The priests who worship this Kali are called kapaliks. They are most interesting individuals. Drinking country liquor (Tadi) and smoking hashish (Ganja) are generally what they do to get in the right mood to worship the goddess. They are often shabby, un-groomed, and half-clad. Their hair is matted from not having been washed, and they sport long, flowing beard. They usually wear saffron or red garb, often only around their loins. The rest of the body is bare, sinewy and hairy. All in all, these can also be disturbingly fearsome beings.

Sunil Majumdar was a man in his fifties, a prosperous merchant in Hailakandi, a town reached through a branch line from the Silchar-Badarpur Junction main line. He was however weak of heart and had to take great precaution in the way he lived his life. No sudden stress or excitement, no physical exertion, and no worrying. Thus when he purchased some land in Badarpur Junction, and had to actually go there himself to make the cash payment, a problem arose. Eventually it was decided that rather than undertaking the journey by train, he would travel privately in the cab of a friends truck that was going to the Junction shortly. Shona Miya the stout driver of the truck could also serve as his bodyguard. The money was packed neatly in 100-Rupee bills in a suitcase. Additionally, it was decided that Majumdar's thirteen year-old son Subhash would accompany him, just for his mother's peace of mind.

They made a rather late start, and by the time they reached Badarpur Ghat, it was already dark. To compound things, the truck broke down just about a quarter mile from the temple. The driver tinkered with the engine, and said that the problem could be easily fixed, but not before daylight. Then there was a little consultation, and it was decided that the father and the son would walk to the temple with the suitcase, where they knew they could find a safe night's lodging. Shona Miya, being a Moslem, could not sleep in the temple, and he had to stay with the truck anyway. So he made himself comfortable in the cab of the truck.

When the pair arrived at the temple, they found two kapaliks sitting in the courtyard by the light of a hurricane lantern, and smoking hashish. Their eyes were bloodshot and they looked grotesque by the unsteady light. One had grey beard, and the other black. Subhash felt very afraid. But when the greybeard spoke, his voice was soothing and gentle, and his words were welcoming. Thus the tension dissolved, and the pair was cozily ensconced in a Spartan but warm room. The time was about nine o'clock. The sun would be up by five. So, a full eight-hour sleep seemed to be in the cards.

Early next morning, young Constable Ravi Gupta of the village Thana was awakened by a messenger boy from the temple. An unknown visitor had died in the temple, and the priests did not know what to do. Gupta arrived at temple almost immediately, on his bicycle. He found a man in his fifties lying dead in a tiny room. There was no sign of violence. But the man's face bore a strange expression. This was not the usual expressionless face of a dead man.

The priests explained that this man arrived last night with his son, seeking shelter. They did not know anything more. This morning they found him dead, and the son was missing.

The Constable now sent the selfsame messenger boy to fetch the village doctor. This early in the morning he was available, and came promptly. Upon examining the body, Dr. Bagchi declared that the man had died of heart failure. There was nothing amiss here. The son probably became confused on seeing his father dead, and was roaming about in a daze. He would soon turn up. There was no police matter here in any event.

Constable Gupta was an intelligent man, and had read in great admiration the exploits of such detectives as Kiriti Roy. He sensed that there was something not quite right here, but officially there was nothing further he could do. He said he would form a search party to look for the boy. Meanwhile, keep the body covered for a couple of hours, he told the priests.

Just as the Constable got on the bicycle and Dr. Bagchi did the same, Shona Miya arrived to pick up his passengers. It was not usual for a big truck to pull in in front of the temple, and so the three talked. Shona Miya was immediately shown the dead body, and he identified it. He then asked for the boy, and was told that the boy was missing. At this time, the driver asked about the suitcase. What suitcase, asked the Constable. When he heard the answer, he knew he had his mystery.

First, he matter-of-factly asked the priests about the suitcase. They said they saw nothing like that. The pair had arrived empty-handed, without any luggage. This seemed to cast suspicion on the driver. The Constable asked the driver, was it possible that the boy had something to do with money disappearing. Absolutely impossible, said Shona Miya. He knew the boy well. With that answer, the Constable felt that the driver was on the up and up.

He then asked Dr. Bagchi to examine the body again, with a fine tooth comb this time. The doctor readily agreed and proceeded conscientiously to do so. Two things emerged. The dead mans mouth smelled of Tadi, and probably also faintly of hashish. The doctor whispered this finding to the Constable. The Constable took the driver to one side, and asked if Sunil Majumdar was a smoking, drinking man. Absolutely not, said the driver. He also told the Constable about Majumdar's precarious heart condition, which precluded this type of indulgence anyway.

Now Constable Gupta felt a little bit like Kiriti Roy, and with some little satisfaction, he set about thinking, a la the great detective. And this thinking led him to a conclusion which made him extremely agitated. He took the messenger boy aside, and asked him to go to the village and round up some strong men and bring them here. He asked also that they bring some strong rope. The boy left. He then told the priests that he had sent the boy to form a party to look for missing Subhash.

In about half-an-hour, several muscular villagers, armed with sticks and iron rods arrived. Constable Gupta quickly explained to them what had transpired thus far. Then he said: "Something must have terrified the boy at night, and he fled. But he could not have gone anywhere in the dark. I think the boy is still here. I think he is up on that banyan tree right now, watching us. I want you all to protect him as I ask him to come down."

When they all looked up into the thick leaves carefully, they found the boy clinging to a horizontal branch, motionless. After repeated assurances, he came down - somewhat dazed. The Constable, with the help of the villagers, tied the two priests to the trunk of the same tree, and asked the villagers to guard them. He then asked the boy to sit on the back rack of his bicycle, and started for the Thana, where also his living quarters were. His wife would revive the boy with some warm, sugared milk and bread. Then he would tell his story.

A while after the guests were shown to the room, Greybeard returned and most endearingly invited Majumdar to join them for a little chitchat in the courtyard. Majumdar - although tired and mindful of his own frailty - could not bring himself decline his kind host's request, and joined them. Then he was offered the chilam (hashish burner), and a mug of Tadi. Majumdar told them that he never smoked or drank. But they kept telling him that this was a holy ritual, and would do him much good. He relented, and partook of both. Then he became most garrulous. He told them about his heart condition. He told them how the doctors had said that any sudden shock would kill him for sure. He drank more and smoked more and became more garrulous. He bragged about his suitcase stuffed with 100 Rupee bills. Then he passed out. The priests gently carried him to his room, and placed him on his bed. They told the son that the father just needed to sleep it off. They told the son to go to sleep.

Subhash was very confused by his father's behavior that night. All this was so uncharacteristic. He could not sleep. Then, he heard voices. Hushed, whispered, conspiratorial voices. The greybeard and the blackbeard were speaking somewhere nearby, but he could not make out what they were saying. Then he heard the word suitcase, and knew something bad was in the making. He tried to awaken his father, without any luck. He thought long and hard. Finally, he decided on a course of action. He would escape and bring help in the form of the brawny Shona Miya.

Stealthily, he made his way out of the room, across the courtyard, and into the woods. Then suddenly he heard a blood-curdling scream: "Mujhe bachao, mujhe bachao" - "Save me, save me" from somewhere in the far darkened corner of the courtyard. Then everything went silent. He froze. He hid behind the huge trunk of the banyan tree. He saw greybeard come out into the courtyard. He turned the hurricane lantern way down, taking the light down to the threshold of visibility. Greybeard then went to his father's room and banged loudly on the door several times, and left. A little later, his father woke up, and came outside the door to see what was going on. What the boy saw next left him catatonic with fear.

From out of the far dark corner of the courtyard, and into the very dim light of the lantern, appeared Kali of the Cremation Ground. Her four arms were flailing. As she came closer, he could see the broad sword in a right arm shine, dripping blood. He saw his father see this sight, clutch the chest, and struggle to remain standing. Then a left arm came in view. From the hand dangled, by the hair, a freshly severed human head. The father collapsed.

Kali went back to the corner whence she came, and disappeared. After several minutes, greybeard and blackbeard came out together, and examined his father. They seemed satisfied. They dragged him inside the room. Then they started looking for the son from room to room, the same broad sword in blackbeards hand, raised in a striking stance. Something gave the boy enough strength to silently climb up the tree, and cling to a branch, and pray.

The severed head was never found. But a few days later, the headless body of an itinerant indigent who often used to sleep in the temple washed up about a mile down the river. A search of the temple grounds produced the suitcase with all the money, and also items of disguise. Especially, bamboo sticks fastened together that could be fastened to the body to create the impression of arms in a nearly dark environment. A small blood-soaked burlap was also found. It had been wrapped around the flowing beard to fashion the tongue.

For a long time after this, passengers traveling from Silchar to Badarpur Junction, especially by the night train, would be all too keenly aware of a power of this place. Some strange fear would grip them as the train would pass by the temple. Those who became soporific in the trains motion tried to stay wide awake lest something should happen to them in sleep. Others hugged themselves tightly with their own arms. All conversation died down. Everyone avoided looking out into the night, and looking at one another. It is almost as though something had entered the train compartment.

Everyone would be relieved when the rows of the garish lights of the refinery near Badarpur Junction would come into view. More and more lights would appear, until the train would pull into the brightly lit, clamoring, crowded station. Dazzling light and loud noise had never been so welcome.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

At the time of the story we lived in Silchar, and my grandmother lived in Sylhet and occasionally visited us. On this particular occasion, she arrived and expressed a desire to travel on to Tinsukia to visit her daughters family. As I recall, this was a fairly long train journey, and you had to spend a night on the train. Otherwise however the journey in those days was quite safe. Grandmother being a fearless and self-assertive woman for her times could accomplish it alone. But this being school summer vacation, it was decided that I would accompany her I do not recall if this was for my benefit or hers. I was probably about 10 years old.

Now, there were two train changes - the first in Badarpur Junction, and the other in Lumding Junction. But if you could settle yourself in the "through compartment" when you boared in Silchar, you would not have to change trains in Badarpur. Only in Lumding. This is what we did.

The journey commenced as a most enjoyable one for me, what with Grandmother being indulgent when any vendors of tasty morsels came around. I eagerly looked forward to our arrival in Badarpur Junction. This place was famous for its shingaras (Bengali name for samosas) - oversized, with very oily, thick and crisp crust, and spicy mashed potatoes inside. In the event, I was able to dispatch two of these, Grandmother choosing only a cup of tea.

The next thing to look forward to was the counting of the tunnels the train would pass through when it winded its way through the North Cachar Hills. Tunnel No. 22 was the longest. This ride was very thrilling not so unlike the train ride from Cuzco to Machu Picchu I would later make. We arrived in Lumding Junction about noon.

There would be a couple of hours' wait before the train to Tinsukia pulled into the platform. We took our luggage and settled in one corner of the "Retiring Room". It was, surprisingly, empty. This was the natural opportunity for lunch. Right next to the waiting room was the station canteen, which served Indian snacks and sandwiches. But Grandmother wanted honest-to-goodness noon rice. This was not a problem at all. You had but to cross the railroad tracks, and you found rows of 'hotels' (restaurants were called hotels, even if they did not provide lodgings). The problem was, we could not both go to lunch at the same time. Somebody had to stay with the luggage. So Grandmother said she would go first, find a suitable place, eat herself, and then come back and tell me where to go. She took a 10-Rupee bill from her purse, tucked it in the folds of her sari at the waist, and asked me to hide the purse and hold on to it. So I did, and I engrossed myself in the adventure story I was reading, about a Bengali Robin Hood named Mohan the Bandit.

About half an hour later Grandmother came back, looking happy and sated, and chewing paan. Not only did she find a place which, for Rs. 4, served an excellent meal of rice, masoor dal, fried Rohu fish and goatmeat curry. The proprietor was also from Sylhet, a fellow Sylheti! Now, this is a big deal. When Sylhetis outside of Sylhet meet, they bond instantly. Within a minute they are talking about common memories of people and places. So Grandmother had a nice long chat, and told him she would pay in advance Rs. 8 for two meals, and to expect her young grandson to come shortly for lunch. Then they chatted some more, and she left.

So I set out, following the directions she gave. The elderly proprietor was sitting on a low platform at the entry of the hotel, with his cash register. I told him my grandmother was just here, and she paid for my meal in advance. But then the man pretended to be very confused. He asked a couple of other people there, and they said they did not know anything about this. Now I am thinking Grandmother was had. I must have looked most flustered. They man then asked what I wanted to eat. I said he had been paid Rs. 4 in advance for a meal of rice, masoor dal, fried fish and goatmeat curry. He then ordered a waiter to serve the Khoka Babu (Little Gentleman) that meal. It came, and it indeed was delicious. After I finished, I prepared to leave. I liked the man just as my grandmother did, and I wanted to say something in parting. But you did not say Thank You or Goodbye in those days, in that culture. I said, customarily: "So let me leave?". To this he replied, also customarily: "Not to leave." Then he asked me to be particularly careful in crossing the tracks.

I came back and reported to Grandmother that the meal was indeed everything she said, and went back to Mohan the Bandit. In time, the train to Tinsukia arrived, and we climbed into a "Female Compartment" (Young boys were OK). This was completely empty, and we were most happy at the prospect of a long journey in a compartment all to ourselves. When the train got underway and picked up speed, Grandmother prepared to have a lie-down. As she did, the folds of sari around her waist came loose, and the 10-Rupee bill fell out! I was so astounded that I could not verbalize my surprise, but simply pointed to it. And now it was her turn to be surprised. She looked most embarrassed, and had a sheepish grin.

"In all this friendly chitchat about Sylhet, I must have forgotten to actually pay the man. And he was too polite to call out after me! O what have I done that awfully nice bald-headed man!"

"Surely you went to the hotel on the right hand side of the street, with the big altar of Ganesh right in front?"

"No. I went to the hotel on the left, across the street from the one with Ganesh."

Now, as I have said elsewhere, Grandmother was a fine storyteller, and she especially liked to deliver her punch line with a characteristic flair. Using that same tone of voice she now said:

"Hay Ma Durga! We are a fine pair of con artists. We have managed to cheat two kind-hearted men out of Rs. 8."

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

Subir Datta was a Civil Engineer. He built roads, bridges and levees all over Cachar District. He lived in an affluent two-story house on Trunk Road in Silchar. The house was set back some distance from the road, in a fenced and landscaped area. It had the distinguished look of a British-era house belonging to a saheb, and it may well have been such a house. Behind the house was the earthen levee of the river Barak, and behind that the river itself.

His household consisted of Mrs. Datta, the 14-year old daughter Abir, 12-year old son Prabir and the 6-year old son Nibir. And of course a retinue of servants. Abir was an exceptionally beautiful girl who was also highly inquisitive. She was at an age when girls started reading classic novels - without quite fully comprehending everything. Prabir was a typical boy of his age, favoring the outdoors over the study room of the house. Nibir was for the most part a talkative little fellow, with an enormous curiosity about everybody and everything.

Silchar was a dream place for little boys favoring the outdoors. Take Prabir and Nibir, for example. If they crossed the levee and came to the river bank, they could cross the river in any dinghy for two paises per passenger. Once on the other bank, they were entirely out of civilization, and into the wilderness. There were a few scattered, minimal villages here and there, but other than these the horizon was the limit. Mr. Datta never restrained his boys, much to his wife's consternation. The couple had a standing debate going about their child-rearing philosophies. But really, there was nothing to worry. Children were perfectly safe, and people looked after one another's children, indiscriminately. There was only one law Mr. Datta laid down for Prabir: Wherever you are, whatever you do, look after your brother. He is your charge. Prabir thought this was a small price to pay for his freedom, and he loved that little chatterbox anyway.

Mr. Datta often combined business with pleasure. When he made inspection visits to his work sites in the far hills, he packed his whole family in the Willeys Jeep. They had picnics in the lap of unspoiled nature.

On this occasion the family arrived in a small valley near Amaranagar. This was a clearing in the forest, the size of a football field. The field ended at a stream on one side, and was backed by a hill on the opposite side. At the two other ends of the field, deep jungle started abruptly. The picnic site was chosen to be right next to the stream, and bamboo mats called Shital Paati ('cool mat') were spread out. The Primus stove was lit, tea made, and packs of jilipis and shingaras opened. The family was well equipped for picnic.

After tea, Mr. Datta left in his Jeep, saying he would return in two hours for lunch. Abir then reclined on the mat and engrossed herself in Tess of the d'Urbervilles . Occasionally, she would ask her mother the meaning of an English word. The mother was a highly educated woman, with a BA degree from Lady Brabourne College in Calcutta. She not only explained the word, but illustrated it by using in a sentence. She herself was knitting a sweater for her father, occasionally consulting the knitting instructions.

The boys were running all over the field, try to fly their kite higher and higher. Prabir had brought with him his BSA Air Rifle his grandfather bought him last year when he became twelve. It was a .22 caliber rifle with which he had become very conversant. He routinely practiced target-shooting, so much so that he could, more often than not, place a pellet within a one-inch diameter circle of his intended target at a 30 yards or so. On this day, his hope was to bag a couple of Green Pigeons, delicious gamebirds.

Such was the family outing scene - the likes of which today can be found only in Renoir paintings.

By the time the pre-made chicken kurma and rice pilaf were warmed up, and Abir had finished slicing tomatoes and cucumbers, Mr. Datta arrived. The lunch was a most satisfactory and happy affair. It concluded with sweet yougurt and rasgollas. For the adults, this was time for a nap. Mr. Datta told Prabir to stay within earshot. Prabir picked up his Air Rifle, loaded a pellet into it and primed it. He then carried it with the barrel pointing down to the ground and finger away from the trigger, just as he was taught to carry the weapon. His brother was on his side, carrying his own weapon, a homemade catapult.

The two brothers entered the jungle, looking at the canopy, keeping their ears open. They were careful not make any noise themselves. Prabir was also careful to make a mental note of their trail, so that they would not get lost. While there was an abundant variety of birds, they had not spotted any Green Pigeons yet.

Now, for a while, a strange unpleasant odor of an animal smell kept growing in strength. It became so strong that the little boy broke the silence and whispered: "Dada, Do you smell it?" Prabir said: "Yes."

Then a thick bush ahead of them and to one side stirred slightly, and a low, rumbling growl was heard. Prabir looked in that direction. Then he turned to his brother and whispered:

"But I have heard that wild hogs can sometimes be dangerous. So here's what let's do. When I tell you, you start walking ahead of me as fast as you can, without running and without making any noise. Head for the clearing, and then to Ma and Baba. And if I say Run, then run for your life. OK, Chatterbox?"

Prabir turned towards the clearing. He brought the muzzle of the rifle up, and placed it on his left arm. He placed his fingers on the trigger guard. Then he said: "Now!"

The little boy started walking quite fast. In about two minutes they would gain the clearing, and hopefully the hog would not dare come out there. But as they progressed, the origin of the sound behind them kept shifting, following them. The little boy asked: "Is he coming after us?"

Just a few feet short of the clearing, Prabir turned to look behind him, and froze. But just for a second. Then he shouted "Run!". The little fellow started to sprint to where the picnic party stood up, and looked in their direction. But nobody saw Prabir who was still short of the clearing.

Prabir had leveled his weapon perfectly steadily, finished taking aim, and was ready to squeeze the trigger. Then he slowly lowered the muzzle, to where it was again pointing down. He then walked to the party - at normal pace.

When he came close, he heard his brother excitedly telling the story of being given the dangerous chase by the wild hog. But before even he could finish his story, there appeared at the far end of the field a man. He was frantically waving and running towards them. Then Abir said:

"Oh oh, just as I suspected. We are trespassing on his land, and he is not happy about that."

Mr. Datta got up and started walking towards the man. They rest of the party saw the man rant and rave, and Mr. Datta try to calm him. Eventually the man left, and Mr. Datta returned. He said:

As everyone got bust packing, Mr. Datta looked into the eyes of his elder son, and the son did not avert his eyes. They both knew. Soon the Jeep was on its way back.

When they gained flat ground and the tense mountain driving was behind them, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. As they were passing some roadside shops, Mr. Datta stopped the Jeep and said: "Let's have some tea." The idea was greeted with approval, and even the little boy was allowed to have a cup. As they were standing by the road and sipping tea, the daughter spoke:

"Come on Baba! This was not about trespassing! What really happened back there?!"

"OK, I didn't want to alarm anybody back there, here goes: The man said that there was a ferocious man-eating tigress loose. Over the last 5 days, she killed two men and a boy. The villagers and other trackers have been trying to spot him for a big-game hunter from Gauhati. He is waiting in a bungalow to hear of any sightings. Yesterday evening, the tigress had been spotted drinking water from the stream exactly where we were sitting. Early this morning, she was again spotted in the same place. So they had him located, and the hunter was coming at dusk, when she would come to drink again. He would fell her with a single head shot. And we stepped in right in the middle of all this."

"O-re Baba!" said Mrs. Datta, issuing the Bengali version of something like "Sweet Mother of God!" Then she said: "I thought there were no tigers hereabouts."

The next time the whole family was together was that evening, at the dinner table. They chitchatted as they ate their meal with fingers. After dinner, as usual, Nibir pushed his plate away, made room for his elbows, put down his head and went to sleep. The rest continued talking happily without getting up from the table to wash, the food drying on their fingers and forming a crust.

Now, seeing the child was really and truly asleep, Mr. Datta looked at his other son and said:

"I caught a glimpse of her. When the bush stirred, I looked and saw her yellow and dark stripes and the tail. I also recognized that smell and that growl, from that time we were in Calcutta Zoo last year."

"I suppose that normally I would be. But I kept thinking that I had charge of my little brother, and looking after him was the only thing on my mind."

"When I looked back just as we were about to reach the field, she had come out of hiding, and was fully visible, looking straight at me - at about 10 yards from me. She was a huge creature, with an enormously large head. I took aim at her left eye, and was quite sure I could blind her in one eye at least. That would have prevented her from chasing us further."

"But there was something in the way she looked at me. I could not bring myself to pull the trigger. And it seemed that we had escaped her anyway."

"Well, it was - like a mixture of sadness ... and lethargy ... and disengagement ... may be I can say it better in English... Didi, what was that word you were talking about the other day with Ma ...lang ... something?"

Mr. Datta had a strong urge to say "I am so proud of you my son." But such sentimental things were never said in Bengali families in those days. Instead, the sister silently put her arm around her brother. Nothing was said. Everything was said by that gesture.

Then Abir verbalized the thought that was forming in everyone's mind: "The tigress must be dead as we speak!"

The children then retired. As usual, the sister took the little boy, brushed his teeth and put him in his PJs while he continued to sleep. He was put to bed, and then Abir and Prabir went about their evening routine.

Now only the husband and wife were sitting - face to face. This was the private time of day that they had for each other, and they cherished it. But tonight Mr. Datta knew that a full-length sermon was coming about his letting his boys roam free like this. He braced himself.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

The word "sadhu" is a catchall description of people who have given themselves over entirely to a religious life. More specifically, Hindu religious life. At the sober extreme, you have saffron-clad monks who are clean-cut, shaved-head ascetics. They live austere disciplined lives in a commune which could be centered on a temple to a deity. On the other, very extreme are itinerant, hippy-like indigents. A typical image might be a person with long scraggly unwashed beard, long flowing matted hair, with just a loincloth around his waist. He could be carrying a staff with a three-pronged metal head and a komondolu - a ewer. He might have rubbed cinder ash all over his body. Sometimes he could be drunk out of his gourd, or high on hashish. These excesses were considered a part of their process of seeking god. These individuals could be worshipper of the Goddess Kali or God Shiva or probably some other deity. The society, for the most part, respect them or tolerate them. Hardly ever any negative attitude is expressed against them. But certainly, there was an aura of mystery associated with them.

Among them are Bhairav sadhus and Bhairavis - worshippers of Shiva. You have probably heard these terms as referring to ragas in Indian classical music. But they originally referred to deities, and also to the worshipper of the deities. They still do.

All these types - and more - you saw in Silchar of the 1950s. This was a most interesting place to grow up in, then.

The Bagchi brothers surely had some fancy names, but few knew them by those names. They were only for the school register. Everyone knew them by their nicknames, Lalu and Bhulu. Actually, people always spoke of them as a unit: Lalubhulu. Lalu was 12 and Bhulu 10 at the time of this story. The special thing about the brothers was that they were extreme danpithays, daredevils. They were always seeking adventure, and they did not know fear. If a poisonous snake was spotted in a neighbor's house, the brothers appeared with long sticks. If a haunted house was brought to their attention, they would be there at the earliest convenience. But to be fair, the brothers never did anything to hurt anyone. No one is known to have ever complained to their parents. On the contrary, at home, the brothers were the epitome of politeness in children. They also did well at school. People liked and admired the Bagchi brothers, and looked forward to stories of their exploits.

The Bagchis lived in Malugram. So the brothers reputation had easily spread to neighboring Itkhola, Aryapatti and Nutanpatti. But in time, it spread as far as Ambikapatti and Tarapur. All of Silchar came to know about Lalubhulu.

One summer when the school was out, a Bhairav-Bhairavi pair arrived in town. They sat up shop in the gazebo in Gandhibag, the town's central park. When the word spread, which always spread easily and rapidly in that town, people came from far and near. Some came to seek blessings, some came to know their future, some came to seek advice on family matters, and some came just to see. And they were something to see! The Bhairav was a very large person, smeared all over with grey ash, and vermillion powder was spread over his face. The Bhairavi was only slightly smaller, and similarly painted. Their eyes were bloodshot. Their teeth were stained. All in all, a most grotesque sight.

Now, it was rumored that they had arrived in town in a large dinghy, which they parked at the river bank near Fatak Bazar. They had apparently fashioned out of bamboo and sackcloth a two-room shack on the dinghy. When they retired to the dinghy at night, strange lights flickered from there and there were strange doings.

These "strange doings" to the Bagchi brothers were what a pot of honey was to a swarm of flies. So plans were made apace for a Saturday evening. The parents were told that the brothers were trying something new called night-fishing, and would be home before dinner time. But the brothers realized that it was a long walk from Malugram to Fatak Bazar, and they would not be able to make it home for dinner. So they approached a friend in Itkhola to lend them his bicycle. Or more correctly, his father's bicycle. The friend said they had to tell him what they were up to. The brothers came clean. Then the friend made them promise that when they returned, they would give him a blow-by-blow account of what transpired. They agreed and got the bike. This was an adult bike, so Lalu put his right leg through the triangular frame to reach the far paddle. He put his elbow on the seat of the bike. That his how boys rode adult bikes. Bhulu sat on the luggage carrier on the back. The brothers were on their way. The game was afoot

When they arrived on the 'scene', it was already dark. The normally crowded river bank was completely deserted. Sure enough, there was a dinghy with a ramshackle structure on it. And a light was flickering from within. Very stealthily, the brothers came to the water's edge. Then they waded a few steps in the water, and with their arms, lifted themselves one by one on the platform of the dinghy. It tilted slightly, so the brothers paused for any signs of activity. There were none. Then they reached the bamboo wall, and when they found a crack, they peeked.

The two were sitting on the floor, facing each other, in the lotus position - both stark naked. Their eyes were closed. They were smoking hashish, and occasionally saying things like "Bom Bholanath", "Shiva Shambhu" etc. In the middle was a clay jug and two clay glasses. They had been drinking as well. Now they saw the Bhairav get up and go to the other room. The boys then tried to gain a better vantage. As they were doing so, two huge hands fell on their shoulder. The Bhairav had actually sensed their presence and came out to nab them. The grip was so strong that escape was out of the question. And any way, the brothers wanted to see more.

The Bhairav led the boys by hand into the room. As they were standing in one corner, they saw him reach into a stack of things and pull out a large machete (Hay Bhagaban, Oh God, he is going to kill us! - the boys are thinking). The blade shone ominously in the light of the oil-wick lamp. Then the Bhairav looked at the Bhairavi. She then produced a very old, worn-out rubber mat known as oil cloth. She spread it on the floor (Must be to catch all the blood!). The Bhairav signaled the boys to sit on the mat. Now the boys were thinking hard: In terms of the level of danger, this is way past killing a poisonous snake. We are now in uncharted territory. This is the end of the line.

Not afraid in the slightest, the Bagchi brothers prepared for what was coming. And when the Bhairavi made her next move, there was no doubt as to that. She produced a large tin can, about a foot-and-a-half by a foot-and-a-half, and about 2 feet deep, with open mouth (Has to be for the heads!). She then brought out two large tin plates and placed in front of them (So thats where the heads will fall!).

Now Lalu turned to his younger brother and whispered: "Close your eyes and think only of Ma and Baba. Then this won't hurt at all." Bhulu answered: "All right Dada. But you stay close to me." The brothers held hands tightly, closed their eyes, and lowered their heads.

When nothing happened in a few seconds, the brothers opened their eyes. They saw the Bhairavi reach into the tin and bring out two Muri Laddoos (Rice cakes), and place them on the two plates. Then the Bhairav produced two green coconuts, and using his machete, lopped the tops off of them. He then handed the boys the coconuts, full of juice.

Suddenly, the brothers grasped the whole situation. The Bhairav and the Bhairavi were glad that two local boys were nice enough to pay them a courtesy visit, and were extending the finest of their hospitality. When the brothers finally left, the Bhairavi, with her most grotesque face, gave them as sweet a smile as they ever saw.

After they returned the bike to the friend and told him the story they promised him, they made him swear he would never tell this story to anyone in Silchar. This is one exploit that was going to remain private.

The adventures of the Bagchi brothers continued as usual. But people did notice a change in them. Whenever they passed by any temples or holy places, they made it a point to stop and bow. And whenever the encountered any odd religious characters on the road, any sadhus of any description, the two brothers moved in concerted motion to the side of the road, stood at attention, joined their palms, raised them to the level of their foreheads, and bowed deeply. This was an amazing sight. But everything the brothers did was amazing. So nobody attached any extra-special significance to this transformation.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

If you proceeded from Itkhola towards Malugram, you came to a fork - a kind of Y junction. If you took the right branch, you went to all the neighborhoods of Malugram. If you took the left branch, I do not remember where all you went. But shortly after you took the left branch, a road branched off to your left. A short distance along this road, to your right, stood an ancient bungalow in a gated, gardened compound. When I lived in Silchar as a young boy, this bungalow was occupied by a certain Pratap Majumdar. He was a Daroga, the head man of the local police precinct. "PratapMajumdarDaroga" as we used to refer to him, was a nice and amiable man. But this story is not about him.

Long before he lived there, and during the very last days of the British Raj, the bungalow stood empty for a time (or so the story went). It naturally acquired the reputation of a haunted house, although no one knew what the haunting was. The area was not built up then, and the bungalow stood out in the largely empty landscape. At night it more loomed than stood out.

One day a British military officer came to Silchar for a month on business. He stayed in the Circuit House near the football fields. He took care of business during the day, working with the native soldiery. In the evening he visited the Clubhouse across the street from Nursing High School. There he could pleasurably mix with his own kind. He could also 'tie one on', to use an American phrase.

There in the Clubhouse one evening, the Saheb heard about the haunted house. "What bloody nonsense!", he said. Then someone jokingly dared him to spend a night in the house. The Saheb, noticing especially the admiring look on the face of a young Mem he had fancied, rose to the occasion. He would do this the following evening. People tried to say that the challenge was all in jest, but the Saheb had something to prove. The Memsaheb gave him an approving, if stolen, glance.

Early next evening the driver dropped the Saheb off at the house. There were no furniture, except for an armchair placed on the wide veranda. So the driver spread the Sahebd hold-all in the floor of the living room, lit a hurricane lantern, and laid out a thermos full of piping hot tea and a cup. He asked the Saheb if there would be anything else he could do. The Saheb said No, and to come back at eight in the morning.

This was just dusk, and the Saheb decided to recline in the armchair on the veranda. In the distance he could see a few people returning home from the days work. The weather was temperate, and the smell of champa from the garden was enchanting. The Sahebs thoughts took a romantic turn, and fear was the farthest thing from his mind.

Presently he saw a boy open the gate and approach the house. The boy had on a pair of shorts (called half-pants), a tee shirt and, even though it was not really cold, a heavy woolen 'muffler' wrapped thick around his neck. The boy addressed him Huzur and then said he was the caretaker's son Jehangir, and wondered if he could do anything for the Saheb. Now this was a new twist - no one had told the Saheb that there would be a caretaker. The Saheb asked the boy about that. The boy sat down on the edge of the veranda, his legs pending, and explained at length:

"My father's name is Abdullah, and he has long looked after this house. He is very capable. He was once a dreaded dacoit, but he is now reformed. He carries a large sword when he goes on his beat. He has very strong arms. With one flick of his sword he can take a mans head clean off. He is so fast that you wouldn't know what was coming and you wouldn't feel a thing."

The Saheb did not like the direction of the narrative. He felt queasy in the stomach. So he changed the subject and asked the boy where the father was.

"He is around. He will turn up later in the night, after it gets dark. Anyway, Huzur, I sleep in that shack just outside gate. If you need anything, please wake me up."

With that the boy left. But the Saheb was greatly disturbed. The phrase "...you wouldn't know what was coming and you wouldn't feel a thing" kept reverberating in his mind. Try as hard as he might, he could get himself get back to concentrating on the Memsaheb.

It was now completely dark. He went inside, and pulled his service revolver out of the toiletry compartment of the hold-all. He checked the magazine, stuck the gun into his belt, and practiced a few quick-draws. He was satisfied. He left the gun in the belt, in plain sight. He poured himself a cup of tea. Then he opened the just-published book he had brought with him, Man-Eaters of Kumaon, written by a fellow British officer. But as he started to read he realized that this was not the right book to read tonight. The description of the valleys of Garhwal where fear stalked by dim moonlight caused him to shudder. And the infernal refrain came back: "...you wouldn't know what was coming and you wouldn't feel a thing."

To make things worse, he now heard squeaking noise from the gate. Abdullah was coming. Abdullah was coming! The Saheb felt his revolver, then stepped out on the veranda. In the faint light of the moon that was near new moon, he saw a huge figure saunter down the pathway from the gate to the house. The man had on a white cap, and was carrying a big stick. A thick beard hid most of his face. He was wearing a white lungi or sarong, and a white fotuah which is a half-sleeve collarless shirt. As he came up to the landing, the Saheb saw that this was no stick, but as large a broad sword as he ever saw. Even in that faint light it glistened. His relief came when Abdullah began to speak in a surprisingly mild and respectful voice:

"Salaam Huzur. I am Abdullah the caretaker. My son has told me about you. Can this insignificant person do anything to make the great Saheb comfortable in this house?"

Abdullah sat down on the edge of the veranda, his feet touching the grassy lawn. He laid the sword down by his side. The Saheb went inside and brought his thermos. He poured some tea in the cap of the thermos, and offered it to Abdullah. He took it with a deep bow. The Saheb then poured himself a cup and sat down on the armchair. He felt much better. But he decided to keep the conversation on safe grounds.

He decided to talk about the boy. "He is very sweet boy. After his mother died, he is the only one I have. A very sweet boy," said Abdullah. The conversation proceeded in this vein for while. Then Abdullah said he would make his rounds and return in half-an-hour if the Saheb was still in a mood to talk. The Saheb said "Rightho." "A very sweet boy," said Abdullah, picked up his sword and got up.

As he stepped back on to the pathway, there was some noise from a banana tree lining the walk - probably some night bird. Suddenly Abdullah stood at attention, and before the Saheb could blink his eye, the sword flicked through the air. But the banana tree remained completely intact. Abdullah then nudged the top of the tree with the point of his sword, and the top fell off. The sword had gone through the tree without dislodging the top! On that, the refrain came back: "...you wouldn't know what was coming and you wouldn't feel a thing."

Now, the Saheb had read his share of ghost stories. He knew the kind where you talked to a person and only later was told the person had been dead quite a while. Was Abdullah himself the 'haunting', after all?

As soon as Abdullah was out of sight, the Saheb ran to Jehangir's shack and woke him up. The boy sat on his bed, rubbing his sleepy eyes. The Saheb asked the boy: "Are you sure your father is all right? Is he a well man?" The boy said:

"He is a very strong man. With one flick of his sword he can take a man's head clean off. He is so fast that you wouldn't know what was coming and you wouldn't feel a thing."

"All right then, go back to sleep," said the Saheb. Then he did something he would not want people of his own kind see him do. He pulled the native boys blanket over him, and tucked him in nicely. The boy looked very sweet in his sleep. The Saheb now took out his revolver from his belt, and held it in his hand as he walked back to the house.

But Abdullah never came back again. Or may be he did and found the Saheb asleep. For the Saheb had fallen sound asleep on the armchair. All these goings on must have been too enervating. He slept straight through the rest of the night, and it was nearly eight when the awoke.

The Saheb saw that huge crowd had gathered on the lawn. Such was the curiosity of the Silcharites. The Saheb went in, gulped down the rest of the tea, now cold. His driver entered the living room, greeted him and started packing the hold-all. The Saheb came out and waved to the crowd. Encouraged, they came closer. The Saheb said:

"Absolutely nothing happened. This house is like any other house. There are no ghosts here. And besides, caretaker Abdullah has been making the rounds all these days, and he would have told me if he had seen anything."

"Well, Huzur, it is just that Abdulla is a fugitive from the police. He had skipped town. That is why we are surprised to hear that you saw him here."

"Oh so that's it!" thought the Saheb, "Abdullah must have returned by the darkness of night for some reason." His tension dissipated altogether. The Memsaheb's admiring look came to his mind again. All was well. He looked at the crowd, and by way of saying a cheery Goodbye, told them: "Carry on, Men."

As the Saheb was about to climb into the vehicle he suddenly remembered the boy. The vehicle had been parked right in front of the shack, obstructing his view, and he had forgotten him. He should say Goodbye to the sweet boy.

When he knocked on the door, nobody answered. With the slightest of push, the door opened. It was an absolutely empty shack.

"The thing is, Huzur, one night two weeks ago Abdullah suddenly went stark raving mad, and with his sword, lopped the head clean off of his boy. That is why he is a fugitive."

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

My brother and I had come to Shillong to visit our kid sister who now had a kid of her own. This was a great opportunity to visit Silchar, after some 30 years, to reminisce on childhood. So it was decided that the two of us would take the early morning bus which arrived in Silchar in the evening. We would spend the night there, and the whole of the next day, and then catch the overnight bus back to Shillong.

My sister packed us all kinds of comestibles, and bottles of drinking water. Early morning my brother-in-law drove us to the bus station and we were off. We would go over the Jaintia Hills, and into Cachar District, grazing the boundary of Bangladesh. What a wonderful trip it would be!

Actually, the trip exceeded our expectation - it was one of my most memorable mountain road trips - and I have been on the high Andes, and the Rockies, and the Alps and so on. There were occasional stops for tea, and comfort breaks. I was most tempted to try the street-side snacks available in endless varieties, but I had very strict instructions from 'home' to not engage in such activities. So we had to make do with my sister's homemade plum cake. At every stop, when we were all back on the bus and ready to leave, the conductor of the bus would be missing. Then the driver would call out, several times, Sylheti fashion:

This 'reba' is a signature Sylheti colloquialism, but not a very translatable one. It means different things depending on the context. In the above usage, my guess is that it means "Yo Basir!", to use an American form. Anyway, presently Bashir would appear from out of nowhere, in a most leisurely fashion, and we would be off.

My other lasting memory would be the sheer precipices. As the bus traveled precariously close to what appeared to be drops of enormous distance, you could not help but feel a little queasy. Occasionally, you even saw an overturned vehicle way down in the ravine. There were other places where construction was going on, making the road, next to a precipice, even narrower. All in all, scenic beauty of the hills here had an edge of danger to it. I don't mean just the fear of the precipices, but through this, the deeper portentousness of a wild Earth.

I have a particular fascination about arriving in unknown cities by road at night. You see how the desolate highway gradually becomes populated, lights become more frequent, and the streets and parks look more and more crowded, and then the garish city explodes before you. Such was our arrival in Silchar - and after all - by now it was nearly an unknown city to us.

We had no idea where to stay, so we asked a rickshaw-wallah to take us to the cleanest hotel in town. He took us to a hotel which I believe was called Geetanjali - across the street from Narsing High School. I attended Narsing High School once, and I always thought that Narsing was a proper name, short for Nara-singha, or Human-lion. However, when surfing the Net recently, I found that it was called Nursing High School. As far as I know, this school has nothing whatsoever to do with the vocation of Florence Nightingale. So why this strange name? Another thing I found was that our then teacher Kabindra Babu, who had young boys do some military-like exercises after school, had become a Member of the Indian Parliament! The exercises were the precursors to what today is a formidable political movement in India.

We had a wonderful time in Silchar. All day we moved about the city on foot and on rickshaws. But I will confine myself to only one experience. We came to Aryapatti to look for my late fathers once closest friend, nicknamed Putu Babu. We remembered the approximate portion of the street where Putu Babu lived, and came there and asked for the house of Nirmal Jyoti Purkayastha - for that was his official name. To our great delight, people immediately pointed us to a house there. Just to be sure, we asked if the gentleman had one daughter. Yes, we were told. This would be the young lady who used to treat us during Bhai Phota, a Hindu celebration that could be called "Brothers' Day".

When we knocked, a gentleman appeared. We told him the name of the person we were looking for, and he said that would be him. Now my brother and I looked at each other. This gentleman looked nothing at all like the Putu Babu either of us remembered. What to do? We asked him if he remembered our father. He could not even recognize the name. Yet he was there at the time in question, and his profession was what we thought it was. As we were apologizing for our intrusion and were about to leave, there appeared from the inner sanctum of the house a person carrying a tray with two cups of tea and sweets. Now, that floored me. We were complete strangers who just stopped to ask a few questions, and it was decided that we were honored guests in the house! I would not have thought such old world custom could still be found in modern life. If I had appeared at a yurt in the Mongolian desert, may be. But here?!

All good things had to end, and we came to catch our return bus in the evening. As my brother was buying the tickets, a man sitting there asked me: "Going to Shillong?" I said yes. He said:

"You will enjoy our Shillong. It is a beautiful place. I am from there. But I work here as a day laborer. I have not seen my family in Shillong in a year. Tonight I am going - I will see them after a year."

"Well, no. See that lorry! The driver is a friend of mine. He will take me. So I can travel for free and save some money."

I saw a truck parked nearby, its flatbed laden with cargo, covered in tarpaulin and secured with strings. Behind the cab of the truck was a sign, in huge Bengali letters: "Ma-er Ashirbad". It could mean "Blessings of the Mother" where Mother refers to some goddess, or "Blessings of Mother" where Mother refers to the Driver's Mom. It works either way. The blessings are to protect the vehicle and the occupants from all harm.

We had our tickets, and I wished the man a good trip and a happy reunion with his family, and said: "May be we will run into each other in Pulish Bazar!". He said happily: "Yes, I am coming."

As we left Silchar and passed through Arunachal, the next town, I wondered how many people today knew that this poetically named town was once called Masimpur. Each town we passed invoked some memory. At length we were back on the mountains.

We were stopped at a checkpoint, where some soldiers got in and started looking at the luggage items in the overhead racks. We had none. So we were just observing this activity. Suddenly, a truck went thundering past us. I got a quick glimpse: Ma-er Ashirbad. So he would arrive before us, I thought. How would he get home in such early hours in the morning? May be he will walk. Well, it does not matter. However he gets home, as soon as he arrives, he will be in wifes arms. It will all be worth it.

The soldiers were done and we were off. No Bashir this time. I looked out the window. It was a moonlit night, with good visibility. Only, the big leafy trees looked somewhat unnatural. It is as though darkness had avoided the open spaces and clung to the trees. The trees looked enlarged, with an extended dark mantle.

And that portent of danger could still be felt, the nighttime version of it. I kept looking down the sheer precipices. And then I saw it. Down, way down in the ravine, was an overturned truck. The tarpaulin had come untied, and the cargo was strewn all over. There was some smoke or steam coming from the engine. There was a sign behind the cab - not readable from this distance. But there could be no doubt.

Hereafter, the Shillong-Silchar Road for me would be something abstract, something beautiful and dangerous, something parenthetical that exists between two refrains - a call and an answer:

Two views of the Shillong-Silchar Road: Top: A pit stop. Bottom: Rain-damaged highway, traffic moving most gingerly.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

I would not say that Barun Chakraborty was a close friend. But in a way, he was more. Close friends may separate after school or college. But Barun and I were fellow travelers for quite a distance. We were in the same residential high school near Calcutta. We lived in the same dorms there. Then we entered the same college, and lived in the same dorm again. Both sets of our parents lived in Shillong. While my parents lived in Shillong for a time, I myself never did. I only visited. But Barun was a 'Shillong Boy' through and through, having even attended Don Bosco. To top this off, we were both Sylhetis - people who trace their roots to the Sylhet region of what is now Bangladesh. I don't recall that I had many long encounters with him. My main memory of him is of crossing paths here and there, and him asking in Sylheti "Bhalani - Going well?". Barun to me was more family than friend.

Barun was dark complected, and of a compact muscular build. His white teeth shone against his very dark skin when he smiled. His smile was what we call in Bengal a 'muchki hashi' - a bashful smile-let that breaks fully and turns off immediately. His face had a sweet aspect to it.

At school Barun was an average student (he chose Humanities, or 'Arts' as we called it) - nothing particularly stood out about him. But all that changed when the results of the statewide Higher Secondary Examination came out. He had got the highest marks in our school in Bengali Language, and the marks or also incredibly high in absolute terms.

Barun became a name on that day. Asked what the secret of his success was, he would say, rather mysteriously: "Grammar."

When we were in college, one day my parents were to arrive in Calcutta by train. The arrival time was at an ungodly hour of night, and receiving them would mean pretty much forgoing the nights sleep. This of course was not a consideration for me. But I was astounded when Barun heard about this, and wanted to accompany me to Howrah Station. When I pointed out the inconvenience, he said: "It is nothing. I want to receive them too."

I met Barun's parents only once. This was a summer vacation. I came to Shillong but Barun did not. It was considered good form that I should pay a visit on his parents. So early one evening I made my way to his neighborhood, Upper Shillong, and with little difficulty, found the house. His father was well-known in the area.

As I entered the outer room, where visitors are generally received, I saw a gentleman exuding great gravitas, seated on a wide platform bed. This is an old-fashioned furniture for visitors to sit together on, companionably. The platform is covered with a thin mattress, and then a sheet. There were a couple of other men sitting on the platform also - but there could be no doubt as to who the master of the house was. As I was about to introduce myself, he embarked upon a series of questions:

Before he could pose another rapid-fire question, I rapidly explained who I was. Upon hearing that, he became most upset.

"Then why are you standing here chitchatting in the outer quarters of the home, as though you were a stranger? You are family. You belong in the inner quarters." Then he looked at the curtained door that led to those inner quarters and called out to his wife - in that special way a Bengali husband of that generation called out to his wife (and vice versa), avoiding uttering her name.

"Ogo shunchho - D'you hear there? Look who has come to visit us. Come quickly. D'you hear there?"

Presently, the curtain parted, and there appeared from behind it a white-clad, veiled lady with a large vermillion mark on her forehead - that plainly-elegant, all-soothing image of a Bengali mother.

She ushered me to small room with a chair and a desk, and asked me to sit. Then she left. About fifteen minutes passed, and nothing happened. Then a person - probably the maid - appeared with a huge tray: A cup of tea and two plates of snacks, one with salty items, and the other sweet. She laid these out on the desk, and invited me to eat and left. I was alone again.

Now here is the dilemma I had. After you are served such fare, there is expected to ensue an elaborate bargaining process. The guest would refuse to take anything but tea, and the hostess would press him to eat everything. There is a whole special phraseology and a mannerism in which to conduct these proceedings. Eventually a compromised would be reached. Depending on who is more artful, the guest would eat more than half or less than half of what was offered.

When no one came for several minutes, I figured that the bargaining ritual was to be skipped. So I did justice to everything that was proffered. The wait resumed.

At last the hostess appeared and apologized. Some turmoil was going on at home, she said, and she was detained. I stood up to take leave. Then she stood next to me and put her right hand on my head. She said:

"You are two sweet boys, you and our Barun. You two are living so far from home. Please look after one another. May God watch over you both."

It developed gradually, starting with a simple expression. It was noticed in the college hallways and dorm verandas that when some students met, they greeted one another with "Lal salaam - A red salute to you!". Everyone noticed this, but no one made anything of it. One could think of many innocuous origins of the expression. Perhaps it was spoken with great panache by the hero of a Hindi movie.

One day I came upon Barun on the staircase, and instead of his characteristic "Bhalani?", he said "Lal salaam!" I replied: "Well...OK...Lal salaam." Then he said: "Let your salaam always remain red. Let it not change color." I asked what that meant. He said: "You will know soon. I hope you will be with us."

Around about mid-nineteen sixties the Naxalites - a subgroup of the communist movement in India and rooted in China - inducted some student communities. Numerous times, scheduled university examinations were disrupted. Prominent professors were placed under siege right in their offices.

In this particular upheaval I speak of there was at first some student protestation surrounding the suspending of a few students, following a ragging incident in the dormitory. Soon, and I don't remember how the logic of this went, this flap became a burning communist issue, and copies of the Red Book were waved. Struggles between haves and have-nots, the bourgeois and the proletariat, the ruling class and the peasantry, etc were being discussed.

Shortly thereafter, the Naxalites took over the dormitory, and a sit-in was begun. Some leaders appeared from outside, and took command. They maintained this siege for many days before the police finally moved in. The story was over as far as the dormitory and the college were concerned. But many students who joined in the movement had their student career disrupted or interrupted or terminated. Barun disappeared, and I never saw him again.

I would be reminded of this period when I would set my eyes upon the preserved dead body of Mao in Tiananmen Square in Beijing.

Years after I left Calcutta, I met a classmate and was asking him about other classmates. The conversation turned to Barun:

The mountainous terrain here, where India, China and Sikkim meet, is cold and inhospitable. The travel-worn hiker, carrying a large backpack, had positioned himself on a high peak, to obtain good vantage for radio transmission. He was unshaved and unkempt. He had trekked long on this terrain. It reminded him of the rolling hills of Shillong, and made him feel nostalgic. But on the whole he was happy. These were heady days. The adrenaline was constantly rushing. He was entrusted with a huge responsibility by the organization. He was to establish contact with the comrades over the border and relay certain messages. From being just a student inductee, he had risen to this important position. The fact that he was an educated person and could speak English also must have weighed in. He achieved this important status, and he was barely twenty.

Here, his mind wandered for a fleeting second. He remembered language and grammar. A sudden warm feeling of pride swept through. But then he thought, somewhat sadly even: Grammar had become a metaphor for his life. His life had now become a sentence in the passive impersonal voice: subjectless, objectless.

He got a hold of himself. This is a completely safe spot for what he was about to do, he thought; there's not likely to be another soul within miles, this side of the border. He was in fact just about a hundred meters from the border line. He took out the walkie-talkie and hand-cranked the battery some just to make sure he had full power. He turned the device on and spoke into it. He repeated the codeword he was given, several times: "This is Daddy Longlegs, Do you hear me?"

Within seconds, the response came loud and clear, with the expected codeword: "This is Yankee Doodre. Yes we heal you, Daddy Rongregs."

Now the hiker took out a sheet of paper containing the messages he was to relay. But he heard a sound behind him. He turned. There were two soldiers of the Indian Border Security Force standing just down the slope, wearing the white mountain uniform, and dark goggles covering most of their faces - their weapons pointed at him. One of them spoke in that fossilized British Raj-vintage English that the Indian Military still spoke: "Drop that damn bloody walkie-talkie, I say. Drop it now!"

The hiker made a quick calculation. There was no way he could surrender and betray his organization. He made a dash for the border. The soldier shouted again: "Bloody stop now, or I will bloody shoot."

It will never be known, when the messenger came to deliver the news in that home in Upper Shillong, how he responded to that third question; or how the plainly-elegant, all-soothing Bengali mother soothed herself, if she did. And millions will continue to greet one another with "Bhalani?". Less one.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

Jhulon is basically the Festival of the Swing. Lord Krishna and his consort Radha, probably during their courtship period, are sitting romantically on a swing hanging from a tree branch, in a sylvan setting. They are conversing companionably as the swing is rocking gently. That is the basic theme. So, a toy swing with toy-size images of Radha and Krishna forms the entity to be worshipped. The festival goes on for several days, ending in Jhulon Purnima, a night of full moon.

Now I only speak of the festival as I knew it practiced in Silchar, and as I have seen it practiced in no other place. The most salient feature of the festival was this: It was the only Hindu festival that was left entirely to the kids. Adults provided support and encouragement, but did not interfere in any way. And what a project it was for the kids! The site chosen was usually the front porch or veranda of a neighborhood home. The swing would be hung from an improvised tree or even the rafter. It would be decorated with flowers, but otherwise it would not receive much more attention. Arrangements would be made to rock the swing in some fashion.

The real thrill came in setting up the scene around the swing - a tableau that allowed for limitless imagination. It could be a mountainous terrain giving to a spring meadow, flowering even. On the mountains there could be water falls, feeding a stream running through the meadow. There could be a tree with an orangutan swinging from it. Through the meadow there could be train tracks complete with stations, signals, a bridge over the stream, ...etc. You get the picture. Add to this the fact that neighborhoods were tacitly competing to produce the most popular show, and to do better each year. In the time I speak of, the resources were of a very non-technical nature. Nothing electronic, and very few things electrical. So that taxed your imagination even more. For example, backstage personnel were needed to maintain certain effects like running water and smoking volcanoes.

One year the boys of Nutanpatti came out with a real teaser. The swing was moving continually, at times smoothly and at times erratically - but it was always in motion. There were no visible strings going to the backstage, and no other obvious attachments for the movement. The platform of the swing was in the shape of a flat oblong box. So some suspected that there was some sophisticated machinery inside the box. When the science teacher Satyen Babu from Narsing High School came visiting, he thought magnets were somehow involved. Others thought air was being blown at the swing. Invisible strings were also mentioned. A very old lady said this was nothing less than a miracle, and started to weep. And then came the Bagchi brothers.

The Bagchi brothers were two daredevil boys who would not let a challenge of any kind pass them by. As soon as they heard of this, they arrived on the scene. The two brothers walked up in lock step, looked at the phenomenon, looked at each other - and without saying a word to anyone - left. All the spectators who had gathered on the news that the "Bagchi brothers are coming" continued their vigil - for they knew the brothers would be back. Sure enough, after about an hour, the two brothers reappeared, holding their pet cat. A few yards from the swing, they let go of the cat. The cat stood still for a few seconds, then made a beeline for the swing. It pounced on the swing, causing Radha to be disheveled. Everyone understood. There was a trapped mouse inside the box. They surrounded the brothers: "How did you figure out?" The brothers silently pointed to some holes in the box, picked up their cat, and left.

One year the jhulon of our neighborhood was staged in the SDO's bungalow in Itkhola. There was a detached house, and we would set up shop there. Not only was there a porch, but the rooms behind it were available for staging. The Sub-Divisional Officer of the Public Works Department at that time was Jamini Roy. He had five children, of whom the youngest two boys, Rontu and Shontu, were our age. An elder sister Nomita was about twenty, and was in college. We addressed her as big sister, Nomitadi. She was quite beautiful.

We lived across the street from this bungalow. Upstairs from us was the State Bank 'Mess'. This was a dormitory for the temporary employees from Calcutta, doing a stint in Silchar. If the employees were married, they did not bring their family down here where they were basically roughing it. At any rate, there was here a handsome bachelor in his early twenties we called Arun Babu.

Now, as the preparations for tableau began (this would take several days of after-school activity), Arun Babu one day stopped by to see how Jhulon was done in Silchar. While we were explaining something to him, Nomitadi came out from the main house to talk to her brothers about something. After that, Arun Babu became an ever-present advisor to us, and coincidentally, Nomitadi was also there the entire time to give us a hand with this or that. We were glad on both counts. Imagine receiving such attention from adults! Our parents would not even set foot there until the finished product was displayed.

Then Arun Babu suggested that in conjunction with Jhulon, we put on a poetry recitation show. We were amazed - only a Calcutta Man could come with such refined ideas for us provincial folks. Everybody jumped headlong into this, and got assigned a poem each. Rehearsals, conducted jointly by Arun Babu and Nomitadi, would now proceed late into the night. Our parents asked about the late hour, and we told them about Arun Babu and Nomitadi coaching us children. Well, as long as there was adult supervision, it was fine - the parents said.

Now the opening day came. One thing you should know is that nobody wanted to be backstage personnel. Everyone wanted to be out front and bask in all the praise the visitors would bestow. The backstage was a boring lonely place with only a bench to sit on. So it worked out just fine when Arun Babu and Nomitadi offered to operate all the machinations for us. They sat side by side on the bench, not so unlike Radha and Krishna on the swing front stage. They pulled strings, lifted water from a low bucket to a high bucket, and chitchatted. The evening poetry show also went very well, and the neighborhood turned out in great numbers. So, when the festival ended on a full moon, we were al a little depressed. The adrenalin had now to stop rushing.

Then Arun Babu said that, since the poetry show was such a success, we might consider putting on an entire play. He and Nomitadi would conduct rehearsals in the evenings. It will take months of rehearsal to perfect the gig. We jumped at the idea. Visions of celebrity-hood were going through our minds.

In those days, it would not have been proper for Arun Babu and Nomitadi to see each other by themselves, or even visit each others home socially. Quite simply, there was no way they could even talk to each other. The Jhulon setting was a socially acceptable exception. And the play would also have been such an exception. But it was not to be. Shortly after that Jhulon, the SDO got his transfer orders. Many people - adults and children - went to see the family off at the railroad station. And there was also Arun Babu. He could not speak to Nomitadi. But they stole glances. The train took off. It gradually turned into a two-dimensional rectangle, then a point, then nothing. And Arun Babu kept staring at that nothingness.

There was a man. Early morning when the sun was red and no one was up, he walked near the pond. He looked at the red in the water. He looked at the red in the sky. He joined his palms and said silently: Abide with me O Lord. There was such a man.

There was a mosque. Directly across the road from the pond, there was a mosque. Early evening when the sun was red, its lone minaret caught the hue. Its vast empty courtyard caught the hue. But there was no one at this hour saying: Abide with me O Lord. There was such a mosque.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that it is not true.

The road from Nutanpatti meets the Itkhola main road in a T junction. Now imagine this T. In its right right-angle, there were a cluster of houses with small courtyards sprinkled. We lived in one of these houses. In the left right-angle of the T, first there was a rectangular pond that fitted the angle. Round the other two banks of the pond were a cluster of houses with small courtyards sprinkled. In one of these houses lived the widower Aparisim Babu. Alone.

We saw Aparisim Babu mostly by the pond - standing or walking. He looked to us most aristocratic: fair of complexion, with a broad soothing face and hair brushed back. He mostly wore a white dhoti and a white genji, a collarless tee shirt. But if it was very hot, he did not have the tee shirt on. Then you could see his beautiful, well-proportioned torso - with the sacred thread crossing it. You almost felt that you now understood the place of the word sacred in sacred thread. Aparisim Babu also smiled very beautifully, like the all-healing smile of the Buddha.

But there was something very dark about Aparisim Babu - something that caused us children to avoid him. Or rather, we understood that we were to avoid him, although no one specifically told us to do so. We overheard adults talk of him in hushed, whispered voices. After hearing for a time, we pieced together that he was something dreaded, called a 'kominist'. He attended secret meetings in various places in Silchar with his own kind. And we sensed that Aparisim Babu also understood that the neighborhood wanted to avoid him. So when festivities took place - Durga Puja, Saraswati Puja and the like - and the whole neighborhood gathered and rejoiced in the large field of the SDO's bungalow, Aparisim Babu stood alone on the vacant street and watched from a distance. No one invited him to come and join. After a while, he walked away.

One day I was returning home from visiting one of the houses near the pond, and came face to face with Aparisim Babu. He stopped as if to talk, and smiled beautifully. I sternly looked away and walked on by. The right thing to do, I told myself. Everybody else did!

This very small incident then continued to bother me for a long time. There was no one I could talk to that I could think of. Until, that is, my grandfather came visiting from Sylhet. I told him everything. He first explained that a kominist was someone who wanted to run the society differently than it was run then, and most Indians did not agree with them. But, he said, there was absolutely no reason to avoid him. He said the best thing was for the two of us to go walking near the pond that afternoon, and 'accidentally' run into him. So we did, and ran into him. He again smiled beautifully, and I found the voice to introduce my grandfather. Then, most surprisingly, Aparisim Babu said to Grandfather:

"I am so happy and honored to see you again. I remember you well from the time when you were the SDO and lived in that bungalow."

Indeed Grandfather had been the Sub-Divisional Officer of the Public Works Department a long time ago then, and had lived there. The two really hit it off. The more they talked, the more I felt healed. Eventually, it got dark and we took leave. By way of saying Goodbye, Aparisim Babu put a hand on my head. I was fully healed.

Now, imagine that T again. At the head of the T was a mosque. So it was across the Itkhola main road from all the houses I spoke of. And the SDO's bungalow was next to the mosque, on the same side of the street. The mosque sat in a walled compound, and the wall ran the full-length of the mosque alongside the road. It was a solid brick wall with no entry gate! To enter the mosque, you had to climb a set of stairs to the top of the wall, and come down another set of stairs on the other side. Then you would be standing in a huge, paved, open courtyard. Heres where the collective praying took place. On the far side of the courtyard was the main building of the mosque.

For some reason, we understood the entry to the mosque was forbidden to the Hindus. And we never dared do this. We only peeked over the wall, as if into a forbidden castle. I have never entered a mosque in India, but I have entered many in Egypt and Turkey. Everybody can go into the grounds and the courtyards. To go into the prayer hall, you have to take off your shoes as you do in Hindu temples. You have to be silent and respectful as in temples. You must not disturb any worshippers, as you must not in temples. You could not enter during certain scared ceremonies, which is understandable. Men must cover their legs down to below the knees at least, and women must cover their legs and shoulders and head.

There was an adult in our neighborhood whom we called Dhirukaka, Uncle Dhiru. He was quite a storyteller. If you asked him anything, he started spinning a fantasy tale in answer. So when someone asked him about the ban on entering the mosque, he told this story.

A long time ago, everyone could go over the wall and visit the mosque. One day at noontime, a Moslem man was praying in the courtyard alone. A small Hindu boy was standing nearby and watching him. The man had knelt down, and was lowering his head to the ground. Then he was straightening up his torso, and lowering his head again to the ground. The boy watched him do this three times. When the man lowered his head a fourth time, the boy stood behind him, and with tiny hands, pushed the mans buttocks. The man, startled, turned around and saw the boy. He asked what the boy wanted. The boy said: "I've been watching you try unsuccessfully to do a somersault again and again. So I am giving you a little help."

Then the man explained to the boy that he was praying to Allah. The boy asked: "Where is Allah?" The man pointed skyward. Now the boy got confused and pointed to the prayer hall: "Then who is in there?" The man then took the boy by the hand, took him inside, and gave him a guided tour of the prayer hall. After that, he sat the boy down, and offered him a bowl of consecrated holy food, called Firni. This was a delicious sweet dish, and boy relished it.

When the boy came home and described his adventure with great gusto, his mother became hysterical: "Hay Bhagaban, O God, what have they done to my boy?! He has become impure. Hay Bhagaban, what have they done..." After she was done lamenting, an elaborate corrective procedure ensued. First, the boy's mouth was washed with Ganges Water. Then, in that cold winter evening, he was taken outside, made to stand stark naked, and buckets of cold water were poured on him. The next day the priest came and performed a purification ceremony, complete with fire sacrifice. The purification process required that you gave the priest a new set of clothes. Then the priest secretly gave the mother a prescription for one last step that had to be taken. When the boy sat for his next meal, unbeknownst to him, his mother added a drop of cow's urine in his drinking water. The boy had been purified. Since then, no Hindu ever entered that mosque.

After that meeting with Aparisim Babu, this matter more or less receded from the foreground for me, and life went on as usual. But then, another dark side of Aparisim Babu emerged. First, I have to tell you about Paramita Devi.

In the same housing cluster where Aparisim Babu, who was about 50 years of age, lived, there also lived a 45-year old widow named Paramita Devi. She had been married at 21, and widowed at 22. She now lived an austere life alone. Paramita Devi was an exceptional beauty in the classic sense. It is a beauty that exudes dignity and grace. She stood and spoke and held her head with such poise that you would want to bow before her as to a queen. Her nose, her teeth, her lips, her eyes and eyelashes and eyebrows - everything was perfect. But she was alone.

Once again, we kids caught the wisp of a rumor. After eavesdropping several times, we got to the bottom of this: The two had been seen talking together by the pond. This is a civil neighborhood, the adults were fuming, such outrageous behavior will not stand. Bhimrati has got hold of them in their old age they have taken leave of their senses.

The next outrage was when they were spotted not only talking together, but actually walking together by the pond! What gall! What nerve! Old folks with one foot in the grave doing such fosty nosty! They are defying the society's noble strictures on widows and widowers. We have children here. What is this dirty business going on?!

Once again, I came across Aparisim Babu one day. He again smiled - but a very very sad smile. He looked wan, spent, absent.

I did not get to see the end of this, as I was sent to Calcutta to study. About six months later I came on vacation. I felt now that I had been in Calcutta the happening place, I was not bound by local constraints. So I just smartly walked up to Aparisim Babu's door and knocked. A lady, whom I did not know, answered. I told her that I had come to see Aparisim Babu. She said:

"He does not live here anymore. He and Paramita Devi got married, quietly in the Registry Office, without any public ceremony. And immediately they moved to Karimganj."

I felt both happy and sad. There was another piece of unfinished business I had to attend to. At noontime next day, when very few people were around, I climbed up those stairs and reached the top of the wall. As I was about to go down the stairs on the other side, I saw a a person known to me approach. He said: "Taking a peek at the mosque, huh?!"

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

It was now 4 pm on a Sunday. Swapan had just arrived in his friend Moloy's house on Station Road in Tarapur. He had started at 2 pm from home which was in a small village on the road to Udarband. Swapan had walked an hour to the ferry terminal, waited for the ferry, crossed the river and walked the whole length of Trunk Road to where he was now standing. He knocked on the door, and Moloy's mother answered. "Didn't Moloy know you were coming," she asked. "Actually no," he said, "I just took a chance and came." Then the mother took him inside and gave him sweets and a cup of Horlicks.

Moloy's mother asked about his family's welfare. So he told her that his mother had been seriously ill for sometime. But this morning she felt better and urged Swapan to go out for some fresh air. So he figured he would visit Moloy and be back by 6 pm while it was still light. He did not think to tell her about the book he had come to borrow.

Moloy had gone on a bicycle trip with some local boys. They were to picnic in Ghagra. They should be back anytime. So Swapan decided to wait. He found the latest issue of Shuktara on a table, asked Swapan's mother if he could read it, and was promptly lost in it.

A couple of days ago Moloy, after having saved up just enough money, had bought Nihar Ranjan Gupta's latest Kiriti Roy mystery, Raktamukhi Dragon, The Red-mouthed Dragon. He had promised to loan it to Swapan at school Monday morning. But Swapan could not bear the wait, and decided to come today.

Such was the passion for reading among the boys growing up in Silchar then. But the pleasure of reading came only as the endpoint of a long and laborious process of procuring the book. Buying story books was hardly an option. Either you saved money in the form of two paises here, one anna there - a mystery book cost about a rupee, or sixteen annas. Or you established credit with your parents. But you saved those credits for the time of Durga Puja festival when all the special issues of the magazines came out. So for the most part, you borrowed books from one another. There was a very brisk trade here.

The boys prided in having their own libraries at home - built up from books purchased in the manner described above. Generally, one had may be two dozen books. But the lucky ones who had indulging uncles and grandparents, had reached the fifty mark. That was something to brag about. One individual even had a formal check-out procedure where you had to sign out books.

Most boys of Swapan's class in Narsing High School belonged to middle class families - not affluent and not wanting for normal necessities. But Swapan was especially poor - a fact for which he felt ashamed. His father was an educated man who had fallen on hard times, and never recovered. He died early of broken health, lack of proper nutrition and medical attention. Now Swapan and his mother lived in a one-room hut amid squalor, and barely eked out an existence. Swapan could not afford the bus fare, which is why he walked the distance and spent three to four hours commuting to school each day. His father had managed to marry off Swapan's elder sister. The sister now lived with her family in Premtala, in the town. She helped as much as she could.

In the midst of all this, amazingly, even Swapan had managed to accumulate a personal library. It had six books. It was an incongruous luxury in his spartan home.

Moloy returned about 6 pm, and apologized for keeping his friend waiting. The he said: "Why didnt you tell Ma? She could have given you the book right away. You would be home by now." That was a mistake, recognized Swapan. Anyway, they talked for a bit, and eventually Swapan arrived at the ferry crossing about 8 pm. He found that for some reason the ferry service had stopped early today. He looked for the small dinghies that took passengers across for a little more money, but couldn't find any. And now the badness of his situation sank in. He was not going to be able to go home tonight, and there was no way to send a message.

Now Swapan saw he had no choice but to spend the night at his sister's. When he arrived there, he found the house empty. They were away. He asked the neighbors, but they did not know where the family had gone. Swapan sat on the porch. He started on Raktamukhi Dragon. The neighbors invited him to come and sup with them, but Swapan declined, saying he was quite full. But later, when his sister still had not returned at 10 pm, he accepted the neighbors' invitation to sleep in their home.

From there, after breakfast next morning, Swapan went straight to school. He thought to himself that his mother would have figured out what had transpired. He arrived home about six that evening, Raktamukhi Dragon in his hand. The full-color jacket of the book made it very much in evidence as he walked in.

Now he saw this unexpected sight: His sister Sharmila was sitting on the stoop, her infant baby in lap. Her eyes were red from crying. Her husband Dipak was sitting next to her, looking most dejected. As Swapan was about to inquire, the old lady from two houses down appeared, bringing a basket of fruits. She had always been judgmental and admonishing of Swapan. But now, when she saw him, she exploded:

"No sign of you all night and all day! Now you appear with that fancy book in hand! These books have turned you into a monster. Your mother died last night. This noon your brother-in-law and the neighbors carried her to the shoshan and cremated her. Your brother-in-law had to do that sacred last rite that was yours to perform: Light the pyre. What kind of a son are you? What good are these cursed books if they keep you from your mothers deathbed?"

The sister stood up, handed the baby to Dipak and accepted the basket of fruits, with faintly spoken words of thanksgiving. The old lady then turned and left, still muttering under her breath. The brother and the sister hugged, and both wept uncontrollably.

Next morning, after everyone had eaten breakfast that Minu-pishi, the lady next door supplied, they sat down to what may be called a family council. Dipak did not say much. Swapan had always liked him - he was a plain man, but a most generous and jovial one. Swapan never saw any kind of pettiness in him. He suspected that underneath that exterior of a simpleton, Dipak was a most genuine human being. He had once told Swapan he did not understand poetry, but he had great respect for those who wrote poetry. The sister spoke now.

"We will have to give up this place. You will come and live with us. We are not accepting you in our home out of necessity, but inviting you as part of our family. You will live with us as family - through times good and bad. Your brother-in-law also wants to have you live with us."

The sister continued: "Now, however, there are certain issues we must clear up, and this is a good time to do so. As you know, we are not well-to-do. So there are limits to what we can do for you. In two years you will pass the Matric Examination. Then you will able to get a job as a postman. Father had friends in the post office, so this is practically a done deal. This is a government job, so you will be set for life. And who knows, you may even get the most lucrative beat and deliver mail to homes of powerful people like the DC.

"We will leave this morning. But tomorrow afternoon your brother-in-law will come to fetch you. So pack your things and be ready. Until then, you will eat at Minu-pishi's house. You can even sleep there tonight if you prefer.

"And finally, this damn bookworm habit of yours has truly become an ill omen for the family, like the old lady said rightly. These books of yours - what you call your library - I do not want these accursed things in my home. I have the welfare of my child to think of. I want you to get rid of these, throw them in the trash or burn them. Bring only your school books. From here on these are the only books you will read. And no more of this poetic stuff - walking by the river as if in a dream, with eyes glazed over. Just because father named you Dream does not mean you can go through life as though it were a dream. It is time for you to be a practical man. Do you understand?"

The council was over. Before they left, Dipak took Swapan to a corner and, putting his arm around Swapan's shoulder, whispered in his ears: "Just hide the books somewhere for a while. I will work things out for you. Everything will be all right. There are open spaces near our home where you can walk all you want - any way you want. Don't worry about anything."

That evening Swapan lit the hurricane lantern, took the six books from the wall shelf - the Library - and sat down on his bed. He put the books in a stack in front of him and sat in the lotus position.

The first book he picked up, Palgrave's Golden Treasury, the collection of classic English poems, had belonged to his father since the latter's youth; and over his life, he had made copious personal observations on the margin. Swapan was just beginning to understand his father's thoughts there. The book was worn from use, but otherwise in good shape. He touched the book to his forehead, then clutched it in his chest, and set it down by his right side. The next book was Thakurmar Jhuli, Grandma's Basket of Tales, that was actually given him by his grandmother. She had read to him every story in that book. She had taught him how to rescue the beautiful princess from the lair of the dreaded Rakkhosh. The ogre would put the Princess to sleep, and detain her that way. You had to know the secret of how to awaken her. There was only one way to do this. There was a silver pin near the head of the princess, and gold pin near her feet. You interchanged their positions, and the princess awoke, fell into your arms, and forever became yours. Swapan lovingly set the book on top of the poetry book.

The collection of Tagore's poems, Sanchayita, he got as the first prize in a poetry recitation competition and it was inscribed as such. He had recited the poem Shahjahan. A faint smile came on his face as he remembered the emotions he had to invoke in his recitation. And Abol Tabol, the nonsense rhymes of Sukumar Roy, was a gift on his 10th birthday from his classmates who had pitched in. It had been inscribed: To Swapan the Dreamer of Dreams. Then everyone had signed it.

The book Indradhanu was actually an annual volume published by Deb Sahitya Kutir to celebrate the Durga Puja season. He had borrowed it from his friend Rajat. But Rajat's father got transferred, and Rajat wanted Swapan to keep the book as a memento. He wrote in the book: To my dearest friend Swapan - may we meet again soon - in this life!

The stack had now moved from his front to his right. Only one book remained. The thickest and the weightiest one.

It was just two days before the beginning of the five-day Durga Puja festival. The festival mood was already in the air, under the beautiful cirrus-clouded autumn sky. Everyone felt a little euphoric, a little buoyed. School was out for a month. Swapan was walking up Central Road towards Fatak Bazar. His mother had asked him to buy half a kilo of piping hot Jilipis from there, in the spirit of the season. Jilipis were the cheapest of sweets, but this was all they could afford.

As he came level with Kamala Book Store, he instinctively and even wistfully looked in - as he always did. He saw people crowding at the broad counter. Then he spotted his friend and classmate Tapas. He cheerily entered the bookstore and called out: "Tapas, buying books?"

He immediately realized this was a mistake. Tapas was not alone. His entire family - his parents and his little sister - were by his side. How could he even come close to Tapas' father, Swapan wondered. What would he say? How would he act? He became weak in the knee. He started to leave.

While Tapas was a friend like any other friend, and family background never entered such friendships in Silchar then, facing his father was a different matter. The father was the most important and most powerful man in Silchar, known as Arun Chatterjee, ICS, DC-Cachar. The Indian Civil Service officer was the Deputy Commissioner of all of Cachar District, the supreme administrator. Not only that, he also looked grave and forbidding. He moved about in a motorcade with uniformed drivers. Swapan, standing as a part of a huge crowd, once saw him once from a great distance. The DC-Cachar was standing on a dais and giving the inaugural speech at the Gandhi Mela, the town's annual festival. The man was most impressive, as was his speech.

But it was too late to escape. Tapas said: "Aare Swapan! Swapan - it's you! Come ahead and meet my parents and my sister."

The little girl looked at him and said: "I am Tripti Chatterjee. I am four years old." Swapan looked at the mother - a more elegant and graceful posture in a woman he had never seen, except in cinema. She said with a sweet smile, and very stylistically, Swapan thought: "Swapan." And now the father! The DC-Cachar was smilingly broadly. He said, with obvious admiration in his voice and his eyes: "So you are the First Boy in the class. We hear so much about you." Swapan almost fainted. Not only was the DC-Cachar talking to him like any ordinary man might, but was talking familiarly and giving him dignity and respect.

Not knowing what to say, Swapan came up with "I was just going to Fatak Bazar, and saw Tapas and stopped. I will go now." But the little girl piped up: "Papa, Doesn't Swapanda get a book for Puja?" And the father said: "Of course he does." Immediately, Tapas made room for Swapan at the counter, and said: "Look at these new Nihar Ranjan Gupta mysteries!" While they were busy thus, the father said something to the store clerk. He left and came back with a big, fat, elegantly bound book called Glimpses of World History.

The DC-Cachar spoke: "This is a book we got Tapas last year. It is a collection of letters written by Jawaharlal Nehru to his daughter Indira Gandhi when he was kept in prison by the British Raj. It is not necessary to read or understand everything now. Read it over many years."

He then asked the clerk to wrap the book separately. When this was done, Tapas took it and handed it to Swapan with both hands. A stunned Swapan was now at his wits end. All he could do is take two steps back, look at the entire family, touch the book to his forehead and bow very low. When he looked up, everyone was looking at him, smiling happily - as if in the spirit of the season. Then the little girl said: "Amader bari ekbar esho - come visit us at our home." Immediately, the mother added in her most cultured and pleasant voice: "Yes Swapan, come one Sunday morning and spend the whole day with us."

Swapan mumbled something, and took his leave. When he was clear of Kamala Book Store, he felt a great release of tension. He sat down on the stoop of the clothes store Jiten Factory for a few minutes to gather himself, and to take in the momentous event that had just transpired.

The Jilipis were bought and Swapan was on his way home. But his mind was not on anything immediate. He was thinking of a time several years into the future. If the DC-Cachar could be such an accessible and unassuming man in spite of being so highly placed, then that is what he wanted to be. He had heard that to become an ICS you had to pass an examination and appear for an interview. The examination was no problem for him at all. And he could develop himself to give a good account at the interview. So, DC-Cachar was not only not an unimaginable prospect, but squarely within his reach. Directly he obtained his Bachelor's Degree, he could enter the Civil Service. He gave some more reins to his vision. Could it be - could it be - that he could have a family like the one he saw today? Yes, he said to himself. All this poverty and squalor he was subjected to today were just a passage. A trial by fire.

From then on, every time he thumbed through Glimpses or read a few pages, he felt he was made a part of all these. The lofty ideals of a newly free India, the noble call to duty - all these he thought were addressed to him as well. As well as Indira Gandhi. He also had things to give. The dream-life that these books represented for him was his real life waiting ahead - and would gradually supplant the miserable life that he lived today.

The entire stack of six books had now moved from his front to his right. He took the stack, took it outside and put it in the courtyard, next to an empty drum used for catching rain water. He came back inside and reached for the last item remaining on the shelf - looking much like an expensive book. But this was actually a notebook in which he had written several poems and prose pieces. The history of how he came upon this notebook fleeted through his mind.

Swapan and his mother talked together a lot - more so than an average mother-and-son duo. They could talk about anything at all - things that interested either one interested both. Whenever they talked, they felt there was an invisible presence, and they both acknowledged this within themselves. And they talked freely about him - about what he would have thought or done or said about something. Indeed, it was these talks that made that hut seem something much more than a poor man's shack. They made this a place Swapan longed to come back to at the end of the day.

One day Swapan spoke casually about his desire to have a nice bound notebook to put his poetry and other writings in. This was just thinking out loud, for buying such a notebook was not an option. As a brilliant student, Swapan got a small stipend from school that let him buy his essential school books and supplies. But anything beyond that was not affordable.

Swapan's mother had said only this: "How happy your father would have been to hear what you just said! He was also the literary type - and did a fair amount of scribbling of his own. He had so much to give to the world - but fate would not let him."

Then, unknown to Swapan, his mother had sold an old sari of hers and got one rupee. She then went to the town with a neighbor boy, and walked into a stationery store. They showed her a number of bound notebooks, all quite elegant. But none of them was within her price range. So she said she would come back in a few months when she hoped to have enough money to buy one of these.

The owner of the store had been watching these proceedings from a distance. He now came forward and asked: "Sister, may I ask you why you need the notebook?" She then told him proudly that her son was First Boy in Narsing High School, and he wanted to record his poems and such in this notebook. The owner asked her to wait a minute. He went to the backroom and reappeared, holding a most exquisite leather-bound notebook with gold embellishments, a buttoned strap, and a red tussle to be used as page mark. He said: "This is brand new. I got this as a gift from one of my grateful suppliers. Please take this with my compliments." The mother felt embarrassed, and protested. The owner said: "Please sister, it will be put to far nobler use in your house than mine. And besides, we all have to pitch in and support the flights of fancy in our young."

So that is how the notebook came in Swapan's possession. When his mother handed it to him and told the story, he hugged her and said: "At times like this I feel as though Father has not left us." Then both wept.

Swapan added the notebook to the stack, and put the seven items in the drum. He opened the side stopper of the hurricane lantern and poured some kerosene into the drum.

When the flame had leapt high, the neighbors saw them and came rushing. It was too late. That neighborhood's dreamy-eyed boy had hanged himself from a rafter. He had fashioned one of his mothers white widow's saris into a rope. His prized wall shelf lay empty. On the table was Raktamukhi Dragon with a handwritten note on top:

To be returned to Moloy Kumar Biswas
c/o Sri Mohit Ranjan Biswas
Station Road, Tarapur

Moloy Here is your book back. I did not have time to finish it. Can you imagine me leaving without finishing a mystery?!
Your friend Swapan.

As the gathered neighbors were speculating why he would take his life, Minu-pishi from next door, teary-eyed, explained: "He did not want to be a burden on his sister. He did not want to spoil her conjugal happiness by his intrusive presence. Such a brilliant boy. We had so much hope for him. Bhagaban please look after his soul."

Only one man came close to guessing the real reason, and he was a very plain man who did not understand poetry. He had noted his wife's clever use of the glorifying word postman when everybody knew the word was peon. It had been decided that the boy would be a peon in two years' time, and forever afterwards. Could such a dreamer of grand dreams, First Boy of Narsing High School live with such prospect? He thought not. He wondered the rest of his life if there was something else he could have said or done.

If this man had known a little more of the background, he might have got to the heart of the matter. Swapan was not one to look down on any profession, no matter how humble. He might even have reconciled with shattered dreams. After all, his father probably did. So what was it that he simply could not reconcile himself to?

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

If you have started reading this story without having read earlier about the Bagchi brothers of Silchar, let me give you a brief recap. These two adventure-loving daredevil boys were well-known for rising to the challenge of any mystery, any puzzle, anything vexing that was brought to their attention. Whether it was a haunted house or it was the weeping image of a goddess or it was a sadhu who spread holy ashes by a sweep of his empty hand, the brothers would get to the bottom of the business. Nobody in Silchar had any doubts that they would. Such was their reputation. Otherwise, however, they were perfectly normal boys. They were both good, but not exceptional, students at school. At home, they were the epitome of politeness and respectfulness to elders. Their hobbies at home were completely at odds with their external activities. The elder brother crocheted, and made gifts of decorative tablecloths, stool covers, tea cozies, handkerchiefs etc to family and friends. The younger brother collected plants - orchids, bonsais, Venus Flytraps etc.

The challenge on this occasion that I speak of was the sighting of mysterious lights in an abandoned house at the edge of Malugram. Where Malugram ends, the town of Silchar ends. Then the habitation gradually becomes sparse, the dense row of houses giving in to tiny scattered villages among rice fields and orchards and animal corrals and poultry farms. Just about where this transition begins, there was, next to the unpaved lane, a vast green field. At the very back of the field was a strange house, from the British era. Some missionaries reportedly lived there then. In more recent times, the house had been used as base from which to give out American-donated milk (made from powder) and ghee. Some padre sahebs were in charge of this philanthropic activity. But now the house was vacant and had fallen into disrepair. Its doors were wide open.

As I said, there was something strange about this house - locally referred to as the Aynamahal, the Mirror House. This is not because there were any mirrors in the house. I will explain presently. The house itself was made of concrete and brick. Its walls were plastered and painted white. It was in the shape of a long rectangle, with rooms lined up in a row - all connected by doors. The front of the house that the faced the lane was a short side of the rectangle. From the main entry door there, the house continued until it ended where a dense forest began. Here were some big bushy trees - very old trees. They made the back portion of the house rather dark and even sinister. Circling the entire house was a concrete veranda, about two feet above the ground level, and adorned with simple pillars. These gave the house the appearance of an historical building. You could imagine Lord Clive or Lord Curzon once lived here.

As you walked down the length of the house, from one room to the next, you would see frescoes on walls on both sides. They were now decayed and indistinct. Even so, you could see that the frescoes on the two sides were mirror images of each other. If the Victorian British nobleman on a horseback to your right had his riding crop in his right hand, the saheb on the left fresco had it in his left hand. Otherwise the images were identical. And this was true for each room, although the scenes were all different. You got an eerie feeling that you entered some type of space warp.

Starting in early winter one winter, people who lived directly across the lane noticed that late at night, some lights went on and off in the house. Nobody dared go in and check. Because of the woods in the back, the abandoned house looked even more sinister at night. And this situation was not helped by the fact that jackals and other small animals prowled, and night birds made sounds in the canopy of the trees. But in time these people noticed another thing. Those lights would come on only after their own house lights had been turned off. Then after a while those lights would go off. If they turned on their own lights in the middle of the night and turned off, then after a while the same thing would happen in the Mirror House. It was as though the house were also in some type of time warp...

Needless to say, the matter was promptly referred to the Bagchi brothers. They would have attended to this immediately, but there was an insurmountable problem. You see, whenever the brothers went out on a caper, they had an innocuous cover story for their parents. But there was no conceivable cover story that would cover their staying out all night - which they would have to do in this case. All their previous haunted house capers involved just staying until after dark or going before the crack of dawn. Those were easy to finesse.

So the brothers fretted. They thought of all kinds of plans, but none survived close examination. Pajama parties were not in vogue in those days in that place - so the brothers could not say they would sleep over at a friend's house. The situation was truly hopeless. Then, when they were about to give up, the younger brother said one day: "Meramerir Ghar!"

Then the elder brother said: "Of course, Meramerir Ghar." And the game was afoot.

About the middle of January, at the end of the winter solstice, there is the celebration of Poush Sankranti, the harvest festival. Associated with this is a custom that is peculiar to the Sylhet-Silchar area, and may be even much of Assam. But I have not seen this in West Bengal. So it cannot be said that this is a Bengali custom in general. But let us get to our point.

On the eve of the day of the festival, some few boys get together and plan the Meramerir Ghar. They find an open field, and plant four bamboo poles in a square. Then they gather some ropes and go across the river Barak where the newly-harvested rice fields lay, stretching before your eyes out to the horizon. The boys gather the dry hay and tie them in bundles with the ropes, and carry them back. With this hay and more bamboo, they make four walls and a roof. A shed is now assembled. One wall is kept free at one edge so that it can serve as the door. In order that this shed not look like a box, and more like a tiny toy house - a work of art - the roof is given a pitch. This lean-to is called Meramerir Ghar. I do not know what the origin or significance of this name is. But the surface meaning is clear: Mera is ram, meri is ewe, and ghar is house, or in this case, the lean-to. So there you have it: Meramerir Ghar = The Lean-to of the Ram and the Ewe.

When you are inside the lean-to, you are completely surrounded by the remnants of what was once an undulating rice field. The remnant smell of the harvest permeates you, and then your entire consciousness. You are in a make-believe, fantasy place.

In the evening, in a spot near the lean-to, a fire would be lit, scout-style. In this fire a picnic meal would be cooked. Then this cooking fire would be fed with more wood scraps to convert it to a campfire. The boys would sit around, eat and talk while staying warm on this very cold night. Eventually, they would go inside the shed whose floor had been covered thickly with loose hay, and sleep there - covering themselves with shawls and blankets. Very early next morning, they would get up and walk to the river. This is the difficult part. They would have to take a dip in the ice cold water in that bitterly cold morning. Some go in willingly and others have to be dunked. Anyway, when they return, shivering, they set fire to the lean-to and warm themselves and bask in the glow. After this, they would go home and be rewarded with a huge plate-full of assorted fancy sweets that the women of the house had labored to make the previous day, and probably over many days. Many of the sweets are made from ingredients reflecting the harvest.

What a perfect cover story for staying out all night! The brothers got together with two other pairs of boys who lived right next to the Mirror House: Brothers Shibu and Santu, and brothers Konkon and Ranjan. Since the majority of the boys were from the Mirror House neighborhood, the lean-to of course would have to be built there. And what better open space there than right next to the Mirror House? When the Bagchi brothers concocted a cover story, it was impeccable. An agreement was reached that the four local boys would not spend the night in the lean-to, at their request, and the reason for this was never discussed.

The lean-to was built close to the lane, and so about a hundred meters from the front door of the house. The brothers chose the location which would offer a good vantage on the entire house. They brought with them a hurricane lantern and a few candles. They brought a large metal lid of an oil drum, so as to put the candle on it and avoid the risk of the hay catching fire. The elder brother brought the crochet he was working on - a mango-pattern design, and the younger brother brought a thriller called Bishalgorer Duhshashan - a Bengali version of Dracula.

All went well throughout the day. The picnic supper was delicious, and the six boys talked and told stories until about ten. Then the four boys left, promising to come and fetch the brothers early in the morning, and walk to the river all together. The Bagchi brothers lingered round the fire for a little longer. Then they doused the fire, went inside the lean-to, lit the candle, put it on the metal lid, and sat directly across from each other. The elder Bagchi started on his crochet, and the younger stated to read.

Around about midnight, the brothers came out and saw that all the lights in the neighborhood had gone out, and night rhythm had set in fully. There were night sounds from the woods. Jackals howled and owls hooted. The house, especially the back part of it, looked ominous. The elder brother put down his crochet, being careful that the needles do not get tangled up. The younger brother put his open book face down, so he could start right back reading from where he had stopped. Now they put out the candle and lit the lantern. The elder brother held the lantern in his right hand, and the younger brother walked to his left. They proceeded towards the Mirror House.

When they climbed up the stair and on to the veranda in front of the house, the elder brother said: "First, we will circle the veranda." So they turned right and walked slowly, looking in all direction. There was no sign of any movement in the house itself. It was particularly spooky when the rounded the back of the house. Finally, they came back to the front, and entered the house proper. They advanced methodically, holding up the lantern to examine each room. Without any incidents, they again reached the back of the house, and retraced their path. As they were climbing down the front stairs, the elder brother said: "Well, nothing so far. Well keep a watch from the lean-to, and if nothing happens, come back again in two hours."

No sooner had he finished saying that than they saw a sight that sent chills up their spine. There was light inside the lean-to. Clearly, the candle had been relit. They could see its unsteady light through the porous wall. The brothers looked at each other. They paused a moment to collect themselves, held hands and proceeded with quiet determination.

When they came to the door of the lean-to, it was shut. The younger brother, without any hesitation, pulled it open and looked inside, his brother looking over his shoulder. There, on the hay covered floor, facing each other across the candle, were seated the Bagchi brothers. The elder brother was crocheting, and the younger brother was reading the book. They did not look up. Presently, the candle went out. When the real Bagchi borther, the elder one, brought up the lantern to shine inside the lean-to, there was nobody there. The crochet was where they had left it, needle and all, and the book was as they left it.

Thinking that the lantern might be a deterrent to whatever presented itself before them, they extinguished it and left it outside. They then came in to carefully examine the floor in candle light, the candle now relit. There was absolutely nothing to substantiate what they saw. The younger brother then put a piece of straw in the open page of the book to mark his place, and put the book away in their knapsack. The elder brother did the same with the crochet. There was not going to be anymore leisure that night.

When the brothers came out, the lantern had vanished. They looked towards the house. They saw two boys climbing the stairs to the veranda. The taller boy had the lantern in his left hand, and the shorter boy was walking to his right. The brothers stood like statues while the two boys circled the veranda and entered the house. Through the windows the brothers saw the light pause in each room, move about in that room, and then proceed to the next room. The boys then came back and climbed down the stairs. The lantern went out. The boys vanished.

The brothers went forward and found the lantern next to the stairs. They lit it, and went over the house painstakingly. Nothing of any significance could be found. They kept looking back to the lean-to, and could see nothing but the lit candle, which they had not extinguished this time. They came back, and everything was normal. Nothing further happened. Soon, the sun began to break upon the festive day.

The brothers lit the outside fire again and made two cups of tea. Then they talked. First, the elder brother:

"But there is absolutely no proof- nothing tangible - of what we saw. Our minds could have been playing tricks on us."

"I suppose. And without any evidence, we cannot expect others to believe this story."

The brothers, both highly observant, had noticed that while they themselves parted their hair to their left, the boys they saw parted their hair to their right. Otherwise, the boys looked exactly like themselves.

The younger brother, not knowing what else to do until the four boys arrived, took out his book. He opened where the straw was, and exclaimed:

"This bookmark is not where I left the book last time. It is as though some more pages have been read!"

They took out the crochet. The elder brother had done half of the mango, lengthwise - the half containing the point of the mango. The smooth half had yet to be done.

The pattern had been finished. But not with the smooth half. Someone had inverted and repeated the pointed half. So there was a mango with two pointed sides.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Someone recently found a little-known quotation from Sri Ma Sarada Devi - wife of the great Hindu spiritual ascetic Sri Ramakrishna - herself no less an ascetic. Sri Ma was commenting on the unusually large number of people from the Sylhet District who became monks of the order of Sri Ramakrishna. The quotation as it was told to me and as I remember it: "Bhaktir emon sthan aar kothao nei - There is no greater wellspring of spiritual devotion than this place." When I heard that, the first person that came to mind was not any monk in saffron robe of renunciation, but an everyday Sylheti like you and me, living in the thick of things, wearing dhoti and punjabi: Indranil Babu.

Indranil Gupta lived all over the place - Sylhet, Kolkata, Sadhuhati, Srimangal, Shillong, Silchar. But we will pick up the story during the time he lived in Ambikapatti in Silchar. Here's where he did most of his Garhasthya, the Hindu phase of life when you raise a family. By the standards of Silchar at that time, Indranil Babu was regarded as a highly educated man, having received his BA and MA degrees in English from Calcutta University. At that time, he had the option of becoming a college professor in Calcutta. He also passed the Indian Civil Service Examination, and was offered a beginning administrative post in a rural area of Bengal.

But Indranil Babu, starting from his boyhood, was a restless person. Wherever he was, he wanted to be somewhere else. Whatever he was doing, he wanted to do something else. Whatever he achieved, he wanted to achieve something else. It is important to note that when I say something else, I dont mean something more. Indranil Babu's father once told him that the son epitomized this line from a Tagore poem: Not here, not here, some other place, somewhere else.

Indranil Babu turned down the Calcutta jobs and came back to Sylhet to become an independent businessman. Then he tinkered with one business after another, moved from one town to another, coming eventually to Silchar.

A great torment besieged Indranil Babu when his parents married him off to a beautiful and mild-mannered girl from Sylhet. She had no education to speak of, only a couple of years of Kindergarten. While Indranil Babu found her enormously attractive and greatly fascinating, he also realized that she could never share the most important part of who he was - a seeker of the unknown, a discusser of the intellectual, an explorer of the spiritual. But in time, Indranil Babu came to love his wife deeply and unconditionally. He came also to admire and respect her dignity and poise. And to satisfy the need for that intellectual or spiritual or whatever companionship which he thought would not be available from her, Indranil Babu became a veritable Haroun al Rashid. He would go out to the streets of Silchar and find such company and invite them in. The wife indulged him in this hobby of his. Their three children observed this activity in suppressed amusement.

This is generally how it worked: Indranil Babu would meet a man somewhere in town that he found interesting, and would immediately invite the man for noon rice or evening rice, as the timing of the encounter called for. Silchar did not then have much in the way of rigid social formalities, and the invitee would not consider it at all unusual. Mrs. Gupta would not at all be annoyed to see an unexpected guest, but would quickly move to supplement and upgrade the meal she had prepared. Then the family and the guest, but not Mrs. Gupta, would sit to the meal, on the floor, on straw mats. They would sit in a semicircle. Mrs. Gupta would sit at the center of the circle, facing them, with all her dishes and accouterments arranged in front of her. She would then spoon out food onto large brass plates, course by course, as the diners relished and praised and conversed. Since there were five diners, the guest would be seated at the center, Indranil Babu next to him. Let us take just one example of his many guests.

One day Indranil Babu brought home a fisherman of the Barak, name of Lalmoni. This man was most uncomfortable sitting down with gentlemen folks. But Mrs. Gupta quickly put him at ease with her entreaties. She addressed him as Apni, an honorific form of you. The fisherman had never in his entire life had such a highborn person address him thus. As the meal proceeded, the children asked Lalmoni how he had lost the tip of the little finger of his right hand. He then told the harrowing story of catching a giant tortoise, and how it had bit off the tip of his finger. The children expressed sympathy. Then Indranil Babu started his own exploration. He asked:

Kalpana is the Bengali word for imagination. Lalmoni, unfazed, considered the question for a few seconds, and then rose to the occasion:

"The only Kalpana I know is my brother-in-law's neighbor's daughter in Meherpur. But she is just a toddler. I dont think there is any depth yet."

Undaunted, Indranil Babu moved to another topic, and then another topic, until they came to the topic of fishing. Here, Lalmoni took over the initiative. He embarked upon the most fascinating narration that could rival The Old Man and the Sea. Even the children were engrossed. Lalmoni was once chasing a huge catfish that would surely have brought 20 rupees in Fatak Bazar if sold whole, and probably 30 rupees if in stakes and fillets. He gave a lengthy account of how the fish kept eluding him all day as he kept chasing him in his fishing boat. As Lalmoni gave up at dusk and turned homeward, he saw the fish come out from right under the keel of his boat, and swim away at a leisurely pace. Then Lalmoni even delivered the moral:

"It is not good to go looking for things in all places until you are sure what you are looking for is not right where you are. You can waste your whole life and never find it."

Indranil Babu was deeply stirred. He thought this was a very successful day, and mentally archived this. When leaving, Lalmoni did something unusual - he touched Mrs. Gupta's feet. This is not done among people of same generation. When Mrs. Gupta protested, Lalmoni said: "I bow low to that person within you who gave a lowly fisherman kindness and dignity for once in his life."

Unfortunately, however, Indranil Babu never found Lalmoni again. The local fishermen could not recognize him at all, and said he must be from up river. Even mentioning that the tip of the little finger of the man's right hand was missing did not ring any bells. Indranil Babu made inquiries up river, and even tried to find out if there were a little girl called Kalpana in Meherpur. But he had no luck in either case.

And thus is how life went during the Ambikapatti phase. This turned out to be the most stable period in Indranil Babu's life. He was a good family man, a good provider, and he had found a way to tame and nurture the unruly wandered that was inside him. It is almost as though a storm-tossed ship had found a home port.

There was another guest who ended up becoming a family friend. He surely had a name of his own, but he did not go by that name to the family. After the children listened to him for a while, they christened him Darshonik Babu, Philosopher Babu. The whole family liked him. He lived near Normal School. Darshonik Babu clearly was also an educated man. He did not have a family. He considered a standing invitation as having been extended to him in the Gupta house. About once a month, he would drop in for afternoon tea, then stay until after the evening rice. In the intervening time, while Mrs. Gupta prepared a special dinner, the two friends talked about topics ranging from how Buddhism came to Tibet under King Songsten Gampo to how the Turkish-Persian poet Jalaluddin Rumi had a life-changing transformation upon meeting a dervish named Shams-e Tabriz. These were most companionable times.

Jalaluddin Rumi (on horseback) having discourse with Shams-e Tabriz
(Painting by Zia Cernan, 1958, displayed at the tomb of Rumi in Konya, Turkey)

"In some mystic traditions they speak of inner life. A rare person can live in the everyday society like everyone else, and yet live a secret inner life - a life at a highly spiritual level. So in fact he lives two parallel lives. There are never any outward signs of this inner life, except perhaps in some a certain restlessness or heedlessness. You, my friend, are such a rare person."

Because Indranil Babu was so educated, neighbors came to him all the time for all kinds of reasons. Most common was helping them write job applications. Written in perfect and stylistic English, the letters seemed to have great impact on the addressee. Indranil Babu was happy to help, and was well liked for this reason as well.

Some twenty years passed. Children left home, and were either working or studying in Calcutta. Indranil Babu had retired, and though he was not rich, he was financially secure. Mrs. Gupta had taught herself to read and write both Bengali and English, and was in great demand as a volunteer tutor among the neighborhood children. Her life was very full.

It started rather imperceptively at first. People gradually started asking Indranil Babu advise on life path, future etc - for unknown reasons. He gave very generic advice (If you study hard, you will pass the exam; if you look hard, you will find a job; and so on). But people took them as specific advises, acted on them, and achieved success. Indranil Babu was in increasing demand.

People who saw Indranil Babu infrequently began to notice that his very appearance had started to change. Not the change that comes from aging, but another kind of change. He began to look more and more like an ascetic: a calm and graceful aspect which at the same time exuded great assurance to the visitor. When Darshonik Babu came visiting after the space of a year (he had gone on a pilgrimage), he was astounded. Then he said to Indranil Babu:

"Bandhubar, my friend, I know what has happened to you. Your inner life has become so strong from being tamed and steadily nurtured that it is now expressing itself and taking over your outer life. The inner you is becoming the outer you."

Indranil Babu smiled. That comment stirred him deeply, and destroyed whatever balance he had achieved. On that day, that old bug bit him again - after all these many years. He decided to leave home and reach the heights of the Himalayas. He told his wife:

"I will now start the Banaprastha phase of my life - a phase of renunciation and retiring to the mountains. There are enough provisions to sustain you through the rest of your life. There are so many people to look after you. You will be all right. You have been a good wife and a partner, and for that I am eternally grateful."

His mild-mannered wife did not stand in his way - she packed his few things and bade him fond goodbye. From that day forward, she wept secretly every night in her lonely bedroom until she fell asleep.

Indranil Babu roamed for a year - visiting holy places and seeking sadhusanga, the company of holy men. But he did not find the answer he was seeking. He now arrived at Kailash, a high holy place in the Himalayas. There one evening after it got dark, he was returning to his lodgings when he saw, in a distant spreading tree's dark recess, three sadhus sitting in a circle, smoking ganja. He approached them, and they made room for him in the circle and passed him the chilam. Indranil Babu pretended to take a puff and passed it on. They got talking, and Indranil Babu explained that he was seeking someone who could answer a question for him. One of the sadhus said that he should make his way to a village about a week's journey up the mountains. From that village, he should follow the uphill trail about three miles to a dry streambed. He should turn right and follow the streambed about a mile, when he would come to a clearly visible cave. There he would find Guru Meenasambhava, known as The Answerer of the Final Question. Another sadhu cautioned Indranil Babu to frame his question most unambiguously to get the right answer. The Guru only spoke in one-word sentences. Indranil Babu would have to interpret the answer. And as soon as the Guru raised his right hand, it would mean that the visit was over.

Most pleased with this tip, Indranil Babu started back on his way to the lodgings. He turned to wave to the sadhus one last time. They were gone.

Indranil Babu found the cave, and upon entering, he saw a very hairy man without any clothes sitting in the lotus position. There was something about the man that seemed strangely familiar to Indranil Babu, but he gave this no further thought. The Guru had his eyes closed. Indranil Babu squatted low in front of him, and waited. About fifteen minutes later the Guru said, without opening his eyes: "Bol, speak!" Then Indranil Babu made his carefully rehearsed, succinct speech:

"Maharaj, King of kings, I am in great torment. All my life I have been seeking something. But I do not know what it is. I do not ask that you give me what I seek. I only ask that you tell me what I seek. I would like to know this once before I die."

Again, fifteen minutes passed. Then the Guru briefly opened his eyes and said: "Machhli, Fish." He then closed his eyes and held up his right hand. The visit was over. Indranil Babu caught a flitting glimpse of the missing tip of the Guru's little finger.

Now it was time to interpret. Indranil Babu came back to the village and sat in front of the only teahouse, a squat hut really. There were a few other men sitting there, sipping tea. As Indranil Babu started to sip his tea and consider the Guru's answer, a man approached the teahouse. He had an angling rod in his right hand, and a large silvery fish hanging from his left hand. The tea drinkers started to ask this man where and how he caught the fish.

The man was fishing in a portion of the stream where there was still water, forming a small pond. He spotted the fish and cast his line. He cast it again and again, and farther and farther. But no luck. As he was about to give up, he saw that the fish was hiding right near his feet, right where he was standing knee-deep. Then he swooped in and caught the fish with his two hands.

Indranil Babu began to think: Machhli, fish ... Guru Meenasambhava ... Meena, fish ... fingertip missing ... Lalmoni, fisherman ... fish is right where you are ... don't go looking far and wide.

It was all a blur how Indranil Babu made his way from that mountain village to the railroad station in Tarapur, Silchar. But he probably made it in record time. This was early morning. He took a rickshaw home. When he arrived, a great surprise awaited him.

His wife was standing at the door to greet him. She had set out his old familiar kharams, the wooden sandals he wore inside the house. She had set out a pitcher of water for him to wash his feet, and then put on the sandals and enter the house. All this she used to do every time he went out and came back. Now a year later, it was as though he had just gone out to buy some milk.

Indranil Babu figured it out. It had to be that someone saw him at the station, and rushed ahead for the privilege of giving the good lady the great news. He asked: "Who told you I was coming?" She replied: "No one." Then she said: "Esho, come." Indranil Babu stepped inside the house he had left for good. As he entered he told himself: "I am beginning to see."

Neighbors came from far and near to greet him and celebrate his return. Darshonik Babu came as soon as he got the word. There was great rejoicing all around.

That night when they were alone, Indranil Babu told his wife: "I am done roaming. My place is here with you. Here is where I want to die, holding your hand."

Indranil Babu came to the natural end of his life. He was not ailing from any disease or infirmity, but dying of old age. He was at peace. The last moment was nearing. All the neighbors and well wishers had already been there to pay their last respects. Then, Darshonik Babu came. He said to his friend:

"My friend, my life is better for having met you. You are the most blessed among all humans. Go in this knowledge."

Now the house was quiet. Darkness was descending. The neighbor's daughter was practicing Basanta Raga, a melancholy evening tune. The husband and wife were alone, holding hands.

With his last bit of energy, Indranil Babu sat up in the bed, with his back against the headboard. His wife was sitting facing him. He looked straight into the eyes of the simple, indulgent, forgiving woman who shared his life all these years. He spoke, in very feeble voice:

The evening raga had stopped. The darkness was now complete. Indranil Babu saw a new glow of light within that room, from his wife's eyes. The eyes now looked different, but also familiar. They were like the glistening eyes painted on a goddess by the finest artisans of Kumartuli, during the auspicious rite of the awakening of the goddess. Then the painted eyes became real.

Indranil Babu knew. He now did something most unusual. He joined the palms of his hands, raised them to his forehead, and bowed as low as he could before his own wife of so many years. In that same motion continued, his head fell to her feet, never to be raised again. In that dark, the eyes still glowing, the woman placed her left hand on his head and raised her right hand in benediction.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Just note the beautiful interplay of sounds between the vowels and the consonants. Think of the elevation of the levee over the grand vista of the river, the organic fragrance of a girl over natures smell of grass, the light breeze, and so on. The levee indeed is a romantic place, and to me, nowhere more romantic than in Silchar.

Before the levee on the Barak was built, annual flood was a fact of life in Silchar. Its severity changed from year to year. First there would appear just a thin layer of muddy water, barely inches thick, on the fields and the meadows and the courtyards. From then on, you anxiously watched its progress. Each morning would be the time to take stock. You might wake up and find that the water level had risen to cover the stoop. Then you kept praying: God let this be as far as the water would rise. Now an hourly vigil would be kept. On a good year, the water might start to recede. On other years, the level would continue to rise until there was knee-deep water in your living room. Gradually, one necessity of life after another would be drowned. Silcharites who remember those days would well relate to the famed Johnny Cash lyrics:

How high's the water, mama?
Five feet high and risin'
How high's the water, papa?
Five feet high and risin'

Well, the rails are washed out north of town
We gotta head for higher ground
We can't come back till the water comes down,
Five feet high and risin'

I will use the American convention in which what is called ground floor in India is first floor. Likewise, first floor of India is the second floor. If you lived in the first floor of a two-story house (there were not many houses taller than this), your neighbors upstairs would accommodate your family even at great inconvenience to themselves. Such were the innocent days. But if you lived in a single story house, you had to shrink your entire living space to the bedsteads and the tabletops. Imagine that for a moment!

Flood came also the RMS Quarters, housing for the local employees of the Railway Mail Service a gigantic creation of the British Raj. From Trunk Road, a small lane proceeded towards the river. If you took it, you would come to a long strip of frontage to a long red brick building built like a longhouse. This single building was actually a row of very small, individual family homes. One of these families had a boy named Shashi in his early teens, and another had a girl of about the same age, named Nomita. This was an age when boys began to discover that girls somehow held a little bit of extra fascination over boys. Shahshi was secretly sweet on Nomita. It was never clear if the girl knew. And Shashi had to be content with catching a glimpse of her perhaps once in a week or so or whatever the frequency is with which two neighbors run into each other by random chance.

When the flood came, Shashi swung into action to the great relief and thankfulness of the entire neighborhood. He would fell eight sturdy banana trees with a machete. Then he would trim them to obtain eight large trunks long, smooth and fat. He would lay them side by side without any gaps. Then, using a brick as a hammer, he would drive several bamboo stakes through the banana trunks, perpendicular to their length. And there! He had a sturdy barge, which he could navigate with a long bamboo pole.

This was nothing less than a lifesaver. You see, the outhouses then were really and truly outhouses. They were some distance from the living quarters, and built on a raised base. So, even if the space between the home and the outhouse were under water several feet deep, the latter was still useable that is, if you could get yourself there. And only Shashi could get you there. I will tell you only what you already know every human being needs at least one trip per day. I am sorry I cannot give this story a spin to make it less "prosaic" than the truth. I tried, but no substitute scenarios came to mind.

So it was that during the flood, Shashi was the most sought after person in the neighborhood. He was being constantly summoned, and more often than not, had a waiting list. Schools were closed during the flood. So Shashi ran his ferry service round the clock. All this just for that one trip per day that he eagerly looked forward to. But not a single word transpired between the two. I think I told you elsewhere that in that place in that time, the expression Thank you was not used in any form. When Shashi deposited his fare back at her home, he sometimes got a fleeting eye contact, with her looking straight and deep into his eyes. That look filled his entire day, and energized him and invigorated him. Did it mean something? Did she mean to say something? Shashi also got, at the close quarters of only a couple of feet, a whiff of her smell. That smell, over the smell of the freshly cut banana trunk, made an intoxicating combination that for him was the fragrance of Amaravati the romantic home of gods. He was living in another plane. He did not even take a break for noon rice, lest he fail that particular passenger when she needed him.

Needless to say then that Shashi was one person who looked forward eagerly to the coming of a virulent flood.

The levee on the Barak was an earthen dam. It had a flat top that became a fine riverside promenade. The sides of the dam flared down from the edges of this walk. The constriction of the levee was farmed out in pieces to various builders. My father had the charge of a portion paralleling Itkhola Road, and then extending to the back of the RMS Quarters. When the construction was completed, it turned out that all of the levee looked nice and geometrical with sharp, linear edges, except the portion built by my father. This section had rounded, untrimmed edges. Other boys used to tease me and my brothers saying that this represented poor workmanship. A few months on, however, the levee looked the same everywhere. The neat edging was just an unnecessary cosmetic thing. As I think back on those days, I think that in some very small way, in a small corner of the Earth called Silchar, something of my father remains.

Naturally, in the early days of the levee, when it had not yet been grassed over or become a favorite promenade, I used to walk on the portion built by my father. One day I ran into Shashi. He was not at all pleased by the construction of the dam. Why, I asked. Everybody had welcomed it. Why not him? Then he explained:

"Before, we used to have a clear view of the river. We smelled the river. Now the sights and the smells are gone. Now it is as though something has been taken. And look at your fathers section here. It is so shabby."

I did not argue with him, because he seemed to have a point. Nor did I have any idea which sights and smells he was speaking of.

A year on, the levee had become a favorite promenade. Groups of fresh-air seeking men and women walked together, chitchatting happily. This was clearly a good thing, the levee. But what about Shashis point? What about that which the levee had taken?

In time, Shashi found that Nomita would also walk on the levee at a very specific time of the early evening. That then became also Shashis time to promenade, walking in the opposite direction. Not a word would pass between them, ever. Oftentimes, they were alone on the vista. Then Shashi would again get that deep, captivating, soul-stirring eye contact as he passed her. At times he even dared to walk so close that he would get a whiff of that familiar fragrance now registered in the very core of his being. Only, the smell of banana leaves had been replaced by the smell of the grass. What is more, this contact was year-round, not just a few days a year. This was pure poetry. Clearly, if the levee had taken something, it had returned a great deal more. Shashi was a happy boy. When I saw him one day, he volunteered in emphatic language: "Your father is a damn fine dam builder."

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Gopesh Chandra Esh, Gopesh Babu to us children, moved into the apartment above us with his wife. He was a lowly clerk in the railroad. He was an unremarkable man, but not his wife. She was a spectacular beauty tall, stately, radiant. Whenever anyone saw the couple for the first time, they would think: What an unlikely pairing! Or, what a lucky bloke! Or, she is so out-of-place!

But after you got to know the couple, and saw how nice people they both were, and how much they were in love, you did not think those thoughts anymore. You simply thought: So nice to have them as neighbors!

But what makes this couple the subject of a story is the strange, nicely strange, conduct of Gopesh Babu towards his wife. He was so completely enamored of her and so taken by her that his visible, everyday life revolved festively around her. He was always hanging around her, serenading her, teasing her, kneeling before her in a worshipping stance. He was braiding her hair, adjusting her sari, wiping the sweat off of her forehead when she was cooking. When he left for work, he bade elaborate, even dramatic, goodbye. When he returned, he was positively ecstatic. It is as though his entire life, day in and day out, was an ongoing celebration of his good fortune. And he made no secret of it. Quite the contrary. He made great display of his adoration in public.

Gopesh Babu serenaded his wife with hit love songs from then currently popular movies. He made motions with his hands, pretending to play a guitar or a violin. Sometimes he would use a short stick as a flute, and pretend to be Krishna to his wifes Radha. Sometimes he pretended to blow a horn. When he did all that, he would always kneel before her. And he did all that in presence of company, and when they were alone.

His wife in turn was most receptive to all this. She smiled pleasantly and indulgently. She never would say: O stop it!! Instead, she would make herself available for the full treatment.

Once a local entrepreneur invented a kind of an ektara a one-stringed musical instrument. He took a readily available rustic clay bowl, the kind used by sweet shops to dispense yogurt. He then took a bamboo cane about a foot and a half long, and split it partway along its length to form a vee. The ends of the two arms of the vee were then fastened around the bowl. Then a hole was drilled at the bottom of the bowl. The single string was strung from this hole to the apex of the vee. And there you had the ektara simple, cheap, and apparently most effective. The vendor was walking along the streets of Silchar striking up beautiful movie tunes in their full glory, the sound as rich as from any full-blown ektara.

Many children bought this for mere four annas a piece, but nobody could make it work as well as the vendor. But one adult also bought this toy, and mastered it! From then on, he was serenading his wife with this.

We children would walk freely in and out their apartment. Such was how welcome we were made to feel. If it was teatime, we would be offered tea and biscuits. If the wife was cooking, we would be offered a small serving of whatever she was cooking. At other times we would be treated to marble-sized coconut laddoos. In time, we also became enamored of the wife. We would also serenade her if we could.

Thus it was that Gopesh Babu lived in seventh heaven. He was living in his small earthly hovel with a goddess, and well he knew it. There was nothing quotidian about his life. And there seemed not a dark cloud anywhere. There was no time that we saw him not ebullient. If he and his wife were sitting in a social gathering over tea, he would take the opportunity of any lull in the conversation to do something strange, nicely strange. He would produce a silly giggle, and point to his wife sideways, and say: My wife. The wife then would smile approvingly. This was completely out-of-context and completely out of the clear blue. In time, people got used to this and even looked forward to this. Out of their presence, some couples even mimicked them in an amusing but complimentary way.

During the Durga Puja festivities, a drama was staged one evening by local talent in the grounds of the SDOs bungalow, just across the street from us. The entire neighborhood turned up, leaving all the houses desolate and dark. Nearly halfway through, I had to answer a natures call. So, shortly before the commotion of the Intermission when it would be difficult to make an exit, I took the keys from my mother and slipped out, crossed the street and made my way home. There, as I was fumbling with the keys, I saw in the dark Gopesh Babus wife going up the stairs with a tall and handsome man from the neighborhood. They were startled to see me. Then the man asked: .., What are you doing here in the dark? Why are you not at the theater? Are you all right? Do you need any help?

I then explained that I was merely going to the bathroom. Then he said: So are we, separately. We just ran into each other.

I was not old enough to understand the significance of what I saw, but old enough to know that this was an improbable sight. For this reason the scene became etched in my mind. Later I would understand.

As I was making my way back to the show, I saw a third person lurking in the dark, staring intently at the upstairs apartment which was still dark. The man was so engrossed he did not see me. The little I could see his face, it was anything but ebullient.

A great change came over Gopesh Babu. He was grave, sad and downcast. His apartment was no longer a happy place to go to, and we stopped going. The couple started keeping to themselves, and very little of them was seen. They did not participate in the happy rituals of the post-Puja Vijoya Dashami when sweets are exchanged between families. A dark cloud had settled over everything. But this did not last long enough for tongues to start wagging. Within a month, the couple moved out. Gopesh Babu explained that he had found a place to rent in Tarapur, close to his work. After they left, we peeked into the emptied apartment. There was only one item left behind, on the floor the toy ektara.

Several months later I went to see my friend Subhas in Tarapur. He was not home. So I thought I would loiter for a bit in the platform of the railroad station. There, I ran into Gopesh Babu. He looked emaciated and spent. But he seemed most happy to see me. It was as though I was a relic from his heavenly days. He took me inside the station and to his desk, and asked the tea boy to bring tea and biscuits. Then he kept pelting me with questions about the old neighborhood. Who had moved in into their apartment? Was this a happy couple? Did they fight? Did the man treat his wife nicely? I embellished my answers as much as I could with examples and anecdotes and he listened intently. He asked about everyone, except one certain individual. Then it was my turn to ask him how Kakima, auntie, was. He said she had gone for an extended visit to her parents home in Shalchapra. He had not seen her nor heard from her ever since he moved to his new quarters. I asked how he managed with cooking etc. He drank tea all day to ward off hunger, and in the evening, had a takeout meal of puri and potatoes. Then I spoke like an adult and told him this was no way to live. Surely he could cook some rice, boil some eggs and potatoes, and make a mash of all this with ghee and salt. That would be both a delicious and nutritious meal. He said he would do that.

As I was leaving, he implored me to come again and to ask my parents to visit him. He said there were reasons he could not himself go to the old neighborhood. He explained where he lived.

I told the story of this meeting to my parents, and gave them the invitation. A few weeks later, on a Sunday morning, my parents made their way to Gopesh Babus home. But the house was empty, and the neighbors did not know what became of him. Then my parents stopped at the railroad station. They learned that Gopesh Babu had asked for, and received, a transfer to the railroad station in Shalchapra.

Nothing more could be learned about the two. Perhaps they had reunited. But of one thing I felt certain: the serenading had gone out of Gopesh Babu, for good. He would no longer be able to play the toy ektara any better than us children.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Shortly before I came to the US, my friends Benoy and Kajal and I set out from Calcutta for a train journey to Shillong, Dibrugarh and Pandu. In each place I had family, so we had food and lodging assured. Our last stop was Darjeeling, where we were pure tourists, without any contacts. Benoy had written ahead and arranged for lodgings in some type of a guest house.

We arrived in Darjeeling in the toy-like train, and with little difficulty found the guest house. It was a seedy place with a large hall for communal sleeping, communal bathroom facilities, and a few dingy backrooms in a labyrinthine scheme. Benoy pointed out to the proprietor that he had requested a private suite. Sure, no problem, said the proprietor. We were then shown into a large dark room with nothing in it but two very large wooden beds, completely bare. But in those days you carried your own bedding, in a piece of luggage called hold-all. There was no attached bathroom, but the three of us had lived in High School dormitory together for three years, and were used to communal living as far as those facilities went. So we put the best face on things and spread out in our private suite, and started to unpack.

A little later the proprietor showed in another party of three people. Seeing the surprise on our faces, he said that they were meant for the other bed. A little debate then ensued, and he explained that private suite did not mean it was for just one party. Since we did not have any options on hand, we had to agree to this arrangement. At any rate, when we got talking to the other party, they turned out to be amiable and interesting people. So the day was saved.

Next day was a full day of sightseeing which we did all on foot. We went to the Mall, and from there, trekked out far. We also saw the Botanical Gardens. By this time we were ravenously hungry, and decided, to make up for our disappointing lodgings, to have a good lunch. As we were walking down a busy, narrow street lined densely with ramshackle two-story houses, we saw a little signboard that said CHINESE RESTAURANT (First Floor). To the right of it, a set of narrow wooden stairs went up. (Remember, first floor in India is second floor in the US.)

The stairs brought us to a balcony, from which a door let us into a largish room. In the middle was a rather small dining table with soiled dishes, newspaper etc. The rest of the room was filled with the signs of family living, and in fact many family members were lounging there. A mother was trying to calm a crying baby, and wipe its nose. I had a desire to bolt immediately, but Benoy was made of more adventurous stuff, and pursued the matter:

Now a man came forward and said: There is actually no menu, but we can offer only chow mien at this hour. You can have chicken or pork chow mien, with a salad.

The price he asked seemed to be unusually low. We ordered the chicken chow mien for three, and saw one of the ladies retire to the inner sanctum surely the kitchen. The table was cleared, and we sat down.

Then the family started talking to us. They were of Nepalese descent, and lived in Darjeeling for generations. Seeing me make gestures to the baby, now smiling, the mother got up and put the baby smack on my lap, and disappeared. I wondered if I would be relieved of this duty when the food arrived.

First, water was served in three different types of glasses one brass, one stainless steel, and one glass. Likewise, three assorted dinner plates were placed before us that looked like the type families use for everyday meals. Three misshapen, but useable, forks were also produced. Then the salad arrived. It looked fresh and clean. Presently, the chow mien arrived a huge pile on a large platter, piping hot. It turned out to be most delicious, and the quantity was enough to last us the rest of the day.

Fortunately for me, the baby was now removed from my lap. The family went back to their devices. Only the man who originally spoke to us sat down at the table and carried on a conversation. He told us how Darjeeling was changing for the worse. It was a good thing we came when we came, he said, for the scenic beauty was fast disappearing due to human encroachment. He regaled us with stories of his youth when he was something of a high mountain adventurer. And yes, he had broken bread with Sherpa Tenzing Norgay.

We finished, and asked for the bill. The man said there were no bills actually, but we just needed to pay so many rupees. We did, and also placed a tip on the table. Then the whole family, which had been watching us eat all this time, rose to say goodbye - as though we had been dinner guests in their home. We took leave with a warm feeling inside. I pinched the babys cheek. We walked down the stairs, discussing among ourselves that this would be a memorable experience from our trip.

As we came down to the street, Kajal exclaimed: Look! He pointed to that restaurant signboard. Underneath that sign was an arrow pointing to the left that we had missed before. To the left was a wide set of showy stairs, and following these, we saw upstairs a honest-to-goodness Chinese restaurant with a colorful frontage, with all the usual adornments red paper lanterns, red dragon scrolls, golden tassels etc. A large and extensive menu was also posted. Well-dressed patrons were happily going in with great expectation on their faces. The ones coming out were veritable images of happy satiety.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Doodhpatil is a Manipuri village that then sat among expansive rice fields, directly across the river from Malugram. At the time of this story, there was no scheduled ferry service - you had to wait for one of the private dinghies to take you across. But at any rate, Doodhpatil was a largely self-sufficient agricultural village, and there was no great need for the villagers to come to town routinely, except for schooling of young people. It truly was an isolated, idyllic place then.

But the tranquility was shattered when the crops were poor for several consecutive years. The consequences to the village were nothing short of devastating, as illustrated by the plight of a young widow and her two infant sons. The widow owned a small rice-growing field. The family ate off of this rice, selling the rest of the rice for other needs. The young woman was beautiful and vivacious, and everyone liked how she greeted people not with words, but a smile and a slight stylistic tilt of her head. When during the crop failures this magnificent lady ran out of the stock, she was too proud to ask for help. She saw her sons become emaciated, and bloated from hunger - within the privacy of her home. No one knew anything. When the situation became impossible, one night the widow left her two sons in the doorstep of a neighbor, went to the field - her field - and lay down flat on the barren ground. She then slit her wrists and bled to death. Later, she was taken to the pyre ground and cremated. She ended in blood and ash. It was too late for the villagers to save the children. They died shortly afterwards.

This story mobilized people to help the village. The scientists said the soil needed rest and replenishment. The priests said that the gods were displeased. So, the villagers, to be doubly sure, decided to address the problem on both fronts. A village council was held in the home of the Elder Ratanmoni Sapamcha. After great deliberation, and with great reluctance, it was decided that the planting would be skipped for a year. This year would be spent in intensively replenishing the soil and extensively appeasing the gods.

As to the first of these lines of attack, the villagers were able to get there hands on large quantities of American-donated chemical fertilizers. These were spread thick on the fields. Then native fertilizers were spread likewise. Then all the cow-dung that could be found was added. Additionally, the leavings of the elephants used to move logs from the river were added. After that, following the dictum of a priest, great quantities of ash from the pyre ground were strewn. All these were plowed over, and when the rains came, made a part of the soil.

Now followed the great appeasement of the gods. All over the fields, little shacks, called pandels, were erected to worship this god and that goddess. The priests were working round the clock. Fire sacrifices were arranged. The priests ordained that they needed English whiskey to pour into the sacrificial fire, and the same was procured for them from the Cachar Club at great expense. The villagers spared no expenses, even if they had to dig into the savings. The priests took enormous swigs of the whiskey, and then poured a few drops into the fire. This was repeated throughout the day. When the priests keeled over, this was the sign that the fire sacrifice was a success. On the last day, at the direction of a priest, twenty-one goats were sacrificed, and their fresh, warm blood was sprinkled on the fields. The priests took the meat.

The following season, planting was done at the regular time, and the rains came at the regular time. But the green tips grew ahead of schedule, and rapidly. Soon the fields were lush green - but an unusual shade of green. The farmers associated this with a healthy crop. And what a crop it was! They got three times as much paddy per bigha of land then they were used to getting. And the harvest looked most healthy, precursor to high quality rice.

And it indeed was. The fields were harvested with great gusto, and the villagers busied themselves with processing the crop. There was much rejoicing all around. The hay was left to dry on the stem. But the farmers noticed that this was an especially good quality hay that could be used to build fine adobe homes. They then harvested the hay and piled them up in hundreds of mounds all across the fields. There they would dry further. This was a rather eerie sight: Mounds after mounds as far as the eye could see on otherwise empty fields. And of course the intoxicating scent of drying hay added to the hypnotic character of this scene.

Another thing nobody took much note of is that a secondary crop seemed to start to come up right away. Tiny verdant shoots came out of the ground. It is as though after such momentum, the land just could not stop giving. It wanted to give something more. Or perhaps, something else.

The first time it happened was very late one moonlit night, when Babudhon the village drunk was returning home from a long session at the hoochhouse. It was a cold night, and he had wrapped himself in a blanket. Halfway through the ricefields, his unsteady legs could carry him no farther. So he simply sat down on the dividing ridge between two fields, wrapped the blanket tight around him and dozed off right away.

Babudhon was awakened by a rustling sound. He wiped off his sleepy eyes and looked around him. The moon was high, and the fields were well lit. The next time he heard the rustling he looked in the direction of the sound. About a hundred feet from him, a haystack was moving. It was reshaping, slowly becoming taller and narrower - taller and narrower. Then it became something completely erect and straight about five-to-six feet tall. Babudhon wiped his eyes again, pinched himself, and made a mental promise to himself to cut down on the hooch. But the vision did not go away. It now started moving - it had two legs, two arms, and a head. It moved like a mechanical man, even though it was made entirely of straw. The joints of its arms and legs were knotty. Loose straw was hanging over his face from his head, the way long hair might obscure a face. The figure walked in a direction perpendicular to the line joining Babudhon and the haystack - and became the tallest object on the moonlit vista. At this time, Babudhon uttered a muffled scream. The figure stopped, and turned his face towards Babudhon - a face still obscured by the hanging straws. Babudhon fainted.

Babudhon never disclosed to anyone this very first sighting, until reports of more sightings surfaced. The sightings always occurred at late night, and never at the same haystack. The sightings were always accidental. Whenever anyone kept a vigil, he never saw anything.

After several reports of the sightings, some from responsible villagers, Ratanmoni Sapamcha convened the council. The sightings have been gradually approaching the perimeter of the village, and the latest was right in the courtyard of a cluster of homes. This gave urgency to the situation. An Ojha, Exorcist, was invited to join. Each witness related his experience in great detail. Then the meeting was opened for discussion.

The Ojha said that an exorcism of the ricefields was needed to be performed right away. He could do it for two hundred rupees.

Then a brash young man from the village, brandishing a machete, said: "Elder, Let me have at him. I will patrol the fields for as many nights as necessary, and when I find him, I will cut his head off."

One villager stood up and expressed the sentiment of many others: "Whatever this is, this has not harmed us. Just because something is supernatural does not mean it is malevolent. It may even be linked to the spirit of the soil - the very soil that is now sustaining us. We prayed hard for things from the soil, and this is something unexpected that came up. I suggest we simply let him be. In time, he may disappear. In time, we may understand what he is about."

Most people in the room nodded agreement. But the Ojha was furious. He said: "I am the expert on such things. I am telling you, stop this foolishness. We need to perform an exorcism right away."

Ratanmoni then asked if there were any other comments. As there were none, he gave his final decision: "For the moment, we will do nothing. Avoid the fields late at night if you can. If not, go in twos or threes. If you see him in the village, go indoors. Do not confront. I dont think we have anything to fear."

After the meeting adjourned, a furious Ojha cornered the brash young man. They talked in a hushed voice for a while. The Ojha tickled the young man's ego and coaxed him to go ahead and execute his plan.

Police Sub-inspector Lahan from Silchar was most puzzled by the brutal murder. The brash young man from the village was found one morning in the fields, decapitated by his own machete. His head was found nearby. Some straw had been stuffed into the mouth. The villagers told the PSI about the straw-man and the council meeting. But he did not buy any of this, and did not include any of this in his report. Instead he asked if the young man had any enemies. That he did. Not only was he a vicious bully, he was also suspected of liaising with certain married village women. The PSI wrote in his report: Death by decapitation in the hands of unknown person(s). The case remained open.

However, from that day on the fields became a veritable valley of fear. No one would go there after sundown. This cramped the life of the village. Then, most reluctantly, some villagers suggested to Ratanmoni that may be an exorcism was in order. Ratanmoni agreed and sent for the Ojha. "Four hundred rupees," the Ojha said. There was no choice, and Ratanmoni agreed. The Ojha said that he would perform the ceremony late night that very night, and asked for certain things to be readied. One of these was a bottle of English whiskey.

The Ojha spread his mat smack in the middle of the fields, and asked all spectators to keep great distance from him. It was about 2 O'Clock in the morning. The Ojha planned to complete his ritual cleansing of the fields in an hour and leave. He got started - with a long swig.

Around about 2:30 AM, the Ojha heard a faint rustling behind him. He paid this no mind. Actually, he had never believed that the straw-man existed. By this time he was also considerably inebriated, and his mental faculties were dulled. Then he heard the sound again, and turned. There, right behind him, and looming over him, was the straw-man.

"O-re Baba-re, Ma-re - O Father, O Mother," the Ojha screamed and ran for his dear life. He never returned, not even to claim the four hundred rupees. As he ran, he toppled the bottle of whiskey, and the expensive English whiskey was spilled into the ricefields.

So the valley-of-fear feeling continued. The murder case was not solved - and many began to think that the straw-man had simply defended himself against his assailant. So there was after all the potential for great malevolence.

In the next scheduled council meeting, this issue again occupied the full attention. These meetings were very special - anyone could attend and anyone could speak. Even children. So nobody was surprised when a young student who studied in the town said: "This is a job for the Bagchi brothers." However, no one in the village had heard of the Bagchi brothers. So the Elder asked him to explain.

The boy then embarked on a long and animated account of the Bagchi brothers and some of their exploits. Everyone listened in rapt attention. Eventually, the boy stopped out of sheer exhaustion. Now the Elder smiled, and also looked thoughtful. He said: "It cannot hurt to approach the brothers' parents. And in any case, it would be interesting to meet these remarkable young men."

The boy replied: "But Elder, there is a problem. The brothers are not allowed to stay out nights. We have to have a good reason why they should spend the night here."

The Elder said: "I see ... OK, here's what we will do. I will myself go and meet Mr. Bagchi. I will say that we would like his remarkable children to come and spend a weekend in our village, so that our village children can learn something about them. I know this is a little underhanded, but we will take responsibility for the safety of our young guests."

Mr. Bagchi knew the Elder by sight, and received him with great respect and courtesy. He also thought the proposal was a very good idea. His boys could go next weekend if they wanted to. They wanted to. So everything was arranged.

On early afternoon the next Saturday, an escort arrived from the village to accompany the brothers. The brothers packed their nightclothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, and were off. They would walk to the river and then catch the dinghy that was waiting for them. As soon as they were out of sight of their home, the escort broached the real purpose of this trip. He told them about the haunting of the straw-man and the problem this posed. He said he was sent to brief the brothers because he was the most knowledgeable on the details of the whole development.

The Bagchi brothers showed no surprise at all. Instead, the elder brother said: "Please start from the very beginning, and tell us everything that has happened. Do not leave out any details."

The man then gave a very long but very informative account, starting with the crop failures. When they arrived at the river, he ended with the story of the Ojha's misfortune.

The brothers had listened, never once interrupting. Then, as they boarded the dinghy, the elder brother said: "I will ask you a series of questions. Please answer only if you know the answer." The escort then mentally prepared to answer the expected questions about the sightings of the straw-man. However, the Bagchis asked him absolutely nothing about the straw-man. Instead, he got this very strange question:

"The priest who suggested spreading pyre ash, was it the same priest who suggested sprinkling of the goat blood?"

"And was this priest known to the villagers, or the other priests, or anyone else?"

"Strangest thing, now that you ask, Babu! This priest materialized out of nowhere and disappeared into nowhere. Nobody knows anything about him. Nobody has seen him before or after."

"Did this priest participate in the fire sacrifice? Did you ever see him in any situation where his shadow could be cast on the ground?"

"He was never anywhere near fire. And we only saw him at night - never during the day."

"He was a small man, a little over five feet tall. His face was covered with so much beard that you could not tell what he looked like."

Now the younger brother asked a single question: "Was there any distinguishing feature about him - the way he moved, the way he gestured, anything?"

"Actually there was. Something rather remarkable. When he greeted you, he did not say anything, but just gave a slight sideways tilt of his head."

When the Bagchi brothers arrived at their host's house, the entire village was waiting to greet them. An elaborate afternoon tea for everyone was laid out in the courtyard in their honor. The brothers smiled and greeted everyone. After that, the brothers said they would make a tour of the fields. When they returned, the evening was also spent in similar bonhomie.

While there was still daylight, the brothers had asked the escort to show them where a particular segment of the ricefields was. The escort was greatly surprised, but took them there. The brothers surveyed the ricefields from there, and returned to the village.

A little after midnight, the brothers prepared to go to the fields. Several people were ready to accompany them. But the elder Bagchi told them emphatically that this was no good. The brothers needed to be really and truly alone. No one should follow them or try to watch them. He then assured the Elder that there was no danger. The Elder reluctantly agreed. The brothers asked from their host two blankets and a match box.

"Surely you are not going to set fire to our haystacks?!" asked a surprised host.

The brothers found that particular field, and settled down there. They stood back to back, with the elder brother scanning the northern sector while the younger brother scanned the southern. From a distance they looked like two little boys, which is what they were, alone in an open field - perhaps vulnerable to some danger. Where is their mother to look after them, an observer might have puzzled.

About an hour passed, and nothing happened. No haystacks stirred. The two brothers turned towards each other to take stock of the situation. Right then they saw: The straw-man had materialized just about four feet from them.

The brothers did not flinch. Rather they turned to face the object squarely. They joined their palms in greeting. In return the straw-man gave slight tilt of head sideways. At this time a gust of wind removed the straw dangling over the face - and they saw the face. It was a real face - not a straw one. It was a very beautiful woman with large and sad eyes.

Now the younger brother looked deep into her eyes and spoke in calm and measured voice, with great sympathy: "Mataji - Motherly Lady of mine, I am so sorry, but your children died shortly after you. The villagers tried their best to save them, but did not succeed. You will not find them here. Please go now, and go in peace."

The brothers thought they saw tears rolling down from the large eyes. The figure now extended the straw arms, and with their straw extremities, touched the cheeks of the two brothers. The elder brother took out the match box, and lit a match stick. He then raised it, and held it in front of her as if to await permission. The straw-woman nodded ascent. The match was applied.

The brothers stood back and watched the spectacular colors of fire as they had never seen before - not in the rainbow, not on land, sea or sky. It was quickly over. There was not a speck of ash on the ground.

The brothers returned to the village and slept soundly until eight o'clock in the morning. They awoke to two steaming glasses of milked, sweet tea, and to the entire village waiting in the courtyard.

The elder brother then said: "The straw-man has gone for good. You have nothing more to worry about."

A villager asked how he knew this. The brother said: "We saw him walk to the river and then straight into the water until he drowned."

"We lit a bunch of straw and held this up to him, indicating that we would set him afire. He then started backing off, and went into the river."

The villagers started murmuring among themselves: How simple!, How clever!, Why didnt we think to do this? etc.

"And what about the murder?" asked another villager. The elder brother said: "That is nothing whatsoever to do with the straw-man. It is an internal village matter, and PSI Lahan will find the killer."

Now the villagers were amazed to hear their wise Elder, usually the answerer of questions, ask the two little boys a question in humble curiosity: "What was this about?"

Later that Sunday, many from the village escorted the Bagchi brothers all the way home. The following week the murderer was caught, and he confessed. The brash young man had been liaising with his wife for quite some time. When he saw one night the young man set out to slay the straw-man, he saw the opportunity and took his revenge. The entire village turned up in the court to testify in his behalf, and he got away with a five-year sentence.

The Bagchi brothers were alone in their room. This was a time for a private review of the situation between just the two of them. No one could be privy to this. This is the only time the brothers expressed any weaknesses, fears, self-doubts and such other sentiments that no one associated with them. The younger brother asked:

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

In the mid 1940s, the town of Srimangal in Sylhet District was an important business center for many nearby tea plantations, or tea gardens as they were more commonly called. A few of these were owned by Englishmen. These owners actually lived in the plantations, and made their home in this far, forgotten corner of India. When they longed for a taste of Home, they came to the general store in town, called the South Sylhet Supply Stores. It was well-stocked with all types of things from Huntley & Palmers Biscuits and Black Magic Chocolates to butter that could be bought in blocks out of the refrigerator. Rows of jars of Keiller's Dundee Marmalades and tins of Capstan cigarettes gave the place a distinct aura of the British Isles. The Sahebs and the Memsahebs got into their Jeeps or Morris Minors or Staff Cars, came to the store, and loaded up on supplies. They lingered and chitchatted with the Indian owner and caught up with what all was going on in the town, and with the Big War. The owner had all kinds of strange stories to tell. One story, for example, had that some disembodied being often visited his store at night. Although the doors were locked and windows were shut, he often found in the morning fresh pieces of water hyacinth on the floor. The Englishmen listened to his stories with great attention, and then laughed all the way home.

Directly behind the store, and some distance away from it, started an untended expanse of land that had become densely forested. In the middle of this forest was a pond a large, approximately rectangular shaped, muddy water pond. Although the tract had an owner in town, it was not cared for in any way. So, basically, this was pristine wilderness. In this wilderness, in the pond, there bloomed spectacular lotus flowers, their stems standing straight up from water amid the field of huge, disc-shaped floating lotus leaves. Thus came the name Poddo Doho, the Lotus Pond. Near the banks of the pond, water hyacinth leaves abounded, and their beautiful blue flowers bloomed brightly. It was a kind of a showy flower festival that no one was around to witness. For very few people went near the pond. First, there was no need to go that way. Second, there was the danger of snakebite. But at night, it was something else.

Based on many sightings the latest as recent as three years ago by trusted individuals, a legend had formed. And it could be traced as far back as the memory of the oldest living person. That person had, in turn, heard the same stories from his grandparents. So, the legend was essentially ageless. There lived, in the depths of this pond, a pishach, a kind of ghoul. The sightings were all accidental a person late for something taking a short-cut through the forest at night, young boys making a bivouac during summer vacation, etc. There had been many attempts to hold all-night vigils by the pond to sight the ghoul, but none of these planned efforts ever succeeded.

There was general agreement on the description of the pishach: He was humanlike, tall and naked. But his head was something else: It was an elephant's head, like that of the Hindu god Ganesha. The trunk wrapped around the neck. He came out of the water near the bank, draped all over with lotus stems and leaves, and hyacinth leaves and bulbous stems. He thus looked like a shaggy creature. His outline and profile were always indistinct. The creature never noticed that he was being watched. He went into the forest. What he did after that nobody knew. One person spotted him going back into the water the same way he came out, walking slowly and deliberately straight into the water until his head was under. There was general agreement in the legend that the creature was not malevolent. As such, there was never any effort or thought or even talk of ridding the forest of this presence. But the ghoul was a part of the daily life of the locals: The mothers used to get their children to do all kinds of things do their homework, eat their vegetables just by telling them what the "or else" was. The ghoul of the lotus pond Poddo Doher Pishach was coming to straighten out disobedient children.

Raju Saheb whose name was listed in the store's books as J. M. Ridgeway, Esq was a bachelor. He lived alone in his plantation house. He was a hunter and an adventurer. He had never heard of the pishach until he had been in the area for nearly two years. But the moment he heard, he had to do something about it. One Saturday during the daylight hours, he had his servants clear an area right next to the pond, spread a tarpaulin on the ground, and with four bamboo posts, set up a mosquito net. Just before dusk, Raju Saheb settled in, with a hurricane lantern turned way down, a bottle of brandy, and his Webley & Scott 12-gauge shotgun. As the night advanced and the jungle sounds rose, Raju Saheb's anticipation grew. But nothing happened. He spent the whole night uneventfully, falling asleep towards the morning.

Raju Saheb did this two more times, without any luck. On the last day, as the locals thronged in the morning to see what transpired at night, he told them that this legend was probably just that lore without any substance. The locals, who liked Raju Saheb, protested strenuously, and Raju Saheb listened to them with due regard. He then said: "All right. If I cannot see him, I will at least get rid of him. I will drain the pond."

When the Saheb proposed this to the owner of the land, the latter was secretly elated. If the Saheb emptied the pond at his own expense, the owner could then fill it with truckloads of fill dirt brought in from a local mound, and reclaim his land. He pretended to reluctantly agree to the great Saheb's request.

On that, Raju Saheb mobilized a veritable bucket brigade from his plantation. An elaborate system was set up, to take water out of the pond and empty it onto the forest floor, which readily absorbed the water. On the third day, the bottom of the pond started to be visible. All the locals rushed in to witness what secrets the ageless pond might have held.

The bottom of the pond was rocky, with only a thin layer of mud. There were things of all manner: a whole palanquin which barely retained its integrity; with its wood rotten and metal parts rusted, it looked to be from an era of kings and nawabs. There were pots and pans clay as well as metal; bamboo structures that were once clay images of gods and goddesses; etc. And then there was a complete skeleton, with its head stuck inside a stone mask. The mask looked like an elephant's head.

Not knowing if the skeleton belonged to a Hindu or a Moslem, Raju Saheb did not know what last rites, if any, to administer. Upon consulting with the locals, it was decided to bury it in an unmarked location in the forest. Raju Saheb left the scene with the stone mask. Later, it would be cleaned and refinished by a stone mason. The inside cavity could not be cleaned completely, as it had many inaccessible nooks and crannies. The object would turn out to be a spectacular milky white marble piece of fine craftsmanship. The locals told him that this was the head of Ganesha. Raju Saheb noticed that the wall was so thin that it transmitted light. He was pleased. This was his trophy from this adventure. He was not disappointed. In his mind, he was always imagining how things he acquired in India would eventually be placed in the dream house he would build in Wales, his home. And he had a place in mind for this sculpture.

Within a year, the pond had been filled with dirt, and the fill had been compacted and leveled. The forest had been cleared. The owner started to sell the land in parcels, and those who bought the parcels started to build their homes. The legend of the pishach slowly receded into oblivion.

With the independence of India from the British looming large, Raju Saheb decided that he should leave when leaving was good he should sell his business when he still could get the full price. So he sold his plantation at a decent price, and returned to England a very wealthy man. He sent all his possessions all types of fine Indian objects, artifacts and furniture with which he would furnish his dream home by ship. He was now nearly forty years old.

His first priority after coming to Wales was to find a bride. This he did easily and well, and the couple settled down in rented lodgings in Cardiff. They then set about creating their new life. They bought a huge tract of land in the rolling green terrain just outside Cardiff. The front portion of this tract, adjoining a bridle road, was flat and in it was a mini lake. They hired people to work on the lake to slightly reshape it, so that it became a geometric rectangle. They designed a U-shaped house that would fit around this rectangle. The front of the house would face the bridle road. The back side of the lake would be free, and the land from there to the far edge of the property would be left wild blending into the wilderness beyond. The ground area between the lake and the house would be paved with concrete and covered with marble, creating a U-shaped courtyard.

All this was done, and lavish use of imported marble and granite created great visual opulence. In about a year, the first story of the house became livable. They moved in, while the work continued on the second story and elsewhere. About the same time, Raju Saheb's little daughter Elizabeth was born. He thanked God every night for being so very blessed.

The shipment from India had arrived some months ago and had been stored away. Now was the time to finally spread all the special things and fineries throughout the huge mansion. Raju Saheb left all aesthetic decisions to his wife, never disagreeing with any of her arrangements. But he took personal charge of the Ganesha. At that, his wife was amused. He then elaborately told her the story of the Ganesha sculpture.

On one paved side of the lake, and just at the edge of the lake, a Greek style concrete column was placed. It was four feet tall and painted white. It was not secured to the ground, but stabilized by its own weight. On top of this column, the Ganesha was seated, facing the pond. In order not to damage the fragile marble, it was secured to its base with masonry glue. The sculpture was visible from most every spot in the house. It added a palatial quality to the grounds. This was a most satisfactory project for the Saheb.

Unfortunately, this view was to be short-lived. A family of relatives came to visit from London one day. Their two rambunctious boys kept chasing each other around the courtyard. Suddenly, one fell against the column with great force, causing it to topple and the Ganesha to crash to the hard ground. It shattered in a thousand pieces. No one saw this. The boys picked up all the pieces and threw them into the lake. They righted the column. Subsequently, they then denied any knowledge of how the sculpture had disappeared. Naturally, it was assumed to have been stolen.

About a month after this incident, it was noticed that water hyacinth started to appear around the edges of the lake. Raju Saheb and Memsaheb debated whether to keep them or to eradicate them. Memsaheb won the day, and the hyacinth stayed. She would win again when something else started to sprout out in the middle of the pond. It soon became apparent that they were lotus leaves. How could lotus grow spontaneously in this pond? Obviously those two rambunctious boys, veritable pranksters, engineered this. When asked later if they sprinkled lotus seeds into the lake, they just smiled mysteriously. That removed all doubt.

In time, the lake became nothing less than a Monet painting. The vivid colors of the lotus blooms and the hyacinth flowers against the background of the shimmering green leaves and translucent green water were a joy to behold. Raju Saheb thanked God again for his family and his fortune.

When the daughter was about four years old, she was given her own room, the most coveted room in the ground floor of the mansion. It had large glass windows that faced the pond broadside. Thus, they commanded the full view of the pond lined on two sides by the two parallel wings of the house, and the wilderness beyond. The girl's bed was positioned right against one of these windows. She liked the room enormously, as though this were the brightest point in her life.

Soon the upper story of the mansion was completed, and the workers finally cleaned up and left. There was a sense of great relief. One day, as the family sat at breakfast, Raju Memsaheb asked her daughter: "Elizabeth, would you like to move to the room directly above your present room? You will get much more of a view from there. Also a little more breeze."

The girl curtly dismissed the idea. In fact, so curtly that the father instinctively asked: "Is there any particular reason you can tell us why you so quickly dismiss your mother's suggestion?"

"Well, if I am in the room upstairs, how can the Hyacinth Man come and tell me stories every night, standing outside my window?"

In a single instant, Raju Saheb made the connection. He did not react visibly, but remain silent. The mother said: "The girl has got an overactive imagination. No matter, dear, you stay where you are. I just thought"

A little later that morning, Raju Saheb took his daughter for long walk along the forest trails that started in the back of his property. When they were some distance into the forest, he casually asked her: "Tell me about the Hyacinth Man."

"Well, he comes to my window every night after the house is dark and quiet. He just rises out of the lake, all covered with lotus and hyacinth leaves, and walks to the window. Every night he tells me a little bit of his story, until I fall asleep."

"Of course. What else would he speak? But it is a little strange the way he speaks. No one speaks like that."

The stories the girl told were a veritable 1001 Night saga. From what she told in her own way with her own vocabulary and pronunciation, Raju Saheb - a man quite conversant in the history of British India - pieced together a full account.

A nineteen-year old Thomas Crawford came to India from Bristol in 1756. He took a job with the East India Company. Upon his arrival, he was sent to a garrison in Bengal under the command of one Col. Robert Clive. Thomas accustomed himself to the new land, and found things to his liking. His first real exposure to any military action came on June the 23rd, 1757 in what came to be called the Battle of Plassey. Thomas had a part in it. His role was to help the cannoneers to hand them ammunition and help them reload. Thomas felt very proud to be so useful in such a momentous event.

The battle was fought between the forces of the local ruler, Nawab Shiraj ud Daulah, and those under Col. Clive. The Nawab would have won handily, had it not been for the betrayal of his own General, Mir Jafar. The General kept his forces back at the crucial moment in the battle. As a reward for this, the British made him the new Nawab. The vanquished Nawab was eventually executed by Mir Jafar. But the old Nawab's subjects blamed the British. There grew a great hunger for revenge among his subjects.

One day, before the new Nawab occupied the palace, Thomas fell in with some fellow British soldiers and broke into the nearly empty palace. The idea was to loot the place for valuables that could be readily sold, or conveniently handled within the limits of a soldier's possessions. While others looked for things of immediate sellable value, Thomas was particularly attracted to a very strange and beautiful lampshade. It was basically a marble sculpture of the elephant-headed Hindu god Ganesha. It was the head down to the neck. But the trunk hung a little further down and then wrapped around the neck. The inside of the sculpture, including the trunk, was completely scooped out, so much so that the wall was now very thin thin enough to transmit light. The cavity was the size of a football.

Thomas struck a match to the lamp inside the sculpture, and looked upon a hypnotically beautiful sight. The milky white light revealing the sculpture's many nuances was made even more captivating by the flickering of the flame. He needed to have the lampshade. He did not care for anything else. He would carefully wrap it in his clothes and put it in his footlocker, even if it occupied much of the space. He noticed that the other soldiers were now eyeing the object with manifest greed, but of course, he was there first.

Two days later, Thomas was sent on a secret mission. There was a powerful lady, a Begum, in the old Nawab's extended household. Mir Jafar wanted her out of the way. So he arranged a subterfuge. He approached her as her well-wisher, and told her that she would be in mortal danger if she stayed in the area. He offered to transport her to safety to the Sylhet area. To make this proposal sound solid, he said that a British soldier, no less, would escort them to safety. The Begum agreed, but wanted to take along her Hindu maid of long standing. It was arranged that they would travel some way by land, and then by boat, to Sylhet.

The real plan, as given to Thomas by his superior, was to "accidentally" drown the boat with the two ladies and the boatman, once they were close to the Sylhet area and in a wild portion of the river with no people around to witness the deed. He was given a musket to deal with the boatman. Thomas took it as an order, like any other order given to a soldier, and set out. However, he was in great fear of his sculpture being usurped while he was away, and carried it in a bundle with him.

When they arrived by boat near the "site", Thomas spotted an estuary of the river that was forested all around, creating a hideout. He asked the boatman to enter this, so they could have a cool rest. The estuary ended in a pond-like body of water completely overtaken by water hyacinth. This was good the bodies would never be found. Thomas shot the boatman and dumped him into the water.

The ladies now understood. They remained calm and dignified. The Begum asked Thomas to give them a minute to pray. Thomas agreed. The Begum then prayed to Allah, and the maid prayed to her chosen god, Ganesha. When they were done, the Begum said: "In the name of Allah, I commend you to eternal hell in a hyacinth-logged tomb just like this. But, you have let us pray, so I grant you that out of your corpse will grow beautiful lotus flowers."

The maid then spoke. "I curse you that before you are entombed the way my lady has said, Lord Ganesha will strangle you with his trunk. But, you have let us pray, so I grant you that in some two hundred years, you will receive absolution."

Thomas set out on foot to find his way to where he could find transportation back to Calcutta. After two days, he arrived near a small village, and stopped to rest by a pond. As he was munching on a piece of bread and admiring the beautiful hyacinth blooms in the pond, he saw that, from a distance, a Moslem man wearing a colorful lungi and a white cap was watching him. Ominously, he thought. The man suddenly disappeared. Thomas sensed danger. He finished his lunch, gathered up his things and proceeded to leave. But it was too late.

A throng of men now appeared, brandishing ram-das or single-edged, curved broadswords. They were shouting something, and Thomas could recognize "Shiraj ud Daulah". They felled him to the ground and ransacked the bundle he was carrying. They took his musket and his money. They wondered what to do with the Ganesha, which meant nothing to them. Then one of them forcibly shoved the Ganesha down over his head. It snapped in place after breaking his nose and tearing off his ears. They laughed loudly. Then they tied his hands and feet and dumped him into the pond.

Thomas at heart was still a boy. He longed to see England again. But short of that, he wanted to see Englishmen, and things British. So he scoured the land at night. Sometimes he saw some of his countrymen here and there, and hung around them. It was a great joy when the English tea planters arrived. He went to their homes and watched them. Lately he discovered a store nearby that was packed with things English. He sometimes went there and spent time watching the displays. Such was his life, until one day an Englishman decided to drain the pond

They were nearing the house when the story ended. Raju Saheb thought for a long while and then spoke to his daughter. "Elizabeth, first of all, it is best not to tell your mother anything about this. She may become unnecessarily upset. Do you agree?"

She nodded. Raju Saheb now made a mental calculation and figured that it had been nearly two hundred years. He spoke again. "Next time you see your friend, could you ask him if we could do anything to make him live in peace forever?"

She nodded. Two days later, the father and the daughter went for a walk again. She told him what needed to be done. The following Saturday, Raju Saheb bought a cross. On Sunday when the family went to church, he had the pastor consecrate it. He then asked his wife and daughter to take a walk with him along the cemetery. Raju Saheb spotted, at a secluded corner, the tomb of a nun. Around it was grassy patch. A good spot, he thought.

When they came home, it was there. A single lotus bloom had started to pop its head up in the middle of the lake. They had to give it seven days. During those days, the bloom opened into a spectacularly showy flower, unlike any ones that bloomed here previously. It also had a blood-red shade never seen in lotus before. It opened up to the sun in a way that it seemed to be absorbing all the light, sights and sounds of this mortal world. Such a rare lotus would be newsworthy, worldwide. But not only did Raju Saheb not tell anyone about this, he also prevented all visitors from coming to the house during that week. Raju Memsaheb was a little surprised, but she thought no more about this. After the bloom started, Elizabeth never saw the Hyacinth Man again.

The following Sunday evening, Raju Saheb took the small dinghy to the middle of the lake, and carefully cut the flower off at the stem. He told his wife that he was taking his daughter to the town to buy her a book. The two came stealthily to the churchyard. When they were sure no one was looking, they made their way to the nun's tomb. Raju Saheb made four incisions in a circle with the trowel he had brought, and neatly pulled out a tuft of grass. A hole about six inches deep was revealed. Elizabeth then put the flower in the hole, laying it out lovingly in a sleeping posture. Raju Saheb gave her the cross. She laid it over the flower. They both knelt down and made cross signs across their chests. Raju Saheb replaced the tuft of grass, and tamped it down.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

The highway from Silchar to Badarpur and beyond crosses a river tributary at Ghagra. At the time I speak of, if you came to this bridge from Silchar, then, just before the bridge and to your left, you saw a series of shanties shops of various descriptions. There were a teashop, a minimal grocery shop and a bicycle repair shop, and a couple of thers. Just past the bridge, and also to your left, you saw the trail start up the hill. This is approximately where the hill country starts. This bridge area at that time was a favorite hangout for the boys from the nearby villages. They would borrow their fathers' bicycles, and ride two to a bike. They might sit in front of the shops, have tea or candies if they had money, fish in the stream or hike up the hill. Near to there was a long and steep slope in the highway. It was a favorite pastime for the boys to ride the bikes down the slope at great speeds. Many a rider took a tumble upon applying the brakes improperly. But thankfully, no one got hurt.

On this evening, the bus from Shillong to Silchar made a stop in front of the shops. An orange-clad monk got off. The bus continued on. The monk was carrying a bulging cloth bag, and a walking stick. There was nobody around at this time of the evening, and the shopkeepers were huddling in front, talking among themselves. The monk introduced himself as an itinerant pilgrim who had stopped to visit the temples of the area. But he preferred to live in the wilderness by himself. He asked if the shopkeepers knew of any caves or empty huts up on the hill.

"Maharaj, it is not safe to go up to the hill in the dark. Please sleep in my shop tonight, and we will show you where to go in the morning," said the teashop owner. But the monk was insistent.

"In that case, please have this hurricane lantern. You can return it when you come down next time, or even keep it for a while," said the grocer. They then told the monk that up the trail, all the way to the top of the hill, there was a flat, rectangular clearing. The monk should cross the clearing diagonally, and then start down the slope on the other side. Only a few yards down, he would see something like a cave to his left. It was formed by some large boulders, overhung by the canopy of a large, leafy tree. That would suit him fine, said the monk. He thanked the shopkeepers and took his leave.

In 1930 Punit Nath Palit was twenty years old. He had spent all this time in Meherpur, on the edge of Silchar. He had been bitten by the adventure bug even as a young boy, and he now decided to go to Calcutta and join a British steamship company. He got a job as a deckhand. The next ten years were spent traveling to far ports in faraway lands and Punit greatly enjoyed his time. On his thirtieth birthday, he calculated that he had saved up enough money to last him the rest of his life, if he lived frugally. So, he decided that he would now travel all over India. His last port of call, before he left the job, was Mandalay. He would be there for the very first time. This suited him admirably. He always had a longing to see Mandalay, ever since he read the Rudyard Kipling poem, especially these lines:

For the wind is in the palm-trees,
and the temple-bells they say:

Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay;

As the steamship was traveling along the Irrawaddy, Punit went to the highest vantage and looked upon a most wonderful land - Kipling's land. He saw rows upon rows of palm trees swaying in the wind; he saw all types of temple domes and spires. He felt most joyous.

Soon, night began to fall. Punit even thought he heard temple bells. Presently, a very rustic-looking cutter with black sails appeared on the horizon, behind them. It was gaining on them. When it was close enough for them to see the people on board, they realized that these were river pirates. Waving an assortment weapons, they kept shouting. The cutter then pulled up alongside the steamship, and the pirates started boarding it.

However, they had incorrectly guessed the ability of a merchant ship to defend herself. The ship's officers came out with modern rifles and revolvers, and made short work of the raid. When it was over, all the pirates were dead or dying in the water on the Irrawaddy. Their cutter was set on fire. The headman of the pirates, a very large, beast-like, hairy and fearsome man, kept bobbing in the water still alive. As he strove and turned his head towards the deck of the ship, his eyes directly met Punit's. The pirate's eyes were evil full of venom. He then managed to lift his right hand out of water, and pointed his index finger ominously at Punit. Immediately then, he sank for the last time. The manner in which he sank caused Punit to think: Strange, the water just absorbed him! It just absorbed him.

The following day was a free day for the deckhands. Everyone went on shore to tour Mandalay. But Punit decided first to go across the river and visit the famed temple ruins of Mingun, across and up the river, about eleven kilometers away. He asked the Captain to borrow one of the ship's skiffs. The Captain agreed but told him to be most careful with it. Punit started at five in the morning. After about four hours, he arrived at the landing in Mingun. He tied his dinghy to a post, and had a most enjoyable time among the ruins. It was nearly noon when he started back.

The landing was deserted at this hour. Everyone went home for the noon rice. As Punit was about to cast off, there appeared a strange-looking man. He was wearing the costume of a Hindu king in a vaudeville country theater, complete with an ornate, steepled crown or mukut. His kingly vestments of thick, stitched cloth had gold thread embroideries and shiny sequins. His face was quite handsome and pleasant. He spoke in Hindi.

"Greetings, Boatman! My name is Kinnar. My love and I have got separated by the river, and I am long waiting to be taken across so that we may be reunited. But there are no boats to take me. Please relieve my intense pain and take me across to my love."

"Greetings'" said Punit. He very quickly figured that this story did not sound right, and the man did not look right. Surely there were many boats plying the breadth of the river daily. He did not like the look of things. But he had a good answer. "This dinghy belongs to the steamship company I work for. I am absolutely forbidden to take on passengers."

Despite the man's further pleadings, Punit cast off. But from the river, he looked back on a very strange sight. The man had started to walk into the river, and then suddenly, the river just absorbed him!

After some food and rest on the ship, Punit set out for the town. It was late afternoon, and one by one, multicolored lamps began to be lit in front of the souvenir shops. A very festive and happy atmosphere developed. There were all kinds of things to buy dolls, figurines, replicas of gods and goddesses and temples, Buddha images, and a wide variety of woodcarvings. He came to a shop whose proprietor was Indian. He stopped here to look at the offerings. He saw a great many carvings on the same theme: A man and a woman each half human and half fish, the bottom half being fish intertwining each other. Seeing Punit's interest, the shopkeeper came forward and asked if he could be of any help. Punit asked him about the carvings. The shopkeeper replied:

"These carvings are from a famous Burmese legend about two humanlike beings intensely in love, named Kinnar and Kinnari. The story has it that a spate in the river caused them to be separated for one night, and for this they both wept continuously for seven hundred years. This is considered the epitome of romantic love."

Punit froze. He then told the shopkeeper the story of the man in Mingun. The shopkeeper neither laughed nor made light of this. Instead, he became very grave. "This is very serious. An evil spirit has fixed his eyes on you, and has taken on the guise of the good Kinnar. If you had taken him on board, he would have drowned you when you reached the middle of the river. But what have you done to deserve this? Can you think of anything?"

Punit remembered the headman of the river pirates. He told the entire story. The shopkeeper said: "Everyone knows this person you call the head pirate. His name is, or was, Mihimanga. He was a famous puppeteer to begin with. His main puppet his main character was a vile river pirate. People say that somehow he became that character. Others say that he died, and the puppet became him.

"But at any rate, you my friend are in grave danger. You must go immediately to the temple of the Buddha and ask for his protection. Light some incense sticks and votive candles. Keep some consecrated flower petals from the temple on your person at all times. You must do it within twenty-four hours of the attempt on your life, in order for your prayer to be effective. Good luck to you."

Punit came away, a bit dazed and confused. He saw that all the deckhands were returning to the ship. The curfew hour was approaching. He would have to go to the temple first thing tomorrow morning, still within the twenty-four hour period.

When Punit returned to the ship, it was quiet. He stood in a dark corner of the deck for a moment, and looked out on the shimmering water of the river. The strange events of the last two days raced through his mind. In the end, just two images stood out. The river absorbed Mihimanga. The river absorbed Kinnar.

In the event, however, the following day turned out to be a full day of work. He got to the temple well after dark.

The large hall of the temple was now completely empty not a soul in sight. Punit put some coins in the offerings box, lit a few candles and incense sticks, and prayed to the Buddha. Afterwards, he thought he would take a look at the rest of the temple. There was a veranda all around the hall, lined with prayer wheels. Punit walked along it towards the back of the temple, while turning the wheels the whole time. As he turned the corner and came to the back, he saw a destitute Burmese looking like a street beggar lying on the floor, seemingly in great distress. As he approached the man to examine more closely, he saw, next to the man, a puppet. The strangest thing, he thought. The puppet looked exactly like the man he saw at the landing in Mingun complete with the gold thread-embroidered, sequined dress and the steepled mukut. The doll was about a foot tall, and had strings coming out of its hinged arms, legs and neck. The face was shiny and greenish, and looking most benevolent. Punit figured that this might be some type of a standard costume of the Burmese lore.

As Punit was taking all this in, the Burmese man opened his eyes and saw the former. With great effort the man pointed his index finger at the puppet and said something in Burmese. He repeated this several times, and Punit memorized the sound exactly. He then thought he needed to go and get help. He ran back to the hall, and into the inner sanctum behind the Buddha. He found there a monk, and led him by the hand to the ailing man. But the man was not there! Instead, his clothes were laid out flat on the floor exactly where he was and exactly in his posture as though he had just evaporated from within the clothes.

Punit could not explain anything to the monk since the latter only spoke Burmese. The monk left. Punit took another look at the scene, and for a splitting second, it seemed that the puppet's face had become most malevolent. Punit quickly left the temple.

He came back to the souvenir shops and found they had closed for the night. But the Indian shopkeeper was still there, doing his books. Punit told him the whole story and then repeated the sound of what the Burmese man had said. On hearing this, the shopkeeper looked most horrified. He said that the sentence meant "The devil, the devil he is absorbing me."

Within a couple of days, the story of the monk's arrival in Ghagra spread apace among the boys of the nearby villages. They thronged to see him. The monk was so amiable and easy to talk to that they fell instantly under his spell. They did not mind that the monk constantly puffed on his chilam, and was always somewhat under the influence of the hashish.

Now the chilam is simply a clay pipe about three or four inches long, fat on one side and narrow on the other, with a constricted neck. Hashish or ganja is stuffed on the fat side, and lit. One sucks the smoke out of the narrow end. However, there is a distinct technique of holding this pipe. First, you insert the narrow end tightly between the thumb and the index finger of your left hand and make a fist. Then you wrap your right palm around this fist tightly, and make a hole between the thumb and the index finger of this palm. You puff from this hole.

The monk did this in great style and with great facility, as he told the boys stories from faraway lands the boys had never even heard of. The more he puffed, the more intense the stories got. On the fourth day of the monk's arrival, there were nearly fifteen boys in attendance, sitting on the ground in a half circle around the monk who sat on a mora, a woven bamboo stool.

The two oldest boys, Mohan and Zulfiqar both fifteen soon figured that while these stories were the best they had ever heard, the monk's own life must be an even more interesting story. So they primed all the boys before the sixth day's session. The sessions usually took place after the school hours. However, this was a Saturday, and everybody arrived early for a much hoped-for long session. Now started the chorus: "Tell us your life story. Tell us you life story."

At first the monk deflected the request, saying his life was not interesting. He told them he could instead tell tales from the famed Turkish storyteller Nasiruddin Hoja. But the boys did not budge. Now the monk took a few long and thoughtful puffs. Nobody knew his story except the Indian shopkeeper in Mandalay, and he only knew a part of it. Why not tell the story to these boys? They might well take it as a ganja-induced, made-up story, and the monk might feel a little relief. "All right," he said.

Immediately, the boys drew up in a tighter circle, shifted their positions and made themselves comfortable. The younger boys cradled their faces in their cupped hands. There was great anticipation in the air. Presently, the shopkeepers came and joined. The monk refreshed his chilam. He started from his childhood days in Meherpur, when his life was just as happy and carefree as these boys that had now gathered around him.

Two weeks after the visit to Mandalay, the steamship arrived at the port of Calcutta. Here, Punit said teary goodbyes to his shipmates of ten years, and started the next phase of his life. He deposited his life savings in a safe place, and periodically took out only as much money as he needed. This way he would be safe as he traveled the country alone. To be even safer from bandits and robbers, he donned the orange attire of a monk and provided himself with a sturdy walking staff. His luggage was minimal just the essential things bundled inside a sheet of orange burlap.

Very quickly, however, he realized that his mind was changing color to meet his orange attire. He began to feel he wanted to become truly a holy man. So he directed his travels towards places of pilgrimage. It was during these travels, and while communing companionably with groups of homeless and itinerant godmen that he picked up this chilam habit.

One day, as he was hiking to the next wayside inn on the trail to the Himalayan pilgrimage of Kedarnath, and it had started to get dark, he came round a bend and saw a sprawling banyan tree. Under it was a smooth large boulder. He thought something was shining on top of the boulder in the dim light. Thinking that it might be the image of a god or goddess someone had installed, he approached it to do pranam obeisance, that is. But when he saw what it was, he nearly had a heart attack. There, shining in the faint light by virtue of its own green-glazed face, was the puppet from the back of the temple in Mandalay.

Punit rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was still there, with a malevolent look on the face. Punit then tried to poke it with his stick. At that point, it disappeared. Later, he convinced himself that because he was tired and weary, and because of the thin mountain air, he was having a hallucination.

From Kedarnath, Punit came down to the plains and headed west, his destination this time being the desert shrine of Mata Hinglaj in Baluchistan. It involved long treks through vast sandy expanses. He walked mostly after sundown, and rested in shade when the sun was strong. The pilgrims were mostly traveling in groups, and he joined one of these groups. One evening he developed a slight pain in one leg nothing of concern but he decided to walk slowly for a while. He asked the group to go on without him. Now he was alone under half a moon. There were no other pilgrims in sight before or behind him. But suddenly, he had a premonition. He turned and looked behind him. Not ten yards behind him was the puppet, walking jerkily on his hinged legs. If Punit stopped, it stopped. If Punit walked, it walked. This time, Punit had his wits about. He shouted: "Mihimanga, the power of Mata Hinglaj compels you to leave. Go for good!" The puppet disappeared instantly.

After Hinglaj, Punit had a sudden longing to come to this place of his childhood. So here he was.

The boys sat in complete silence. The younger ones moved a litter closer to the older boys, touching them. Everyone felt a shiver of cold go up their spines. Punit continued to puff.

It was getting curfew time for the boys, and so they had to mobilize themselves with some difficulty. They left silently, without any words.

Bright and early Sunday morning, the entire gang turned up badly wanting to see the monk again by clear light of day. The monk had not yet descended from the hill. So the boys went about their usual frolicking, but staying close by.

The morning went by. The noon went by. Now it was nearly four pm. No sign of the monk. Soon people, including the shopkeepers, started looking at each other, but never verbalizing the thought on everyone's mind. At five pm, Mohan and Zulfiqar told all the other boys to go home. They said they could stay behind a little longer and wait for the monk. They promised not to enjoy to any stories by themselves alone. So the boys left. Now Mohan and Zulfiqar decided to go up to cave. The shopkeepers tried to dissuade them, but they said they would be careful. They borrowed a hurricane lantern from one of the shops for it had already started to get dark.

The two boys knew the cave well, and arrived there without any difficulty. Only, it was now pitch dark, especially in this jungle. They came to the mouth of the cave. Zulfiqar held up the lantern, advanced into the cave and shone light on the dark recess of the cave. They both saw the sight at the same time.

The hurricane lantern fell from the hand, and got extinguished. The boys turned, and sprinted through the dark forest, sensing their way by sheer instinct. They never stopped until they came to the lit up bridge at Ghagra. The shopkeepers saw two boys frantically running towards them, their faced all scratched up by brushing against tree branches. After the boys were revived with strong cups of tea, they told their story. They did not find the monk. He must have gone on his way without telling anyone. But they heard a large animal moving in the cave, and got terribly frightened.

"Good thing you ran," said one of the shopkeepers. "I have heard reports of leopards up on the hill."

Never, ever in their life did the two boys tell anyone what they really saw. The monk's orange clothes were spread out flat on the floor, as though he had been sleeping, and then evaporated from within the clothes. Further back, with his back against the back wall of the cave, and with his legs straight out in front of him, the foot-high puppet sat. He held the chilam way oversized for him in expert grip, and puffed contentedly, even thoughtfully blowing discrete puffs of smoke.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

In the summer of 1948 the Bagchi brothers were sixteen and fourteen, respectively. They rebelled against their nicknames Lalu and Bhulu, which they said were silly and undistinguished. From here on they would go by their official names, Sayantan and Sayandeep. But they agreed to have these rather long names abbreviated, and to be called Sayan and Deep.

A friend of their father, one Bimal Mitra, had come to Silchar, visiting for a day. Bimalkaku, as the brothers called him, was as close to them as a blood uncle. He was also fairly young in his thirties and could converse with the brothers with great ease. Bimal Mitra was a government contractor who led a very adventurous life. He built roads and bridges and viaducts in the rugged and remote Lushai Hills. His family lived in Shillong. He himself lived in camps and tents at the work site as needed. He moved about in his Willey's Jeep which he drove himself. He carried a rifle and a shotgun in his Jeep. Sometimes he hunted. At the present time, he lived in Lunglei where he had established a camp.

That afternoon Bimalkaku and the two brothers went for a walk by the Barak, near the landing in Malugram. The brothers asked about life in Lunglei, especially the adventure aspect of it. Bimalkaku saw his chance. He had been trying to take the boys to the Lushai Hills to give them a taste of the free-spirited mountain life, but for one reason or another such a visit did not materialize. Bimalkaku felt that this was because the brothers had more interesting invitations. But he now had the bait, and he was going to deploy it most tactfully. And he was going to savor it.

He told the brothers several anecdotes about his working life in the Lushai Hills, and watched the brothers listen in rapt attention. He had got them where he wanted them. He now laid the bait.

"Of course, none of these compares to the mysterious lights on a hill on the night of Diwali that I have heard about."

Diwali, the famous festival of lamps, falls usually in the later part of October or early November. People adorn their homes with rows upon rows of oil-wick lamps. It becomes a veritable competition among the neighborhood houses as to which house can outdo the others. Then there are the fireworks. Firecrackers, howitzers, cherry bombs and such other things of all description are deployed. It is of course the young of the house who engage in these activities. The older generation watches in admiration, and remains vigilant as to fire safety.

For the past three years in a row, on the ridge of a small hill just at the edge of Lunglei, people have seen display of strange lights. There appear to be tall, fluid pillars of light a few at least moving haphazardly along the ridge from one side to the other. When two pillars going in the opposite directions meet, they tarry a while. The lights are seen for a period between seven and nine pm, and then they disappear. So there is never any opportunity to go to the location and investigate after the lights have been sighted.

Of course, theories abound most of it to do with jungle nymphs and spirits. Why just on the night of Diwali though? The Lushais say these must be Hindu spirits. What are they doing on the hill? Putting on the Diwali display. One theory has it that some trees start to glow and move about. Another theory says they are simply a form of will o' the wisp.

Last Diwali, on the third year of the sightings that is, a few young men got together and decided to hold a vigil at the very ridge. They went up there while it was still daylight, and camped out. The citizen kept watch from the town. At about midnight, since absolutely nothing happened, the young men returned. They said: "It did not happen this year, probably because we were there."

"Who said it did not happen?! We saw it plainly just like the past years," said one person who met the returning young men at the edge of the town.

Early next morning as soon as it was light, the young men went back to the ridge and searched the ground with a fine tooth comb. They could find no signs of anything out-of-place or foreign to the place.

After that, it was concluded that this mystery was unsolvable, and ought to be left alone. Since there was nothing malevolent about the incidents, why not let the legend grow? An unsolved mystery is better than no mystery, and certainly more interesting than a solved mystery.

Just as he had anticipated, Bimal Mitra received a message from the Bagchi brothers in early September. They would like to come visit him during Diwali if it would be convenient. Bimalkaku sent back a brief message: "Leave everything to me."

A few days before Diwali, a contractor friend of Bimalkaku's who was traveling by car to from Silchar to Aizawl picked up the Bagchi brothers very early in the morning. They stopped at Vairengte and the gentleman treated the brothers to tea and samosas. The brothers were most taken by the lay of the land mountainous, undulating and densely forested. They had the sense of having come to a lost world. A deep sense of mystery was already taking hold of them.

In the evening they arrived at the Circuit House in Aizawl, where Bimalkaku was waiting. He said: "We will spend the night here. We'll spend tomorrow sightseeing in Aizawl. The following morning, we'll go to Lunglei. You will still have two nights before Diwali."

And thus it was that the brothers saw the hill town of Aizawl, all the time with a deepening sense of some impending event. When they came to Lunglei and were settled in the rustic but comfortable camp, it was almost as though they had lost all the bearings of their habitual, predictable and structured Silchar life. They were rudderless and compassless, and without a sense of 'the time of day'. This was unlike any vacation they ever had. Even the food was very different, though most delicious. They liked the chicken jhol cooked by the laborers in a huge community cauldron, accompanied by rice cooked in bamboo. The food tasted even better when eaten outdoors around campfire, off banana leaves, and accompanied by the strange jungle stories of the hardy laborers who took quite a fancy to the two educated city boys.

To the complete amazement of the brothers, Bimalkaku agreed to let just the two of them hold vigil on the ridge. Bagchi brothers were not used to such laxity of parental vigilance. Little did they know that Bimalkaku had arranged for two armed laborers to stealthily follow the boys all the way. These were local Lushais who knew the jungle. They could follow the brothers closely without ever being spotted.

So, about 5 pm in the evening when it was still light, the brothers set out after an early supper. They would get a feel for the lay of the land at the ridge, and then settle down by around 5:30 pm, when it would still be light. The camp cook prepared for them some snacks and fruits, and a canteen of water the kind of metal bottle with felt all around it, and with a shoulder strap. The food and a sturdy flashlight were placed in a rucksack. Additionally, the brothers carried in their hand a hurricane lantern. The plan was to light the lantern and wave it from time to time so that viewers back in the camp could use this as a kind of reference signal. For the purpose of keeping track of time, they borrowed Bimalkaku's radium-dial wristwatch that could be read in the dark. The adventure was afoot.

It was an easy hike up to the ridge. As the brothers gained the highest point, they saw that the trail had continued down the other side and on to the flat land where, about half a mile away, there was a dense forest. Presently, they saw four young people approaching the hill on the trail from the direction of the forest. They could be headed nowhere else but to the ridge! This caused the brothers some consternation because they did not want a big commotion on the ridge at this juncture. They hoped the group would continue on towards Lunglei.

About 200 meters of the ridge was straight, and this is where the action was said to be. So the brothers decided to walk this straight section from one end to the other, inspecting it thoroughly. Just as they finished doing so, and found nothing of any significance, the foursome from the forest gained the ridge. They looked like Bengalis. As they came close, Sayan said in Bengali: "Hello! We are from Lunglei, out on a hike. What brings you here?"

The oldest of the group was a girl about Sayan's age. There were two boys, and another girl who was the youngest probably about ten. The older girl, as expected, replied in Bengali: "My name is Shikha. The little girl is Dipali. The boys are Shikhar and Giri. We've come to watch the Lunglei Diwali lights from the ridge. There are several Hindu homes facing this way, and they put on quite a show."

"My name is Sayantan, and this is my brother Sayandeep. Actually, we had the same idea. So perhaps we can watch the lights together. Have you heard of any other light displays in this area? Does anyone put on any displays on this hill, for example?"

"If anyone did, it would not be visible from our village, which is completely surrounded by tall tress so much so that you cannot see the village from here. Why, has anyone from Lunglei seen any such thing?" the girl replied.

Sayan decided it was best to come clean now: "Well, there are some stories about strange lights on this ridge on the Diwali night and quite frankly, we came here to investigate."

"But would not your parents worry if you are out late? We have to be here at least until 10 pm," asked Deep.

"Not when the four of us are together. They will assume we are watching the Lunglei Diwali."

Dipali, the little girl, now turned to Deep, and asked: "What does Sayandeep mean?"

Even as these preliminaries were going on, Sayan felt a strange new feeling rising within him. He felt strongly drawn to Shikha, and not just because she was very pretty and had a captivating sweetness about her face, but because of some unknown attraction he felt towards her. He simply could not resist this attraction.

When it began to get dark, Sayan explained the plan. As Deep lit the hurricane lantern, Sayan said to the group: "First we will walk with this lantern from one end of the ridge to the other, but will space ourselves out on the ridge. There are people watching the ridge from Lunglei, and this carrying of the lamp along the ridge will be a reference signal for them. If they sight anything strange, they can say it was so many minutes after the lantern; it was about the middle of the ridge; etc. So I will go first, carrying the lantern, and Deep will be the last. The four of you please space yourselves out between us, and keep observing all around you."

Thus, the party walked from one end of the ridge to the other, and then retraced their steps. After that, the six spread out on the ridge, covering its entire length, and sat down to keep vigil. The lantern was extinguished.

Nothing unusual happened. Night owls hooted and cicadas kept up a steady noise level. Around about eight o'clock, they assembled again in the middle of the ridge. Deep said: "I want to try to create another reference point for the people in Lunglei. The four of you please stand in a row along the ridge, the tallest first, the next tallest next, and so on. Then my Dada will stand next to the tallest person, and I will stand next to the shortest person. This way, the two of us will bracket the four of you. Then we will pass the lantern from one end to the other several times."

At this suggestion, Sayan was rather mystified. But he was in no position to think. His mind was full of Shikha. Anyway, the suggested formation was made, and the lantern was lit again. It was then passed on from hand to hand, thus traveling back and forth across the formation several times. Deep noted the time: It was 8:10 pm. After that, Sayan said: "Let us split up two by two, and patrol the ridge. We will all be in each others view. If you see something out-of-place, raise your hands and wave, and we will all come."

Upon this, Shikha moved closer to Sayan, and the two of them formed the first group. Deep and Giri walked together, leaving Shikhar and Dipali to form the last group.

The vigil continued this way until 10 pm, at which time the whole group gathered again. Sayan said: "Well, the crucial period is well over, and we have not seen anything. Now, the question is: Do we want to hike back in the dark, or do we want to wait here for the first light? Deep and I have both the lantern and a flashlight. So we can go back now if we want to. But we do not wish to leave you here alone."

"We are very familiar with this trail, and it is no problem for us to return to the village. So we can say goodbyes now," replied Shikha.

Sayan reached within the rucksack and found that there were four oranges. He offered these to the four, and they gladly accepted. After that, goodbyes were said, and the two groups started on their way. Sayan suddenly developed a sense of complete emptiness within him. There was no closure. Shikha was gone, and nothing of her remained with him. He would never see her again in his life. He was silent the whole way back to the camp.

At about 11 pm, they arrived back at the camp, and found a group of laborers waiting for them rather excitedly, as was also Bimalkaku. But Sayan made his apologies and went straight to bed. Deep listened to what the observers in the camp saw, and asked several questions to elicit details. The more he heard, the more satisfied he felt. He had a theory, and it was being corroborated by the observers "on the ground". However, Deep said nothing about their meeting the young people on the ridge. He left the impression that they saw nothing unusual on the ridge, and that the mystery eluded them.

By 7 am next morning, the brothers were up and about. They had large mugs of strong tea, accompanied by "bon ruti" baked sweet rolls with raisins in them, what some know as brioche. Sayan was completely out of sorts, however. Deep observed him for a while as he formulated some plan in his mind. When he was done, he said: "Dada, the village is less than an hour's hike from here. Let us go and visit them. It must be a small village, and it should be quite easy to find the four. And we will be back well before noon rice."

It seemed as though Sayan had never heard such a welcome suggestion in his entire life. He stood up, and perked up. They took a canteen of water, and were off.

Nearly an hour later, they were over the hill and at the entry to the forest. The narrow trail continued through the dense forest barely one-person wide. After a few minutes, it opened up into a clearing that looked like the village square a square field edged by a few bamboo-and-mud cottages. One of these was a shop. It was one of those multipurpose shops that stocked at little of every need: rice, daal, round balls of soap for washing clothes, candles, and so on. But it was also a teashop. In front were two low wood benches on which three people were now sitting. Two were sipping tea. The third, a very old man with a profusion of white hair and beard, was puffing on a hukkah. His eyebrows were so bushy that his eyes were completely covered up. He peered from under them. The shopkeeper was also visible inside. They all looked to be Lushais.

The brothers approached them, and seeing that Sayan was still lost in thought, Deep spoke in Hindi: "Hello! We've come from over the hill. We are looking for some boys and girls we met yesterday. Their names are Shikha and Giri and "

"Say no more," said Hukkah "Just continue along the trail past the square until you see a bamboo grove on your right. There a narrow lane veers off to the right. Take that. It ends in a mud-walled compound surrounding a mud-and-bamboo house. That's where the children live."

Hukkah invited them to stop for a cup of tea, but Deep declined, with profuse thanks. The brothers started towards the bamboo grove.

The door was answered by Shikha. If she was surprised to see the two boys from last night right at her doorstep, she hid this very gracefully. She invited them in warmly as though they were long-expected guests. The boys were introduced to the parents. The father, a very ascetic-looking man, wore a namavali an orange shawl covered all over with printed prayers in black in Sanskrit script. He must be some kind of a holy man, thought Deep.

The mother was a most distinguished-looking lady in red-bordered white sari, with a large vermillion dot on her forehead. After speaking to the boys for a bit, she retired to the kitchen to make them tea. In due course, the other three children also turned up from various parts of the house.

After the tea and coconut sweets, Shikha invited Sayan to come and see her flower garden. She then asked Deep to join. The latter got the hint, and said he would stay here and converse with the others.

Once in the garden, Sayan made bold to speak, somewhat awkwardly: "We may not have a chance to speak alone again, and so I would like to say that I very much want to keep in touch with you."

"So it is completely settled you and I I mean ... belonging to each other forever?"

The two then discussed how Sayan could come to Lunglei frequently, and Shikha could visit her relatives in Silchar on festive holidays. In addition, Shikha could write to Sayan, and arrange for the letter to be taken to Lunglei and posted. Unfortunately, Shikha explained, no postman came to this village, and so Sayan could not write back to Shikha. "Never mind that," said Sayan "I will write in care of my uncle, and he will send the letter on to you through one of his workmen." An entire plan was thus laid out. They both recognized that in another six or eight years, they would both be of marriageable age. When the two came back into the house, Deep saw that Sayan was positively radiant. After exchange of elaborate pleasantries, the boys took leave.

As they were passing in front of the shop again, Hukkah was still there. He greeted the boys and asked: "Did you have a good visit?"

Just as they were leaving, Hukkah called out to Deep: "Little Boy, you know, don't you?"

Deep turned his handsome visage full on Hukkah, looked him straight in the eyes such as they were and said: "Yes."

Sayan could not understand what this exchange was about, but his mind was elsewhere. He was walking on Cloud Nine.

That evening, after a sumptuous meal, the laborers sat round a roaring campfire. Some were smoking bidis, some were chewing pan. Bimalkaku was busy looking over some blueprints of a bridge he was building. The boys came and joined the laborers. Deep asked: "Can anyone tell us anything about the village in the forest over across that ridge?"

"The abandoned village, you mean?" said the cook who was a long-timer in this area "It was a thriving village of about a dozen families up until a few years ago. Now nothing remains of it. Only a few scattered mounds of mud and bamboo where neat homes once stood."

Sayan sat up, startled. But Deep softly touched him, signaling to remain silent. He then told the cook: "Go on."

"Well, there was a Hindu priest who officiated in many functions in Lunglei. A wealthy citizen here had a plot of land in that village. So he built the priest a home their, for free. That his how the priest came to live in the village, with his wife and four children. The rest of the villagers were local Lushais. It was a most amicable place, as though the whole village were a single, happy family. The four children were the only children in the village, and every home claimed them as their children.

"Now, about four years ago, the children hatched a plan. They were going to place rows of Diwali lamps on that ridge to make a grand display for all of Lunglei to see. Before Diwali came Durga Puja. The children went to visit relatives in Silchar. They would enjoy the Puja, and then buy a large quantity of the Diwali clay lamps before returning.

"On the fourth day of the Puja is the Immersion Ceremony as you boys well know. The images of the goddess are loaded on river rafts, taken to the middle of the river and consigned to water. You also know what huge pandemonium this is, with unruly crowd onshore, the overloaded river rafts crowding each other in the river, and so on. The four children were on one of these rafts which broke out in fire. People saw the children on fire, first flaming out and then frantically jumping into the water. Because of the great commotion there, no rescuers could get to them in time. They were burnt, and then they drowned.

"That's pretty much the story. When the parents got the news, they seemed to take this very calmly. But that night they killed themselves. After that the villagers became completely dispirited, and one by one, left that accursed village."

Bimalkaku spoke to the two men he sent to look after the boys. They did not see the lights. What did the boys do? Well, most of the time they were walking back and forth along the ridge, separately. Each was talking to himself. The two men thought this was very strange. But not as strange as when the saw the two passing a lit hurricane lantern from one to the other across a distance of some twenty feet! The lantern just seemed to float in the air as it made its way from one to the other! The men were so confused by the sight that they decided they had to have been hallucinating.

Two days later, the boys were on their way home. The laborers bade warm goodbyes and implored them to come again. Bimalkaku would drive them all the way to Silchar this time. As before, they stopped in Aizawl. They would start for Silchar the following morning. In Aizawl, the boys went out for an evening walk, looking at the twinkling distant lights of this spectacular "hill station".

"Dada, you are not a fool. But you were distracted. You missed every sign. What was happening was clear from the beginning."

"Beginning when the foursome came up to us at the ridge. They told us their names. Now slightly arrange those names."

"Let me see Shikha, Giri, Shikhar, Dipali Giri Shikhar Dipali Shikha Hill Top Diwali Flames! O my God, Deep, they were telling us that they were the lights1"

"Not only that. They tried to clue us in by asking what the meaning of my name was! And when we returned, the people in the camp told me that they saw the lights this year as well. And at about 8:10 pm, they saw the lights on the hill line up in an ascending sequence of height. A point of light was going back and forth across this formation."

"So that was your experiment! But Deep, that means that you knew from the beginning that these were not humans!"

Sayan was speechless. He somehow managed to ask: "And you wanted us to go to the village in the morning why?"

"Dada, you were distracted. You were badly smitten. I thought that if we went to the forest and saw there was no village, then that would be the best you for you to snap out of it."

"But instead we saw that village was full of people. You knew all along that these were not humans?"

Sayan looked at his younger brother with a new-fund level of respect. As he was pondering what to say to his brother by way of expressing gratitude and admiration, the latter spoke: "Dada, she will come. At another time, with a different name. But it will be her and you will spend the rest of your life with her."

Sayan saw no reason to not believe his brother implicitly. Suddenly he felt the great sadness that had got hold of him ever since he heard the story of the village lift. In its place, a luminous hope was descending a hope bearing the name Shikha. He had come here to solve a mystery. In the bargain, he stumbled upon the greatest mystery ever in his life thus far or henceforth: First love.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

On this Monday morning the pupils of Narsing High School were pleasantly surprised when the classes were dismissed after 'tiffin', the lunch hour that is. But there were strings attached. The students were to go and line the streets all the way to Sadarghat, the ferry-crossing point on the river Barak. Some bigwig from Delhi was flying into the Kumbhirgarm Airport, and would be coming by motorcade to Silchar, crossing the ferry. The boys lining up the street were to form the 'welcoming crowd'. This happened often. Most pupils were happy to do this, so as to be able to see the dignitary. A few, however, gave it the slip and made an outing of the free afternoon. There really was not much else to do in the early fifties in Silchar no malls, no video arcades, no TV, no iPod none of the variety of activities that fills a young boy's free time today.

The usual plan under the present circumstances would be to take the ferry across the river and arrive at the unknown shore, as it were. But today, of course, that was precisely the area to be avoided, because of the welcoming crowd. So the foursome the subject of our story decided to walk along Trunk Road all the way to the temple of Annapurna and hang out at the river landing there. This area was also where the railroad station stored their abandoned, rusty and cobwebbed wagons. Thus an additional aura of 'ruins' was created.

Amal and Ifteqar walked in front, talking about a new mystery book just out. Behind them the other two boys walked together. Damodor and Haridhon though Assamese and Manipuri-speaking respectively spoke broken but passable Bengali. However, they read and wrote bookish Bengali fine. They were now speaking of a homework assignment. Presently, they all heard someone call out from behind, turned, and saw Dilip coming on his bicycle. He lived outside of Silchar, in a village called Ramnagar, on the main highway to Badarpur. He commuted by bicycle. He was now headed home. He said: "I see you boys also gave it the slip. Can I join you? I don't feel like going home quite so early."

"Join us, by all means," said Amal. "We're just going to the temple of Annapurna. There's nothing more exciting that we could think to do. I wish I were going to the Far Tepantor."

The plains of Tepantor Tepantorer Maath is a place of Bengali fairytales. It is a lonely, desolate, wild place. It is a vast, endless place. It is a place of great forebodings and great possibilities. It is also a far place, a place over the beyond. What imaginative Bengali child had not wanted to do high adventure in the Far Tepantor in those simpler days?

"Tepantor does not exist it is all fairytale," said Ifteqar. "But I do like the thought."

"Thought is not enough for me. I would like to find some real life adventure. I would like to find the real plains of the Far Tepantor and live there."

"Hang on boys," said Dilip. "I may not be able to tell you where the real Tepantor is. But near Ramnagar we have something very close to that. We call it Bhushondir Maath, the Field of Bhushondi? Have you heard about it?"

Everyone nodded side to side to say no. "Well, surely you boys have read the famous story Bhushondir Maath?"

None had. They all looked at Dilip, expectantly. He did not disappoint. "Well, just next to our village, there is a wide open field extending to infinity it seems that people refer to as Bhushondir Maath. It is a legendary place of dark mystery. People avoid it even by day. So, Amal, this could be your Tepantor, really and truly. And right within your reach, too."

By this time they were at the RMS Office, the headquarters of the Railway Mail Service. Next to it, and on Trunk Road, was a little tea-stall. Horidhon, whose father was very generous with the son's 'pocket money', said: "OK, let's sit down here. I will buy everyone a cup of tea. But, Dilip, give us all the details. Don't abbreviate or anything."

"I'm surprised you boys have not read the great story Bhushondir Maath by the storyteller Poroshuram. Anyway, it's in a collection of stories called Goddolika, and the book is available from the public library. But briefly, Bhushondir Maath is a place where ghosts of all species and description live out their daily lives doing their daily chores just like the rest of us. It is a kind of a parallel world."

They waited until the tea was served. Dilip took a sip and started his narrative.

Beyond the village are some hillocks, overgrown with large leafy trees. If you go over the hills and come down on the other side, you suddenly come out of the forest and look out on a vast expanse of flat land. It stretches as far as the eye can see. At the far end, on a clear day, you can make out some hills, but otherwise this looks like an endless, stark and very flat expanse.

Over perhaps hundreds of years, a local legend has grown that pet animals stray out onto this field and disappear forever. There are people living today who say they have known pet cows and goats to have disappeared. How can animals disappear on perfectly flat, clearly visible land? Nobody has an answer to this. But people avoid going to this area. The village children who want to venture out are told to not go very far from the tree-line, stay in a group and go only by broad daylight.

There is something however that breaks the monotony of the flatness. Right in the middle of nowhere stands a lone, tall, palm-like tree. People say it is a Panthopadop. Pantho means a traveler, and Padop means a tree. So this is a Traveler's Tree. Its leafy canopy has very large palm-like fronds that give a traveler cool shade. It has tasty nutlike fruits. And if you pierce into its trunk, you can get a delicious cool drink of water. It is the ideal stop for a way-weary traveler. But, of course, here there are no travelers not human ones anyway.

People say that this tree is not native to the area. Indeed, no one has seen another like this anywhere within miles of the village. So how did it come to be here? The legend says that a hundred years ago an out-of-town visitor got lost in the field. He was never found. But shortly after that, this tree sprang up. So it is said to be at least a hundred years old.

As far as it is known, no one has ever ventured out to the field at night. There are only rumors about strange things that go on at night. And all these rumors parallel the Poroshuram story in that they are about ghosts coming alive at night and living their daily lives. Some even report having seen characters resembling those in the story! That is why people started calling this field Bhushondir Maath.

And what is Bhushondi? It is a mysterious character in the form of a crow in the epic Ramayana. So it is as though this spirit crow is hovering over this strange land always and everywhere. It is as though the crow is conducting a spirit world in the field.

So, from Trunk Road they turned left on to the road dividing the town's two football fields. This road ended near the public library. Fortunately, the book was on the shelf, and Dilip had his membership card with him. They checked the book out, and started back towards the temple. Amal read the story even as he was walking. Then Ifteqar did the same. When they arrived at the temple, Horidhon took the book and sat down by the river and finished the story, followed by Damodor. They returned the book to Dilip, who now took leave and got on his bicycle.

[Pictures credit: From Goddolika by Rajsekhar Basu (pen name Poroshuram), published by M. C. Sarkar & Sons, Calcutta, edition ~ 1928; drawings by Jatindrakumar Sen]

They boys now began talking about the various characters in the story. There were the female ghosts Dakini, Petni and Shakchunni, and the male ghosts Brommodotti, Jokkho and Karia Peeret. Amal said: "I really like Karia Peeret how he lives in the canopy of a palm tree, climbs it effortlessly, and just slides down sho-raak when he needs to come down. I would like to go to Bhushondir Maath and become Karia Peeret!"

"Personally, I favor Jokkho," said Damodor, "considering his nice rotund build and happy demeanor and the interesting broom-like moustache."

"But seriously," said Horidhon, "what about this legend from Ramnagar? Do you want to just leave it at that, or does anyone one want to explore the place?"

That question caught everyone by surprise. But everyone registered it in his mind. There, slowly, it would be working on each one. For now, they changed the subject.

On Wednesday at tiffin, Dilip was rounded up and brought to attend the 'meeting'. The four boys wanted to spend the night at the field, and wanted Dilip to facilitate their plan. Dilip immediately expressed his vigorous opposition. This was not a matter for bravado, he said. This was not child's play, he said. "You boys are fooling with something very dangerous," he concluded. "I was only joking when I said this was the Far Tepantor within your reach. I did not actually mean for you to act on it!"

It took much convincing. Eventually, at Thursday's meeting, Dilip gave in though reluctantly. The plan was set in motion. The four sets of parents in Silchar would be told that the boys would go to Ramnagar on a picnic on Saturday afternoon. They would make afternoon tea and early dinner outdoors scout-style. Then they would 'strike tent' before dark, and sleep over in Dilip's house. They would return Sunday morning. Dilip would have to tell his parents the truth. Of course, his parents would be unlikely to let him participate in the overnight part of the plan.

The parents in Silchar wanted to pitch in and make the picnic enjoyable for the boys. Ifteqar's father told the boys to go to Bakshi Brothers, pick up anything they liked, and charge the fare to his account. Bakshi Brothers in Premtola was an upscale store that stocked all kinds of fancy things domestic and foreign: Biscuits, chocolates, tinned cheese, Horlicks, Lactogen, malted milk, orange and pineapple squashes all in elegant, neat rows in glass cases. The boys picked up several things, including a small tin of instant coffee and a tin of Cow & Gate brand condensed milk. The idea was to make strong coffee made tasty with condensed milk, to help keep awake during the night vigil. Amal's mother made them a pot of pulao with fragrant Saheb shali rice, ready to be heated up and eaten. She also prepared another pot of marinated goat meat. All that remained was to cook this, covered, over a campfire. Horidhon's family vehicle would drive the boys to Ramnagar along with all their accoutrements, and fetch them the next morning. Damodor's father contributed 20 rupees a huge sum. It was decided to use this money to buy film for Ifteqar's uncle's folding, accordion-style Kodak camera, which the boys would borrow. The uncle had taught the nephew how to take good pictures, and accordingly it was decided that Ifteqar would be in charge of photography or more specifically, spirit photography. There were a few rupees left over. The boys decided that on their way to Ramnagar, they would stop at the famed Surma Bakery in Tarapur and buy a dozen each of pastries and 'cream rolls', otherwise known as cream horns.

By Friday evening, all arrangements were completed. Hardly anyone could sleep that night. The game was afoot.

As they paused there for a moment to take in the vista, each compared it in his mind with his own image of the Far Tepantor. Behind them was the forested hill. To the left, these trees extended nearly out to the highway that was barely visible from here. Directly ahead and to the right, the field seemed to stretch to infinity. The terrain was perfectly flat and clear. The dominant sense one got was one of emptiness, of absence, of melancholy. At about 1 o'clock, and perhaps about a mile out from here, stood a very lone tree its trunk sticking straight up from the ground and ending in a tuft of green. It looked remarkably similar to the tree in Bhushondir Maath. "The Panthopadop," said Dilip.

After surveying the immediate area, they decided to settle down at a location close to the tree-line. This way, they would have the entire field in front of them, and in clear view. They would not have to worry about what was behind them. They spread out the straw mats they brought, and a fire was lit. By 3:30 pm, everyone was sipping tea and munching on ginger biscuits. Ifteqar took a picture of this happy scene. Shortly afterwards, Dilip took his leave, saying he needed to attend to some chore for his parents. It was clear that he did not have permission to stay long. But he promised to come back at first light. Also, if there were any problems, they boys were to come straight to his home at any hour of the night.

As he was leaving, Dilip turned to look at Amal and asked: "Would this do for the Far Tepantor?"

There were still two hours of daylight left. First, Damodor and Horidhon would hike out to the tree, while the other two boys stayed at the campsite. They would keep the hikers in view. After they returned, Amal and Ifteqar would go. So, approximately an hour was allotted for each hike. Two wristwatches had been borrowed, and each group had one. Each group also had a football referee's whistle.

The two hikers grew smaller and smaller, ending in two small dots, moving slowly. Amal and Ifteqar kept their eyes peeled on the dots while chitchatting. Presently, they heard a rustle from the tree-line behind them. They saw a man emerge, wearing a dhoti and an open-breasted, sleeveless white cotton shirt. He was wearing slippers. The man was bald except for two bunches of hair over his two ears. He had a round face and long, droopy moustache. He was corpulent, with his stomach spilling out from his clothing. In short, he looked much like Jokkho from Bhushondir Maath.

The man looked startled when he saw them. He approached and said: "No stranger ever comes here even to walk, much less to have a picnic. Where are you boys from? Do you know about this area?"

Amal explained fully, saying that they were out on an adventure. They wanted to see what, if anything, happened here at night. They invited the man to have some tea they still had some and the man readily and happily accepted. When he was offered pastries and cream horns, his eyes lit up. "I have never seen such fancy food, much less taste them. Wait till I tell my wife. She would be envious."

"Please take some with you, for her," said Amal as he put a few pastries and cream horns in one of the two beautiful boxes from Surma Bakery. When he handed it to the man, the latter was overwhelmed.

"You city boys have such fine upbringing so well-mannered and respectful of elders. Very fine! Very fine! By the way, boys, my name is Jagadaksho Sen, but everybody calls me Jokkho Babu. I take a walk along the tree-line this time everyday."

The boys could not help looking at each other. The man finished his tea, and took out a small metal box from the pocket of his shirt. He opened it, and took from it a wad of dry tobacco leaves and a small amount of lime paste. He put the mixture in the palm of his left hand, and started kneading it with his right thumb. He was making khoini.

He told the boys about this field but nothing they had not already heard. Eventually, the khoini was done. He slapped the wad on his left hand with the joined fingers of his right hand twice. Then he put the wad between his lower lip and gum, got up and picked up the pastry box. Once again, he had some words of praise for the city-bred boys, and took his leave. As his back was turned to them, Ifteqar took a picture of him.

"The light is too diffuse and I could not tell if he cast a shadow or not. But this picture will tell us if he is human," said Ifteqar.

The boys quickly turned their attention to the hikers. They were at the tree, barely discernible. Then they started back.

As Amal and Ifteqar started getting organized for their turn to hike, they saw that Jokkho Babu had forgotten his khoini box. He would come back for it. When the hikers came back, Amal gave them a quick briefing about Jokkho Babu, and showed them the metal box. Then Amal and Ifteqar were off.

"I am an expert at climbing coconut trees. This tree is very easy for me. Just watch me climb," said Amal, and before Ifteqar could object, he took off his shoes and started to climb. He called out: "See how effortlessly I climb, just like the Karia Peeret!"

Back at the campsite, Damodor and Horidhon saw an ant climb a matchstick. They realized what was going on, and indicated their objection by blowing their whistle as hard as they could. But there was no response from the other side. The sound did not carry that far.

A helpless Ifteqar nevertheless had his presence of mind. Amal climbing the Panthopadop would make a good picture. So he snapped a nicely framed shot. Amal continued his climb and disappeared into the canopy.

A minute passed, but he did not reappear. Ifteqar gave it a couple of minutes, and then shouted: "Amal, come down now. We need to start back." There was no response. Ifteqar waited another couple of minutes, and then remembered the words of Dilip's parents: Keep everyone in sight at all times. He called out again: "Amal, this is no time for silliness. Come down instantly!"

Now Amal reappeared. His face was all covered with dust, from disturbing the dust-laden canopy. He said: "Watch Karia Peeret slide down sho-raak! Get ready to take a picture. I will pose just like him."

Indeed he did. With his left arm akimbo, right arm around the trunk, as also his legs. His body was pulled away from the trunk. Ifteqar took the picture, remembering to frame it just like sketch of Karia Peeret.

At length, they were back at the campsite. Amal described the canopy as a dark and mysterious place where, he said, he met Karia Peeret. Everybody laughed, and the tension was relieved.

But the spell had to be broken. When the darkness seemed to be as far as it would advance, a kerosene lantern was lit. Damodor busied himself with cooking the meat. Horidhon started wiping the banana leaves with a damp towel and cutting them into two-feet long pieces. Ifteqar tinkered with the camera, to get ready to take some night pictures with time exposure. Amal sliced some tomatoes and cucumbers while looking out at the Panthopadop, now only a spot of darker dark.

In about half an hour, the meat was cooked, and gave out that most appetizing, spicy aroma. The pulao was now being warmed up, and its own fragrance mingled with the said aroma. An anticipatory mood of great culinary expectation was palpable. Suddenly, everyone was startled by a noise from the tree-line. Everyone turned to look. There, coming out of the forest, was a figure completely resembling Shakchunni from Bhushondir Maath.

A sense of stark fear took hold of the boys, and even the sound of chattering of teeth could be heard. They huddled together as they kept their eyes fixated on the approaching figure: A tall thin woman a bag of bones really wrapped tightly in a checkered sari that stopped above her knees. Under the veil of the sari, the face was just blackness. The legs were long, and she walked with heron-like strides.

But the boys were nothing if not courageous. They got hold of themselves and waited to see what developed. The woman approached, but her appearance did not become any more assuring. Then she spoke, in a slightly nasal voice: "I am Chunibala, but people just call me Chunni. My husband Jokkho Babu was here earlier. We so enjoyed the big-city sweets you gave us. But he left his khoini box here his most favorite possession. He cannot see very well at night. So I came to retrieve it. He said you boys would be leaving at first light. Then some animal might make away with that shiny box. So I decided to come as soon as he noticed the box was missing."

The boys breathed a sigh of relief. In spite of the coincidences, there was a very simple and logical explanation. Ifteqar offered her the box. Chunni now said: "It smells so good whatever you boys are cooking. Please enjoy your meal."

Upon this, Ifteqar said: "Please take some home with you. We have plenty of food here. Amal will make you two neat banana leaf packages of pulao and curry." So saying, he decided to take a time exposure photo of this scene. Between the lantern and the campfire, there was enough light that he decided on a tenth of second exposure. He asked everyone to hold still at his signal. Damodor and Horidhon were seated, and Chunni was standing over them, obscuring a part of Amal. Amal stopped in the middle of transferring the curry from its pot to a banana leaf, and posed as such, holding the spoon in midair. Ifteqar held his breath and held the camera as steady as he could, to take the 1/10th second exposure picture.

But no sooner did he push the shutter than Chunni turned and ran as fast as her sari-restrained long legs would permit. As she ran, she kept shouting: "Ram Ram Ram Ram"

The boys were dumbfounded. It must be that she is a vegetarian and the sight of meat disconcerted her. Or may be just may be that she saw something in the field past them. They looked all around for any signs of movement. There were none. At last, Horidhon spoke: "At least we now have the photograph. We will see if she is human or not."

"You are right," replied Ifteqar. "Even if the picture turns out only partially good, we will be able to see if the woman is in it or not. Moreover, she was standing partially obscuring Amal. So we will also see if the whole of Amal shows clear through her. By the way, did anyone notice if she cast a shadow?"

Damodor said: "I tried. But since the lantern and the fire were at ground level, the conditions were wrong for a clear shadow."

After this, the night was uneventful. No other denizens of Bhushondir Maath turned up. The dinner was roundly enjoyed, and the chef was hugely praised in absentia. During the night, two rounds of coffee were made. Ifteqar took a few more pictures of the darkness. There was much debate about the true nature of the two guests. It was noted that even in the story, Jokkho and Shakchunni were married in one reincarnation. In the end, everyone concurred that they should wait for the evidence in the camera. Towards the morning, some dozed off. Then it started to get light. In a process that was the exact reverse of sundown, the plains of Tepantor started to rise out of the dark. Panthopadop appeared in its lone glory.

This seemed like a sensible idea, and so that is what was agreed to. The group split, and three boys proceeded towards the home of Dilip, and Amal proceeded towards Panthopadop. Amal was given one of the two whistles.

The three met up with Dilip half way to his home. He was coming at a fast pace, and with a grim face. Something was amiss. But Dilip asked the obvious question: "Where's Amal?!" They explained, and then asked him: "Is something the matter?"

Last night Jokkho Babu and Chunni appeared in Dilip's house in a catatonic state of fear. They had heard from the boys that Dilip was their friend and had shown them to the field, and that is why the couple came to his home. They asked Dilip if he knew these boys. Dilip said yes, and corroborated the boys' story. Then Dilip's father asked the couple to calm down, take a deep breath, and tell them what was wrong. With great deal of effort, they got the story out of the still-shaken couple.

When Jokkho Babu came to see the boys, he spoke to two very fine and well-brought up city boys. He also saw two other boys walking in the distance. But when Chunni visited them, she saw only three boys around the campfire.

"Well, the fourth might have gone to answer a nature's call," Dilip told the couple.

"I will tell you what I saw," said Chunni. "There were three boys, and they very kindly offered us some food. Then they looked at an empty space, as if there were another boy sitting there. They asked this invisible boy to pack me some food. Then I saw the spoon rise in the air and scoop up some curry. At this point a photo was taken. Then the spoon put the curry on the banana leaf. I ran for my life."

"So that is what the matter is," Dilip told the boys as he finished his account.

At this time, it was decided that Ifteqar and Dilip would go to Panthopadop along the route Amal was expected to take. The other two would go back through the village. The four would meet up at the tree. As each walked, they would carefully survey every inch of the way.

They did, but there was no sign of Amal. They called out again from the tree. No luck. Afterwards, the villagers formed a search party and scoured the land. Meanwhile, the car had been sent back to Silchar to fetch Amal's father as well as the police.

This day too ended, and darkness fell. Amal was gone. The police were hopeful about finding some clues in the photos. They took the film roll as evidence and had it processed immediately. They looked at each photo carefully and in sequence, for the presence, in the background, of any other persons. They were concerned about chheledhoras, or child-snatchers. Nothing like that was found. There were just the usual pictures of boys out on a picnic: Four boys sipping tea; A picture of the back of Jokkho Babu; the lone tree on the field; one photo of Amal climbing the Panthopadop, followed immediately by a picture of just the tree alone; then a hazy night picture of Damodor and Horidhon sitting around the campfire and Chunni standing over them; and so on. Both the focus and the exposure were somewhat off in that nighttime picture of Chunni, creating strange streaks resulted perhaps from reflections of the open flame. There was the illusion of a spoon hanging over a pot. The police never thought to return the 'evidence' to the boys, who did not ask for them either.

The story of Amal's disappearance spread, but it had nothing in it about his wish for a pathway to the Far Tepantor. Amal probably took the opportunity of an outing to disappear, for reasons known only to him. It was known to happen. In that case he was probably now a sadhu's apprentice in Rishikesh. Or he might have been snatched by a child-snatcher. In that case he might today be a slave in a Kaliph's harem in Abyssinia.

The village council decided to chop down the Panthopadop. The land was slowly reclaimed, and made into farmland interspersed with farmers' dwellings. The legends were gradually lost.

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

In Sylhet in the late nineteen forties the timeframe of this story one hardly ever needed to go to the main market at Bandar Bazar. Starting early in the morning and all day long, vendors of all description brought their wares right to your front porch. The more savvy vendors in fact came through the backway right to the doorstep of the kitchen. Meat, fish, rice, milk, yogurt, vegetable whatever you needed, they brought. And the modes of carrying the wares were as varied as the wares themselves. Some were carried on the head, some on shoulders, some hung from the hands and some were heeled in. Many houses had open monthly accounts with the vendors. The vendors kept the books, and the households simply trusted them. But above that and beyond that and over that, a close personal relationship often developed between a vendor and the household.

Shamsul Miya was such a vendor. He sold fresh sweets which he made himself daily. He made them early in the morning when it was still dark, and then set out to sell them. By noon, he sold everything. His fare included Bundi Laddoos, Peras, Gojas, Chomchoms and so on. All these he carried on his head in a large wood-framed glass case, with a hinged cover. His sweets were in great demand, and in fact the Laddoos which were especially favored would often run out before he got to some expectant house. That would be quite a disappointment. Thus there developed an unstated wish for any given household to have him come there sooner rather than later. Shamsul Miya favored Bipin Babu's house in that respect, largely because of his friendship with the Babu's granddaughter.

Bipin Babu lived on the north shore of Dhopa Dighi, a large pond whose name meant Washermen's Pond. His spacious brick-and-mortar house sat inside a low brick-walled compound. Between this wall and the street was a wide drainage ditch. So, there had to be a bridge from the street to the property. That bridge, ornate with its concrete parapets, made his home distinctive and readily locatable. He was retired, and lived with his wife, the household help, a milch cow and some poultry. However, often during the year his five-year old granddaughter from Silchar would be brought to spend some time here. So, in fact, she was considered a permanent, if intermittent, member of the household. In this house she went by the nickname Lokkhimoni, the Little Goddess Lakshmi. And indeed she was as serenely pretty as the goddess.

The grandmother of course was watchful that the little girl did not consume an excessive amount of sweets. So she laid down the law: Shamsul could come only on alternate days. Since Bundi Laddoo was the favorite here as well, Shamsul made sure to make this his first stop on those days. He lived across the river from Sylhet. He crossed by the ferry, and then walked all the way. After the trade was completed, he and the little girl chitchatted a while. She sat on a rattan chair on the veranda with her legs folded on the chair, and Shamsul sat at the edge of the veranda. Sometimes, if tea was being made in the house, he would be offered a cup and he would eagerly accept. And always, when Shamsul got up to leave, he would tell Lokkhimoni, in place of goodbye, "One day I will marry a woman just as pretty as you are." The little girl would giggle.

The wedding took place during a time Lokkhimoni was in Silchar. When she came to Sylhet next, Shamsul brought Nazar Bibi to meet her and said: "See, just as I said, I have married a girl as pretty as you!" Lokkhimoni giggled and said: "More pretty." From then on, both the husband and the wife became Lokkhimoni's equal friends. Nazar Bibi came to town once in a while, riding on the bicycle 'carrier' which had been padded to make it into a comfortable seat. Whenever the Bibi came, she brought a separate package of specially made sweets complimentary gift to this household.

Shamsul's life became a smooth routine. He no longer got up at 3 am to make sweets. He had a full night's rest, and woke up at six. He was on his way by seven, and back home around 1 pm tired and sweaty. He would always announce his return with combined thanks to Allah and greetings to his wife: "Subhan'allah! Bibijan I'm home." Nazar Bibi then handed him a towel and cake of soap. He bathed from a bucket of water outdoors, and had leisurely noon rice that she had prepared always including a favorite item of 'Miya Saheb'. It could by fired fish roe; it could be Bokphool bhaja; etc. Symbolically, this made every day a special day. Thus, even though life was structured, there was nothing 'everyday' about it. Indeed, they both saw their life together as an unending novelty.

After the meal, Shamsul had a solid nap for two hours a rest that was much needed and most revitalizing. During this time, Nazar Bibi would make the sweets for the following day. She then arranged everything in neat rows of trays, so that all that remained to be done was to load them up in the morning. When Shamsul woke up, they had the afternoon tea.

From here until dark, the two went about their own businesses. Nazar Bibi did household chores, teased her long flowing hair, applied Jobakushum Hair Oil all the things that a young housewife in village Bengal did. It is at this time, like no other time, that you saw how beautiful she really was. Her skin was soft and silky; her complexion a mixture of milk and Alta that vivid red dye women decorated their feet with. Her face was perfectly symmetrical and flawless, with a sharp, almost fragile nose. She was sloe-eyed, and when she looked, that look seemed to come from a far distance in space and time. Her lips were full and creaseless, and curved most delicately when she spoke. Indeed, her grandfather liked to quite aptly call her 'The Houri of the Behest' the Fair Maiden of Paradise.

Shamsul Miya would constantly steal glances at her as he went about tending to his vegetable and flower gardens, and to anything that needed tending to about the cottage and the grounds. He could never get over her beauty or believe that she had actually married him. All this time time they would keep straining their ears to hear the very faint refrain of the Muzzein's call from the next village. When they heard it, they stopped for the evening prayer together.

Nazar Bibi's day was very full, even when Shamsul was out at work. Her daily chores were happily punctuated by an assortment of visitors to her courtyard. Even though their home was rather isolated, many people passed through there. There was Kolimuddi Miya the plowman who would always complain how hard the soil was to break; Hridoy Fakir the Ba'ul minstrel who would hum a few tunes for her; Rukmi Bai the peasant woman, ever ready with juicy village gossip; Sukhiram the Bihari fisherman who fished the haor with a casting net, with stories about the one that got away; and so on. They all stopped by with "Nazar Bibi, d'ye hear there, O Nazar Bibi?", and she came out instantly. She always had some sweets and a tall, cool glass of water ready for the visitor. They exchanged stories and news of their villages. Everybody loved Nazar Bibi. Everybody loved the fact that she was in his or her life.

Artist unknown. Source: Flammarion, L'atmosphre: mtorologie populaire (1888, p.749).

Shamsul was drawn deeply to this legend from his childhood in this area. It went right to the very core of his psyche. He had held many vigils throughout his childhood and youth sometimes with others, often alone. Although he never told anyone this, not even Nazar Bibi, this was the reason why he built his solitary house in this rather unlikely spot. It was the culmination of a long-held desire a desire that rivaled with that of marrying a beautiful woman. He figured that if he built his home at this vantage, he would have the rest of life to hold the vigil right from his own front porch. In his mind, the Aleya was a good thing coming, an auspicious thing to wait for. And after he married, in his mind, in some strange way, he equated the mystery of the Aleya with the wondrous mystery that he found his wife to be. So, the loving wife, the picturesque cottage and the elusive Aleya these three things made real for him the dream life he always wanted.

In the mud-built front porch of the cottage was placed a wood-and-wickerwork charpoi, a low platform bed. The couple took their evening rice at about seven, and then settled down on the charpoi. Nazar Bibi prepared for her husband the hukkah the handheld kind with a coconut shell water chamber. She put fragrant tobacco in the chilam and squeezed it just right with her thumb. Then she put the lighted charcoal on top, and blew with her mouth until the charcoal glowed just right. She then handed it to her Miya Saheb. Shamsul took a first puff as though tasting fine wine. Then he uttered a most contented "Ahhh." He was happy.

Now Nazar Bibi most fastidiously made herself a paan. She took a betel-leaf from one container, some chopped betel-nut from another container, and so on. She finished with a pinch of zarda, tiny bits of fragrant savories, and then closed the wrap. As she chewed the paan, Shamsul felt enchanted by her fragrant breath that came his way whenever she spoke. He imagined how fragrant her mouth must now be.

The night, the air, the trees they all seemed to want to contribute something to this communion. The breeze was barely perceptible, and carried a blend of scents: chameli, champa, juthi, mollika . The creepers around the house swayed in the breeze just enough to add their mystery without adding any sound. Their shadows in moonlight seemed to live. In distance, at the edge of the haor, the fronds of a lone coconut tree moved most gently. The night was temperate with neither mugginess nor chill.

When all of this condensed together and soared to a mystical moment, Shamsul took a long contented puff, closed his eyes, and said his silent prayer: "Khodajan, you have given me so much. I am happier than the richest teagarden owner in Sylhet. The wealth I have in my home only you could give a man."

One night, which happened to be new moon, Nazar Bibi said: "Miya Saheb, may be it is better that we always wait for the Alyea. May be it is better that we never actually see it."

"Bibijan, I can accept that. With you by my side, there is nothing more I want from life. Khoda has been so good to me. It is just that the child in me wants to see it just once before I die" And with that, Shamsul gave away his deepest secret to his wife.

Nazar Bibi understood that, and understood the depth of trust that her husband had just placed in her, uniquely in her. Slowly, she turned her face fully towards him, looked into his eyes from that far unknown place she looked from, and said: "Miya Saheb, I will fulfill that wish for you."

Shamsul did not wish to visit the very sad implication of this, and so he kept the conversation in its lighter vein: "But even if I saw an Aleya, how would I know it was you?"

"See that lone, bent coconut tree at the edge of the haor? I will rise from the ground there. Then I will slowly move all the way across the marsh, and up to the woods. Then I will turn back. But halfway back to the coconut tree, I wil pause for a minute. Then you will know that I am stopping for you, to say I love you."

"That is a most wonderful thought, Nazar Bibi. I will cherish it as a dream. But Bibijan, I will never let you die. Not as long as there is life in me."

Right at this moment, they felt more intensely close to each other than they had ever felt before.

"Ammaji," said Jamal, "I thought you had heard. There was a cholera epidemic across the river. Nazar Bibi fell victim, and not all the care of Shamsul nor all the best doctors he brought could save her. She passed away. This was nearly two weeks ago."

Bipin Babu took directions to Shamsul's home from Jamal. He and his granddaughter immediately started for the village. When they arrived, they found Shamsul seated on the porch, on the floor and not on the charpoi, looking like a man in a trance. It was not even clear if he recognized them. His sister had come from Srimongal to look after him. She said: "Babu, he has been like that ever since he buried his wife. He cannot live like this much longer. We don't know what to do."

Bipin Babu was a man of great learning and, in his working life, an officer with high responsibilities. He ended his career as the Executive Engineer of the Public Works Department, in charge of building Air Raid Protection structures in Dibrugarh. He knew how to deal with the gravest of situations, no matter how difficult and complex. This time he thought for a moment and almost imperceptively, looked at his five-year old granddaughter. The latter understood.

She came and sat down next to Shamsul. Shamsul had got used to her sitting at a place higher than him. Now the little goddess was sitting right next to him. That somehow brought him back to earth. He quickly stood up and brought a mora from inside for Bipin Babu to sit on. He resumed his seat next to Lokkhimoni, who now spoke.

"Samshoolmiya, she's not gone. She's very much here. But she will not come back until you are the same old happy, genial Miya Saheb that she knew. The Alyea marsh you have chosen to live in is no ordinary place. The impossible becomes possible here. But you have to snap out of it, and be ready to receive your Bibijan. She expects it."

Without a single further word, she got up, held her grandfather's hand, and left.

Shamsul sat there for a few more minutes. Then he got up, got a towel and a cake of soap, and bathed elaborately. Seeing this, his sister quickly prepared a meal. Shamsul ate a hearty serving and had a solid two-hour nap. Then the brother and the sister had afternoon tea. After that, with the help of his sister, Shamsul prepared a batch of sweets for the next day. Dinner was at eight. Then the sister retired, and Shamsul came and sat on the charpoi. He lit the hukkah. It was now that he noted that this was a night of new moon. It had got very, very dark. He smelled all the old smells champa, chameli all the familiar smells except the fragrant zarda. The night was now perfectly, perfectly still.

Over on the marsh, the bent coconut tree was visible as a strange silhouette. Slowly, a glow appeared at its base. It rose. It started moving towards the woods. It crossed the width of the marsh, out to the woods. Then it started back. Midway, it stopped. Shamsul smelled the zarda, and somewhere from very far, he thought he heard a faint voice, fainter than even the Muezzin's call. He thought the gentle breeze blew into his ears the two sweetest words he had ever heard in his life: "Miya Saheb!"

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

For a newly independent India, Badal Dhara held nearly as high a position in the Income Tax Department as the former British rulers would let the Indians hold the Assistant Collector, posted right to his hometown of Shillong. And he was at that post at a remarkably young age, having entered the Department right out of college and after passing a competitive examination. By any measure, he was a highly successful man, and as such, a most eligible bachelor. His relatives were constantly bringing him marriage proposals, and he was constantly putting them at bay. But he knew that soon he would have to succumb, give up his carefree bachelor life, and become a homebound family man.

It was not that Badal needed a job. He was independently wealthy. Both his parents had died, leaving their only child a huge mansion inside a large, forested tract of land, and enough money to comfortably last him a lifetime. But Badal had decided early on that he did not want the life of leisure. He strove like everyone else to secure for himself a normal workaday life. Otherwise he lived in the opulent mansion in Forest Colony with the long-time family servant-cum-handyman Kancha and his wife Kanchi, who served as the cook and the general mistress of the household. Life was tranquil.

Badal Dhara had an inner life, a secret life: Secret not in the sense of anything sinister, but in the sense of something most privately cherished and nurtured. It was that he loved rain, the way other people loved cricket or bird-watching or athletics. He loved how the rainclouds came fastidiously over the Khasi Hills, how they gathered over Shillong, how they poured down their load. He loved how the clouds dimmed the sun and covered the earth with a soft, soothing and mysterious light. He loved the feel of rain on his face that made the experience personal. He loved the slight chill that came with the rain that made him shiver ever so slightly, a shiver that entered the very core of his being. Slowly, the rain became a part of him. He sensed this and wondered if it were possible for him to become a part of the rain.

Badal had sold the family's Morris Minor and bought a Jeep. Almost every other weekend, he drove himself to Cherrapunji the wettest place on the planet only some sixty kilometers from Shillong. The Jeep let him drive on the bridle roads there without a second thought, and enter desolate places where he could be completely alone with the rain. In the most private place of his mind, he thought if a raingod were to show himself, this complete desolation would provide the right setting. He wanted to create this right setting. However, his usual chosen destination was not Cherrapunji proper, but a tiny village some five kilometers away, called Mousinram. This was his place of dream and indeed it seemed to any visitor to be an unreal place.

Here it rained all day it rained and then all night it rained. In the village it rained and on the hills it rained. In the deep chasms of the hills, mist collected and the mist and the rain and the cloud seemed all the same. Even with an umbrella or a raingear protecting you, you felt wet. For the rain in Mousinram soaked not only your clothes and your skin, but also your insides. Indeed if you lived long there, you became rain-minded. The way a person who lives in a distant, tiny sea island becomes island-minded.

On Sunday mornings, a number of people would gather round and listen to the sadhu's discourse. They asked questions, and the sadhu answered fully. As all this went on, the nearby teastall did brisk business by keeping the crowd supplied with steaming cups of tea. There developed here a great feeling of companionability and the sense of a special Sunday morning. One day, someone asked why the sadhu had chosen to come to Mousinram in particular. He replied that he was attempting to compose in his mind his lifework, The Rain Sermon. "I am trying to guess what the Buddha would have said if he gave the Rain Sermon instead of the Fire Sermon," he said.

Most of the villagers had not heard of the Fire Sermon. So they asked: "What is the Rain Sermon about?"

"It is about man's relationship to rain. Rain is just as great a facet of nature as fire. And as soon as I stepped into Mousinram, the first words of the Rain Sermon came to me most naturally."

Raining. Raining. Raining.
O my disciples, all is raining.
The big sky is raining.
The thin ether is raining.
The great trees are raining.
But raining for whom, O my disciples?"

But one day, to everyone's great distress, the sadhu went stark raving mad. He found himself a gardener's leaf rake. He started to walk the village, stopping periodically and making movements as though he were raking something invisible. When people approached him, he would only say: "Go away. Go away. There is something in the rain."

"To see, you'll have to go to the Chasm of Rain at the dead of night. There is someone in the rain."

Badal had of course seen this man and wondered about him. But since he did not spend any time in the village, he did not know the above story. The first time he learned it was from a local newspaper.

This was one Sunday he had stayed home. He sat on a padded rattan chair on his patio, looking out on the rain, which was staging itself over the verdant, undulating golf links and the far pine forests. On a rattan table before him was laid out his elaborate Sunday breakfast: A huge two-egg omelet made with chopped fresh chili, ginger and cilantro, a rack of toasts, butter, marmalade the whole works. A full pot of tea sat there, kept warm by the teacozy. Also laid out were two newspapers, The Statesman and a small local publication. The latter, on Sundays, carried light stories from the localities leisurely morning reading of the kind that made Sundays mornings the warm, cuddly pleasure they were.

Badal's eyes were immediately riveted to a story called The Rainraker of Mousinram. An enterprising young reporter went to Mousinram and interviewed people to piece together a most intriguing story about the sadhu. But the reporter did more. He somehow gained the sadhu's confidence, and thus elicited some information directly from the latter. The sadhu's shack was close to the Chasm of Rain. Late one night the sadhu felt like going out on a walk by the Chasm. When he arrived there and viewed that deep, bottomless, misted place, his mind soared with spiritual thoughts. He lost track of time. Then it started raining quite heavily, causing the mist to slowly come up the Chasm, filling it as it did. It came level with the sadhu's feet and rose higher.

Badal poured himself his second cup of tea, and observed to his satisfaction that it was still hot. He added milk and sugar. He sipped as he continued reading. The moon was bright, and it shone clearly into the misty rain, the story went on. Now the sadhu saw something stir inside the mist. And then it gradually took shape. It was made of rain. All rain. Nothing but rain. Rain streaks defined a complete person. And the person was now approaching the sadhu in almost a floating motion. The frightened sadhu held out his walking staff like a rake, as if he could rake off the ground whatever it was, like a tall mound of fall leaves on the lawn. The sadhu did not remember anything more. He could not even say if what he saw looked benevolent or malevolent.

The reporter suggested in conclusion that that sadhu had some kind of a traumatic experience up at the Chasm that caused him to go mad. He did not comment on the believability of the sadhu's account. He left the reader with the mystery.

For a time, Badal sat benumbed. It was like what happened to a person when he suddenly heard some momentous news about himself. He felt that here was something he had searched all his life. It should have been him in place of that sadhu at the Chasm on that moonlit night. This experience was rightfully his. It was wasted on the sadhu.

Mousumi from Mousinram? The Rain Maiden from the Place of Rain? Could Badal ask for anything more if God Himself wanted to grant him a wish? No, thought Badal. This had to be it. Like his aunt said, everything clicked, everything fell in place. This proposal, even before Badal saw the photograph, received several advance pluses from him. And when he did see the photograph, there was not a shred of doubt. He looked at a calm, serene, goddess-like face with eyes that looked as though they had been painted on by an artisan. Badal thought the painter had not quite finished yet, for the imaginary paint seemed still wet as though a few teardrops remained to be added. He looked at such a combination of beauty and translucence and fluidity in that face that he could not imagine existed. The aunt said: "Just say yes, and I will take care of everything. I have already picked out a date about a month from now."

"Yes, if she will have me," said Badal, to the great surprise of his aunt who had come prepared with a long and convincing 'sales pitch'. A face-to-face meeting, the Bride-viewing Ceremony, was arranged for the Sunday after next. It was just to be a formality. The decision had already been firmly made from his side, Badal emphasized. He did not want to take any chances in letting this proposal slip out of his hand.

Badal spent the rest of the day in a daze, the kind of daze only those who have fallen in love head over heels for the first time know. But Badal's daze was woven in rain. It was all rain. All his dreams were woven in rain. When people saw an ebullient Badal at work on Monday, they could see the difference. Some asked, and Badal told them about the wedding having been arranged. The colleagues were most happy at the prospect of a wedding feast. It was not until about Thursday that Badal's mind turned again to the Chasm of Rain. He kept thinking that, vaguely, there was something about this matter that needed attending to. And that somber thought occupied him for two days, with the face of Mousumi flashing as a welcome bright light intermittently, and frequently.

In the late afternoon Saturday, Badal got on his Jeep and started for Mousinram. He took that Sunday newspaper story which had a map showing where the Chasm of Rain was.

The rain was incessant. It was the kind of light drizzle that could not be distinguished from cloud or mist or haze. And yes, at this altitude, a cloud was often something one walked through. And there was that rainborne chill. Badal felt simultaneously the warmth of the jacket on the outside, and the chill inside him. The play of light of shadows against this rainscape made the place seem otherworldly. With nothing manmade in it and everything godmade, the place seemed to be completely disconnected from the city life he left only a few of hours ago.

Badal now mentally reviewed his situation as he labored uphill. The sadhu saw something that made him go raving mad. But the difference between him and the sadhu was that he was now going forewarned. He had to be prepared for anything, and to not lose his composure at anything. He mentally imagined many horror scenarios, and decided to stand firm at each. The worst that could happen was that he could lose his life. If he made room for that eventuality, then there was nothing to fear. He was now completely fearless. He would not turn his back on anything he saw, but would face it squarely.

At length mouth of the Chasm slowly came in view. After a while, he was looking down into the abyss. Truly, it seemed bottomless as deep as the sky was high. It was made even more mysterious by the moonlight. Badal found a suitable vantage, and sat down. His long padded jacket made a comfortable seat. The vigil had begun. He cleared his mind of all his normal preoccupations, and heightened his rain-mindedness. This was like a deepening meditation that led to a state somewhere between the realms of the subconscious and sleep.

Badal became aware of a growing chill. He alerted himself, and walked to the edge of the Chasm. The mist was coming up at a slow rate. In about another half an hour, it came up to the rim. Now Badal could see that the mist and the rain were one. The rain started to fall more heavily, and the top of the mist now rose above the land. Now an ill-formed core became visible. It was defined by more dense rain streaks than elsewhere in the mist. As moonlight caught it in a special way, the core began to take shape. In spite of all his mental preparedness, Badal felt a deep and unknown fear. The core had taken the shape of a woman, but one that was made completely of rain. All rain. Slowly, like the focusing of a camera, the outline became sharp. There, before him, was a beautiful shape of a woman translucent and fluid. The figure was approaching him. Slowly slowly slowly.

The figure raised her right hand in a right-angle fashion with her palm flat, as if to signify peace or benediction. It worked and Badal felt less afraid. Then the same hand straightened out to become horizontal, and pointed with the index finger straight to the village of Mousinram. Badal understood that he was being given a message, but he did not understand what it was. Suddenly, everything dissipated: The shape, the mist and the rain. The moon was bright and the place looked perfectly normal. Quite worldly.

With all his senses in overdrive, Badal started back for his car. So preoccupied was he that he did not see a shadowy figure coming uphill towards him. When Badal finally saw him, he was startled out of his wits. This he was not prepared for. He might have had a heart attack right then. Fortunately, he immediately recognized that this was just the sadhu. He lived nearby and walked about at night, so there was nothing unusual about the sadhu being here. Badal kept looking at the sadhu as he neared. The sadhu was stopping periodically to clear something invisible with his rake.

When they were face to face, the sadhu asked: "Did you see the one in the rain?"

"Thank you for returning my sanity to me." The sadhu hurled the rake in a wide arc into the Chasm and started to walk away. Badal stopped him. He took out his wallet, and without counting, gave the entire wad of money to the sadhu, holding the money in his joined palms: "Please honor me by accepting this gift. Have a nice wholesome meal to celebrate your return to sanity, and buy yourself some new clothes and supplies."

The destitute sadhu seemed overwhelmed. He accepted the money, touched it to his forehead, and said: "May all that is good in rain be yours."

That was a strange blessing, thought Badal as he resumed his walk. But suddenly, something he read in that newspaper story came to mind. He turned and called out to the sadhu: "Guruji, have you finished the Rain Sermon yet?"

The sadhu turned towards him, raised his right hand in a right-angle fashion with his palm flat, as if to signify peace or benediction. Then, with the same hand he pointed to the village of Mousinram. He looked like a misty, indistinct silhouette against the moon. The rain was coming down heavily again. The sadhu turned and walked into the rain. He was never seen hereabouts again.

Badal made his way back to his car, shutting off his mind for the time being. There were too many things to figure out and the best thing now was to let his mind rest awhile. And he needed his full concentration to drive on this muddy bridle road in this rain at this hour of night.

But even as he was doing so, one thought came to him: Was the sadhu's rainraking a true madness, or was it a part of his spiritual journey? He remembered how Japanese Buddhist monks made wavy patterns with a rake in pebble beds in the garden to harmonize the mind. They completed a pattern, then obliterated it, and then made another pattern; and so on. The Fire Sermon, after all, was from the teachings of the Buddha. Was the sadhu a Buddhist monk? Nobody seems to have asked him that. Everyone assumed he was a Hindu because of his long hair and beard, uncharacteristic of a Buddhist monk.

Later that same evening Badal heard that the last hurdle in the way of the wedding had been removed. Mousumi had given her consent. The wedding preparations moved apace.

The remaining two weeks before the wedding were, for Badal, a mixture of most settling and most unsettling feelings a mixture brewed to a thick broth by the atmospherics of the monsoon rain. All of the settling feelings were centered on Mousumi and all the unsettling feelings on, or in, the Chasm of Rain. Badal could not simply let go of what happened there. What did the figure signify by pointing to Mousinram? What did the sadhu mean by his blessing? Why did he point to Mousinram when asked about the Rain Sermon?

At the same time, he realized that he had to clear his mind and dedicate it completely to thoughts of Mousumi. It was unfair to her for him to be preoccupied with other 'mysteries' when the mystery that she was deserved his full engagement. He started to discipline himself. He could not help wondering, however, if she loved the rain as much as he did. After all, having spent all her life in Mousinram, she had to rain-minded. But had she gone beyond that? Had rain become a part of her being? Or had she become a part of rain? Could the rest of their lives together be bound firmly in rain?

The day of the wedding seemed like a blur: religious ceremonies, Sanskrit incantations, noise of people regaling the couple, children in the mango trees, elegant feasting. By nightfall most guests had left tired, but happy and sated. A few diehard guests hung on I in the hope of peeking into the wedding chamber at night. But the family members were able to coax them away. All this was of course a part of the sprightly game of wedding. At last, the house was quiet, and the relatives saw the couple into the wedding chamber. The door was closed. The couple looked jointly at the so-called flower-bed: A most elegantly arranged soft, plush, cushioned bed strewn all over with flowers and flower petals. All across the canopy of the bed were hung garlands of flower. Whatever would happen here this night would be just as beautiful as the flowers, just as pure as the white of the bedclothes.

"All right, here goes. This is the first night of our life together. And I have a good feeling that it will be a most wonderful life. I thought perhaps we could make this night even more special by each confiding in the other the deepest secret in the deepest recess of the mind. I am prepared to do so if you are"

Mousumi looked at him thoughtfully. Clearly, she had not found this silly at all. At last, she spoke: "I very much want to do that with you. But promise me that after this night, whatever we say to each other will never be brought up in any way, shape or form. Having known the other's deepest secret, each should honor it by taking it into his or her deepest recess, and letting it repose there forever."

"I will honor that wish," said Badal. Then he proceeded to tell her, as clearly as his linguistic skill permitted, about his being rain-minded; about the rain being in his conscious, the unconscious and the subconscious; and at the very core of his psyche. He concluded by saying: "Perhaps you find all this rather strange? Perhaps you think I am a little mad?"

She did not respond. She got up from bed, completely undressed as she was. Her milky complexion and supple figure made her look every bit like a stately goddess. She walked over and stood in the middle of the room. She said: "Look at me. I will show you my deepest secret for just a split second."

For a split second, Badal saw. Then he heard his new wife say to him sweetly, whisperingly, lovingly: "I am rain. All rain. And now I am your rain."

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

Jiyon Jana from Khulna, a government contractor who built roads, bridges, culverts, viaducts and sometimes buildings, had set aside an entire Sunday to study and respond to a 'Request for Proposal' announcement from the Public Works Department. This job was in the famed tiger-infested, vast jungles of the Sundarbans, spanning the myriad mouths of the Ganges on the Bay of Bengal. The job site was in an area directly south of Khulna. Spread out before Jiyon were all kinds of books, maps, charts, blank paper and pen, and his Corona typewriter ready with a fresh two-color ribbon. He had got a supply of the regulation Foolscap paper and a sheaf of carbon paper. He had put off this task long enough. To meet the submission deadline, he would have to finish typing the final version of his proposal the "Tender" by the end of the day today. Early tomorrow he would hand-deliver the Tender to the PWD Office in Khulna. So he was now deep in the middle of his deliberations. His loving wife knew not to disturb him at such times, but to keep him supplied with cups of hot tea.

Jiyon liked jobs that involved high adventure and great challenge, but this was not just because of his own outdoorsy temperament. Such jobs had less competition for them and yielded very high profit margins. So, here his vocation and avocation blended nicely. He had two trusted, long-time lieutenants both adventure-loving rugged men. Longjam Shantikumar was a combination of driver of his "flat-nose" Fifteen-hundredweight truck or lorry as such workhorses were called and a general factotum. Basrat Ali served as his manager and the foreman of the labor force. The laborers themselves were of course procured locally for each job, so that Jiyon did not maintain a standing labor force.

As Jiyon studied the proposal, increasingly, he regretted not attending to this sooner and not having made a site visit. The site was described in the RFP, along with a map. It was right on the ocean, the Bay of Bengal, and at the tip of a long finger that extended from the mainland into the ocean. The shoreline was a dense, water-logged mangrove, followed by a marshy tract of land for about a quarter mile inland, and then the solid landmass which was a dense jungle. The jungle extended about two miles inland before the flat, clear expanse of land began. About a half a mile from the edge of the jungle, there was the first habitation, a small village called Sapnashayor. The road from Khulna and the other townships in the north ran south into the finger and after a while became an unpaved road. It passed through Sapnashayor and ended at the edge of the jungle. The proposal was for building a jeepable road that continued from here through the jungle, over the marshland, through the mangrove, to an elevated ocean platform with a livable watchtower built on it. The section of the road through the jungle was to be a gravel-and-dirt road, the one through the marsh made of sturdy wooden planks on supporting structure anchored to solid earth. The section through the mangrove was to be similar to this, but elevated on piles driven into the ocean floor. The RFP said this was to be an ocean research outpost, but there could be little doubt that this was a cover story. This was surely to be a military watch post. In the early nineteen forties, the time of this story, Bay of Bengal was a militarily sensitive area.

The mangrove, the marshland and the jungle here constituted an area that was locally referred to as Hyenahana. Hyena meant hyena, and hana meant raid. So the name would translate to The Place the Hyenas Raid! Most interesting name, thought Jiyon. He also noted that the name of the village, Sapnashayor, meant The Dream Lake. Jiyon repeated to himself out loud: "Sapnashyor, Hyenahana". The people of East Bengal had quite a poetic flair for naming places, he thought appreciatively. As he thought such thoughts, somewhere back in his mind, he slowly started developing a fascination for this unseen and unknown land.

When Jiyon prepared a budget to bid on a job, he had a special mental exercise he went through. He imagined the entire job taking place right before his eyes, in the minutest detail. As he did so, he jotted down every single need that came to mind along the way. This way, he minimized later regrets. Any omissions in pricing out the job would mean that the extra money would have to come from his profit. Any omissions in what equipment to bring to the remote site would mean lost time. The same was true for any failures to arrange for supplies ahead of time. By about 3 pm Jiyon was done with his detailed budget, and a rough outline of the proposal, for which there was a set format. So he felt comfortable. Two things remained: To go over the plan with his lieutenants; and to type up the final version which he would do himself.

Lonjam and Basrat arrived promptly at 4 pm, as requested. Basrat Ali, as always, was dressed in his trademark plaid lungi and a knee-length white collarless cotton shirt. So familiar had this attire become in Khulna that people could tell from a great distance that it was him. The three sat in Jiyon's office which was just the front room of his residence. Mrs. Jana served tea and homemade samosas, with a side serving of chili sauce. As the two visitors were enjoying these most appreciatively, Jiyon went over the whole plan in great detail. The lieutenants listened in complete silence, as they always did. After the presentation was finished, Jiyon first looked at Basrat. The latter raised a few points, and Jiyon made some changes accordingly. Then he looked questioningly at Longjam. The latter gave a slight nod of head. He was a man of few words. Of Manipuri descent, he could easily pass for a Chinese by his looks. And his face was completely inscrutable. But Jiyon knew that when Lonjam nodded, it meant that he had carefully considered everything, and had agreed. A nod from him was as reassuring as several emphatic sentences from someone else.

After the session was over, Jiyon asked: "I know you are in agreement with me, but how do you feel generally about this job?"

Promptly at 10 am next morning when the PWD office opened for business, Jiyon entered the office of the Sub-Divisional Officer whom he knew slightly. The SDO received his sealed bid, and asked one of his staff members to prepare a receipt. Then he said: "While they are making you the receipt, please have a cup of tea with me."

The SDO was a young fellow, a 'city man' from Calcutta who took this job right out of the engineering college. He was brought up on a steady diet of adventure and mystery stories, and fancied himself the hero of such stories. He was fascinated by the Sundarbans, and pounced on a chance to work here. Now his own jurisdiction included a big chunk of the terrifyingly beautiful forest.

"Actually, no. I could not find the time. Why, was it essential to make a site visit?"

"Would have been a good idea. At any rate, no point looking back now. You know, men like you you take things in your stride. And yet, you are most extraordinary men in a most unknown corner of the world. To me you are some of the greatest adventurers. There are so many in the world that would like to have your life which you take to be an everyday affair."

Jiyon thought for a moment and said: "That would have to be when that sadhu entered the Sundarbans, looking for the mind of the forest. But that is a long story and in any case, most everyone would find it unbelievable."

"Well, when you work all the time up in the hills or down by the water or deep in the jungle, you see and know and feel things that may not all be logical or rational. 'Men like me', as you put it we take them as they come and not analyze them too much. That is, we are content to let the mystery be."

"Mr. Jana, I would not be here if I did not have a sense of wonderment. I would be a Kolkatti Babu working in an engineering firm in a concrete building in Chowringhee. So do not worry about my believing or not believing. But you say it is a long story. Please if you can spare the time, I will make time. Tell me the story."

Jiyon was feeling very relieved this morning, having successfully met the deadline. He had no pressing business. And he saw that the friendship of the SDO would stand him in good stead later. So, as he made himself comfortable in his chair, he said: "All right then. I will"

The SDO immediately called his orderly and asked for another round of tea, adding: "Go to the snack-shop across the street and bring two plates of freshly made pakoras, with extra tamarind sauce."

Jiyon then launched upon his story, taking encouragement from the rapt attention on the face of his listener. That expression was gradually replaced by wonderment and awe as the story unfolded, but there was no sign of the disbelief Jiyon had anticipated.

Following this, Jiyon had an extremely busy month. But from time to time, he thought about Sapnasahyor and Hyenahana. These names had begun to work on his mind as some kind of mystical and distant attraction. At the same time, a sense of disappointment came over him. He realized that he might have grossly overbid on the job. It might slip out of his hand.

So it was with considerable surprise and pleasure that, on a Monday morning, he received the word that he had been awarded the job. He told his assistants that the three of them would drive down in the Jeep to the site, and make a preliminary assessment of the situation. There was a great deal of advance planning to be done before actually starting on the job.

They set out before dawn on Wednesday. It was an easy drive up to a point, until they were on unpaved road when the vehicle had to slow down considerably. Eventually, they passed through the last town on this road and a series of closely spaced villages, and then to a vast tract of open flat space. After a while they could see the tree-line of the jungle in the distance. They passed through a small isolated village which clearly had to be Sapnashayor. They saw a small, nondescript pond in the village the poetic 'lake'. There was just one general store next to the street. Next to it there sat a street vendor frying luchis, right there, out in the open. Next to the wok for frying luchis, there was some type of a curry kept bubbling in a cauldron with a low fire under it. Basrat's eyes lit up. He was a food-lover, and a sight such as this always caused him to salivate. Jiyon noticed Basrat's interest and said he had plans to stop in the village and make enquiries about recruiting a labor force. They would do it on the way back.

At length they arrived at the edge of the jungle and parked the vehicle. They picked up whatever implements they needed tape measure, stakes, marking paint and strings etc and headed into the jungle. The PWD had planted their own stakes to mark out the approximate layout of the new road. As they followed these now, they quickly found themselves in the middle of a nearly impenetrable jungle. But this did not faze the three men at all. They proceeded systematically by marking which trees needed to be felled. A suitable area was found for setting up camp. Thus, the job had already commenced in right earnest.

In about two hours, they were at the edge of the marshland, and could see the mangrove forest, and the Bay of Bengal beyond. From where they stood now the road would be perfectly straight. So their survey work was over, for now. Jiyon sat under a tree and made several notes as to the site. Longjam went further along the edge of the marshland to see if there was anything of interest. Basrat kept looking at the canopy of the jungle where he had spotted a large black monkey frolicking.

It appeared that the monkey had spotted them also, and was putting on some acrobatics for their benefit. Suddenly, without any warning, it jumped from a low branch onto Basrat's left shoulder. The latter nearly fell over, but regained his balance. He resumed his posture of good humor as the monkey moved from shoulder to shoulder, wrapped itself around his head, and mussed up his hair. As soon as Jiyon lifted his head from his notebook and saw this, he called out sharply to Basrat: "Better not!" Basrat then shoved the monkey off him. For a moment, the monkey turned its head and looked at Jiyon. It was a most vicious and hateful look, Jiyon thought, or imagined. But he noted at the same time that the animal had a strange feature: A cleft upper lip which made its face look even more vicious. The monkey fled into the canopy and disappeared. Longjam came back and said he had seen the 'monkey attack' from a distance. The three then joked about how they just had their first brush with the local wildlife.

On the way back they stopped at the general store in Sapnashayor. Jiyon asked if the village had a Headman, sometimes called a Morol. Indeed it had. He was called Wachhel Mollah. The shopkeeper came out to the street and pointed to the Headman's house, under a large mango tree on the far side of the shayor. The three had not eaten all day. So they now decided to have a bite before going to see the Headman.

Basrat made a beeline for the street vendor. Jiyon and Lonjam opened the food pack prepared by Mrs. Jana. It had a stack of parothas smeared with pure ghee, a dry potato curry, hardboiled eggs and some sweets and fruits. This made for a delicious and substantial meal. As the two ate at the car, they watched in the distance Basrat wolfing down his meal with great gusto, asking for more luchis every few minutes. When he came back, he reported: "This was most delicious. The curry was meat ghugni. Luchi and meat ghugni make a wonderful combination." Ghugni, a spicy stew of garbanzo beans, was a popular dish, but meat ghugni the same stew slow-cooked with chunks of meat was indeed a novelty, especially when served by a street vendor.

Fortunately, Wachhel Mollah was home. Jiyon introduced themselves, and said: "Mollah Saheb, we have come to talk to you about the road construction job in Hyenahana." So saying, Jiyon gave him a box of fine sweets he had brought from Khulna. The Mollah was greatly pleased, and invited them in. He handed the sweets to his wife and asked her to make tea for the honored guests. Jiyon resumed: "I have won the contract to build the road and."

"What!" the Mollah exclaimed. "I thought you had come to ask about the jungle before bidding on the job as indeed all the other contractors did. They all then decided not to bid."

Greatly puzzled, Jiyon said: "Actually, I had put it off for so long that there was no time for a site visit prior to bidding. But why did the other contractors decide not to bid?"

"First, let me ask you: Do you know if there were any other bidders on this job? Was there much competition?"

"Well, I have no way of knowing if there were other bidders. But now that you mention it, it does seem that I may have been the only bidder."

"I will have to tell you about the Legend of Hyenahana. Mind you, this is just a legend. I do not want to be spreading rumors that prevent the development of this area. I am telling you this for one reason only. I know the next thing you are going to ask is if you could recruit a labor force from the village. The answer is no. No one here will go into that jungle not for any amount of money."

Tea arrived. The three sat and listened with great amazement and a rising sense of foreboding, to the Legend of Hyenahana.

Nobody knew when the name Hyenahana was given to the area, but everyone hereabouts knew why this name was given. Legend had it that there had been periodic sightings of a group of black hyenas walking in a single file in the jungle, lead by a human with a very large head. The sighting always took place at night. Each sighting occurred after the disappearance of a person who went to the jungle for some reason such as gathering firewood or looking for beehives. The man leading the hyenas would closely resemble this disappeared person, except for the head. The bodies of these men would be eventually found in the jungle, but the cause of death would never be clear.

Hyenas were a common occurrence in the Sundarbans, but no one had ever seen a black hyena. Wachhel Mollah thought, if one were to try to give credence to the legend, one might think that these were very densely and darkly spotted hyenas that appeared black at night. As to the enlarged head, it could be some type of a headdress. But still, these explanations did not remove all the mystery. People except the most pigheaded ones avoided going to the jungle for any reason at all.

The last known episode which was very real occurred around sixty years ago when the Mollah was eight years old. That would put the occurrence at about 1880. He still had recollections of the commotion that followed the event. A young man of the village quarreled with his new wife and left home in a huff, saying he would go live in Hyenahana. People actually saw him entering the jungle in the early evening. When he did not return by late next day, his father who lived separately in another house was informed. This man loved his son dearly, and immediately took off to look for his son. He did not care about the danger to himself, but was only concerned that his son was alone and forlorn in the dark in a dangerous place.

The father came out of the jungle the next morning, alone and seeming to be in a coma. By that evening he had gained his composure and was able to relate what he saw in the jingle. After he looked for his son for several hours, calling out his name intermittently, he became tired and sat under a tree. This was the small hours of night, and he could hear all the usual jungle sounds. Suddenly, there fell a very strange hush as if in preparation for something momentous happening. Then his father saw a man approaching from a distance. His posture seemed to be that of the son, but the head was as large as a kalshi, the large water pale. No facial features could be seen in the dark. As the man neared, the father could see that he was leading a procession of a group of black hyenas, walking in single file. This procession then passed on in complete silence, coming as close as a hundred feet from him. The father was so immobilized by fear that he could not call out to his son, if that was who he was.

The father either fainted or fell asleep right there. It was morning when he woke up or came to. He started for the village. Halfway through the jungle, he found his son's body. After he wept over the body for a long time, he examined it. There were no signs of anything wrong. It seemed perfectly normal except for some scratches, resulted perhaps from brushing against tree branches.

The villagers went and recovered the body the next day, and cremated it according to custom.

"So that is what stands behind the Legend of Hyenahana," said the Mollah. "But the villagers, by shunning the place as a place of the great evil ever since, have given added substance to the fear factor. No one would agree to go work in the jungle today. And that his why, I think, your competitors decided not to bid. Not out of fear, but for practical reasons."

All the time the Mollah was telling the story, Jiyon saw Basrat fidget uncomfortably. Jiyon guessed what the reason might be. The street food Basrat ate did not agree with him. Indeed, Basrat now asked the Mollah, somewhat sheepishly, if he might be permitted to use the toilet facilities. The Mollah left to show him the place. Jiyon remarked to Longjam: "Might be the street food." Longjam nodded.

As the three took leave of the Mollah, the latter said he would pass the word to more distant villages where people might be more willing to work in the jungle. Jiyon thanked him, and gave him a date and a time when any such willing laborers should gather at the entry point of Hyenahana, the end of the road that ran through the village.

As they were walking back to the car, Jiyon asked Basrat several questions. How was he feeling? What exactly was his discomfort? When did it start? Did he have an upset stomach? Jiyon felt Basrat's forehead. It felt warmer than usual. He then felt the pulse and found it was racing. As he felt the pulse, he also felt that Basrat was shivering uncontrollably. Jiyon now concluded that this matter needed attending to immediately, and conferred with Longjam. The two agreed that the best course of action now was to drive straight back to Khulna and to Dr. Ahmed, Jiyon's family physician. Basrat lay down in the back of the Jeep, covered with a blanket that was always kept in the car. Jiyon asked Longjam to drive. The expert lorry driver drove the Jeep as fast as he safely could. They were in Khulna in record time.

Fortunately, Dr. Ahmed was in his office. He set aside what he was doing and attended to Basrat, who by now was not able to speak at all. The more Dr. Ahmed examined the patient, the more the creases on his forehead deepened. At length he said: "This is not food poisoning. But what it is I cannot determine. I will give you a letter of recommendation to the Civil Hospital. Please take him there immediately."

Two doctors at the Civil Hospital who examined Basrat were also considerably puzzled, and sent word to the British Civil Surgeon Dr. O'Connell. He lived in quarters adjoining the hospital. The saheb came immediately, and was briefed. He quickly took in the information, and asked Jiyon and Longjam to follow him to his office. When they were there, seated, the doctor said: "Now tell me everything that happened from the time you left Khulna to the time the symptoms started. Do not leave out anything."

Jiyon gave a very detailed account, until the doctor suddenly interrupted him sharply: "Monkey?! What monkey?!" Jiyon described the monkey episode in greater detail. "O my God!" exclaimed the doctor and rushed back to the patient. Jiyon and Longjam followed. They heard the saheb shout "We need to quarantine the patient immediately," as he entered the room. But then they saw the two doctors standing by Basrat's bedside shake their heads from side to side. Basrat Ali had died.

Doctor O'Connell quickly removed Basrat's clothes from the shoulder and the neck area. There, on the back of his neck, were a series of deep nail scratches. The skin had been broken through and blood was visible.

Jiyon and Longjam participated in all that followed a death: Consoling of the family, the administering of the last rights, the burial of the dead. Their hearts were heavy. But even as a pall descended on everything, Jiyon had to attend to the job at hand. There was no time to lose. Therefore he turned his attention back to it.

He now had a dilemma. With that disease-carrying monkey (or monkeys) loose in the jungle, any labor force he gathered there would be at peril. But then again, perilous jobs are what he specialized in. Danger was inherent in these jobs, and deaths were not uncommon. If he backed out of this job which he probably could, given the circumstances this would be a strike against him in his future bids. Jiyon discussed these thoughts with Longjam. He knew that the quiet man would come out with the exact solution as he always did.

Longjam listened to everything, thought for a moment, and said: "Boss Babu, this is clearly a military job. You could ask for a couple of armed soldiers to protect us." Why didn't I think of that, thought Jiyon. He then went to visit the young SDO, and told him the whole story. The SDO listened with exactly the same attentiveness with which listened the other day. Jiyon then said that because of the danger, he had been wondering whether to proceed with the job. The SDO said that if Jiyon wanted to back out of the contract, the former would see to it that this was done without Jiyon incurring any penalties. On the other hand, said the SDO, this was a very important job, and he would do anything to help if Jiyon wanted to proceed. Jiyon marveled at the young man's professionalism. He then offered the suggestion of soldiers armed with shotguns to scare away any monkeys. "Consider it done," said the SDO, without any explanations as to how a SDO of the PWD could get his hands on army soldiers. Jiyon then gave him the exact date he would set up camp in Hyenahana, the date when the soldiers should report.

Having made the decision to proceed, the first thing Jiyon did was to offer Basrat's job to his younger brother Muniar Ali. Muniar was every bit as able as Basrat, but was now at loose ends. He eagerly accepted. Next, Jiyon sat down and designed the watchtower. As far as possible, every component for it the lumber, the glass observation windows all around, the furniture etc would be pre-made in town. The tower would be assembled at the site. He placed the orders for the components, and got promise of delivery in one month. Jiyon then found Rasiklal, a man that had often worked for him as a camp cook. It turned out that he would be available for the entire period of the job.

In preparation for the trip, Jiyon got out his shotgun as he always did. He also packed two boxes of buckshot cartridges. The shotgun would be placed in charge of Longjam. Jiyon himself had a six-chamber revolver that he always carried on his jobs. It was kept in a buttoned canvas holster, and he wore to one side of his belt slightly to the front. Because of the danger involved in his jobs, he was given a rare license for a civilian to carry a revolver.

Jiyon, Longjam and Muniar now got busy loading the lorry for their trip to Hyenahana in two days, on the date originally planned. They were on schedule. Jiyon hoped that Wachhel Mollah had some success finding laborers from the other villages, and that they would meet him in Hyenahana when he arrived.

Willeys Jeep and Fifteen-hundredweight truck
[Image credit: Jeep - www.channel4.com; 15 cwt truck - www.defence.gov.au ]

Jiyon drove the Jeep, and Longjam the fully laden Fifteen-hundredweight. Muniar and Rasiklal rode with Longjam in the cab of the lorry. As they arrived at the entry to the jungle, Jiyon saw, to his great relief, several men sitting around. He counted ten, and they all looked young, sturdy and sinewy. They all wore the same blue-color lungi, and no shirt. As Jiyon stopped the vehicle, one of the men approached him and said: "Babu, my name is Bhat. We understand that you are looking for a labor force. There are ten of us who would like to work for you if we can agree on a price."

Jiyon had been figuring on hiring about a dozen people, but these men looked hardier than average. So, ten would do. He asked all the men to stand round, and explained in great detail what the job would entail, from beginning to end. It would be for a period of two months, and the men would live in tents during this entire period. There would be long hours. Food would be provided good and plentiful food. Tea and snacks would be available round-the-clock. There would dangers inherent in a jungle both known and unknown but there would also be two armed soldiers to protect them. Could they handle the job?

The men talked among themselves for a few minutes. Then Bhat came back and said they would like the job. Jiyon asked what their salary expectation was. Bhat gave him a figure that was about in the middle of the range Jiyon had in mind. An agreement was reached.

About this time, a military vehicle pulled up and dropped off two soldiers. They carried knapsacks and shotguns. Jiyon greeted them and introduced them to the others. The party was complete. A smooth, propitious start, Jiyon told himself.

About half a mile into the jungle and right next to the planned road was a natural clearing. This is where the tents were pitched. There was one large tent for the ten laborers, and one to sleep Longjam, Muniar, Rasiklal and the two soldiers. There was a small tent for Jiyon. Finally, an open tarpaulin covered area was set up to serve as the kitchen, as well as the dining and general gathering area. Rasiklal immediately got busy making a welcoming round of tea, accompanied by jilipis and samosas that they bought on the way down here.

The work started in right earnest and proceeded at a good pace. The men needed little supervision. They had a good grasp of what needed to be done, and silently went about it. They could use a two-man logging saw with as much facility as they could operate a pile driver. Even though the temperature in the jungle varied, they seemed to like to have on nothing but the lungis. Asked about this, they told Jiyon that they had become long accustomed to the coastal climate here.

Since the laborers did not need much supervising, Muniar decided to work alongside them, making the job go even faster. In a few days, life fell into a smooth routine. This became a world unto itself, completely cutoff from the outside world. The lorry periodically went to the towns to fetch supplies. Other than this, there were no outside signs that such a large project was going on here. Occasionally Jiyon had to go back to Khulna to attend to various matters and to see his family. The soldiers took turns round-the-clock to watch the canopy, but there were no monkeys at all to be seen. At night, they used a five-battery flashlight to survey the canopy.

There developed a family feeling among the inhabitants of this isolated mini-world. Even though the ten men were not much at conversation, they were quite sociable and amicable. One of the soldiers had traveled far and wide, and regaled the group with stories in the evening. Occasionally, Rasiklal sang some atmospheric bhatiali songs, country songs about life in the riverine delta. The sound of the song airily reverberated in the forest and created a magic environment. Indeed, the whole existence here became a magic.

They saw no wildlife other than the birds, the whole time. There were no signs of any monkeys. When they worked in water, they saw no crocodiles or snakes. The theory was that the noise surrounding the construction activity had chased all the animals away for the time being. A couple of times at night Jiyon thought he saw two eyes glaring from the canopy. He borrowed the five-battery flashlight and scanned the area, but could not see anything.

With the construction of the round, glass-enclosed watchtower that stood at the end of the pier that extended past the mangroves clear into the ocean, the project was completed. Jiyon observed with satisfaction that this was a most difficult job executed with great quality and efficiency. He and several others got into the Jeep, and made the inaugural drive over the new road from the edge of the jungle all the way to the watchtower. No problems whatsoever. The wooden section of the road on piles did not even groan under the weight of the Jeep.

The following day was the last full day, set aside to tidy up things and pack up for the return trip. Jiyon planned a sumptuous celebration feast for that evening. One whole chicken per person would be roasted on open fire, along with onions and peppers. There would be goat-meat pulau, tomato-and-cucumber salad and sweets. Whoever wanted would get a bottle of beer. All ten men wanted. Jiyon told the soldiers that their duty could now be considered ended. So they opted for beer also. In the morning of the last day, Longjam and Rasiklal took the Jeep to the nearest town with the shopping list.

The partying went deep into the night. Longjam, Muniar and Rasiklal then retired into their tent, followed by the two soldiers. The ten men, fully sated, were still sipping their beer. One by one, they fell asleep right there on the ground, around the fire. The fire died down, and cinders glowed red from under a layer of gray ash.

Jiyon was a teetotaler he neither smoked nor drank. But now he sat enjoying, in a reflected sense, the warm pleasure the ten men had enjoyed after great feasting and great inebriation. He was sitting on the ground just outside the tarpaulin shed, with his back resting against a large tree trunk. He took his last sip from the mug of tea and set it aside. He felt a little sleepy but did not want to go into his tent, leaving these ten men in deep slumber, completely unguarded. He now looked at them again. They were all spread out on the ground haphazardly, wearing nothing but the blue lungis. The rugged, sinewy men now looked very vulnerable in their sleep.

These thoughts caused Jiyon to gradually wax philosophical. He now started to think about the human condition in general, and his own life in particular. The words of the SDO came to mind indeed he often lost sight of the fact that he was after all a consummate adventurer. All the jungle sounds the crickets, the cicadas and the rest helped condense this reflective mood of his. Gradually, the sights before him, the sounds in his ears and the thoughts in his mind all blended to become a single, amorphous experience.

And then he was suddenly awakened from this reverie. Not by any rude sound or a sudden gust of wind, but simply from the fact that all sounds and all movements suddenly stopped. Stopped completely. It was as though the jungle froze from some premonition. It was as though it held its breath in the dark expectation of some coming. Jiyon felt a chill rise up his spine. He realized that he was nearly paralyzed with fear. All he could do was to move his right hand ever so gently to his holster and unbutton it. He then pulled out his revolver and cocked it. He realized that, if these sleeping men needed protecting from whatever evil was converging on them, then Jiyon was the one who would have to provide it. There was no time to, or he did not find the strength to, awaken the others sleeping in their tent.

Time kept ticking by. The strange lull held, but nothing happened. After about fifteen minutes, Jiyon recovered his composure and stood up. He considered waking the soldiers, but decided against it. The lull clearly was just a natural occurrence. It could even be a tiger in the vicinity that caused general alarm among the insect life. Jiyon walked all the way around the camp once and, satisfied that nothing was wrong, resumed his seat. He laid the revolver on the ground next to him, ready to be retrieved and fired in one continuous motion, if need be.

He dozed off. At the small hours of night, a slight rustling of leaves on the ground alerted him to something approaching. He surveyed the jungle all around him while trying to bring himself to full alertness. And then he saw. Straight out of jungle and directly to his right, a human figure had stepped into the clearing, and was now approaching. As it came closer, he saw the plaid lungi and the long white collarless shirt. But the head was enormously large. Jiyon, petrified with fear, still tried to strain his eyes to look at the facial features. Now, even in the faint moonlight, he could see that it was not a large head. A very large, very dark colored monkey had wrapped itself around the head of Basrat Ali.

The figure stopped approaching, and then turned as if to go. But it stopped in that position. At that point, Jiyon picked up his gun. The feel of the cold, heavy metal in his hand made him feel less afraid. He ran his eyes over the sleeping men. They were still fast asleep. Presently, however, one of them stirred slightly. Then, in one continuous fluid motion he got up on all fours and at the same time, transformed into a dark hyena. The lungi came loose and fell off. He then walked towards Basrat and stood behind him. One by one, the others did the same, until a long procession was formed: Basrat at the head, with the ten hyenas following him in a single file silently. Jiyon watched this from a state of complete paralysis. Even after the procession disappeared from view, he sat like that for a long time.

At last he got up. He picked up the ten lungis, and made a bundle. He went to the tent where the ten men slept, gathered their paltry belongings and hid them in the jungle along with the bundle. He now sat down again. There was a lot to think through. This was not a story he could tell everybody. He had to develop a cover story for public consumption.

The day broke on Jiyon like a luminous blessing. Never had sunrise been more welcome to him. Slowly, the people in the tent awoke and came out one by one. Jiyon waited till everyone was there. Then he said: "The men decided to have an early start. They will walk five miles to a village where they can catch the first bus out."

That was a perfectly natural explanation, and nobody pursued the matter. Only Rasiklal said: "They were a fine bunch." After a quick round of tea and bread, they started striking tent. It was done efficiently as always, and in about an hour, the party was ready to leave. The two soldiers would wait for the military van to come and pick them up. Muniar and Rasiklal would ride with Longjam in the lorry. Jiyon would drive the Jeep home. Jiyon told Longjam that, if the lorry got home first, Longjam should wait for Jiyon's arrival. There was something that needed to be discussed.

When everyone had left, Jiyon thought he would drive to the watchtower for one last look. He wanted to see the vast expanse of the Bay of Bengal before him by the calm morning light. He felt a slight chill, and buttoned his air force-style heavy leather jacket right up to his neck. He then instinctively made certain that the waistband of the jacket did not obstruct his holster. He parked the Jeep next to the tower, and climbed up the ladder. The cabin of the tower was about ten feet above the pier. Access was provided by a ladder and a trapdoor in the floor of the cabin. Once in the round cabin, one was surrounded by glass windows all around, commanding a spectacular 360-degree view. With a telescope and a binocular, one could effectively watch the shipping activity over a very large area of the ocean in this highly strategic area.

Jiyon lifted the trapdoor and put his head into the brilliantly lit cabin. There, in one corner, was seated a huge, very dark colored monkey with a cleft upper lip. It had a most malignant look in its eyes. As soon as it saw Jiyon's head, it pounced and wrapped itself around his head. But this time Jiyon did not lose any time. He cocked his revolver even as he pulled it out. He felt the monkey mussing up his hair and scratching him. He shoved the barrel of the gun against the monkey just behind his own neck, and fired. The report of the 45-caliber weapon was very loud, drowning the scream of the monkey which fell through the trapdoor onto the pier. It then scurried through the mangrove and disappeared, leaving a long trail of blood.

Jiyon felt dizzy and confused. He touched his face and saw blood on his hand. He realized what had happened. So that was how it was all to end for the great adventurer. His end had come, just like Basrat's. There was no cure, and so there was no point running for help. Slowly and deliberately, he climbed into the back of the Jeep. He lay down, wrapping himself in the blanket in exactly the same posture as Basrat the other time. He now waited for blessed death. His mind went blank it could not support any thoughts anymore.

Jiyon felt someone vigorously shaking him by the shoulders and shouting: "Boss Babu, wake up! Wake up!" Longjam had not started his trip immediately. He had to rearrange and secure the load in the back of his lorry. Just as he finished, he heard the loud report of the revolver. He turned the vehicle around and drove to where the gravel road ended. The lorry could not driven on the planks. So Longjam picked up the shotgun and ran the rest of the way. The others kept watch at the lorry. When Longjam got here, he found Jiyon in this state.

Jiyon explained to him what had happened, and said that there was no point now in trying to save him. They should go on and come back the next day to take care of his body. Even as Longjam was listening to this, he was wiping Jiyon's face with his handkerchief which he had wetted in the ocean water. He examined Jiyon's face and neck area carefully. Then he said: "Boss Babu, this is all monkey blood. The scratches you heard are on the back of your leather jacket which has saved your life. You felt disoriented because you fired the gun so close to your ear. You'll feel normal in a little bit."

Longjam knew that Jiyon kept a bottle of Dettol in his shaving kit. He now got the bottle out and daubed Jiyon's face and neck with the disinfecting liquid. The strong smell revived Jiyon. He was nearly back to normal. Longjam noted that Jiyon had not shaved for a few days. Good, that would mean that there were no fresh nicks or cuts on his face through which the monkey virus could enter.

Jiyon told Longjam he felt fine to drive now. The two of them washed the monkey blood as well as they could off the ladder and the pier, and sprinkled the area with Dettol. Jiyon, not deterred in the least by all that had transpired, climbed right back up into the cabin to see the view he came to see. Then they were off.

Longjam got on the front passenger seat of the Jeep. Jiyon noticed that Longjam checked the breech of the shotgun to see that there were two buckshot cartridges, took the safety off and held the gun in a firing stance.

When they met the rest of the party at the lorry, Jiyon said he would drive on ahead, and the lorry should come at its own pace. But Longjam insisted that the two vehicles drive in tandem. Jiyon needed to be kept under observation.

As the vehicles were passing Sapnashayor, Jiyon saw Wachhel Mollah standing in front of the general store. He stopped momentarily to greet the Mollah, saying that they had finished the job and were leaving. The Mollah congratulated him and added that he was sorry he could not procure a labor force for Jiyon. He asked if Jiyon eventually had to bring the laborers all the way from Khulna. Jiyon gave an ambiguous nod, and took the Mollah's leave.

After the vehicles arrived at Jiyon's backyard, the staging area, they were unloaded and the tents and other things were put back in the shed. Jiyon told Muniar and Rasiklal they could go home now, but asked Longjam to stay.

The two men sat in Jiyon's office. Mrs. Jana asked if they would like tea, and they thankfully accepted. Jiyon chichatted with Longjam until the tea arrived, and then closed the door. He then related in the greatest detail everything that happened the previous night, ending with the conversation he just had with Wachhel Mollah. "So these men were not sent to us by the Mollah," he said, and looked at Lonjam with a nod that meant he had finished what he had to say.

Longjam's face betrayed no emotions whatsoever. But it was clear he was thinking. Jiyon felt encouraged. Longjam would get him out of this seemingly impossible situation. He realized that the truth could not be told to anyone. But that would mean that ten men went inexplicably missing while in his employ men whom he had not paid the final payment for the services. This would be a serious police matter. And their belongings, along with their lungis, would be found stashed away in the jungle.

Lonjam came through with a very clear solution that implied a possibility that had not occurred to Jiyon: "There is no police matter unless these men actually lived in flesh and blood. Boss Babu, let's go to their village Moynamoti tomorrow and make some discreet enquiries."

Overwhelmed by this sage advice, Jiyon said: "Longjam, thank you for not doubting me on this story. I myself would have found this difficult to believe if I were in your place."

Longjam asked: "Was there anything about today's monkey that identified it as the one that attacked Basrat?"

Longjam gave a long verbal response: "When we were returning from the watchtower, when you went inside the cabin for your final look, I saw the large black monkey with cleft upper lip sitting atop the tower, wrapping itself round the spire. It looked perfectly healthy, as if nothing had happened to it. That monkey which you had just shot to pieces at close range with a 45-caliber revolver, and whose blood we washed off from every place, was perfectly fine. And there was a most vicious look in its eyes."

The full names of the ten men were written in Jiyon's workbook. He rewrote the names on a single sheet of paper in large letters. As he wrote them out, something odd about the collection of names struck him. But he set that thought aside.

As they drove into Moynamoti, they saw a central thatched cottage where people were milling about. They walked over there and found that the place was a combination of many things: the village council, the post office, the tea shop, the grocery store etc. They made a beeline for the oldest-looking man sitting there at the counter marked "Post Office". Jiyon said: "I am a contractor looking to recruit some laborers. Someone gave me the names ten men in this village who might be available. Would you help me locate them?"

The man took the list and read it from the beginning to the end. He said: "I do not know a single one of these names. And I thought I knew everyone in this village. But to be doubly sure, please go down this lane a bit to the masjid. The groundskeeper there definitely knows everyone in the village."

The groundskeeper was man who looked to be in his nineties. He said he could not read. Jiyon then read the names out loud to him. As he read, that same thought he had when he wrote them down came back to him. But now the groundskeeper verbalized that thought for him: "There are no such persons in this village. And in any case, all those names sound like names of people from my generation, and before. Today's youth do not have such names. I mean, Bhattarak Bhattashali, Iltutmis Salahuddin,! Someone is pulling your leg, Babu!"

A great weight had lifted from Jiyon's mind. As Longjam had said, these men never existed in flesh and blood and so there was no fear of a missing-men investigation. At the same time his befuddlement increased greatly. At any rate, to celebrate the lifting of the load, they stopped at a hotel in a towen on the way back and treated themselves to a hearty lunch. While eating the appetizer course of pakoras, Jiyon remembered the SDO's love for adventure stories from the Sundarbans. He felt a little sad that the SDO would never hear this story. Longjam would be first and the last person to hear this, and he would never tell a soul.

The following Monday was the day of the final inspection of the construction by a PWD overseer. Jiyon was to be present at the inspection. He and Longjam drove down, and found that the overseer had just arrived. He had with him an Englishman who was introduced only as "Mr. Smith." It was Mr. Smith who was doing the main inspecting, the overseer tagging along.

Anyway, Mr. Smith was enormously pleased. He assured Jiyon that the final payment for the job would be cleared immediately. Also, 'Mr. Jana' could expect favorable consideration for 'similar jobs' in the future. At one point, when Mr. Smith was out of earshot, Jiyon remarked to the overseer whom he knew well: "Mr. Smith does not much look like a military man. He looks like a businessman." The overseer winked and whispered: "SIS."

"Too bad I will never be able to tell anyone I did a job for the Secret Intelligence Service," remarked Jiyon. As soon as he said it, it occurred to him that there was a great deal more about this job he would not be able to tell anyone, ever.

"Let us make one last visit to the Mollah," said Jiyon as he pulled up in the village. Wachhel Mollah was home, and greeted them. Jiyon apologized for disturbing him again and said: "Mollah Saheb, my son is writing a story for his school magazine, and he has chosen to write about the Legend of Hyenahana. By any chance, do you remember the name of the young husband that disappeared sixty years ago?"

They said goodbye to the Mollah. As they were leaving, Longjam turned and, uncharacteristically of him, asked a question: "Mollah Saheb, was it known how many black hyenas were there then?"

As Jiyon and Longjam got back into the Jeep, the latter allowed himself four more words: "The legend keeps growing."

Oldtime "Bhatiali" riversong of rural Bengal, lyrics approximate, lyricist unknown

Shujon Majhi row on away
Chat a little as you pass my way;
Where you are going to put ashore
Do let me know,
Oh my friend, do let me know

Now I am not claiming that this story is true, and I am not saying that this is not true.

[Image credit: http://www.wikimapia.org/#y=24874990&x=92488060&z=13&l=0&m=a&v=2]

After meandering its majestic way from Silchar and beyond, the life-giving river Borak about ten miles past Badarpur Junction splits into two equally life-giving rivers: the northward Surma and the southward Kushiara. They in turn would create their own lush valleys, their own miniature civilizations. But the word Junction actually refers to something else: A railroad junction. Badarpur is a veritable gateway for a great many people in Cachar District to the rest of India. Three railroads one from Silchar and Hailakandi, one from Karimganj and one from Lumding converge here. You come to Badarpur Junction via the Silchar or the Karimganj line, change trains, and be on your way to Lumding Junction. From there, you can connect to any place in India you wish.

But to the cognoscenti, Badarpur Junction then had a third claim to fame: The absolutely yummy samosas sold right there on the station platform. It is set up so you could conduct your purchase right from your seat through the window of the train. Unlike the typical Bengali samosas shingaras as they are called which are golf ball-sized, the Badarpur samosas were tennis ball-sized. The casing was flaky and crunchy and the potato inside, although spicy and soft, not all mashed up. There was some bite to them. Many people chose to have a three-item snack: a samosa and an oversize rasgolla served in a dried shaal leaf, and sweet, milked tea served in a disposable clay cup. If anyone passed through Badarpur Junction without tasting at least one piping hot samosa, he probably was not a very happy camper.

The main highway through Badarpur Junction that also gave access to all of India, if you traveled by bus or car, was some distance from the station, perhaps not quite a mile. The road that connected the station to the highway was really where all the action was. It was lined contiguously on both sides with all sorts of kiosks and open air shops, and even the main open air market a rather haphazard affair. For a little town where only a couple of thousand people lived, this street was inexplicably crowded all day and all evening. People just seemed to simply mill around.

And such was the most exotic milieu of our troika Alak, Tazamil and Prosenjit. The three boys were of the same age, and when the story opens, all in Class VIII of the Boys High School. They hung out together in all the places mentioned above, but whenever they could borrow two or three bicycles, they headed for the junction of the three rivers. It was a place of wild beauty and mystery evocative of river songs and nature poems. The small village there, Haritikar, was sparsely populated. And out of this mysteryscape came a man who would fascinate the troika to no end, and eventually preoccupy them completely. And eventually, the magnificent Bagchi brothers from Silchar would be drawn into their preoccupation. This man was Shujon Majhi.

No one noticed when Shujon Majhi came to the Badarpur area, or how and where he settled in. Only after he procured himself a small rowboat with a sail, and started a brisk business in Haritikar, ferrying people across the river or giving tours of the three rivers a rather novel concept there at that time did people start taking notice of him. If Majhi was his actual family name, it was fitting. For it meant boatman or ferryman. The name Shujon simply meant 'Good people'. And indeed he was good people. Residents of Badarpur began to like him a lot, and whenever they saw him, they did not miss the opportunity to say out loud his beautiful name. "Shujon Majhi, O Shujon Majhi, where do hurry off to? Come stop with us a moment. Chat a little," shopkeepers along the street would entreat him. There was something about his company that was naturally uplifting and euphoric, and so it was highly sought after.

Whenever people asked him where his home in Badarpur was, he would reply with a broad smile: "Here and there, far and near." Soon, everybody got the message that he did not want to give out his home address. People stopped asking him. But from various observations, this theory was developed: He had built himself a bamboo hut in the forest on the wedge of land where the Borak split. This was a completely desolate, unfrequented area. Occasionally in the evenings, from certain angles, some had seen a light within the forest. That was thought to the hurricane lantern in his hut. What he did all alone in an isolated hovel in a forest was something that added greatly to the mystique of Shujon Majhi.

He also supplemented his boatman's income by fishing. It was not difficult to bag a couple of large Rohu or Mahashoal fish if you knew where to fish. And Shujon knew. He then gathered up his catch, and proceeded to a residential area of Badarpur to sell the merchandize direct. Fresh fish right off the river was in great demand and fetched a handsome price. He had got himself a used Phillips bicycle, and that was his mode of transportation between Haritikar and Badarpur. His catch, when he had any, would hang from the handlebar of the bicycle.

That was how Shujon Majhi met the Shom household. Aurobindo Shom, Alak's father, was landed gentry. He had a large two-story brick-and-mortar house at the center of a large field. The house was impeccably white-washed, and was so designed that it almost looked like a marble palace. The house had a large, flat and open roof that served as a terrace area for gatherings and social functions.

One day Shujon Majhi showed up at the Shom doorstep with a large Rohu fish. Mrs. Shom immediately saw her opportunity here. She made him promise to bring his catch straight to her, and chances were she would buy everything. This was of course most suitable for Shujon Majhi, for it meant he would not have to uncertainly go from door to door, looking to see if anyone was home and if they had need for fish on that day.

He came about a couple of times a week. The children of the house Alak, and his twin five-year old sisters Urmi and Urvi, short for Urmila and Urvashi were easily drawn to him. They chitchatted with him, and found out quickly that he was a great storyteller. Not stories as such, but more accurately, Shujon Majhi's life story. There were all kinds of anecdotes of which he was the protagonist, the hero. And what a hero he was! He was a detective, he was a big game hunter, he was a high mountain explorer and a desert adventurer! The children were enthralled. It did not occur to them to ask him why he was leading the placid life he was now leading. They probably figured he was going through a phase of life a sojourn by his choice. Just another adventure.

Soon the storytelling sessions expanded. Shujon came on Saturday evenings, not to sell fish, but just to visit the children. From the house across the street, the three brothers Tazamil, Mazamil and Hafatul joined. From two doors down came Prosenjit and his younger sister Promila, or Mila as she was called. She was the same age as Urmi and Urvi. It was full house. The whole party moved to the roof, where the session began in right earnest. The setting sun on the horizon and the darkling sky overhead provided the magic, and aided the spinning of mysteries.

There were several straw mats spread out on the roof, some right against the low guard wall. So you could sit down, resting your back against the wall. This is how Shujon Majhi sat and held court. The boys sat round. Little Urmi and Urvi lay flat on their stomachs, with the chins propped on closed fists. When the story came to particular moment of suspense, both their mouths simultaneously opened wide as did their eyes. Mila sat cross-legged between Urmi and Urvi, with her hands on the shoulders of the twins

There was also, more often than not, an adult listener, Alak's aunt Anjoli-mashi. Anjoli-mashi had come to Badarpur only shortly before the storytelling sessions began. She had been orphaned a year ago while she was studying at the Bethune College in Calcutta. She stayed on at the college hostel and finished her BA degree with Honors in Philosophy. After that the Shoms insisted that she made Badarpur her home. The idea was for her to recover from the grief and then either go for an MA degree or get married as she chose. In the meantime, she took a job as a teacher of English at the Girls High School. Though only twenty years of age, she quickly became the de facto guardian of the Shom children. But she was also a friend to them, a friend with whim they could share confidences. When necessary, she shielded them from parental wrath for some mischief committed. She was a strikingly beautiful woman who soon acquired the moniker of 'the most beautiful woman in Badarpur'.

Anjoli-mashi sat some distance from the group on a mora, a wickerwork stool. No one ever saw her actually speak to Shujon Majhi. But the children could not help notice that whenever Anjoli-mashi came and sat down on the mora, Shujon Majhi became very self-conscious. His speech changed as though he were performing on a theater stage, and he projected his voice farther. The very perceptive troika figured out that Anjoli-mashi was there as a parental observer, to make certain that no inappropriate tales were told to the children.

Boys and girls, this evening I will tell you a shikar story the story of how I vanquished the fierce Man-eater of Punagiri. See this scar mark on my upper right arm? This is where the tiger clamped me in his jaws. That was nearly the end of Shujon Majhi the Rower of Three Rivers. But if Lord Krishna preserves you, who can destroy you? So it was instead the tiger that had to meet his maker.

The villagers of Punagiri a hamlet which sits on the river Sarda in the district of Nainital near the Nepal border were terrorized by a man-eating tiger which had claimed seven lives, including two women and one child. Before that, the tiger had been operating in the Garhwal district, where it had killed 57 people. It then made its way to Punagiri, killing 23 more people on the way. All the efforts by many good game hunters had failed to kill the tiger. The village Ponchayet of Punagiri then approached my friend Jim, the famed hunter and the slayer of many a man-eating tiger. Jim had more or less retired from hunting at the time, and so he said: "Why don't you ask my good friend Shujon? If anyone can put paid to this tiger, Shujon can." And that was how I happened to come to the rescue of the village.

[Image source: Man-eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett, published by Oxford University Press, 1944]

It all began when this tiger fought with a wild boar, and was left crippled. It could no longer hunt its natural prey, an act that required great speed and agility. So it zeroed on the easy kills: Humans. In Punagiri, men, women and children from the village used to roam freely in the forest without any fear. They collected green leaves as fodder for their animals, and also firewood and honey. But this tiger visited stark fear upon the village.

I came to the town of Nainital and trekked for a day to Champawat. This is where Jim had killed the dreaded Champawat tigress one of the most infamous man-eaters in history. From Champawat, I arrived in Punagiri the next day. I received extensive briefings from the villagers. I declined their offer of providing a hunting party and a team of beaters, saying that I preferred to hunt alone, on foot. I used the same technique that us game hunters normally use. I made a rough map of the hilly terrain and charted the positions of the kills on it. That gave me an idea of the pattern of movement of the man-eater. Then I zeroed in on the place of his very last kill which had been only the day before and expanded my search as I spiraled my way out from that location.

I viewed the remains of the latest kill, and was revolted by the sight. But, I best not describe it. I recovered and started on my way. Soon I happened upon a hillock with a gulch bordering it a nearly perfect place for tigers to hide out. As I started up this hill, I caught a very faint trace of that special smell. I will readily admit to you, boys and girls, that even Shujon Majhi felt afraid at that moment. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. As I came round a bend, I saw a nice flat ledge up a ways. I approached it most cautiously.

It was then that I heard a low growl. This is the sound that makes the bravest of hunters go weak in the knees. You can hear your heart pounding. Your mouth goes dry and your arms feel too weak to handle the rifle. But, all seasoned hunters recover from this, as I did. I now rounded a large tree and came in clear view of the ledge. There I saw it!

The tiger was lying up on the ledge. It seemed to be asleep. I held my fine hunting rifle, a German Star Manlicker in the firing stance its bolt slid home and approached the tiger most stealthily. But I was too focused on the tiger, and was not watching the ground I was walking on. Suddenly, I stepped on a loose rock and lost my balance and fell. The rifle got thrown some distance away, but being the fine instrument it was, it did not discharge on impact. In an instant, the tiger was on me. I smelt his horrible smell, and the stench of its warm breath right on my face caused me nearly to faint. The tiger had closed its jaws on my upper arm.

But Shujon Majhi the Rower of Three Rivers is not one to cower long on looking death in the face. I kept my wits about. With great maneuvering I was able to put the toe of my hunting boot through the strap of the rifle, and pull it close while all the time enduring the searing pain and pushing the tiger away from my body with my one free hand, the left hand. I now used that hand to reach the butt of the rifle. I grabbed a hold of the weapon and put my left index finger on the trigger. With a contortion of my body and my arm that today seems nearly impossible, I pressed the muzzle of the rifle against the tiger's temple, and squeezed the trigger. I heard the thunderous roar of the Manlicker, and felt the tiger go limp on top of me.

Boys and girls, you would not believe how large the tiger was. It was much larger than anything Jim killed. But what I have not told you up to now is this: The surprise of surprises! As I was examining the dead beast, I found that it was a tigress! And only a few feet away, inside some bushes, there were three tiger cubs huddling together in great fear and confusion. All this made me suddenly feel a pang of sadness, but I consoled myself saying that the beast needed killing. I probably did her a favor by putting her out of her misery. It occurred to me that I could capture at least two of the cubs and take them to the village. But my instinct told me to let them go.

As I was walking back to the village, I saw that a large group of villagers coming my way, making shouts of great rejoicing. They had heard the shot. I asked them to go and retrieve the body of the tigress. It was necessary for all the villages to view the dead beast in order to recover from the stark fear that had beset the place. I did not say anything about the cubs, and since, upon their return, they did not mention seeing any cubs, I figured the babies had gone into the jungle to forage on their own. You see, the tigress needed to kill humans in order to feed her cubs.

And now I will tell you how the village feted me. That is an entire story in itself..

If the younger children believed Shujon Majhi's stories in toto, the troika of course realized that these were great exaggerations, if not total fabrications. But stories were stories, and the storyteller was entitled to great license. The taller the tale, the more enjoyable they are. It was not uncommon for a story to be told in first person, the storyteller assuming the role of the protagonist. So the troika never expressed any doubts in front of Shujon Majhi. Nor did they say anything to disillusion the younger children. Secretly, however, they checked the little checkable facts Shujon Majhi wove into the stories. In the above instance, the librarian of the Public Library confirmed that there indeed was a Punagiri on the river Sarda near the Nepal border, and indeed there was a great hunter in that area by the name of Jim Corbett. The librarian even mentioned a book The Man-eaters of Kumaon written by Corbett. However, the Library did not have any information on hunting rifles. So the boys approached Mr. Shom. Mr. Shom was used to getting all kinds of unusual requests from the boys, and never inquired about their purpose or expressed any surprise. He just made sure he got them the correct answer, however he could. And that was not always easy. Badarpur, a large village rather than a small town, was not the best place for information research. In this case, Mr. Shom checked with some military-type Englishmen at the Cachar Club in Silchar. They told him that there indeed was a fine, but rare, hunting rifle called Steyr Mannlicher. But it was Austrian, not German.

The more the little facts checked out, the more the three boys were confused as to who Shujon Majhi really was. On one occasion they saw him in the Ration Card office, affixing his tipshoi, or the thumb print, where a signature was required. He was completely illiterate! So how would he even read in a magazine about an Austrian rifle? And if he could read but not write, why did he then mispronounce the name? How did he come upon all these little facts that were neither common knowledge nor commonly available?

Even as Shujon Majhi settled down in the Badarpur area, he would disappear from time to time, for a couple of weeks at a time. When he returned, there would be a story of a fresh adventure he just underwent. Each such adventure would be good for several story sessions. Thus, the 'material' for the storytelling became not only inexhaustible, but also 'hot off the press' so to speak.

Boys and girls, this evening I will tell you the story of the hermit of the high Himalayas. This is my latest adventure from which I returned only yesterday. See my black toe here? That is frost bite from my standing barefoot too long on solid ice.

The story takes place in the glacier country on the high Himalayas. For sometime, mountain climbers and their sherpas have reported catching a glimpse but only a glimpse of a hermit walking on the ice where three glaciers come together. He is clad completely in white, and has flowing white beard and long white hair. He nearly blends with the white background of the ice. Thus he looks almost as elusive as the Himalayan snow leopard. It is almost as though he is cloud-like not real. As the stories of these sightings grew, some villagers in the foothills who know me learned about this. They said: "We must tell about this hermit of three glaciers to our friend Shujon Majhi the Rower of Three Rivers. He is most interested in things adventurous and things mysterious and things spiritual. And this matter here is all these rolled in one." So they sent me word. And that is how I set out for Nepal two weeks ago today.

I arrived in the village on a high plateau and spent two days there to acclimatize myself to the height. I collected all the necessary information as to location of the various sightings. On the third day before dawn, I set out for that place with a knapsack containing a one-man tent, and three days' supply of food and water. It was a day's hike to the place. I arrived there in the late evening, and saw the spectacular display of the setting sun on the glaciers and the ice fields beyond. It was the most beautiful scene I ever saw. Starting at the toe of the lowest glacier spread spring meadows where wildflowers of all colors had bloomed. They were fed by a clear blue lake formed of ice-melt. It was a deeply spiritual experience to just stand there and watch the light fail over the vast expanse of glassy white. I felt so much at one with nature that I wanted to feel even closer to her. So I removed my climbers boots and socks, and stood there feeling the ice underfoot. But I overdid it, and that is how I got the black toe.

I kept a vigil that evening until the visibility became poor. I moved some boulders and rocks to create a flat spot on the lateral moraine of the glacier, and pitched my tent. Soon I fell asleep from the day's tiring hike. But I was up before dawn, and could watch that light which failed last night slowly return. I commenced my vigil, systematically scanning the horizon both near and far. But soon the skies clouded over, and got ominously dark. Lightning streaks started to cleave the sky over the vast icescape. It was the eeriest experience. I stood there, feeling that I had been transported to an otherworldly setting.

Nevertheless, I kept scanning the horizon 360 degrees. Absolutely nothing there except the whiteness in the distance, and the rainbow of wildflowers and the blue of the lake nearby. But repeatedly, my eyes got drawn back to the sky with its fiery display over the glacier. Now it seemed to me that various shapes were forming on this screen so to speak. The shapes were nearly discernible, but not quite.

And then I saw him! His shape I mean, on that screen. A sadhu with long flowing white beard down to his waist, and flowing white hair covering his shoulders. He was clad completely in white. He appeared just for a brief second, but I saw him as clearly as I am seeing you now, Mazamil and Hafatul. It was not an image or an apparition, but a regular man! He was holding a walking staff in his right hand, taller than he himself. I also had the fleeting sense that he nodded to me.

I stood there petrified for a long time. It is only when the sky cleared and the sun came up bright on me that I came back to reality. But still dazed, I gathered up my things and started back. When I was close to the village, in that mysterious evening mountain light and near a flowing stream, I saw a very old Tibetan woman in ancient, frayed body rags, herding three yaks alongside the stream. I stopped and greeted her and asked if she had heard about the sadhu. She replied: "That sadhu he is not a man of here and now. He lives in another time. But he can be found today at a conjunction of nature where three of nature's flowing things come together. It could be three singing rivers, three silent glaciers, three howling winds mingling in mountain crevasses. He is called the Keeper of Three Streams: The Past, the Present and the Future."

"The Far. It is a place of the solitude of moon-rivers and mist-mountains, of the silence of green hills and snowy fields."

I looked around me and it seemed like she was describing exactly the place we were standing in right then. I asked: "You mean this place we are seeing here now?"

So saying, the she walked on. I tried to ask her something for so many questions were crowding in my mind but in reply she just waved Goodbye. When I came to the village, I asked my friends in the village about the yak-herder. They were most surprised. They said: "There is not a single yak in this area, much less a yak-herder. And we know all the Tibetan families here. There's no such old woman."

When it came to analytic brainpower, the troika was not lacking at all. Tazamil never met a puzzle he could not solve. Alak always secured the highest marks in Mathematics. And Prosenjit was a formidable opponent in chess. And yet the more time went on, the more the Shujon Majhi phenomenon became an enigma for the troika. They noted and discussed each fact they thought was significant, and in this way, developed a mental 'case file.' They asked Shujon casual questions about him, such questions as were normally asked of any acquaintance. They never let on that they saw some deep mystery in him, or that they were probing.

One Saturday evening Shujon Majhi arrived and found that the Shom household was a hub of social activity. A number of visitors as well as the family had crowded into the living room. Shujon Majhi was going to make a quick and unseen retreat but the children spotted him. He was ushered into the living room, and the ever-dignified Mr. Shom introduced him to the guests as a family friend. The guests, it turned out, were here to negotiate a marriage. They have come from Karimganj for this occasion. The prospective bridegroom sat there smart, handsome and well-dressed. He was introduced as an engineer with the railroad system. His parents, two sisters and an uncle made up the rest of the party. The prospective bride, Anjoli-mashi, sat on a two-person sofa by herself, with a vacant look about her. There had been placed before the guests large plates of assorted sweets, and tea. For such was how the bride-viewing ritual went. The next step would be to determine if the principals liked each other, and the subsequent plans would be made or not made accordingly.

Shjon Majhi was ushered in and almost forced into the only empty seat, in the same sofa as Anjoli-mashi. She moved only enough to make room for him and no more. It seemed that she had forgotten to put the expected social distance between herself and the youngman unrelated to her, even in the middle of this delicate negotiation where she was under intense scrutiny. A plate of sweets and a cup of tea appeared very quickly and were placed before Shujon Majhi. His face now looked flushed. He appeared completely discombobulated by being drawn into the gathering of the gentry in this way, and being seated as one of their equal. At the first chance he got to speak, he managed a few words in an attempt to quickly escape this uncomfortable situation: "If there's no story session this evening, I could attend to some urgent business in town to my advantage. So I best be off."

The usual protestations were made and he was requested fervently to stay a while. But with a rather uncharacteristic firmness, he excused himself. He told Urmi and Urvi: "If you like, I will come tomorrow evening." The twins took him up on that, and made him promise he would return tomorrow. They would save his untouched plate of sweets for him to have tomorrow, they said. They also explained that the cup of tea could not be saved, for it would get cold. But a fresh cup would be made tomorrow.

Shujon Majhi kept his promise, and appeared the next evening with the story of the three Niles. After that evening, things went back to routine. And nothing came of the bride-viewing meeting, as Anjoli-mashi had turned down the proposal on the very following Monday.

Boys and girls, today's story takes you to Mishor, the place the world knows today as Egypt. This is the story of the boatman of the three Niles. But before we go there, I must let you in on a secret about myself that I have jealously guarded thus far.

I belong to a very rare group of people known as Jonmoshmor. Jonmo, as you know, means Birth. Shmoron means Remembrance. So, Jonmoshmor means One Who Remembers His Past Life. I do many lives in fact. But this story takes place thousands of years ago, when I was a high government official in the House of the Pharaoh. I was most trusted, and was given great responsibilities as well as great rewards.

The Pharaoh, however, was a very cruel and repressive ruler. All over the land, discontent against him was brewing just under the surface. An underground movement had organized itself with the object of ousting the Pharaoh. One evening, the leader of the movement approached me stealthily in a dark corner of the marketplace. He said that from my actions, they had concluded that I was a good person at heart, and they wanted me to join them. I was most moved by what he said, and after a period of great agony and deep soul-searching, I secretly joined their group. Before long I became a valued member there, as I could help them by using my official position.

The Pharaoh's spies, however, were on to me, and I sensed that the noose was closing in around my neck. So one night I fled the palace and went into hiding. I disguised myself as a boatman, procured a felucca, and started rowing up the Nile, stopping wherever it caught my fancy to stop. After months, I entered Nubia and arrived where the rivers Blue Nile and the White Nile join to form the great river Nile. I find this place after my heart, and settled down. I used the felucca for fishing as well as ferrying people back and forth across the river in it.

One day, an evidently high-born young lady arrived at the river bank. How could I tell she was high-born? Well, just as easily as I can tell you young ladies Urmi, Urvi and Mila are high-born, just by your most elegant and dignified looks. Now, this lady wanted to go across the river to visit a relative. She was the most beautiful human being I ever saw in that ancient time I mean and I thanked Almighty Amon Ra for the mere opportunity of being in her proximity. But as if Ra had heard my prayer and was pleased, the lady deigned to speak to me. For the entire two hours that it took to cross the mighty river, we conversed nonstop. When she alit at the other bank, she asked if I could wait for two hours and then ferry her back. I instantly agreed, forgoing all other fares and fishing for the rest of the day.

On our return trip, the sun was already setting, and the evening star was becoming visible. It was pure magic. I wondered if she felt the same way. As if to answer that question, she looked at the sky and said: "Sunset and evening star. Beautiful hour, isn't it?"

To my great surprise and great pleasure, Tanafriti her name meant She of the Beautiful Land came again a few days later, and then again and again. It became so that she no longer visited anyone at the other bank. We just crossed the river and turned around and crossed it again making for a solid four-hour tryst. Yes indeed, a lover's tryst is what it became, and one day we both acknowledged this to each other. Then she said: "Kamenwati (for that was my name, meaning the Dark Rebel), I am afraid this is going to end badly for us. There is no way my family would allow me to marry a lowly fisherman of the Nile. They would want me to marry a person with a high position in the society such as a high official of the Pharaoh. In fact they have been pressing me lately, and I am afraid that my marriage is imminent. I may be able to come one more time, in two days, but after that we may not see each other again."

She said she would use these two days to paint me something, for me to remember her by.

Now I saw that either I had to act or she was going to be gone forever from my life. But acting, that is telling her who I really was, was also risky not only for my own self, but also for the cause. I was torn between my love for her and my allegiance to the cause.

I then hit upon an idea. I also could paint a little. So I made a fabric art of a high official being ceremonially installed by the goddesses Blue Nile and White Nile. And I made the face of the official look as much like my face as I could do, by viewing my own image in water. I hoped that this would clue her in to my real identity, with absolutely no secrets betrayed.

When she came two days later, she presented me with a Papyrus painting of the goddess Mat. However, the face of the goddess looked exactly like that of Tanafriti. I was overwhelmed by this gift. Then I gave her mine. She looked at it a long while. She looked back and forth between the picture of the official and my face. Then she sat a while wrapped in thought. At last, she said: "It will not be easy, but I will find an excuse to put off the wedding. I will wait for you as long as I can without causing my parents grief."

Thus, absolutely nothing was said between us but my goal was achieved. Boys and girls, I am happy to say that this story ended happily for me. The rebels vanquished the Pharaoh, and I was installed to my original station in life. Tanafriti's parents accepted me with great joy.

However, the story does not quite end here. It turned out that Tanafriti and I had both heard a clear call from the far. The homebound everyday life was not for us, no matter how opulent and how glamorous life that was. One day we acknowledged this to each other. We left everything behind, and headed into the deep of the Sahara. Between the harsh sands and the cool oases, we found ourselves again. That was really where we lived happily ever after.

Two years passed since Shujon Majhi had turned up in the Badarpur area. The boys were all in Class X and their school-leaving examination, the Matriculation, was upon them. By now, Shujon Majhi and the Saturday evening storytelling sessions had become as integral a part of life as Saturdays themselves.

Alak's mother, being the affectionate person and the fine hostess she was, always invited Shujon Majhi to stay for dinner. But he always declined with profuse thanksgiving, making excuses. It seemed that he did not feel comfortable eating with 'the gentry'. But sometimes the younger children pressed hard, holding his hands tightly, and he accepted. On such occasions, there would be a session after dinner, in which the younger children would be absent. They would be abed, fast asleep. There would be only Shujon Majhi and the troika. Here, more adult conversation took place. One day, Tazamil asked: "Shujon-chacha, what does The Rower of Three Rivers mean?"

"It means that I ply the waters where three rivers connect whether it be Borak splitting into Surma and Kushiara, or Blue Nile and White Nile joining to form the Nile."

That was not the answer Tazamil, and perhaps the other boys, were expecting. Something about that spacious night on the open roof terrace under the starry sky caused the boys to want to press their advantage further. "But surely there is a deeper meaning?!" asked Alak.

Suddenly a line had been crossed. The boys had developed among themselves a tacit understanding that they would never directly interrogate the mystery man. But now a question was posed that was clearly not a question that would be asked of an illiterate boatman or a fishmonger. All four would have understood this.

After a long silence, Shujon Majhi spoke: "All right, young men. In a few months you will be in college, you will be treated as full-fledged adults. You have asked me a sincere adult question, and I owe you a sincere adult answer. So here it is.

"Place yourself precisely at the node where the three lines representing Borak, Surma and Kushiara meet. Imagine the flow of the river is the flow of time. Then Borak behind you represents the Past. It is completely known to you because you have come through it, you have lived it. Ahead of you is the ambiguity: Which river should you take Surma or Kushiara? This is the essential ambiguity of the Future, the Unknown. If you take Surma, then Kushiara is the Future that might have been. All humans, at all times, are standing at such a decision point, which is the Present.

"When you come to the Niles, however, all the arrows are reversed. Behind you are the Blue Nile and White Nile, and ahead of you the great Nile. So now it seems that the Future, the Nile, is unambiguous. But the Past is ambiguous. If you came down White Nile, then what did the Blue Nile represent?"

Shujon Majhi paused to see if his listeners had any questions. None had. But it was at this point that everyone noticed, for the first time, that there had all along been one more listener. Anjoli-mashi had come up quietly, and stood in the shadows. Shujon Majhi continued: "Now, who is the person for whom the Past has a duality and the Future is clear? It is the spiritual seeker, the roaming ascetic, the white-clad sadhu on the high Himalayas and naked sannyasi in Varanasi. For each of these men, the Future is clear but not in the practical sense. Sure, the Himalayan sadhu could die in an avalanche tomorrow. But such matters are not in the reckoning for him. He has heard one clear call, and he knows clearly where he is going. There is no ambiguity.

"And how is the Past a duality? Because, in the first instance, he has lived a practical life like the rest of us. But equally well, he has lived an inner life that inner torment that caused him to leave everything behind.

"So when you ply the waters near the node of three rivers, that is, you step out of that single decision point which is the Present, and you venture out in various directions, you are exploring the mortal life, the spiritual life, the astral life in all dimensions. You are the Rower of Three Rivers."

Somewhere from the bushes in the garden, a night-bird called out and broke the silence that followed the speech. This added to the eerie sensation the boys now felt. What they just heard was not, by any stretch of logic, the speech of a rural boatman. Something had changed forever. Next time they would see Shujon Majhi by broad daylight, they would know they were speaking to a different man.

Now Anjoli-mashi spoke: "Boys, it is time to call it a night and let your illustrious guest be on his way. It is a long way to go in the dark."

This was the very first time Anjoli-mashi referred to Shujon Majhi in his presence, even if in the third person. He stood up, and almost instinctively, did a Namaskar to Anjoli-mashi with his head bowed low. That night he pedaled home in a great sense of euphoria all the way, every inch of the way. Two things had been accomplished. She now knew he was no common fishmonger, and she had acknowledged it to him.

For the next two days, the boys had not met and Shujon Majhi had no turned up. Nothing unusual about that. Early the evening of the third day, as Alak was returning home from a vigorous bike ride, he saw Shujon Majhi coming from the other direction pedaling towards Haritikar. They stopped by the side of the road, sat on their bikes with one foot on the ground and chitchatted for a few minutes. Then, out of clear blue, Shujon Majhi said: "Alak, I am about to embark on my ultimate adventure. I did not want to say anything in front of the children, but now that we are alone, I am letting you know. This can be very dangerous, and I may never return."

Alak took this to be a continuation of the tall tales of the past. But to humor Shujon Majhi, he said: "That sounds most ominous. What is this adventure about?"

"Remember the white-clad, white-bearded Himalayan sadhu I told you about? I also told you that that was me in another life. I want to go to his timeframe and visit him. I have found a way to do so. But I am not sure if I can safely return to the present timeframe."

"Tonight. But Alak, there is a request I would like to make of you. If I have not returned in two weeks, I shall probably not return. In that case, please tell everyone in your house including the three elders that I liked them very very much. Each single one of them."

By now Alak got the rising sense that this 'tale' was different from all the other tall tales. But beyond that, he did not know what to make of this. He said some words that he thought would be appropriate good journey, safe return and such and took leave, saying: "I will see you in two weeks."

Two weeks passed, but Shujon Majhi did not return. After the third week, the troika went to the river landing in Haritikar and made inquiries. No, no had seen him lately. One more week passed. But now it was just a month before the great Matriculation Examination for the troika. The school let out so this month could be used for intensive preparation at home for this all-important examination. The life of the boys went into a very strict routine: study, eat, sleep. That is all. Absolutely no time for anything else. The whole family tiptoed around the scholar, making sure no distractions occurred. All visiting and socializing were suspended.

So it was that the Shujon Majhi issue had to be placed in abeyance for a time. The children missed the story-telling sessions, but knew that these were only temporarily suspended because of big brothers' exam.

The examination itself lasted four days. The boys did well. After the last test on the last day, the troika emerged from the schoolhouse, in the late afternoon, completely sapped of energy. This was time for decompression, for celebrating and going wild. But they were all too exhausted by the month-long ordeal to think of any such thing right now. So, they decided at least to visit their favorite haunt, the Station Platform, before going home to collapse on their beds. Ahead, they had to look forward to three months of unadulterated leisure. For that was how long it took for the examination papers to be evaluated and results to be announced. After that, the boys would be off to college and full adulthood.

As they entered the platform so familiar to them in every detail they immediately spotted something that was glaringly out of place. Or, someone, actually. At the far end of the platform, on a wooden bench under a shade tree, was seated a man clad in sparkling white, with long, flowing, white beard and white hair. The whiteness of the clothes stood in clear anachronism of what one normally saw in sweaty, dusty Badarpur. This was not a local resident, and clearly not a passenger for he did not have any kind of luggage. Such a new arrival in a placid place like Badarpur aroused natural curiosity.

The man looked too grave and too meditative to approach. The boys knew the Assistant Station Master Subir Ghosh who was, fortunately, in his office. After they conversed a little on how the examination went, Alak asked the ASM about the white-clad man. The ASM replied: "Oh, the sadhu! He has been coming here afternoons for several weeks. He sits on the bench from 4 pm to 6 pm punctually. He does not speak to anyone. If someone approaches him, he greets him amiably. But for me, the strange thing is this: It seems that he is sitting there and eagerly absorbing all the sights and sounds of this dusty, grimy, sooty place. The way a tourist absorbs a new place. But something more. It is as though he is absorbing the reality of this place."

"Because of his attire and his demeanor. Just watch him walk with his long staff. He is different from other sadhus though, in the sense that he wears white instead of the usual gerua or saffron color of a holy man."

"Let me see. He appeared a couple of days after I came back from my vacation in Sylhet. So that would be, what, just about two months ago."

As they left the station, Tazamil and Prosenjit could not help noticing that a profound quietness had come over Alak. But they did not quiz him right then. They all went home.

Early next morning, Alak made his way to the river landing in Haritikar. No, no one had see Shujon Majhi lately. They were wondering too. One fishmonger said: "He came out of nowhere, and disappeared into nowhere!"

Shujon Majhi was to return in two weeks. It is now two months. Alak recalled their last conversation.

For the troika this was to be a wonderful time in which they would make many short trips and day excursions by bicycle. This was the period in which they would go from being treated as adolescents to being regarded as adults.

But the moodiness of Alak put a damper on all this. Tazamil and Prosenjit allowed a few days to let him come back to his normal self. But this did not happen. So, one day, the three biked to Haritikar and sat near Borak, from where they could also see Surma and Kushiara. Tazamil broached the subject: "Alak, we are perplexed with the disappearance of Shujon Majhi as greatly as you are. But it seems now that the sadhu has become an additional obsession for you. Are the two connected? We cannot figure out what is going on with you. We wish you would explain."

Alak now saw that he had been unfair to his friends. He now told them about the last conversation he had with Shujon Majhi. The two friends listened, but nothing became any clearer for them. So Prosenjit asked: "Well, all right. So, Shujon Majhi may have got himself caught in a situation. No matter how strange or mysterious that situation is, we can discuss it. But what has it to do with the person in the station?"

"I think Shujon Majhi went to meet the sadhu, and the sadhu returned in his place."

Neither Tazamil nor Prosenjit was prepared for this. They were simply speechless. The boys never ridiculed one another. So, the two did not think in that vein at all. Instead, they were wondering if what they had heard was what was actually meant by the speaker. At last, Prosenjit managed to say: "Go on."

"There is nothing concrete I can tell you. But there are three things I cannot get out of my mind. The first is a guilt-feeling. That night on the roof terrace, I was the one who pressed Shujon-kaka on his real identity. That may have scared him away. The second is an image I have in my mind. When Shujon-kaka described the sadhu of the high Himalayas, I had formed in my subconscious perhaps a complete image of that white cloud-like sadhu. When I saw the man on the platform, the two images matched exactly. Third, I was deeply struck about what Subir-kaka told us. The sadhu was soaking in the reality of it all. See, Subir-kaka has no background on anything that went on with Shujon Majhi. He was just expressing an isolated impression he developed, completely on his own. And what he was expressing was most significant in view of the background that we know."

The two boys did not respond immediately. They all got up and started to walk to their bikes. Then Tazamil said: "Why don't we go and talk to Nilotpol Babu? We will not give him any background, but just ask him a hypothetical question. At least we will have a fresh take on this subject."

Nilotpol Bau was the science teacher of their school, and a favorite teacher of the boys. He was most easy to talk to, and entertained any subject at all not just science. The idea of talking to him was well received by Alak who was looking for something, anything, to do about the situation. He agreed.

They arrived at the Teachers' Common Room just minutes before the lunch hour. The idea was to corner the poor fellow alone just before all the teachers would leave for lunch. The science teacher, Nilotpol Babu, of course understood the stratagem. But he liked the troika, and did not mind this at all. He greeted them warmly: "Ah, here comes the threesome! How are you enjoying this vacation period before the results come out?"

The boys made appropriate replies, and then got down to business. They said they had all just read the book Time Machine, and developed a scenario that confounded them all. Then they posed the question which they had earlier composed with much deliberation: "Suppose that suddenly one day, there appears in your town a person who actually has come from another time, and descended into your time. Suppose that he acts and speaks and looks like any normal person for this area and this era. Suppose that he does not want for you to know, or does not himself know, that he has come from another time. How would you determine if he is a time traveler?"

If Nilotpol Babu was amused by this problem he did not show it. He treated it as all other questions the boys had put to him earlier. He started to answer, thinking even as he was speaking: "Well, let us examine this piece by piece. First, there is nothing outward about him that would lead you to any conclusions. That only leaves what is inside. Inside are his physical makeup, and his mind. But if he is normal in every way, then I do not think that a medical examination will tell us anything. That leaves his mind.

"So perhaps we could give him a test as to his knowledge of various historical events, assuming he agrees to such a test. Now, suppose he comes from the time of Emperor Ashok, and you ask him about a much later event of history. You ask him who the first Moghul Emperor was. If he correctly answers Babur, then it may mean that he is not a time traveler. Or it may mean that he has read up on, or in some other way picked up knowledge of eras later than his. So, the test is inconclusive.

"If you continue this type of exercise, I think you will yourselves come to the conclusion that the problem you pose does not have a solution. There is no way to determine if this person is from another time. You can say he is not from another time just as you can say everybody is from another time."

Nilotpol Babu stopped and looked at the disappointed faces of the boys. He then continued: "Well, why don't you find out for yourselves? Each of you device a test, and describe it to the other two. And the other two examine if this test will lead to a definite answer."

This gave the boys something to do, and also left the door open for now. They thanked the teacher profusely, and took their leave. The teacher hurried to lunch. But he had an afterthought, and turned and said: "Of course, not everything can fit into the world of science. There may be things beyond. The answer I gave you may not be the entire answer."

When the troika gathered the very next day, each had formulated a test. But each was shot down by the other two, following the general principles the science teacher had described. Soon they came to agree with what he said: This problem is not solvable. Tazamil and Prosenjit accepted this squarely. However, Alak's moodiness continued. He somehow could not let go.

But he also realized that he had lost the enthusiastic support of the other two. So he started going to the station alone, in the late afternoon. Keeping his distance, he observed the seated sadhu as well as he could. He came early to see the sadhu walk in the afternoon light. Sure enough, the figure cast a shadow. One day he brought a small hand mirror. Sure enough, he could see the sadhu in the mirror. One day, there were some other people sauntering near where the sadhu was seated. From a distance, Alak shouted: "Shujon-kaka, O Shujon-kaka!" The sadhu turned towards him, but so did a few others. So that proved nothing. But now Alak had been seen, and his further spying on the sadhu had to be severely curtailed.

Already twice now, Anjoli-mashi had cornered Alak and asked him in confidential voice if he knew anything about Shujon Majhi's whereabouts. Alak sensed both anxiety and affection in her voice. This added another dimension to his obsession.

Tazamil and Prosenjit had another meeting on this. Prosenjit began by saying: "I think we have to do something further to help the situation. Not something to stop him, but something so he can run through a process himself and decide to stop himself, on his own terms. That's the only way he is going to snap out of this."

"I agree, but what?" asked Tazamil. "Short of Shujon-chacha suddenly turning up, I do not see what else can convince him that the sadhu is not Shujon-chacha's stand-in."

"What if this is not a matter of science? Remember what Nilotpol Babu said?" asked Prosenjit, rhetorically. "May be we should go to Silchar and consult the great Bipod-Taron Ojha."

The Ojha was well-known for performing all kinds of exorcisms. Tazamil smiled at this obviously facetious comment, but suddenly sat up straight. "Go to Silchar?! I think I've got the perfect answer!"

A surprised Prosenjit looked questioningly. Tazamil asked him: "Do you remember Alak telling us that he knew the Bagchi brothers of Silchar?"

"Indeed I do. Mr. Shom and Mr. Bagchi have some business dealings, and the two families have met."

"So we will go to Silchar and consult the Bagchi brothers. That ought to satisfy Alak very fully, no matter how it ends."

When the matter was put to Alak, he suddenly perked up: "Why didn't I think of this?!" Immediately, a postcard was dispatched, proposing a social visit now that the elder Bagchi as well as the troika had finished their Matriculation exam. A prompt reply came by mail, with a warm invitation. The three were to have noon rice at the Bagchi home on the following Saturday, and they were not to purchase return tickets for the train. The Bagchi family vehicle would drive them back to Badarpur. The letter was also suggested that the three take the first morning train so as to have a good chunk of time in Silchar. The younger Bagchi would skip school for this purpose, seeing as how it was a half-day school on Saturday, and not much was going to be lost by the absence.

Even as the train was pulling into the station, the troika saw through the window the Bagchi brothers, Sayan and Deep, waiting on the platform. They alit, and warm greetings were exchanged, and introductions made. All then got into the Bagchi family car, a 'staff car', and headed home to Malugram.

The boys from Badarpur were most warmly received by the Bagchi household, and pleasantries were exchanged over piping hot jilipis and shingaras, accompanied by tea. After that, Mrs. Bagchi asked if the boys all ate non-vegetarian food especially fish and goatmeat and learned they did. Then the five boys were left to their own devices until lunch time which was still about three hours away. Sayan suggested they all took a sightseeing walk along the river embankment up to the Sadarghat ferry crossing. The troika saw the chance of having the long private conversation they came to have.

The Bagchi brothers did not express any surprise when Alak disclosed there was a hidden purpose to this visit. Sayan said in response: "We will find a place on the river bank to sit down. And then you can tell us."

They found a cool grassy spot for all to sit down, roughly in a circle. Alak laid out the whole matter in as great detail as he could, occasionally checking a point with Tazamil and Prosenjit. Sayan kept his eyes fixed on the speaker's face. Deep kept his eyes on the river watching the car ferry load up and ply back and forth. It is almost as though he was not paying attention. Alak now finished with the part about the disappearance of Shujon Majhi and the appearance of the mysterious sadhu, and the consultation with the science teacher. He then offered these concluding remarks: "So you see, it is as though Shujon Majhi steps in and out of his own stories. Sometimes he lives in real life, sometimes he lives in his stories. And this last time, he stepped into a story and never came back. It seems as though a character from the story, this sadhu, came back instead."

When he stopped, no one spoke for nearly a minute. Then Sayan looked at his younger brother and said: "Stories?"

Sayan turned to Alak and said: "Tell us a couple of Shujon Majhi's stories in as great detail as you can remember them, and in the sequence they were told. The oldest story first. Also tell us who all listened to these stories."

Since Alak was all talked out, Prosenjit told the stories about the Punagiri Man-eater and the Tibetan Yak-herder. Then Tazamil told the story of the Dark Rebel, remembering to preface it with the commotion that preceded that story, namely, the visit of the bride-viewing family from Karimganj. This was the only time Alak had seen the ever-unfazed Shujon Majhi discombobulated and confused, and Tazamil thought that fact was somehow significant.

All three boys from Badarpur were now exhausted, but happy that they had laid out their 'case' fully. The case was now submitted. However, all three noticed a strange phenomenon. The Bagchi brothers started listening with that very faint smile on their faces that was characteristic of them: a mixture of curiosity, amusement and expectation. But as the account progressed, both faces simultaneously began to look increasingly serious, and then grim. At length, a somber Sayan said: "There's a little teashop just up the road. You can catch your breath and moisten your throats. Let's go."

The boys welcomed this because they knew the Bagchi brothers had decided to take up the case, and would now barrage them with probing questions. They braced themselves to fill in any blanks in the account they just jointly gave. . As each sipped his tea and felt revived, Alak resumed the thread of conversation: "I think we are ready to answer your questions. Hopefully, between the three of us, we can answer everything."

Sayan replied, almost absent-mindedly: "Actually, I have only one question. So let Deep ask his questions first." He looked at Deep, who now spoke for the first time since they left home: "I too have just one question. Is Anjaoli-mashi very beautiful?"

In a manner that appeared to be choreographed, the mouths of the troika fell open. They had heard that the Bagchi brothers were strange and mysterious, but now they were experiencing those facets first-hand. It was Tazamil who composed himself first and replied: "Anjoli-chachi is exceptionally beautiful. People in Badarpur rightly say she is the most beautiful woman in Badarpur. And what was your question, Sayan?"

They finished their tea, and were about to get up when Sayan signaled them to wait: "Please stay here a moment. I need to speak to my brother a minute." The two brothers stepped outside the shop. When they came back in, Sayan asked the shopkeeper what time it was, and then told the group: "Good, we still have about an hour and a half before lunch. Let's start on our way back."

When they were back on the street again, Sayan guided the group to the courthouse grounds, which resembled a venue of perpetual carnival. All types of vendors set up makeshift shops, and peddled their wares with elaborate singsong oration, and sometimes even poetry that they had themselves composed. The group found a shady spot under a tree, out of everyone's earshot, and sat down. "Before we proceed further, there is something we all need to agree on," said Sayan. "We must agree to hold in the strictest confidence whatever is discussed among us. Nobody, absolutely nobody, outside of the five of us must know anything. This is necessary because we are dealing with an extremely dangerous situation, which I will explain to you presently. Can we agree on that? Please understand that we could also drop the whole matter now, and go home and enjoy a good meal."

The boys from Badarpur did not bargain on anything like this. They came to pursue an intriguing, but perfectly harmless, mystery. How could there be any danger, let alone extreme danger? Surely not the Morlocks from Time Machine?! What was being asked of them in such a promise? But in the end, all three seemed to reach a mental conclusion that dropping the matter was not an acceptable option at this point. Alak said: "I agree." Then Tazamil and Prosenjit nodded their agreement and also said so out loud.

"Good," said Sayan. "Now, I want to return by way of the Library and speak to Kalo-da the Librarian. But it is not a good idea for all of us to turn up there, as if we were on a project. So here is what I suggest: One of you three come with me. The rest of you walk on ahead and wait for us in front of Abhoyacharan Pathshala. We will join you shortly."

Alak stayed with Sayan and the rest proceeded on their way. Sayan briefed Alak: "I will make some excuse and ask Kalo-da to let us see some old issues of a Calcutta newspaper from the archives. If he is able to do so, I will discreetly point to you a photograph. You can later tell me if you recognize the person."

Kalo-da, affable as always, was in his office. Sayan entered the office, as Alak busied himself looking at the mystery section of the library shelves. When, after exchanging amenities, Sayan explained to Kalo-da what he was trying to look up, Kalo-da said: "Sayan, you have not only come just to the right place, but also the right man. I remember taking a great deal of interest in that subject, as indeed most Bengalis did. I can find the articles you are referring to without any difficulty at all."

Alak replied without any hesitation: "My friend from Badarpur just read his Himalayan adventure book Glaciers on High, and became interested in learning more about the author. But they only have a minimal library there. So I thought I would try to help out."

"This is certainly a most interesting person. An adventurer to the very core, I would say."

"For most adventurers, hunting, exploring etc are hobbies. But there are some few who live the adventure. This man gave up everything he worked for, everything he achieved to pursuef an insubstantial notion like love of the country. I do not think that was patriotism alone. It was the ultimate restless adventurer in him. Ulysses, the hero of Greek mythology, left behind his beautiful young wife to spend years on the high seas, engaging in great adventures and striving equally with men and gods."

The library clerk was able to dig up the particular issues in about ten minutes. Sayan looked long at two photographs. One of these showed a hunter in a military-style outfit, wearing a pith helmet and standing over a dead tiger, posing with a rifle. The caption said:

The author standing over the slain tigress Baramdeo Man-eater, holding his prized Steyr Mannlicher rifle

Sayan scanned the articles quickly. Finally, he found a photograph he had remembered from past reading, and was now looking for. It had the caption:

Of the three photographs, Sayan picked the Khartoum photograph where the face was clearly visible. He lightly folded the newspaper so as to hide everything but the photograph. He walked over to Alak and asked him to have a good look. Then he asked the clerk if the Library's copy of Jim Corbett's Man-eaters of Kumaon was on the shelves or checked out. It was on the shelves. Sayan opened it, and looked at the detailed map of Corbett's man-eater country intently. They both now thanked Kalo-da and the clerk, and started on their way.

"That was him," said a completely disconcerted Alak. "He has shaved off the military-style moustache and changed his hairstyle, grew stubble beard and got sun-burnt; but there is no mistaking that unusual face with sharp angles."

The two proceeded in silence to where the others would be waiting, each in his own thoughts. This being Saturday, school had let out at noon. The classrooms at Abhoyacharan Pathshala were empty. The group entered one of these rooms and sat down in a conference configuration. The boys from Badarpur expected an elaborate assessment of the situation from the Bagchi brothers, and they were not to be disappointed. Sayan was the one who spoke.

"First, I want to say that the three of you have already done the groundwork. You suspected that something was not as it seemed, you did a lot of fact-checking with regard to the stories told, and you analyzed the situation yourselves and discussed it with the science teacher. If you did not proceed further, it is because you are so close to the events. You do not have the detached and distant view that one sometimes needs to see the big picture. We, on the other hand, do.

"This is a mystery in two layers. The surface layer concerns the question: Who is Shujon Majhi? The underlying, much deeper layer, concerns the question: What is the person who is Shujon Majhi? The first mystery is an entirely earthly phenomenon. The second mystery, however, must remain for now a mystery of an unknown nature.

"Now, it is improbable but not impossible, for a boatman or a fishmonger to come upon exotic facts and weave stories around them. For example, he might name a little-known town in America or an exotic animal in Africa. How would he come upon such facts if he is illiterate and lives in a community of similar people? Well, he might have overheard the tourist passengers of his boat converse. He might have heard something on the radio in some teashop. But the exotic facts we are dealing with here are most unusual, and most diverse: A rare Austrian rifle; names of people in ancient Egypt and their meaning; the term 'glacial moraine' which I have seen only in the Geography textbook; and so on. I think it is certain that Shujon Majhi is not illiterate.

"The question then is whether he is a literate boatman, or a literate person masquerading as an illiterate boatman. We know this fact that instead of signing some form, he affixed his thumbprint. So clearly, he is hiding the fact that he is literate. In other words, he is hiding his identity. His handwriting might give him away, but thumbprint is safe for there is no way to trace down a thumbprint. The most natural conclusion is that he is a fugitive from justice. So let us examine that conclusion and see if it gets us anywhere.

"If we take on face value your assessment that this is a decent human being, then he cannot be a bank robber or a murderer or anything like that. That leaves only one kind of fugitive from justice: A freedom-fighter, or as the British Government would call him, a terrorist. And as soon as I considered that possibility, all kinds of bells rang in my head. Shujon Majhi appeared in Badarpur about two years ago. That was exactly when the newspapers were rife with the most exciting account of one Subroto Majumdar, a very young, Cambridge-educated ICS officer in great favor with the British Government who was a hunter, a world traveler and a writer of stories of his adventures in the magazine section of the Sunday newspapers. And who among us has not read his Himalayan adventure book Glaciers on High? Subroto Majumdar was the quintessential native saheb one of those Indians who hung out with the British and imagined himself to be one of them.

"However, something happened. When Subroto Majumdar was posted to Kohima as an Indian Civil Service officer, he had met the great freedom-fighter Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose and secretly became his adherent. There are no reports that he, Majumdar, committed any violent acts. He secretly helped the freedom movement with logistics and materiel, using his official position. But before long, the British Intelligence was on to him. Majumdar went into hiding just in the nick of time. He simply disappeared.

"The connection I made between him and Shujon Majhi was of course a speculation. But when I showed Alak a picture of Subroto Majumdar, he confirmed that that was Shujon Majhi. So the speculation paid off.

"Now you can see the great danger involved. If we inadvertently let slip that we found Subroto Majumdar, they would hunt him down and execute him. From what you have told me, my sense is that even in hiding, Shujon Majhi has remained connected to the movement: This is why he used to disappear for two weeks at a time. So his execution would result in further hostilities that may easily get out of hand. A terrorist upheaval in Bengal now could easily derail or delay the departure of the British from India. So what you have stumbled upon in your placid little town can affect the course of human history."

Sayan replied: "No. They were based on true adventures he undertook. He changed things around and embellished them, but in many respects he stayed surprisingly, and riskily even, close to his real life. The Punagiri Man-eater in real life was Baramdeo Man-eater that he had actually slain. Punagiri is a village across the river from Baramdeo."

"But how did a city-bred person instantly become a rural boatman and fishmonger?" asked Alak.

"Very easily. See, he was a fine yachtsman in Cambridge. And like Jim Corbett, he hunted game as well as large fish. One time he spent many days trying to catch a particular Mahasir in a stream in Kumaon. And he was born in Sylhet. So he could speak the local Bengali dialect. The part of Shujon Majhi was tailor-made for Subroto Majumdar, ICS."

At this point, the school custodian appeared, telling them he needed to lock up the classrooms. As the five vacated the room, Sayan said: "Let's do a little sightseeing on the way back as well. Let's return by way of Itkhola so you can visit the masjid."

The Badarpur troika was still absorbing Sayan's lengthy explanation. They were too intelligent to immediately start asking questions or casting doubt. But the more they thought, and the more they compared the explanation with their intimate knowledge of the 'facts on the ground', the more things fell in place. Still and all, questions were crisscrossing their minds and their brains. At length, Tazamil asked the first question: "About Anjoli-chachi.?"

"Let Deep address that issue," said Sayan as he looked at his brother. At this point they were cutting diagonally across a large, grass-covered field to reach Itkhola. The Badarpur boys drew up close to Deep as they all walked. Sayan fell back a few steps.

"There is a little more to be read from the account you have given us," said Deep, "over and beyond what Dada just explained. Clearly, this man's main motivation was to hide his identity and blend in as a local fisherman. That being the case, it seems to me that he was taking too many chances with his stories; he was going too far out on a limb. His stories were needlessly skirting too close to his real life. Take the case of the rifle. He got carried away and told you about it his pride and joy in real life and then back-pedaled by mispronouncing its name and giving the wrong country of origin. He was always going too far and then pulling back a little. It is almost as though he had a need to show off, to brag. But what would be the pleasure of bragging to group of high school boys and children? Why would an obviously intelligent man take such risks?

"Once you formulate your question this way, the answer becomes obvious. When is the only time and where is the only place an intelligent man, a man who has held positions of grave responsibility, acts in silly ways?"

Deep left the question hanging in the air for a few seconds to see if anyone wanted to take it. Tazamil did: "When he falls in love, and where he is with his love."

The boys from Badarpur stopped walking. This needed to be absorbed properly. Alak followed Tazamil: "He was playing up to Anjoli-mashi?"

"That was my initial theory," said Deep, "but it still remained to be confirmed. And complete confirmation came when you told us the story of the Dark Rebel."

Prosenjit, who was silent all this time, joined: "I think I've got it. From the very beginning, he fell for the exceptionally beautiful Anjoli-mashi. Even though they never spoke, he was constantly trying to impress her. It must have worked, because she was almost always showing up for the storytelling sessions. So, while Shujon-kaka was telling us stories, he was also speaking to Anjoli-mashi."

"And when he came on that Saturday and heard about showing Aljoli-mashi to a prospective bridegroom," continued Alak, "he became completely discombobulated. He felt his love was slipping out of his hand."

"Right. And, breaking his routine, he hurried back the following day," Deep picked up, "with the Egypt story. While for all of you it was a most exotic and engrossing story, for Anjoli-mashi it was a direct offer of love, and a marriage proposal. He understood that no matter how broadminded she was, and no matter how much she loved him if she did she could never marry a majhi. He was therefore telling her in so many words that he really was not an 'ordinary' majhi, but a high government official in hiding. He was asking her to wait for him. He was telling her how very beautiful she was. All this without their ever speaking to each other! And indeed, Anjoli-mashi rejected that Karimganj bridegroom the very next day."

They had now arrived at the masjid. "So then," said Sayan, "the first layer mystery is quite clear now. Let us see what we can do about the deeper layer."

Nobody knew if the head cleric of the mosque, Imam Hikmatullah, was officially entitled to be called Imam, but everyone called him thus. He was widely liked. He did not have the appearance that people normally associated with a high cleric long beard, white cotton cap, an ascetic bearing, a grave face; a man who was economic with words, and even humorless. Instead, the Imam was a rotund, jovial man with an ever-ready smile. He was also easy of speech, and made anyone completely comfortable in his presence.

As the five approached the masjid, they saw the Imam standing near the low concrete wall that separated the mosque grounds from the Itkhola Road. He knew the Bagchi brothers and their reputation. As he saw them approaching, he said: "Ah the amazing Bagchi boys! With some new friends, I see!"

All the five boys did the customary obeisance to the Imam, first touching the forehead with closed fingers of the right hand, then touching the breast with the same fingers. "Adab, Imam," said Sayan, "these are our friends visiting from Badarpur. We thought we would show off the masjid."

"Welcome, welcome! Please come on in, boys. Go to the building and show your guests the Prayer Hall."

"Thank you, Imam, we will," said Sayan. "But if you can spare us a few minutes, as long as we have found you, we wanted to ask you something."

"Imam, we have all read a science fiction story called Time Machine, about people traveling through time from the present to the past or to the future. That made us consider a scenario: What if there stands among us in flesh and blood just like any of us a man who has come from the past or the future? I do not mean a ghost. I mean an actual person who may not know himself that he is from another time. We know that science does not allow this. But what about the religions?"

The Imam was used to getting all types of questions, and very little fazed him. This one gave him pause. It was clear from the curve of his eyebrows that he was now thinking. And perhaps composing his answer. He then spoke slowly: "If you are asking about phenomena beyond the realm of science, I would say that many religions in one form or another allow such phenomena. Miracles, rebirth, reincarnation etc are examples. But what you are asking about a person ceasing to exist in his era and reappearing in another era that is before his or after his is not something the religions have considered. At least not to my knowledge. So my answer would be that the religions have nothing to say on this."

Sayan did not respond, for he sensed that the Imam was not finished with his thought process. Indeed, the latter started to speak again: "But, as a private person, I will add this: If such a visitation were ever to be revealed to anyone, it would be strictly a private, one-man experience. It would not be provable to others. What I mean is this: If you, Sayan, witness a person of flesh and blood suddenly materialize before you, you must hold it as a private gift to you, and be enriched by it within yourself. You may also choose to not believe it. But you may not convince others of it. As soon as you try to share the experience, the gift will lose its value. It will become a matter of amusement or ridicule. So it seems to me that this is not a matter that is discussible. But, I am not answering your question, am I?"

The lunch menu was as elaborate as a wedding feast course after course appearing in well choreographed sequence. Mrs. Bagchi clearly went all the way for her out-of-town young guests. Mr. Bagchi sat at the dining table with the five young men while Mrs. Bagchi supervised the serving of the meal. It started with eggplant halves fried in batter, to be eaten with a dollop of Basmati rice, smearing it with pure cow-milk ghee and a dash of salt. A long, thin green chili was placed in the plate as zest for this mouthful. Tiny lengths of the chili had to be periodically bitten off. So delicious was this course that one was tempted to make a whole meal out of it. However, every food-loving Bengali knew not to make that natural mistake, but to carefully pace things out all the way to the dessert. As the meal progressed now, the hostess was rewarded by constant appreciative comments from the guests, and uncharacteristically, even from her own two boys. Mr. Bagchi kept up a lively conversation with the boys all through the proceedings.

The meal ended with sweet yogurt, topped with a local variety of Gulab Jamun called Lalmohon made by the famed Bandhob Mistanno Bhandar. After that, the boys found themselves again left to their own devices, but each greatly inclined to have a little nap. The sofas and the carpet in the living room made for a cozy setting for short naps. Sayan suggested that the visitors go ahead and have an hour-long nap while the driver finished eating the fine meal to which he too had been invited. Then they would make an early start for Badarpur, for there was much more to do that day before the light failed. Sayan and Deep did not nap, but instead held a private planning session between the two.

An hour later, a quick round of strong tea was provided to awaken the sleepy guests. Now, Sayan disclosed the plan: "Deep and I will come with you to Badarpur. We can talk in the car. Our driver is completely trustworthy, but even so, we shall say nothing about Shujon Majhi. We will talk only about the sadhu."

As the car reached the end of Trunk Road, Sayan said: "Pull up at the Annapurna Temple. Our guests will have a quick look."

The temple door was open, and as they stepped inside the cool, serene hall smelling of flowers and frankincense, they saw that the head priest, Ochin Thakur, was tending to the flower arrangements for the altar. The priest of course knew the Bagchi brothers, and greeted them warmly.

After touching Ochin Thakur's feet and exchanging pleasantries, Sayan said: "Thakur-moshai, we would like to ask you a question." He then posed the same question to the priest that he had posed to the Imam. Ochin Thakur was a rather reserved person whose countenance bore great gravitas. No one but the Bagchi brothers would have dared ask him such a question. But when the Bagchi brothers asked a question, everyone tried to rise to the occasion. It was generally considered a privilege.

Rather than answering the exact question that was asked of him, Ochin Thakur offered a philosophical discourse. "Being born on this Earth is like being on a tour. It is up to you what kind of tour you wish to take. If you want to view life through the dictates of science, you can stay inside your safe and comfortable motor coach, and look out. If you want to free yourself from the dictates of science, you can get out of the coach, feel the soil underfoot, the wind in your face, and the nature sounds in your ears.

"This tour has so many things to offer, but what you receive depends on how receptive you are, how you have opened yourself up to all that is trying to flow into you. This is why some sadhus retire alone to the great Himalayas. There they discard all artificial precepts like logic and reason, spread their hands and say: 'Here I am. Unconditionally open to every experience.' And then most unusual experiences flow in that only they get to know. We do not. We cannot."

At the temple here, as well as at the masjid earlier, the boys from Badarpur listened with rapt attention to the conversation. They neither commented nor reacted. They were quite overwhelmed by how the day was progressing. They came here with a mystery that was a seeming hodgepodge of real life and supernatural phenomena. They did not even know if the Bagchi brothers would consider this a worthy mystery. But throughout the day, they saw their mystery brought to increasing focus, separated as to its real life part as well as the supernatural part both examined with equal seriousness. By now, they had gone completely into an observing-and- listening mode. But Tazamil, who secretly aspired to be a famous biologist, could contain himself no longer, and put a question to Ochin Thakur: "Thakur-moshai, are you saying that these sadhus can see farther than the scientists?"

"No. I would not make that comparison. But I would not shy away from this issue either. Perhaps a good way to put this would be that the scientist observes the near and the sadhu sees the far. And of course when I say near and far, I do not use the words literally. The question is: Do you have to transcend the near to see the far, or can you see the far directly? Why don't you think about that?"

"I will. But Thakur-moshai, is there any overlap between the two the two paths, I mean?"

"I know what you are asking. The answer is: The spiritually enlightened scientist is a better scientist."

They took leave of the priest and were on their way. As the car now crossed the railroad tracks at the Level Crossing and reached the open highway, Prosenjit carefully formulated and posed a question: "Sayan, these conversations you are having with the holy men are indeed most interesting. They are just for your own curiosity, right?"

Sayan understood the thrust of the question. He replied: "In part, yes. But I am also trying to get a handle on our second-layer problem. If it is in some realm that is out of science, then it has to be understood in its own realm. So it helps to talk to people who are used to the realm outside of science. We will blend the solid logic we learned from the science teacher, and the philosophies we learned from the two holy men, and try to do something tangible with that combined, broad perspective.

"So, let me get to our plan this afternoon. When we arrive in Badarpur, you will let Deep and me off near the railroad station and go on home. We do not want to be seen with you by the sadhu. He already knows Alak by face, and probably the other two of you as well. We will find the sadhu at the platform, and have a conversation with him. So send the car back for us in about half an hour. We would then like to come and say hello to Alak's parents and also meet Anjoli-mashi."

A puzzled Prosenjit could not contain himself: "But Sayan, as the science teacher told us, we cannot elicit any clues to his origin by simply talking to him!"

"The science teacher is absolutely right. But the most important thing he said, I think, was that you had to probe his mind. So that is what we will try to do. We will try to have an inner conversation."

"Well, here's what I am thinking. If the sadhu and Shujon Majhi are connected in some deep, distance way, then may be there is a common core at some level that we can tap into. May be we can have an ordinary conversation which elicits from the very deep of the sadhu's consciousness that river theme that seems to be so deeply seated in Shujon Majhi. Let us see how it goes."

The station platform was a very busy place, even when there was no arrival or departure activity. There were some passengers waiting all the time, with their luggage neatly piled up. There were people hanging out in front of the A. H. Wheeler Bookstore and the tea kiosk and the pan-biri-cigarette shop. There were coolies having a nap right there on the platform floor, in between the arrival and departure rush periods. Everywhere there was the regular dust and grime, and on top of this, there was a thin layer of coal dust. Everything looked old and unclean and worn of use. The ever-present smell was a mixture of the smell of burning coal and of frying samosas. So it was a sharp contrast to look down the platform and see, clear at the far end, under a shade tree, a figure seated on the wooden bench who did not fit this ambiance at all. His spotless white attire, snow white flowing hair and beard all seemed out of place. He sat very still as if in meditation, but with eyes open, looking at nothing in particular. His hair and beard did not seem to have a sharp outline, but to blend smoothly into the air.

Sayan now had such an eerie feeling as he had never known. Suddenly he felt sapped of vigor. He felt weak both of mind and in the knees. He said to Deep in a low voice: "Deep, I feel a little strange. This station there could be no place that is more real, more steel and concrete, more lived in. An in this setting we have this sadhu who looks most out-of-place and most unreal. What if he really and truly is from you know another time?"

"I know this feeling," replied Deep. "But let's take this matter in our stride as we always have."

That simple sentence revived Sayan completely. They now approached the sadhu with unhesitating movement. When they were within a few feet, the man turned his head and looked at them. The brothers saw a soothing visage with kindly eyes. Sayan said effortlessly: "Maharaj, you must be new here. We have not seen you before," and bent down to touch his feet. Deep did the same. The sadhu greeted them silently with joined palms. Then he said in Hindi: "Kolyan Ho may all that is good befall you!"

Sayan switched from Bengali to Hindi and introduced Deep and himself: "I am Sayantan. This is my brother Sayandeep. We actually live in Silchar, but we come to Badarpur to see family and friends. So we are quite familiar with this station and this area."

Now Deep spoke: "As soon as we saw you we came over to speak to you. We are drawn to holy men, as one of our relatives is a monk of the Ramakrishna Mission."

The sadhu replied, maintaining the amiable smile on his face: "I have great respect for the monks of the Ramakrishna Mission." Even as he said that, Sayan was trying to figure out what strategy his brother was following, as they had never discussed among themselves what they would do when they actually came face to face with the sadhu. Now they had.

Deep continued the conversation in that manner of his which put the other side completely at ease: "This monk often tells us stories of lone holy men from far and wide up on the high Himalayas beyond Manasarovar or down by the Ganges in Varanasi. But one thing common in all these stories is that when you meet such a man, you are allowed to ask one question. And the holy man will give you the best and the most sincere answer he has found through his holy journey. Is this also true with you, Maharaj?"

The sadhu's smile widened a little, as if in amused curiosity. He said: "I would not have thought a young man like you would have a question for an itinerant sannyasi. But, please go ahead and ask."

"Maharaj, my brother and I have talked much about our relative the monk whom we love very much. And that led us to wonder, at the very core of the core, in the very essence, what is the difference between an unbounded monastic or spiritual pursuit, and the pursuit of a homebound, everyday man?"

As the question developed, the sadhu's smile was slowly replaced by a thoughtful and serious countenance. He thought for a while. Then his smile came back. He replied: ""There are many stock answers to that. But you have honored me by asking a most sincere question, not a flippant or academic question but one born of your own life. So I will give you my most sincere answer. But first, please sit down".

The sadhu moved to the center of the bench so that the two brothers could sit on either side of him. As they did, both had a strange but warm feeling of being in a good, safe place the way they felt in younger days when, on a cold evening, climbing under the same comforter with their grandfather, they listened to hair-raising stories.

The sadhu took his walking staff, and with the point of it, drew a sketch on the concrete platform. There was a thin layer of suit and dust, and thus faint lines were discernible. As he drew, he spoke: "What I am drawing here is an island in a river. The arrows show the flow of the river, from right to left. Now, as you can see, there are two nodes in this diagram, node 1 at the conjunction of three streams in the back of the island, and node 2 in the front.

"The node 1 is where the homebound man stands. Before him, there is a choice: Take the right turn or take the left turn. The life of a homebound man is a continuous set of choices, and that is why he can never see the future. So, the homebound man is always standing at the node 1. The island blocks his view.

"The person who has left everything behind who has severed all bonds of love and all encumbrances of the society stands at node 2. He has no more choices to make. The choice is behind him. He can see the future."

The sadhu stopped and looked at the two brothers, listening in rapt attention. After a brief silence, the sadhu smiled slightly mischievously and said: "Now, permit me to ask you one question!"

Sayan looked at Deep, signaling that he was yielding the floor. Deep drew a faint dashed line on the platform with his index finger a line perpendicular to the river and cutting the island in half. Then he said: "If I now separate the two halves, we have two very familiar pictures: A river splitting into two, and two rivers joining to form one river. So you can combine two everyday concepts to find something completely new: The island. The spiritual man has found the island and circumnavigated it."

As Deep was speaking, hunched down on the diagram on the floor, and the sadhu was also looking at the diagram, Sayan was observing the sadhu's face intently. He thought he saw a reaction a very faint one like that of person who was suddenly searching his own memory upon hearing something. Then he saw the sadhu look at Deep with look of great amazement and great admiration.

After this, the brothers gradually brought the conversation to a smooth conclusion. They promised they would look up the sadhu the next time they were in Badarpur Station. As they parted most cordially, Sayan noticed that the sadhu continued to look at his brother with intense curiosity evident in his kindly eyes, now shining brightly in the soft, waning light of the late afternoon. As he saw Sayan looking back at him, the sadhu raised his right hand in blessing and said: "Kolyan Ho!"

The car had not yet arrived for them. But this gave the brothers the privacy to discuss the further course of events. First, Deep asked: "You think?"

"Deep, I have trouble with that question if we look at it emotionally or sentimentally. But the only real issue here is that one person who had every right and reason to be here is missing. Agreed?"

At the Shom household, the troika was sitting at the stoop, waiting for them. Sayan told them that before they went into the house, they needed to have a quick conference. The five then went into the orchard in the grounds of the house. Sayan laid out his plan.

"Alak, we would like to come back next Saturday and spend the night at your place. Even though I am off, Deep has class until noon. We will take the next train and arrive in Bardpur Station about 4:30 pm. We will then meet with the sadhu, hoping he will be there. If not, we will go to his place on some excuse and meet him.

"Now, I want you boys to find out where he lives. This should not be difficult. You may follow him home discreetly; you may ask around; or you may ask a friend that the sadhu has not seen before to follow him closely home.

"After we have met with the sadhu, we will walk to your place. Do not come to the station for us. Also, when we say we will spend the night, what we really mean is that this will be a night of vigil. You must work out a plan how we can sneak out at night. Is all this doable?"

As they spoke and walked round the house, the Bagchi brothers noticed three in-ground plant enclosures made of circular red-brick wall, and filled in with soil. In each was planted a sapling about two feet tall. Sayan asked Alak about these. "These are the three banyans of the Ashwatha variety," said Alak. "Anjoli-mashi had them planted. She had the three plants placed just so the trees when fully grown will make the house cool and shady, but not dark. And she thinks this house will one day come to be known as the House of Three Banyans!" Upon this, Sayan made an aside remark to Deep: "The number Three again."

Bagchi brothers were accorded a most warm welcome, accompanied by elaborate afternoon tea and snacks. The entire regular "story circle" had turned up. As all sat in the living room with Mr. and Mrs. Shom, there entered through the door a young woman who was so beautiful that she seemed almost unreal: a vision or an apparition. Even as she was entering the room, she looked at Sayan and Deep and smiled easily, saying: "Ah, Sunset and Evening Star!"

The brothers had been addressed thus before, with that first line of Tennyson's poem Crossing the Bar. For, Sayantan meant the sunset hour and Sayandeep meant the votive evening lamp. They now felt that the great beauty was matched by unusual refinement. As she addressed them, they instinctively rose from the sofa. At that, the apparition looked at her sister, Mrs. Shom, and spoke in a deeply resonant, rich voice: "Didi, such well-behaved young men! Now I know why Alak raves so much about the Bagchi brothers."

Anjoli-mashi sat down at the double sofa, and, as if by force of habit, Urmi, Urvi and Mila moved to sit at her feet on the floor, touching her legs. Deep tried hard to call from memory something about a mother and three babies.

Sayan was at an age to be smitten, even by someone older than him. As if to allow him time to recover his speech, Deep started an easy dialogue with Anjoli-mashi. The subject ranged widely from the newest detective books, to the Big Top circus coming to Silchar. Eventually, Sayan joined in, somewhat awkward of speech. But he regained his composure when little Urmi piped up: "Sayan-da, please tell us a story. You must tell us a story. We haven't heard a story since Shujon-kaka, our storyteller, left us and never came back. He never even said Goodbye. And we thought he liked us!"

Sayan saw here the chance of accomplishing that which he wanted to accomplish, but thus far had no idea how. So he rose to the occasion: "Well Urmi, I am not much of a storyteller. But I can do better for you. I can wave my magic wand and bring your storyteller back."

"Actually, I left my magic wand in Silchar. So you'll have to wait until I come back next Saturday. But there is a small problem. I just heard your Shujon-kaka whisper in my ear a question: 'What do I have to look forward to if I come back?' Well, does he have something to look forward to?"

As the two brothers were getting to the car, the whole group came out to say goodbye. In the great confusion of everyone trying to say goodbye to the two brothers, Anjoli-Mashi managed to get right close to Sayan. As he felt her sweet, warm breath on his face, she whispered in his ear: "What Urmi said goes for me as well."

It was getting dark as the car raced towards Silchar. The two brothers usually spoke freely in presence of the driver because they trusted him, and because he did not seem to have any interest in what they said unless it concerned sports. In the dark that was now gathering within the car, Sayan turned to his younger brother and said, almost as though he were thinking out loud: "You probably sensed that I was a little awkward. I know you will tease me, saying I am smitten. But that is not it. When I looked into the eyes of Anjoli-mashi, I thought I saw far places. I thought I saw at different times green forests, mist rivers, moon mountains and vast ice flats. I know this is a product of overactive imagination, but that is what I think I saw."

Deep spoke slowly, his voice too was disengaged. He was not speaking, but expressing feelings. "Dada, if you go Ochin Thakur's way, then you know what you saw is real. Only, I think that it is not that you saw something. It is rather that you were shown something. The Far showed itself to you."

At around 4:30 pm, the brothers alit at Badarpur Junction. Immediately, they looked at the bench at the far end of the platform, and saw that it was empty. They looked up and down the platform, and also at the far platforms, but there was no sign of the sadhu. No matter. He probably would be late today. The brothers decided to have samosa and tea, and bide time this way. From where they stood, they could keep an eye on the bench. As luck would have it, after only a few minutes, they saw the sadhu enter the platform and proceed to the bench. The brothers did not want to let on that they had been waiting for the sadhu. So they killed some more time at the Bookstore, and then walked towards the bench.

The brothers touched his feet and sat down. Sayan began: "Maharaj, this time we came to see our aunt who lives in Badarpur and is about to be married off. So we thought as long as we were here we would come around and pay you a visit."

"Well, not quite yet. It is a little complicated. You see, my aunt Anjoli-mashi was deeply in love with a person whom she thought she could not marry because of unequal social standing. The man is fishmonger. But her inability to accept him caused the man deep agony, and finally he upped and left. Just disappeared, and never came back. My aunt was heartbroken. But eventually, only to save her family great distress, she agreed to consider an arranged marriage. There is already a prospective groom lined up, and the deal will be finalized on Monday. After that, there is no looking back. She will have given herself to another man, even if most reluctantly and even if only in body. We love our aunt very much, and we wanted to be near her at this difficult juncture."

As Sayan spoke, Deep kept a close watch on the sadhu's face. But he could not see any reaction. Then the sadhu smiled and showed them the palm of his right hand. "Haath ki rekhayen you cannot go against these scrolls. Whatever is written here is what will happen."

Deep took up the conversation. "We were just saying among ourselves that even if Shujon Majhi, the fishmonger who calls himself the Rower of Three Rivers, turns up tomorrow, the wedding can still be staved off. But there is no chance of that happening at all. We have no way of contacting him. Right at this moment, he could be up on the Himalayas or down in the Sahara desert, for all we know."

"Ah, but there is a problem here. You do not know that even if he turned up, your aunt will shake of the insurmountable strictures of the society and accept him with open arms in public, do you? Just think: A high-born woman of high refinement, and a lowly fishmonger! How the tongues will wag!"

The brothers quickly looked at each other, trying to decide who should speak. Sayan gave a nod, and Deep spoke: "That's the very point Anjoli-mashi raised with us, in confidence. She said: If he does come back again, I will embrace him in public, society or no society."

The sadhu seemed deep in thought. At length, the brothers got up to take leave, Sayan saying: "Goodbye for now, Maharaj."

The sadhu looked at them with most sad eyes: "You mean Goodbye for eternity, don't you?"

"No, it is the right thing what you do. Now is time for twilight and evening bells. Kolyan ho!"

From the station to the Shom house was about a kilometer. The Bagchi brothers looked forward to this interesting walk along the crowded, shop-lined streets and banyan-shaded lanes, to a warm reception they knew waited at the end. They used this time to discuss what just went on. First, Sayan asked: "Do you think we have been able to set things in motion?"

"There was nothing we told the sadhu that could have led him to conclude that Anjoli-mashi was . To me, that gave away that he was engaged with us at the deeper level of conversation."

"My thinking exactly. And one more thing. I do not know why that Tennyson poem keeps popping up, you know, Crossing the bar. Tanafriti of ancient Egypt mentioned sunset and evening star, but that might have nothing to do with the poem. Anjoli-mashi referred to us as such, which was to do with the poem. And when the sadhu spoke of twilight and evening bell. I remembered this stanza from that poem:

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

The strange thing about this, though, is that that poem cannot be more than about fifty years old."

"I see. Well, 'twilight and evening bell' is a most natural combination to think of. So may be this too is just a coincidence. But even as all things are falling in place, there is one point that continues to puzzle me. If this is such a great story of love, why did Shujon Majhi disappear when he knew that things were looking up between him and Anjoli-mashi?"

"Ulysses," said Sayan cryptically. Then he related the conversation he had with Kalo-da the Librarian.

The troika was sitting on the stoop. They walked forward to meet the brothers. Prosenjit lost no time in reporting that they had found the sadhu's lodgings. "There is something of an abandoned temple complex in Haritikar. It still has some rooms that are livable, and itinerant ascetics do sometimes live there. That is where the sadhu has taken up his lodgings. He takes the bus back and forth between Haritikar and Badarpur, and that explains the punctuality of his turning up at the station."

"Describe the place as well as you can," said Sayan, "giving us the lay of the land, as it were."

"Well, the temple is right on the river. It backs into a ghat, a set of rustic stairs that descend into the river. A small dinghy is kept tied there. In front of the temple is a paved courtyard, and on either side of this courtyard is a row of rooms. These are the lodgings I spoke of. The entire complex is within a wooded area, and not visible from the main highway."

"Not to worry. I said that the five of us wanted to appreciate the beauty of the river at night. These being warm nights, we have arranged for all of us to have a slumber party at the roof terrace. So, as soon as the little brats have gone to bed, no one will be watching us. We can leave whenever we want and come back whenever we want."

Presently Urmi and the gang turned up to see the magic wand. Sayan explained: "Of course you cannot see it! That's why it is called a magic wand. But wait and see what happens."

The whole group now went into the house and found the afternoon tea ready, with a wide variety of snacks, served personally by Anljoli-mashi. She was dressed in a simple cotton sari, with its spare end tied around her waist, maid-like. That somehow made her look even more attractive, even more refined. As she handed Sayan his own plate of homemade samosas and pakoras with tamarind sauce and chili paste, she asked: "So will you be gallantly waving your magic wand tonight, Sayantan?"

Sayan was glad of being showered with so many words at one time by the goddess, and also of being addressed so endearingly by his full name. He managed these words: "My wand. Your magic."

There was now ample time before the call to dinner. So, the five boys went on to the roof terrace, upon managing to give Urmi and the gang the slip. The troika had been dying of curiosity as to what game was afoot later that night. So now they asked straight out. Deep took the question.

"The science teacher was right. There are no tests you can give to the sadhu to determine who or what he is. You have already confirmed that by reasoning among yourselves. But when all tests have been considered and dismissed, there still remains one final test. It is what is called in our chemistry lab a destructive test. That is, you can find out what a piece of material is, but in the process of finding out you destroy it.

"In this case, you suspect that something has happened, but you have no way of proving that it has happened. So, we will make it unhappen, and observe it as it unhappens."

Out of a speechless troika, it was Prosenjit who first managed to speak: "You mean.?"

"That's right. We will try to exchange the sadhu for Shujon Majhi. How will we do it? Well, we have set certain things in motion, and we are hoping that this transference will occur tonight. That is why we will go to the old temple after dinner, and keep watch."

When Deep finished, Sayan took up the thread: "Now of course, we should consider if it is right to try to do this. It is not a crime in any sense, and it does not come under any prescriptions of right-and-wrong. Still, we feel a certain sense of sadness in making the sadhu depart. But in the end, we figure that this is Shujon Majhi's time, and so he is the one who should be here. That is, if all our assumptions are correct and what we think will happen does happen. If not, then no harm done. Nothing will happen tonight. This whole matter will then have to be shelved."

The call to dinner came. Deep told the troika to go on ahead, and that they would be along in a minute. Then he asked Sayan: "Dada, about the vigil at the temple. Remember what the Imam said? Phenomena such as this might not be allowed to be witnessed by a collective of people. It would be a one-man experience, and it will then become a matter of one man's belief. Nothing will be provable to the outside world."

"Yes, I was thinking about that. If this were true, then who should that one man be?"

It was about 11 pm when they arrived at the temple. The temple sat in the woods. The moon was high and nearly full, but because of the spreading trees, the ground was an eerie patchwork of light and shade. But the visibility on the river's surface was excellent. They made a complete circle around the temple, taking in the lay of the land. They saw the ghat behind the temple where a tethered dinghy was rocking in the river. The five now stood facing the courtyard, but keeping themselves behind some trees so as not to be seen by anyone. The temple was at the far end of the courtyard, and on either side of the courtyard was a long shed with several rooms. So they were looking into a U-shaped complex.

Sayan had a canvas tote bag hanging from a strap around his left shoulder. From it he first took out several plastic toy whistles and gave one to each person. Then he took out a pair of binoculars and handed it to Alak, saying: "We borrowed it from a neighbor. Please be very careful with it. Use it to watch the river. Here, I will show you how to focus it."

Now they huddled and Sayan spoke in whisper: "We will now spread out and take our positions so as to give full visual coverage for all possible ways out from the temple grounds. I see a candle light in one of the rooms. That is probably where the sadhu lives. Now, you will maintain your positions until and unless you see something. If you see something, keep continuous watch. Follow along if you have to, keeping a discreet distance. If you perceive yourself in any danger, blow the whistle and keep blowing it. We will all converge on your location. Otherwise stay put until I blow my whistle three times. Then the vigil is over. Come back and we will meet right here were we are standing now. But this may be several hours.

"Now, as to your posts. Tazamil and Deep, you will cover the front side from here. Spread out so each of you has one-half of the frontage to watch. Prosenjit and I will stand behind the two living quarters. Alak will be behind the temple, near the ghat. This way, the whole perimeter is covered. Any questions?"

The night progressed as the moon rose higher. The shadows in the patchwork on the ground deepened while the lighted portions became lighter. A variety of night sounds seemed to come from all directions. Alone, each person now had to keep his own company and draw his own strength from within himself. For it was necessary to draw strength. All the elements of a dark and foreboding mystery were here. And a slight chill in the air that was growing could give one the shivers. Thankfully, perhaps because of the breeze from the river, there were no mosquitoes or other pesky insects.

Sayan was standing behind the long shed that had the room with the candlelight. He could see the faint light through a half-open window in the back of the room. After what seemed to be an interminable vigil, he looked at the radium-dial wristwatch he had borrowed from his father. It was just after twelve. Suddenly now, the candlelight was no more. Sayan became alert. Prosenjit, who also saw this, became alert. He realized that he was the only person who had a clear view of the front door of that room.

A small, white-clad figure emerged, and seemed to hesitate a moment at the door. The figure then turned towards the temple and continued to walk slowly towards it. Taking great care not to make any sounds, Prosenjit continued to reposition himself so he could keep the figure in view. It reached the temple and then bypassed it and proceeded towards the ghat. At this point, Prosenjit lost him. However, he knew that the figure would now emerge in the field of view of Alak. So he kept his position in case of further developments in his own purview.

Alak did indeed pick up the figure, from his hideout behind a tree trunk. He saw it emerge from the shade of the temple, look round, and then proceed towards the ghat. As the figure passed close to him, Alak held his breath. He now saw clearly it was the sadhu of the station platform. The sadhu stopped right there, and in that dim light, looked at the palm of his right hand, and said out loud: "Haath ki rekhayen." He then joined the palms of his two hands and brought them to the level of his forehead. Thus he did pronam to someone in the sky. After nearly a minute of holding this position, the sadhu walked down to the dinghy, untied it and started rowing.

Alak came out from behind the trunk and moved to where he had a clear view of the river. The sadhu was sailing towards the central point of the three rivers. The dinghy was moving fast, going downriver as it was. At the same time, there started rising a river mist. The dinghy soon became just a blur within the mist. But it was still visible. It seemed to stop at the central place. Then the mist engulfed it completely.

Alak debated what to do next. He remembered Sayan's advice to hold his position until he heard the whistle. He therefore sat on a stair of the ghat, with his eyes peeled to where the dinghy had disappeared. He hoped the mist would lift and he would see the dinghy again. He tested the binoculars by focusing it at the wedge of land between Surma and Kushiara.

Unfortunately, the mist only got worse. And keeping his eyes fixated on that place caused Alak to become drowsy. It was at any rate an hour of night when he would on any other night be deep asleep. Suddenly, he was brought to by a sound like the sound of a stone thrown into the water next to him. He became alert, and looked around to see if there was anybody pelting stone. There were none. He now saw that mist had lifted completely, and the view of the river was crisp and clear. The dinghy was there, with the boatman in view. He trained the binoculars. The dinghy was rowing towards the wedge of land between Surma and Kushiara. It docked there. Alak now saw an unmistakable, tall athletic figure get off the dinghy, tie it up and walk into the forest. It was Shujon Majhi.

Tazamil had finally sat down, resting his back against a tree. He was fast asleep when what seemed like the fluttering of a bird in the trees woke him up. He stood up and stretched. He walked near the river and surveyed it. He saw a dingy tied at the wedge. He did not recall having seen it there before. Then he saw a light in the forest, a short distance inland from the dinghy.

At 3 am, Sayan blew his whistle and called an end. Prosenjit reported what he saw, and Tazamil reported the dinghy at the wedge, and the light in the forest. Sayan reported he saw the candle go out and Deep said he did not see anything. Alak reported he did not see anything either, the whole time. However, at some point during his watch, the dinghy disappeared. He must have dozed off when it happened. As they headed home, he whispered in Sayan's ear: "Thank you."

Even at 8 am, the boys were fast asleep on the roof terrace. Mrs. Shom asked Urmi and Urvi not to disturb them, as they were out late the previous night. Shortly after eight, Sayan, and then, gradually, the others were awakened by a commotion at the front door of the house. They came over to the edge of the roof and looked down. There was standing at the door Shujon Majhi, and the children were happily crowding round him, holding his hand, screaming with joy: "Shujon-kaka has returned! Everybody come out and see, Shujon-kaka has returned! The magic wand works!"

And then the boys saw a most unexpected sight. The ever-poised, ever-dignified Anjoli-mashi came out of the house Anjoli-mashi who had never even spoken a single word to Shujon Majhi and held the lowly fishmonger's hand and whispered something into his ear. As she did so, Shujon Majhi's face lit up like a thousand candles.

Deep replied: "Yes, but we are not leaving until Mashima serves us a huge breakfast."

In the event, the breakfast was a truly a huge affair, made festive by the return of Shujon Majhi. In addition to the luchis and fried eggplants and a dry potato curry, there were omelets, and cream of wheat cooked in milk into a savory sweet dish, with cashew nuts and raisins. The Bagchi b