Issuu

2019

Ananda Mandir’s Board of Trustees and Committees (2019-2020 ) Board of Trustees (BOT) Executive Committee Members President: Jai Prakash Biswas Vice Presidents: Suprasad Baidyaroy, Debajyoti Chatterji, and Ashok Rakhit General Secretary: Arun Bhowmik Treasurer: Chanu Das Assistant Treasurer: Pradip Majumdar Other BOT Members: Chhanda Aditya, Dhriti Bagchi, Jayadratha Bhowmick, Prabir Biswas, Indrani Dhar, Saurav Ghosh, Sanchoy Das, Sajal Mukherjee, Biswajyoti Nayak, Nilotpal Paul, Mitra Purkayastha, Anup Rakhit, Uma Roychowdhury, Dipak Sarkar, Rik Sen, Mita Sinha, Utpal Sengupta Priest: Biswajyoti Nayak Tagore Hall Manager: Surinder Singh

Other Committees and Subcommittees Award & Recognition Ashok Rakhit (Chair) Debajyoti Chatterji (Asst Chair) Subrata Bhaumik Susmita Biswas Guru Chakravarty Amitabha Bagchi Dipak Sarkar Jerry GaMarsh (Adjunct) Maintenance Prabir Biswas (Chair) Pradip Majumdar Chanu Das Arun Bhowmik Communication Jayadratha Bhowmick (Co-Chair) Saurav Ghosh (Co-Chair) Sanchoy Das Pradip Majumdar Nilotpal Paul Community Relations Utpal Sengupta (Chair) Prabir Biswas Constitution, Policies & Procedures Dipak Sarkar (Chair)

Kamalesh Sirkar Debajyoti Chatterji Pronoy Chatterjee Ashok Rakhit Construction Ashok Rakhit (Chair) Prabir Biswas (Asst Chair) Surya Dutta Arun Bhowmik Pradip Majumdar Cultural Activities Sajal Mukherjee (Chair) Arun Bhowmik Suranjan Choudhury Alo Nandy Mitra Purkayastha Utpal Sengupta Event and Rental Coordination Surya Dutta (Co-Chair) Utpal Sengupta (Co-Chair) Biswajyoti Nayak Major Events Coordination Surya Dutta (Chair) Chanu Das (Co-Chair) Saurav Ghosh (Asst Chair)

Food Arrangement Suprasad Baidyaroy (Co-Chair) Uma Roychowdhuri (Co-Chair) Suman Banerjee Tapati Bandopadhyay Prabal Biswas Shom Chatterjee Debol Gupta Shiv Kar Pradip Majumdar Surajit Mitra Prabal Mukherjee Santosh Mukherjee Anupom Saha Dipak Saha Ujjal Sanyal Ruby Sarkar Fund-Raising Debajyoti Chatterji (Co-Chair) Dipak Sarkar (Co-Chair) Krishna Bhattacharya Surya Dutta Krishna Dutta Roy Biswajyoti Nayak Ashok Rakhit Uma Roychowdhury

Humanitarian Activities Krishna Dutta Roy (Chair) Utpal Sengupta Literary Discussion Subrata Bhaumik (Chair) Amitabha Bagchi Membership Information Jayadratha Bhowmick (Chair) Saurav Ghosh Nilotpal Paul Anup Rakhit Donation Collection Bandana Rakhit (Chair) Suparna Biswas (Co-Chair) Kalyan Basu Bimal Biswas Sikha Chatterjee Indrani Dhar Purba Lahiri Mitra Purkayastha Anup Rakhit Dipak Sen

Supriyo Sen Puja & Religious Services Mita Sinha (Co-Chair) Biswajyoti Nayak (Co-Chair) Rik Sen (Asst-Chair) Chhanda Aditya Sharmista Banerjee Rita Bhowmik Susmita Biswas Lopa Das Nilanjana Das Soma Dutta Rina Ganguli Ambalika Mukherjee Sharbani Mukherjee Soma Rakhit Ranjana Sanyal Publication Debajyoti Chatterji (Chair) Subrata Bhaumik (Asst Chair) Amitabha Bagchi Guru Chakravarty Subhodev Das

Sushmita Dutta Nupur Lahiri Amrita Kangle Ruby Banerjea Strategic Planning Ashok Rakhit (Chair) Jai Prakash Biswas Debajyoti Chatterji Surya Dutta Dipak Sarkar Kamalesh Sirkar Youth Activity Dipak Sarkar (Chair) Evergreen Club Debajyoti Chatterji (Chair) Financial Analysis & Reporting Chanu Das (Co-Chair) Jayadratha Bhowmick (Co-Chair) Nilotpal Paul Pradip Majumdar Arun Sakar, CPA

Editorial Dear Readers of Anandalipi On behalf of the editorial board, I extend our heartiest Sharodiya greetings to you. Ananda Mandir continues to be a beacon of aspirations for the immigrant community in North America through its patronage of religious and cultural activities. Throughout the year, Ananda Mandir’s temple is used for community religious observances and private religious rites (annaprashan, marriage, etc.), while the Tagore Hall hosts cultural programs (music, drama, dance) and other events. In addition to these, Ananda Mandir promotes original and creative literary endeavors through its several publications, monthly discussion group meetings (Sahitya O Alochana), and the support of the annual Gayatri GaMarsh Memorial Award for Literary Excellence. On this occasion, we are pleased to bring to you this year’s edition of Anandalipi, the flagship literary magazine of Ananda Mandir, thus fulfilling our long tradition of its unbroken annual publication. In this issue, we have assembled an eclectic and attractive mix of life experiences, essays, short stories, belles-lettres and poems – in both Bengali and English – penned by authors in USA and abroad. The magazine also has a separate Youth Section with contributions from the second generation of our community. Our earnest hope is that you will enjoy reading the magazine as much as we have enjoyed compiling it. Finally, I take this opportunity to thank Amitabha Bagchi, Anandalipi’s outgoing Managing Editor and a past President of Ananda Mandir, for his stewardship of the magazine over many years. His guidance and mentorship have been very valuable to me during the transition at the helm of Anandalipi. Subhodev Das Executive Editor

President’s Message Dear Members of Ananda Mandir Season’s Greetings to you for Sharadotsav – the time of the Bengali calendar for the most joyous of all festivities, celebrating the worship of our principal Mother Goddesses, Ma Durga and Ma Kali. It is indeed a privilege to write to you as the new President of Ananda Mandir. As an organization, we are extremely happy to have succeeded in realizing the long-held dream of the New Jersey immigrant Bengali community – namely, the building of a Bengali Temple as well as a Heritage Center which we have named Tagore Hall. It took us several decades to reach the stage where we are today. My sincere and heartfelt gratitude to all our Founders and Life Members who helped us attain this goal with generous donations along with manifold services. The President’s message in last year’s Anandalipi spoke of the financial challenges the organization was facing. To recap, Ananda Mandir reached its construction goal by borrowing $3.5 million in construction loan from a bank, and additionally raising close to $1.5 million over four years from the community. Once the construction loan was converted into a 20-year adjustable-rate mortgage, Ananda Mandir had a debt-service commitment of nearly $23,000 every month in mortgage loan payment alone To face this challenge, the core financial team of the Board of Trustees (BOT) developed plans to ensure long-term financial stability and organizational growth. I am happy to report that a key part of that financial plan has been executed: 31 member families have come together to lend money to Ananda Mandir to pay off the bank loan, thus converting the 20-year mortgage of $3.5 million at 5-year ARM of ~6% interest into a member supported loan bearing 2% interest. These short-term loans would reduce the total interest payment of Ananda Mandir by over $2.0 million and result in a debt-free status for us by 2027. We are immensely thankful to this group of members for their faith in us and support in a time of need. The other notable success of Ananda Mandir last year was organizing the North American Bengali Conference in Atlantic City, NJ. It turned out to be a well-planned and well-managed event that resulted in a surplus of funds – helping our bottom line and belying the concerns and misgivings of many. An urgent need we now have is to grow our membership as well as the volunteer workforce. We encourage you to invite your friends and relatives to join Ananda Mandir as Life Members. We also strongly urge members of the Bengali community to make greater use of Tagore Hall for special events like wedding receptions, anniversary parties, and so on. We plan to continue with our current roster of activities and start new ones that would appeal to our members. Our present activities include monthly meetings of Seniors forum (Evergreen Club), literary-cum-discussion enthusiasts (Sahitya ‘O’ Alochona), and Youth magazine group (Kisholoy). We hold regular language and dance classes and, periodically, musical events and drama productions. The temple is functioning well, and the priest’s services are in constant demand. Ananda Mandir also publishes a quarterly community newsletter and this annual literary magazine. We are proud of our accomplishments to date and feel confident that, with your help and support, Ananda Mandir will continue to grow for all Bengalis in the tri-state area and become a recognized Center for spreading knowledge about our rich cultural heritage for generations to come. Thank you. Jai Prakash Biswas President, Ananda Mandir

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English Section The Gift p Sreya Sarkar C˛ 101 Night Shift p Debashis Roy Chowdhury C˛ 105 The Bone Collector p Aryani Banerjee C˛ 107 The Parrot p Bakul Banerjee C˛ 112 At the Bus Stop p Debu Majumdar C˛ 116 Noorjahan p Anita Sharif-Hyder C˛ 118 Cynthia p Basab Dasgupta C˛ 120 Shards of Memory: Apartment Search p Benoy R. Samanta C˛ 124 The Color of Wheat p Tilottama Bose C˛ 128 Memorable Maitreyi Devi p Mandira Chattopadhyay C˛ 130 The Intriguing case of the Bhawal Sannyasi p Jayashree Chatterjee C˛ 133 Evolution of Islam in Pre-modern Eastern Bengal p Mosleh Ahmad C˛ 137 VS Naipaul’s Legacy is Complex – But His Writing Must be Celebrated p Amit Chaudhuri C˛ 142

Poem C 144-147 Ebb and Flow p Vishnupriya The Wildest Rose p Maharshi Bhattacharya Celebration p Fariza Hasan Night Flight p Indrani Mondal Just Hanging Out p Sucharita Bhattacharyya Of Silence and Infinity p Aparna Ganguli For the last time, I see you… p Chitra Mondal Blue Singers p Bakul Banerjee

Youth Corner Manakamana p Aaryana Rajanala C 150 Unfolding Lives p Anuraag Sarkar C 153 Best Friends Forever p Annesha Ghosh C 155 Perception: In the Present Tense p Swayamshuvra Chakraborty C 157

Poem C 159 Still You p Aratrika Dey Family Tree p Eeshan Saha

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“I found someone that I care deeply about, and I’m in a relationship that is completely fulfilling. We have decided to get married next month. James and I would really appreciate your presence in our holy union”

â˛õˆÏÑ˛ v˛zˆÏ‡˛!äÈú î%ÛãˆÏò ˆäÈˆÏúÓ˚ ~£z !¢k˛yˆÏhs˛– ≤ÃÌˆÏõ Ñ˛# ãÓyÓ ˆîˆÏÓ ¶˛yÓˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚!ò Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yÈÙÙÙÈ ïyE˛y›˛y ¢yõ!úˆÏÎ˚ !òˆÏì˛ ≤ÃyÎ˚ ~Ñ˛ ¢Æy£ ˆúˆÏÜ!äÈú ÁÓ˚– ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy!îò ﬂ˛∫ˆÏ≤¿Á ¶˛yˆÏÓ!ò xyÓ˚ Ó%G˛ˆÏì˛Á ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚!ò ˆÎ ~Ñ˛!›˛ ˆäÈˆÏú £ˆÏÓ ˛ôˆÏúÓ˚ ã#Óò¢D#– ì˛ˆÏÓ ˛ôúÁ Ó%G˛ˆÏì˛ ˆîÎ˚!ò– ú%!Ñ˛ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÓ˚ˆÏÖ!äÈú !òˆÏãˆÏÑ˛– xÓüƒ !ÓˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ Ñ˛Ìy ì%˛úˆÏú£z ~!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÎì˛– ¢%îü≈òñ ˆõïyÓ# ˆäÈˆÏúñ ¶˛#°Ïí¶˛yˆÏÓ ≤Ã!ì˛!¤˛ì˛ñ ¶˛o ò¡ÀÈÙÙÙÈ ~Ñ˛ Ñ˛ÌyÎ˚ Óúy ˆÎˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ perfect son! Ó˚yˆÏÜ ˆö˛ˆÏ›˛ ˛ôˆÏv˛¸!äÈú ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yüÈÙÙÙÈ

ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ˆäÈˆÏú Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~›˛y Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚⁄ ì˛yÓ˚ !Ñ˛ ÓyÓyÈÙÈõyÓ˚ ≤Ã!ì˛ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy Ñ˛ì≈˛Óƒ ˆò£z⁄ ¢õyˆÏãÓ˚ ¢yõˆÏò õ%Ö ˆîÖyˆÏÓy Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚⁄ õ%ˆÏÖ â%˛òÈÙÈÑ˛y!ú õy!ÖˆÏÎ˚ !îú– ˆîˆÏü Ñ˛# ÓúˆÏÓy⁄ õy ~ÖˆÏòy ˆÓ§ˆÏâ˛ xyˆÏäÈòñ v˛z!ò ˆì˛y ÷ˆÏò£z £y›≈˛ˆÏö˛ú Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓò– xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ ˛ô!Ó˚ÓyˆÏÓ˚ ~›˛y â˛ˆÏú òy– Ñ˛# ˆäÈˆÏú õyò%°Ï Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈy ì%˛!õ⁄ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy!îò ˆÖÎ˚yú Ó˚yˆÏÖy!ò⁄ ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü £yãyÓ˚›˛y ≤ÃŸ¿ ì%˛ˆÏú ïˆÏÓ˚!äÈú ¢yõˆÏòÈÙÙÙÈ !Ñ˛ls˛ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy n

ãÓyÓ !äÈú òy– ˆîy°Ï›˛y ˆÎò ì˛yÓ˚£zÈÙÙÙÈ ¢Ó£z !Ñ˛ õyÓ˚ îy!Î˚c⁄ Á ≤Ã!ì˛Óyî Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ v˛zˆÏ‡˛!äÈú... ÈÙÙÙÈ¢§y£z!eü ÓäÈˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ Ó%!k˛õyò ˆäÈˆÏúñ ˆ¢ ãyˆÏò ˆ¢ Ñ˛# Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏäÈ– ~ ˆäÈyˆÏ›˛y ˛ôúyü òÎ˚ñ ¶%˛ˆÏú ˆÎÁ òy– ˆõˆÏò xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ !òˆÏì˛£z £ˆÏÓ– ~›˛y ÁÓ˚ ã#Óòñ ÁÓ˚ ¶˛yˆÏúyÓy¢yÈÙÙÙÈ xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ î§yv˛¸yˆÏì˛ £ˆÏÓ ÁÓ˚ ˛ôyˆÏü– ~›˛y ÓyÓyÈÙÈõyÓ˚ Ñ˛ì≈˛Óƒ– Á£z Ñ˛Ìy›˛y ˆüyòyÓ˚ ˛ôÓ˚ ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü ˆâ•˛!â˛ˆÏÎ˚ v˛zˆÏ‡˛!äÈúÈÙÙÙÈ Ñ˛ì≈˛Óƒ⁄ Are you siding

with him?

Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y üyhs˛¶˛yˆÏÓ ÓˆÏú!äÈúÈÙÙÙÈ !òÿ˛Î˚£z– ~ÓÇ ì˛yÓ˚˛ôÓ˚ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛£z fl˛∫yõ#ÈÙÈfl˛f#Ó˚ õˆÏïƒ ≤Ãâ˛[˛ xüy!hs˛ xyÓ˚Ω˛ £Î˚– ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü ˆÓ˚yã£z v˛zˆÏŒ›˛y˛ôyŒ›˛y Ñ˛Ìy ÓúˆÏì˛ ÌyˆÏÑ˛– Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈÁ ~›˛y ~Ñ˛›˛y ¢yÓ˚≤Ãy£zã !äÈú– !Ñ˛ls˛ Á !Ñ˛ä%ÈˆÏì˛£z ˆõˆÏò !òˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ òy ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yˆÏüÓ˚ x!¶˛Î%!_´›˛y ˆÎ ˛ôú ö˛ƒy!õ!úˆÏÑ˛ Ñ˛‹T ˆîˆÏÓ ÓˆÏú £zFäÈy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~›˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ– ~£z !ã!ò¢›˛y õyò%ˆÏ°Ï £zFäÈy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ òy– It is not a choice, it’s a natural thingÈÙÙÙÈ ˆ¢›˛yÁ ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yüˆÏÑ˛ !Ñ˛ä%ÈˆÏì˛£z ˆÓyG˛yˆÏì˛ ˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏúy òy– xyˆÏÓ˚y Ñ˛‹T ˆ˛ôˆÏÎ˚!äÈú ~ÓÇ xÓyÑ˛ £ˆÏÎ˚!äÈú ˆãˆÏòñ ÎÖò ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü ÓˆÏúÈÙÙÙÈ !ÓˆÏÎ˚ òy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚£z ˆì˛y ÌyÑ˛ˆÏì˛ ˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏì˛yñ xˆÏòˆÏÑ˛£z ˆì˛y !ÓˆÏÎ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ òy– xyõyˆÏîÓ˚ ì˛y£ˆÏú Ñ˛yv˛zˆÏÑ˛ !Ñ˛ä%È ÓúˆÏì˛ £ì˛ òy– ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy ≤ÃŸ¿ v˛z‡˛ˆÏì˛y òy– ~ ˆÑ˛õò ÓyÓyÈÙÙÙÈ !òˆÏãÓ˚ fl˛∫yˆÏÌ≈ ˆäÈˆÏúÓ˚ ¢%ÖˆÏÑ˛ !Ó¢ã≈ò !îˆÏì˛ ÓˆÏú⁄ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y hfl˛!Ω˛ì˛ £ˆÏÎ˚!äÈú ÷ˆÏò– ˆ˛ôüyÎ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏúˆÏãÓ˚ !ü!«˛Ñ˛y ˆ¢ÈÙÙÙÈ ì˛yÓ˚ äÈyeäÈye#Ó˚ õˆÏïƒÁ ~Ó˚Ñ˛õ ¶˛yˆÏúyÓy¢y ˆîˆÏÖˆÏäÈ– ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy!îò !Óâ˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!òñ ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ xòƒ ˆâ˛yˆÏÖ ˆîˆÏÖ!ò– Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y ¶˛yÓˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚ òyÈÙÙÙÈ õyò%ˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ õò Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~ˆÏì˛y ¢ÇÑ˛#í≈ £Î˚– !ÓˆÏü°Ï Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ÎyÓ˚ ¢yˆÏÌ ˆ¢ â˛!Õ‘ü ÓäÈÓ˚ ¢Ç¢yÓ˚ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ ÙÙÙÈ ì˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ xyã ¢õyãÈÙÈ¢!õ!ì˛ñ xyd#Î˚ÈÙÈfl˛∫ãòñ K˛y!ì˛ÈÙÈ=!‹Tñ ïõ≈ÈÙÈõ!®Ó˚ ¢Ó ÓˆÏv˛¸y £ˆÏÎ˚ î§yv˛¸yˆÏúy xyÓ˚ ˆäÈˆÏú ˛ôÓ˚ £ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÜú– ˆÎ ˆäÈˆÏúˆÏÑ˛ !òˆÏÎ˚ ÓyÓyÓ˚ ~ì˛ ÜÓ≈ !äÈú xyÓ˚ xyã ˆ¢ ~Ñ˛›˛y !¶˛ß¨ !¢k˛yhs˛ ˆòÁÎ˚yÓ˚ ãòƒ ˆÎò !òˆÏâ˛ ˆòˆÏõ ˆÜú– xyã î%Ûõy¢ ïˆÏÓ˚ ÓyÓy xyÓ˚ ˆäÈˆÏúÓ˚ õˆÏïƒ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy Ñ˛ÌyÓyì≈˛y ˆò£z– ÓÓ˚yÓÓ˚£z ~Ñ˛›˛y î)Ó˚c !äÈúÈÙÙÙÈ ~Öò ˆÎò ÓƒÓïyò›˛y xyˆÏÓ˚y ˆÓˆÏv˛¸ ˆÜú– £z!ì˛õˆÏïƒ ˛ôú ~Ó˚ ¢yˆÏÌ Óy!¢hs˛Ñ˛yÓ˚ xˆÏòÑ˛ÓyÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy £ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ ÙÙÙÈ

≤Ã!ì˛ÓyÓ˚£z ÁÓ˚y î%ÛãˆÏò ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yˆÏüÓ˚ Ñ˛Ìy ~!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ ˆÜˆÏäÈ– ˛ôú ¶˛yˆÏúy¶˛yˆÏÓ ãyòˆÏì˛y ÁÓ˚ ÓyÓy ~›˛y ˆõˆÏò ˆòˆÏÓ òyÈÙÙÙÈ õy xy¢ˆÏÓ ˆãˆÏò Á Ö%Ó Ö%!ü– ~›˛yÁ ãyòyˆÏúy ˆÎ ÁˆÏîÓ˚ î%ÛãˆÏòÓ˚ !ÓˆÏÎ˚ Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy !‡˛Ñ˛ !äÈú òyÈÙÙÙÈ !Ñ˛ls˛ ÓyFâ˛y xƒyv˛˛ôüˆÏòÓ˚ ãòƒ ÁÓ˚y !ÓˆÏÎ˚ Ñ˛Ó˚yÓ˚ !¢k˛yhs˛ !òˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ– £z!u˛Î˚y xyÓ˚ !ö˛!ú˛ôy£zò¢ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ÁÓ˚y î%ˆÏ›˛y ÓyFâ˛y xƒyv˛≤Wz Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓ– ˆãõˆÏ¢Ó˚ ÓyÓyÈÙÈõy î%ÛãˆÏò£z Ö%Ó v˛zFâ˛!ü!«˛ì˛ ~ÓÇ ì˛yÓ˚y !ö˛!ú˛ôy£zò¢ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ £z!õˆÏ@˘Ã›˛ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ Ó˝ ÓäÈÓ˚ xyˆÏÜ– Ö%Ó !õ÷ˆÏÑ˛ ˛ô!Ó˚ÓyÓ˚ÈÙÙÙÈ ì˛yˆÏîÓ˚ ¢yˆÏÌ ˆö˛yˆÏò Ñ˛Ìy ÓˆÏú Ö%Ó ¶˛yˆÏúy ˆúˆÏÜ!äÈú Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yÓ˚– ˆãõ¢ ~Ñ˛ãò v˛y_´yÓ˚– ˛ôˆÏúÓ˚ õˆÏì˛y

!Ñ˛ls˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚!ò... xyã î%Û£yì˛ ¶˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˆäÈˆÏúˆÏÑ˛ xyü#Ó≈yî Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ Óy!v˛¸ !ö˛Ó˚ˆÏäÈ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y– ~Ñ˛ ¢ÆyˆÏ£Ó˚ Á˛ôÓ˚ ¢yòö˛y!™¢ˆÏÑ˛yˆÏì˛ !äÈú ˛ôˆÏúÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ– ¢õhfl˛ !ÓˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ ÓƒÓfl˛iy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈú ˆãõˆÏ¢Ó˚ ö˛ƒy!õ!ú– !ö˛!ú˛ôy£zò¢ ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ÁÓ˚ ‡˛yÑ%˛õy ~ˆÏ¢!äÈú !ÓˆÏÎ˚ˆÏì˛– ÁÓ˚y ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü xyˆÏ¢!ò ˆ¢›˛y !òˆÏÎ˚ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy Ñ˛Ìy£z ˆì˛yˆÏú!ò ~ÓÇ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yˆÏÑ˛ !òˆÏãˆÏîÓ˚ ˛ô!Ó˚ÓyˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ ~Ñ˛ãò ÓˆÏú ïˆÏÓ˚ !òˆÏÎ˚äÈú– ˛ôú xyÓ˚ ˆãõ¢ˆÏÑ˛ Ö%Ó Ö%!ü ˆîÖy!FäÈúÊ Ö%Ó ¢%®Ó˚ xò%¤˛yˆÏòÓ˚ ÓƒÓfl˛iy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈú ˆãõˆÏ¢Ó˚ ö˛ƒy!õ!ú– ~Î˚yÓ˚ˆÏ˛ôyˆÏ›≈˛ äÈyv˛¸yÓ˚ ¢õÎ˚ ˛ôúyü äÈúäÈú ˆâ˛yˆÏÖ ≤ÃŸ¿ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈúÈÙÙÙÈ ÈÙÙÙÈõyñ ì%˛!õ !Ñ˛ xyõyÓ˚ ãòƒ ÓyÓyˆÏÑ˛ ˆäÈˆÏv˛¸ ÎyFäÈ⁄

ˆãõ¢Á xy£z!¶˛ !úÜ Ñ˛ˆÏúˆÏã ˛ôv˛¸yˆÏüyòy Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ– Ö%Ó ¢%®Ó˚ ò¡À Ñ˛ÌyÓyì≈˛y– ˆãõ¢ xyÓ˚ ì˛yÓ˚ ö˛ƒy!õ!úÓ˚ ¢¡∫ˆÏı˛ ¢Ó ãyòyÓ˚ ˛ôÓ˚Á ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü ì˛yÓ˚ õì˛ ˛ôyŒ›˛yÎ˚!ò– ì˛yÓ˚ ˆÜ§yv˛¸y!õˆÏÑ˛ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y ¶˛yàˆÏì˛ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚!òñ xyˆÏÜÁ ˛ôyˆÏÓ˚!ò xyÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy!îò ¶˛yàˆÏì˛Á ˛ôyÓ˚ˆÏÓ òy– ÷ï% ì˛y£z òÎ˚ ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü !Ó!¶˛ß¨¶˛yˆÏÓ ˆâ˛‹Ty Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚!äÈú ÁˆÏÑ˛ xy›˛Ñ˛yÓyÓ˚–

Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛y ÓˆÏú!äÈúÈÙÙÙÈ òyñ ˆì˛yÓ˚ ãòƒ òÎ˚ ˆ¢yòy– xˆÏòÑ˛ÓyÓ˚ ˆ¶˛ˆÏÓ!äÈ !Ñ˛ls˛ xyˆÏÜ ¢y£¢ £Î˚!ò– xyã ˆì˛yÓ˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ !üÖúyõ Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ õyÌy v˛z§â%˛ Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ î§yv˛¸yˆÏì˛ £Î˚... you

gave me the courage, my boy!

xyãˆÏÑ˛ Óy¢!hs˛Ñ˛yÓ˚ ¶˛#°Ïí ﬂ˛∫yï#ò úyÜˆÏäÈ– ˆÜ§yv˛¸y ¢%≤ÃÑ˛yü úy!£v˛¸# ãyˆÏò òy xyÓ˚ ~Ñ˛›˛y ÓˆÏv˛¸y ¢yÓ˚≤Ãy£zã ì˛yÓ˚ ãòƒ xˆÏ˛ô«˛y Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏäÈ... r

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porashonay. Tor songe valo manabe. Didi ke bolis - amra sobai valo aachhi. Ekhane khub gorom porechhe. Ekhon ferar dorkar nei. Aaro kichhudin tor okhane katiye aasle valo hoy.’

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ãß√ Ñ˛y›˛yÓ

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îƒyˆÏÖyÈÙÙÙÈ ~Ñ˛ õy xyÓ˚ ì˛yÓ˚ v˛yÜÓ˚˛ôyòy ˆõˆÏÎ˚ ˆ£§ˆÏ›˛ ÎyˆÏFäÈ xyÓäÈy xı˛Ñ˛yˆÏÓ˚ â˛y ÓyÜyˆÏòÓ˚ ˛ôyˆÏü !òã≈ò Ó˚yhﬂ˛yÎ˚ £‡˛yÍ ˆG˛y˛ô ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ ˆÓ!Ó˚ˆÏÎ˚ î%ˆÏ›˛y ˆúyÑ˛ ˆõˆÏÎ˚›˛yÓ˚ õ%ˆÏÖ Ñ˛y˛ôv˛¸ â˛y˛ôy !îˆÏÎ˚ÈÙÙÙÈ xy¢ˆÏú ~›˛y ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy xá›˛ò òÎ˚ ~ì˛=ˆÏúy ˆ˛ôˆÏÓ˚ îyÎ˚ ˆü°ÏˆÏõü õy Ñ˛yú£z îyúyúˆÏîÓ˚ ¢yˆÏÌ ~Ñ˛›˛y Ó˚ö˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ˆÏäÈ– Á£z õyˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ Ñ˛yˆÏäÈ òyÓ˚#Ó˚ ÓyÍ¢úƒ xyÓ˚ xydì˛ƒyˆÏÜÓ˚ ˛ô§yâ˛y!ú Üy£zˆÏì˛ ˆÎÁ òy– ~ÓyÓ˚ ì˛!úˆÏÎ˚ ~Ñ˛›%˛ !òˆÏãˆÏÑ˛ îƒyˆÏÖyÈÙÙÙÈ x!â˛ˆÏÓ˚£z ˆÖyú¢y £ˆÏÎ˚ ÎyˆÏÓ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ Á£z ÌyÑ˛ ÌyÑ˛ ¢%ˆÏÖÓ˚ Óyv˛¸!ì˛ ˆõî xyÓ˚ xˆÏë˛ú x!ì˛≤Ãy!ÆÓ˚ v˛zÓ≈Ó˚ ã!õ£z ¢Ó xÓ«˛ˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ !òÓ˚y˛ôî â˛yÓ˚í¶)˛!õ ¢Ó xïˆÏõ≈Ó˚ ãß√úˆÏ@¿Ó˚ !‡˛Ñ˛yòy– ¶%˛ˆÏúÁ xyÓ˚ !Ñ˛ls˛ xyÜ Óy!v˛¸ˆÏÎ˚ xˆÏòƒÓ˚ â˛!Ó˚ˆÏe â%˛òÑ˛y!ú ˆú˛ôˆÏì˛ ˆÎÁ òy– n

!äÈÓˆÏv˛¸ ˆüyÑ˛ ˆõÔõò !õeñ !òv˛z ãy!¢≈ ~Ñ˛ @˘Ã#‹øˆÏÓúy !äÈú ˆ¢!îò ˆÑ˛yˆÏòy ˛ôÌ !òü#Ì ì˛Ó˚D ÓyÜyò ü∑◊õ xyõyÓ˚ñ õÎ˚)Ó˚˛ô%M˛È v˛z_Ó˚#Î˚ñ ~Ñ˛ !î!á ãú xyÓ˚ xyÓ˚íƒÑ˛ !îò˛ô!O– Ó˚*˛ô¢yÜÓ˚ xyÓ˚ õ£y¢yÜˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ Ó,ˆÏ_ ˆ≤Ãõ ˆòˆÏõ!äÈú fl˛iyÓÓ˚ xfl˛iyÓˆÏÓ˚Ó˚ õyˆÏG˛– õy!›˛Ó˚ î?˛˛ôòy ˆ¶˛ˆÏÓ!äÈúyõ ì%˛!õ @˘Ã£í Ñ˛Ó˚ˆÏÓ– Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚Á!äÈˆÏú ˆÎõò›˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ô)í≈ ˛ô%Ó˚&°Ï ˆ◊¤˛– xyÑ˛yü õ!£õyÎ˚ ¢)Î≈fl˛ÿˆÏò fl˛ÿì˛ £ˆÏÎ˚!äÈ ˆ¢!îò ˆõúyˆÏòy !äÈú ~Ñ˛ ~Ñ˛›˛y @˘Ã£ì˛yÓ˚y– !Ó!FäÈß¨ ú@¿ x!Ó!FäÈß¨ Óƒy!Æ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ˆõˆÏ˛ô !îˆÏÎ˚!äÈˆÏú xyõyÓ˚ xy!ÓÓ˚ Ó˚yày Ñ˛ˆÏv˛¸ xyà%ú ã%ˆÏv˛¸– ˆÎõò›˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ô)í≈ ˛ô%Ó˚&°Ï ˆ◊¤˛– ì˛ˆÏ˛ôyÓˆÏòÓ˚ õ%!òÈÙÈ}!°ÏÓ˚y üÑ%˛hs˛úyˆÏÑ˛ xyÜˆÏú ˆÓ˚ˆÏÖ!äÈú xyõyÓ˚ !äÈú ~Ñ˛ì˛yÓ˚yÓ˚ ˆÑ˛yúyã– !Óúy¢õ@¿ì˛y ˆÌˆÏÑ˛ !äÈÓˆÏv˛¸ £ˆÏì˛ ÷Ó˚& £ú ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ˆîÁÎ˚y ~Ñ˛ ~Ñ˛›˛y Ñ˛‹TÊ xyõyÓ˚ Ñ˛ú!¢ ã%ˆÏv˛¸ !«˛Æß√_ ãú– ˆÎõò›˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ô)í≈ ˛ô%Ó˚&°Ï ˆ◊¤˛– ˆüyÑ˛ !îˆÏÎ˚!äÈˆÏú ˆÎ›%˛Ñ%˛ õy˛ô!äÈ £yˆÏì˛Ó˚ ˆâ˛ˆÏ›˛y ã%ˆÏv˛¸ ˆö˛ˆÏú xy¢y ö%˛úÈÙÈõ%Ñ%˛ú xyÓ˚ xˆÏG˛yÓ˚òÎ˚ˆÏò– !ü≤Ãy òî#ì˛#ˆÏÓ˚ñ xyõyÓ˚ Ñ˛yì˛Ó˚ ˆÓúyˆÏüˆÏ°Ï– ˆÎõò›˛y Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ˛ô)í≈ ˛ô%Ó˚&°Ï ˆ◊¤˛–

Ñ˛v˛¸y òyv˛¸ˆÏúy òÓ xyˆÏÓîò xãﬂ˛À ˆú˛ôˆÏò xyõyÓ˚ Ü!v˛¸ì˛ ˆÜy˛ôˆÏò– ÌyÑ˛ˆÏÓ !Ñ˛ ~ £y¢ƒõ%Ö xyõyÓ˚ úúy›˛ ˆÎÖyˆÏò «˛#íÊ ì˛Ó% xyüy ˆãˆÏÜ ÌyˆÏÑ˛ xú¢ òÎ˚ˆÏò xyˆÏÓ˚y ~Ñ˛ÓyÓ˚ £*î ã%v˛¸ˆÏÓ !Ñ˛ x!Î˚ xÓı˛ˆÏò–– n

›˛ƒyr›˛yúyˆÏ¢Ó˚ ≤Ãúy˛ô ˆÑ˛Ô!üÑ˛ ˆ¢òñ òÌ≈ Ñ˛ƒyˆÏÓ˚y!úòy ~ÖyˆÏò xyÑ˛Z˛ ì,˛°Ïyñ ì˛Ó%Á ~ ãúyüˆÏÎ˚ v%˛ˆÏÓ Ìy!Ñ˛– ÁˆÏ¤˛ Ñ§˛yˆÏ˛ô ˆÓúy¶)˛!õñ Ó!®ì˛ òÓ˚Ñ˛ñ õyÎ˚yÓ# ~ oy«˛yÓ#!Ìñ Ñ,˛ì˛á¯ üyÖyÎ˚ ö˛ú¶˛yÓ˚– ~ÖyˆÏò ¢%Ó˚õƒ v˛z˛ôÓy¢– xˆÏòÑ˛ ¢Ó%ã ˆÖì˛ !äÈú– xˆÏòÑ˛ v˛zˆÏ‡˛yò !äÈú õyî%Ó˚ !ÓäÈyˆÏòy £yì˛˛ôyÖy Ó˚yÖy !äÈú xyúˆÏ¢ƒ ˆõî%Ó˚ñ äÈyÎ˚y !äÈú– õy!›˛ñ ü¢ƒñ ãúÑ˛íyñ !fl˛¨?˛ x!¶˛õyò– ~ ¢Ó£z xyõyÓ˚ !äÈú üyhs˛ ≤Ãì˛#«˛yÎ˚– xƒyˆÏ¡∫…y!¢Î˚yÓ˚ ˛ôyeñ xõ,ˆÏì˛ !ÓˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ ãμyúyñ ¢hs˛yˆÏòÓ˚ ˆî£ñ ì˛Ó˚Óy!Ó˚– ~£z¢Ó Ñ˛yÓ˚ ãòƒ⁄ ˆÑ˛ ˆîÖyÎ˚ fl˛∫ˆÏÜ≈Ó˚ xy¶˛y¢⁄ ã#v˛z¢ñ Ó˚yãy Á !˛ôì˛yñ ~¢Ó£z ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ õyÎ˚yñ êýï#ñ ï°Ï≈Ñ˛yõÊ xy!õ ˛ôyˆÏ˛ô î#í≈ ££zñ ì,˛Æ x!ú¡ôyˆÏ¢ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ õ£yò ¢¶˛yñ ì%˛!õ ÌyˆÏÑ˛y õ!®ˆÏÓ˚ ¶˛yfl˛∫Ó˚– ˆ£ ã#v˛z¢ üy!hfl˛îyì˛yñ ˆãˆÏòy xy!õ òÓ˚ˆÏÑ˛ fl˛∫Ó˚y›˛ Ó˚ˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ Ñ%˛!›˛ú ãúñ õ£y«%˛ïyñ xy!î xı˛Ñ˛yÓ˚– ì˛Ó%Á x˛ôÓ˚y!ãì˛ñ ˛ôeáyì˛#ñ xõ,ì˛ ì˛fl˛ÒÓ˚– xy!õ î?˛ õÓ˚#!â˛Ñ˛yñ Ó˚yãy ›˛ƒyr›˛yúy¢– 1È– xy£zˆÏÑ˛Ó˚y¢ ì%˛!õ ¢)ˆÏÎ≈Ó˚ !îˆÏÑ˛ v˛zˆÏv˛¸ ÎyÁ ì˛ˆÏÓ ˆõyˆÏõ Ü§yÌy v˛yòy Ö¢ˆÏÓ ˆõyõ ÜˆÏú ˛ôv˛¸y ¢ı˛ƒyÎ˚ ì%˛!õ !ÓˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ ¢yÜˆÏÓ˚ v%˛ÓˆÏÓ– Î!î £ˆÏì˛ â˛yÁ ò#úÑ˛Z˛ !˛ôˆÏÎ˚y xõ,ì˛ !ÓˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ ˛ôyˆÏe n

ﬂ˛ø,!ì˛ˆÏúÖy !úˆÏÖy ì˛ß√Î˚ ì˛yÓ˚ !òˆÏ¶˛ ÎyÁÎ˚y Ó˚yˆÏe– ˆ¢ xydÓ˚!ì˛Á !õÌƒy Î!î !ÓˆÏ°Ï£z Ö%§ˆÏãˆÏäÈy õ%!_´ äÈúòyˆÏì˛ xyˆÏäÈ {ŸªÓ˚ ÷ï% ≤ÃúyˆÏ˛ô£z xyˆÏäÈ Î%!_´– ﬂ˛∫ˆÏÜ≈ ˆòˆÏõˆÏäÈ ¢s˛fy¢ ì˛y£z xDyˆÏÓ˚ Î!ì˛!â˛£´ xyˆÏäÈ xyd£òˆÏò v˛zÕ‘y¢ ì˛y£z !ú!˛ôÓ˚y ¢Óy£z !äÈß¨– 2– £z!v˛˛ôy¢ ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ Ó%ˆÏÑ˛ x§yÑ˛y ¢)ˆÏÎ≈yîÎ˚ñ xï#Ó˚ ä%È!Ó˚ !òˆÏÎ˚ xˆÏ˛ô«˛yÎ˚ñ Ñ˛Öò !Ó•ˆÏï ÎyˆÏÓ xyÑ˛yA«˛yÎ˚ñ

3– ˆ£ˆÏúò ˆõyõ ˆãyäÈòyñ xD ˆ˛ôyˆÏv˛¸ñ ì%˛°ÏyÓ˚«˛ì˛– ~Ñ˛úy xy!õñ ~ ≤Ãyhs˛ˆÏÓ˚ñ ÓÓ˚ö˛ë˛yÑ˛y– ˆüyÓyÓ˚ áˆÏÓ˚ ò#úˆÏâ˛ xyˆÏúyñ ~Ñ˛ˆÏáˆÏÎ˚!õ– xyõyÓ˚ ˆî£ ˆì˛õ!ò xyˆÏäÈñ ¢%Óy¢ õyÌy– ÷Ñ˛ˆÏòy Ñ˛yˆÏ‡˛ ˛ô%v˛¸ˆÏäÈ Ñ˛Ìyñ Ñœ˛yhs˛ !â˛!‡˛– !Ó°ÏÓy¢òyñ ö˛y›˛ˆÏäÈ õy!›˛ñ õïƒÓ˚yˆÏì˛– xyõyÎ˚ !òú áyˆÏ›˛Ó˚ õy!G˛ñ x◊&!v˛ày– !£õ!üúy ˆ¢ ˆ¶˛ˆÏ¢£z ˆÜúñ î%ï¢yÜˆÏÓ˚–

ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ˛ôÌ ˆâ˛ˆÏÎ˚ !òÓ˚yÓÓ˚í– ˆì˛yõyÓ˚ ﬂ˛∫yì˛#ˆÏúÖyñ ˆ¢ÔÓ˚î#˛ôñ !îˆÏÎ˚ˆÏäÈ ¶˛yˆÏúyÓy¢y xÎy!s˛fÑ˛– xyõyÓ˚ ï%!ò ãμyúy xÓ˚y!eÑ˛ñ ~ˆÏòˆÏäÈ ¢Ó≈òyüñ ¢õy˛ôì˛ò– xyõyÓ˚ ≤Ã!ì˛ˆÏüyˆÏï !äÈß¨îúñ Ñ˛ÌyÓ˚y v%˛ˆÏÓ ˆÜˆÏäÈ x˜ÏÌ ãúñ ˆÑ˛Óú ˆî£ xyˆÏäÈ !£õü#ì˛úñ xyˆÏ¢!ò !˛ôì,˛ˆÏúyˆÏÑ˛ xyõs˛fí– !ÓîyÎ˚ Ó˚*˛ôÑ˛Ìyñ v˛y!úõÜyäÈñ xyÑ˛yüõyòÓ#Ó˚y ò‹T xyã– ~Öò xyˆÏúyäÈyÎ˚y ˆüˆÏ°ÏÓ˚ ¢yãñ ~Öò v%˛ˆÏÓ ÎyÁÎ˚yñ !Óﬂ˛øÓ˚í–

4– x!î!¢v˛z¢ Îì˛ î)ˆÏÓ˚ ÎyÁñ úì˛yÓ˚y î#á≈ì˛Ó˚ñ ﬂ˛ø,!ì˛ !üúyõÎ˚ñ !Óãò ˆì˛˛ôyhs˛ˆÏÓ˚– Ñ˛# Ñ˛ˆÏÓ˚ ~v˛¸yˆÏÓ ò@¿ ÓˆÏ›˛Ó˚ G%˛!Ó˚⁄ £*îˆÏÎ˚Ó˚ õy!›˛ xì˛#ˆÏì˛Ó˚ xD%!ú– ˛ôyÌˆÏÓ˚ ˆÓyG˛y£z ï!°Ï≈ì˛y áy¢ã!õñ ì˛Ó% Óy!Ó˚˛ôyì˛ñ x›˛ú x!¶˛K˛yˆÏò– xB%˛ˆÏÓ˚ xyˆÏ¢ ≤ÃÌõy ¢)ˆÏÎ≈yîÎ˚– xy!õ ˆãˆÏÜ Ìy!Ñ˛ ˆì˛yõy!Ó˚ ≤Ãì˛#«˛yÎ˚––

English Section

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The Gift Sreya Sarkar, Massachusetts

f all days in the week, Saturday was the most inconvenient one for Sandip to leave home. This was the day his son and his grandchildren came over for dinner. It was he who had made the cardinal rule of gathering his family on that day, but it was him breaking it this evening. Passion made even the most disciplined soul stray, he mused with a hint of guilt while changing from the house pajamas to his ironed trousers. Rita raised her eyebrows, her lips pursed into a

displeased pout. “Where are you going, now?” “Abhik needs me. It is an emergency. I will be back soon.” Sandip felt a twinge of remorse lying to his wife. Kaushik noticed his mother’s dipping spirits over the evening despite her attempt to hide the disappointment. Purna observed it as well and tried to cheer her up. “Ma, next week you and Baba come to our place. I will bake your favorite veggie pie and Kaushik can grill some kababs in the new n

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griller he bought recently.” Rita smiled at her daughter-in-law’s enthusiasm. Sometimes she wondered how Purna could juggle her demanding corporate job and her school-going children, so seamlessly. When she was looking for a bride for Kaushik she was forewarned by her friends about the hazards of having a “career loving” daughter-in-law. She had paid no heed to all that small-minded talk and short-listed Purna, thinking more about Kaushik’s inclinations, than hers. Purna was not as traditionally good looking as Rita, but her tall frame and sincere smile exhumed a sense of confidence that made her attractive. She would look nice with her lanky son, Rita had reflected. She would feel anxious when she caught Kaushik and Purna arguing with each other right after their wedding, but she soon realized that it was an ongoing conversation between two equal partners. She could not think of having similar conversations with Sandip. She also could not remember when she had truly contradicted Sandip. Rita was brought up to obey. That was probably the reason that she did not interrogate her husband later that night, though she had an inkling that he might not be telling her the truth. “Abhik has to move to a new place,” Sandip said quietly, taking off his sandal when he returned. “At this age, how can one fight uncultured landlords?” He noticed Rita’s sullen expression but also knew that she will not bring up his sudden disappearance tonight. Long ago, as a fresh U. K.-returned engineer, Sandip was determined to induce a liberal way of thinking in his young household but had soon realized that Rita, because of her conservative upbringing, believed in a set of principles not aligned to his own evolved way of thinking. So, Sandip went with what most other men of his generation did. He showed respect to his wife’s principles and adjusted with her without further trying to change her philosophy of life.

Rita stirred her tea silently, her symmetrical features emanating a shadow of wistfulness. More than a week had passed since the night Sandip had rushed out, but his behavior continued to be rather peculiar. He had brought her flowers one evening,

her favorite jasmine garlands. He had taken her out for dinner to Taj. All this would have truly pleased her, had she not noticed the other set of changes creeping in. In so many years of their togetherness, he had never left the room when he got a phone call. All his conversations, including the heated ones, happened in front of her, but that was not so, anymore. He would leave the room while whispering into the handset now. He continued going out at odd hours with flimsy excuses; and had also taken to sitting by himself and smiling, randomly. Rita’s uneasiness further increased after he started talking in his sleep. One night he mumbled in a loop— “Is this how you will repay my love for you? By leaving?”

Rita asked Sandip about it but, he shrugged and dismissed her concern. “I must be having some weird dream, which I never seem to remember when I wake up.” When Sandip retired, he dutifully tended to the ‘to-do’ list that he had neglected over the years. He whipped his study into shape, put away his official papers in the loft, brought out books that he had been meaning to read for years. He even finished the project of supervising the re-painting of his house. Eventually, the flurry of activities stopped, and he fell into a well of purposelessness. A bout of impatience would chase him every now and then, leading him to pitch crazy ideas to Rita. He would bring travel brochures to visit outlandish places. She would listen with an amused indulgence but, he could tell that she was not taking his plans seriously.

Rita had no intention of discussing Sandip’s changed demeanor with Uma, but her friend’s propensity for careful inspection and her own growing misery loosened her tongue when they met for coffee. After listening to Rita’s complaints, Uma pointed out that perhaps she was having some trouble adjusting to Sandip’s staying at home all the time and Rita admitted that she had not been very cooperative. “He suggested that we go on a Kundu Special trip to Kashmir, but I feel scared. You know how volatile the situation is in that part of India.” n

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Sandip had also wanted them to go for movies but she felt too cold in the movie theatres, despite her shawl. He wanted to eat out and she had reacted unfavorably to that as well. “Why? Do you not like my cooking?” she had said pointedly. He wanted them to start singing together again but she had rolled her eyes and replied, “Have you lost it? After so many years…” They had bonded in the earlier years over music. Both had melodious voices and Sandip would often toss in ridiculous ideas about giving up his engineering career to focus on professional singing. Their young eyes would shine with mirth at the sheer exuberance of their silly dreams. Wrapped in newlywed bliss Rita had nothing more to wish for. Thinking of those days made her eyes tearful now. Talking to Uma, she realized, how she had been shooting down all of Sandip’s ideas. Uma sighed and turned her sharp eyes to inspect her stylish reflection in the café’s wall mirrors. “There is still time to change yourself. You never leave your house if I don’t drag you out. Keep yourself busy and you will stop overanalyzing things. I have told you so many times, to join my kitty party.” Uma liked socializing with her friends, unlike Rita. She was going to meet her kitty friends right after and seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Rita caught her friend’s hand and gave it a slight tug. She wanted her friend to stop fussing with her appearance. “You don’t understand Uma. He is so bored after his retirement.” Uma paused and raised her brows. “Are you suspecting something else?” “I don’t know. The wretched thought came to my mind when he brought me flowers after so many years. Just imagine, my shock! The person who hardly remembered my birthday, bringing me flowers like this. And…he is so secretive these days. Talks to someone on the phone all the time. Doesn’t all this sound fishy to you?” Uma’s face turned somber. She said in a low voice, “Remember that Mr. Roy who moved away from this neighborhood last year? He started seeing someone twenty years

younger than him. He had run into her while planning his fortieth wedding anniversary party. Just imagine— a wedding planner, of all people! At this age, men can be so vulnerable.” Rita’s eyes widened in alarm. Uma added quickly, “But, Sandip is not like that, I am sure.” Rita’s heart sank even lower as she remembered something else. “Oh no Uma, our anniversary is also coming up in two weeks!” That night Rita was determined to ask Sandip one way or another, but as luck would have it, Sandip’s sister and her husband stopped by their house in the evening and Rita had to ask them to stay back for dinner. Shipra traveled a lot with her husband. They were either discussing their last trip or planning the next. On most occasions, Rita loved listening to their stories but today her patience was running low. They talked on and on and right after they left, Sandip started yawning and getting ready for bed.

Another tortuous week passed, and Rita was still not able to ask Sandip about his strange conduct. She decided to focus on her upcoming wedding anniversary despite her growing dread. Purna and Kaushik made a big fuss about it every year, but this year Rita wanted none of that. She planned to have a quiet and peaceful evening at home. She left for New Market to pick up gifts for her children, which she passed on every year on their anniversary. She was about to enter Regal Stores when she heard a familiar voice call out to her. She turned her head to find Abhik. “Hello, how are you? I heard everything from Sandip. Did you find a good house yet? If you need any help, let us know. My son used a good realtor while looking for their house two years ago.” Abhik looked at her blankly for a few seconds and then his toothy smile was back. “Sandip is becoming forgetful these days. We were having house problems but that was six months ago. Now we are all set in Phoolbagan.” Rita closed her eyes briefly and apologized. “Sorry. I must have got confused.” After a few minutes of exchanging niceties, Rita excused herself. Her head was spinning. n

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Sandip had been lying. What had he to hide at this age? Whatever it was, if he had to hide it, it could only be unsavory. How would she tell Kaushik and Purna about it? Purna might roll her eyes and remind her of the number of times she had told Rita to start taking interest in the World outside her house. Her voice echoed from her memory. Baba needs a companion, not a Housekeeper! What would she tell Uma now? Why did Shipra keep telling Sandip stories about their adventures? Why did she not agree to travel with him right after his retirement? Hot tears rolled down Rita’s cheeks as indignity burned her insides. She had given her whole life to take care of him. To tend to his every wish. Was that not enough for him?

On the morning of their anniversary, Sandip told Rita that he needed to talk to her about something important. “What is left for you to say? Do you think I am that naïve?” she shot back and ran to the bathroom. As she took in her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she noticed how hollow her eyes had become. She looked like a person, who had lost her soul. “Listen, I want you to come somewhere this evening. I will leave you an address,” Sandip said through the closed door. Rita cried and cried till she thought that she had no more tears left in her eyes. He had most probably even forgotten that today was their anniversary. How totally engrossed is he in his newfound adventure. Till now what was a strong hunch, today will become a hard and cold truth, she thought with a shiver. She wanted to see his face when he would finally divulge his secret, a secret that was cruel and vile and all those things that Rita had never imagined Sandip to be. There was a finality about the day that weighed on her body like a few extra pounds, dragging down her spirit and slowing her pace.

She took a deep breath as she reached the address Sandip had written down for her. It was an old auditorium she had visited a long time ago. She was surprised to spot two familiar smiling faces waiting for her in the lobby.

Rita looked around, to get a sense of what was happening. Seeing her confusion, Kaushik held her hand and led her to the inside of the auditorium. The light dimmed and a play started promptly. It was an adaptation of Maitreyi Debi’s Na Hanyate. Sandip was playing the female lead’s father. She soon lost herself in the love story that lasted over decades. The anguish, the longing between the main two characters, mesmerized her, transporting her to a different World, where she laughed and cried with them. After the play, as Sandip came out to talk to his family, Purna told Rita, “This year your anniversary celebration is going to be different from other years. We are going to leave you two alone now.” As Rita waved them goodbye, she caught Sandip watching her. A slight smile hovered on his mouth. He said, “Did you like the play?” “It was good.” “And me?” “You were very good.” Rita gave her husband’s hand a tight squeeze as she widened her eyes at him. “You almost killed me.” Sandeep’s smile deepened. “When Uma told me, what was going in your mind, right after you met her at the coffee shop, I just had to keep it a secret and see you huff and puff every day.” “What a way to frighten me! Tell me more about how you got involved with the play.” “Do you remember Ratul? My friend from college? Now he has a theatre company,” said Sandip. “Yes, I remember. You had done some plays with him,” said Rita. “I told Ratul that I was getting bored at home so, he invited me to one of his acting workshops,” said Sandip. “And then I got the part.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” said Rita, still sulking. “I thought that you would laugh at me. I told Kaushik instead. It was his idea that I surprise you on our anniversary since the show was starting today. So, did you like your anniversary gift?” Rita smiled at him. “Yes.” Then she looked at her husband and said softly, “Can we go to Kashmir? I have always wanted to see Dal Lake and Char Chinar in Srinagar.” r n

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Night Shift Debashis Roy Chowdhury, California

amprasad could finally enjoy nights of uninterrupted sleep. The man he dreaded the most could no longer intimidate him. Time had played its ultimate trick and the man had vanished forever like a rabbit from under a hat! The second gate of the University was always quieter at nighttime. The guard-post on one side of the wide metal gate was a tiny shed built against the perimeter wall, set only a foot or so higher than the level of the road. It looked somewhat out-ofplace, like an after-thought. Inside the tiny enclosure of the shed was a solitary wooden chair which had seen better days. For the past thirty years, Ramprasad had occupied it every night and it had given him unwavering company. And now, like Ram-

prasad, it seemed to be burdened by its daily duty which it could barely perform with its rickety legs and rough surface. Ramprasad did not mind the discomfort. He preferred his night duty on an uncomfortable chair to comfort in his bed at night. He still lamented the day when he married a second time at the insistence of his relatives. His first wife was a docile, obedient woman. His second wife, twenty years his junior, was a born tormentor. Her tongue was ever ready with the choicest words. Especially her physical demands at night were too strenuous for old Ramprasad. The night duty at the gate was his savior and the chair never failed to offer him quiet company. But even the night shift was not without its perils. Ramprasad encountered it on the very first night he joined the duty, more than thirty years back. He was then a young lad, fresh from village and getting accustomed to city life. The supervisor had explained to him his duties during the night shift, especially the solemn responsibility of sounding the gong at the top of every hour. Those days, he had n

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the healthy appetite of a village boy, and the dinner at the canteen was heavier than usual. No sooner had Ramprasad taken his position at the guard-post than he could hardly keep his eyes open. As if, the weight of the whole world bore down pointedly on his eyelids. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep. The pain in the left ear had its intended effect. Ramprasad was pulled off his sleep but the iron grip on his ear did not relent. It was accompanied by a booming voice. “How dare you neglect your duty and fall asleep during your shift?” “Sir-ji, I am new … please forgive me, it will not happen again.” “Hmm … if I catch you one more time, you do not need to show up again. This is the final warning.” The man had an erect bearing with a hawkish nose, piercing brown eyes, and a broad forehead partly covered by a white Gandhi cap. He did not spare a second look at Ramprasad and continued his morning walk. Ramprasad looked at his watch, it was five o’clock. He was shaken up badly and somehow reached for the gong. That was the first encounter with Prof. Gupta. After that, every morning at 5am, they would meet. It was, however, not much of a meeting. The Professor would walk past in his usual pace and Ramprasad would stand up momentarily in salutation. Whether it was a sunny summer day or a gray morning with pouring rain or a cold, wintery daybreak, Prof Gupta never failed to take his early morning walk. After that first incident, Ramprasad would steal an occasional nap at night, but would never miss his 5 o’clock sounding of the gong. In fact, he would simply strike the gong at the very sight of the approaching Professor with his white Gandhi cap seen at a distance. It became a Pavlovian reaction! Inside him, Ramprasad hated the man, yet he could not defy him. Prof. Gupta was a revered and influential professor of the university. However, Ramprasad could never forgive the Professor for denying him a good night’s sleep. Even when Prof. Gupta retired from service, he continued to reside near the University campus and did not miss his morning walks. Though retired, the Professor was still a formidable personality. As a result, Ramprasad’s night shifts continued as before

with unsatisfactory sleep patterns. Ramprasad had no choice but to remain obedient and bide his time. Finally, after life-long torture, there appeared light at the end of the dark tunnel. Something happened. For several days, the Professor missed his morning walk. Ramprasad wondered what had happened to him. But no one knew for sure. Then oneday, there was an announcement that classes would not be held in the afternoon. News had come that Prof. Emeritus, Dr. Gupta, had passed away. Ramprasad was sipping tea at the canteen that evening and overheard a group of students talk about the Professor. He could not fully grasp what they were saying. However, he took notice of a student at the head of the table, who appeared totally crestfallen. It seemed that the particular student had experienced an irreparable personal loss. Ramprasad could not fathom the reason. Ramprasad quietly left the canteen, it was hard for him to suppress his inner joy; he was already looking forward to the night shift with sweet, uninterrupted slumber. His oppressor was gone!

Amit was totally crestfallen. It was an unexpected tragedy. Who could imagine that Prof Gupta, who had been so healthy and active, would suddenly pass away without any advance notice! What a disaster! The final two scenes remained to be shot and the Professor was a vital figure in the film. It was now the director’s dilemma of what to do. Unfortunately, he had been appointed the director of the film by the University committee. The movie was a documentary planned in commemoration of the centenary year of the University. Amit showed both interest and ability to direct the movie. Prof. Gupta was a central figure in the script, through whose eyes the past, present and future of the University was to be shown. Things were progressing well so far. The shooting was almost complete except for a few scenes, which involved Prof. Gupta. It was due to be premiered in a couple of months. Now that the lead actor was suddenly dead and gone, what could a poor director do in such a situation? A faint idea was taking shape in his head, but would it work? Amit was not too sure but desperate times demanded desperate measures. He had no option but to try. n

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Life was never so kind to Ramprasad as in the past few days. The night shift allowed him uninterrupted sleep except for occasional disturbances. The wooden chair seemed more hospitable than ever. His mood at home had changed; he even started to share some empathy with his second wife’s demands. Her scolding and sharp words seemed underscored with a sensual hint. However, thirty years of habit could not be given up so easily. His biological clock still raised an alarm before 5am and Ramprasad would open his eyes in panic only to realize that the Professor was gone forever. He would strike the gong out of sheer habit and go back to his sleep. That was what he was about to do this morning when a disturbing sight caught his eye. It was a beautiful autumn morning. The rising sun was trying to break through the mist gathered through the night. And in that light and shade, a familiar figure was approaching, his white Gandhi

cap shiny in the slanted rays. The apparition was heading straight towards him, surely to teach him a lesson for his negligence over the past several weeks. Ramprasad was gripped with an unknown fear. His head felt light, his chest felt tight and the old watchman could not take it anymore. He collapsed on the floor of the small enclosed space. “Cut!”, shouted Amit with sheer delight. His experiment was a grand success. The actor, a student enthusiast from the University drama club, had enacted the scene perfectly. The actor was dressed exactly like Prof. Gupta, accurate to the last detail, donning an exact replica of his Gandhi cap. The shot captured the Professor taking his morning walk and that was how the film would end! The last shot of the movie was a perfect take. The crew congratulated one another and headed boisterously towards a near-by tea-stall. In the tumult, no one noticed the little guard-post in the corner, with a huddled figure crumpled on its floor and an overturned wooden chair with broken legs! r

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The Bone Collector Aryani Banerjee, West Bengal

eventy-three-ear-old Brijwasi Lal sits down on the damp floor of his six feet by eight feet mud hut – the light from a small low watt bulb illuminates the room – a rope cot and few utensils – it is all they have. It has been a week he has been able to feed his wife only rice and watery lentil soup. A week ago, a thunderstorm has blown over the village, and their shanty is in miserable condition – the roof is leaking, and the walls are slimy. ‘Sarla,’ he calls his wife as he rests his head against the wall, ‘I don’t know what to do. For all these years, I have been leaving home before sunrise, and I’ve worked hard, but now the world is changing, and I fear we might have to starve to death someday very soon,’ he says, letting out a sigh. The aged woman sits up on the cot and looks straight at him as she speaks – ‘Stop thinking about all these negative things. Everything will be alright. If we have survived all these years, we will survive for the rest of our lives.’ He shakes his head fiercely, ‘No, Sarla, you don’t have any idea about what is happening. As it is, we have always been looked down upon because we are Dalits, and now, with communal hatred spreading like wildfire, there’s this one section of people who are attacking bone collectors like us on the suspicion of smuggling cows for slaughter.’ Brijwasi Lal has been collecting bones from animal carcasses since he was fourteen years old. Well, actually no, there was a brief gap – for two years in his late twenties, he worked as a labourer near the railway station. For those two years, he could stay away from the stench of rotten flesh, and he carried bricks on his shoulders instead of bones. He stared at the scarred skin of his palms, red and dusty from carrying bricks, and hoped he would never go back to becoming a bone collector again as he sat under

the makeshift shelter, but fate had other plans. Once the construction of the new platform was done, most of the labourers migrated, and he was left back along with three more men, who had to get back to the village to fend for themselves. He would get another contract at a nearby brick-kiln, but two consecutive bouts of jaundice changed his fate. ‘Two men in a village have been lynched by a mob, just twenty kilometers from here. You know why? Just because someone spread a rumour that they were selling cow meat! These two men have been running a goat meat shop for several years, and finally they end up losing their lives like this! Can you imagine this, Sarla? Even five years ago, this kind of situations seldom arose,’ Brijwasi Lal says all of this without pausing, and starts panting breathlessly as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his frayed shirt. n

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The woman calmly listens, she does not say anything in reply, then she gets down from the cot and walks across the room to a corner where she bends down and picks up a steel bowl. She had poured water into the little amount of leftover rice from the previous day – she serves it to her husband along with half an onion, salt and a handful of green chilies. ‘Where’s your food?’ Brijwasi Lal asks his wife, and she nods. ‘You eat first. I’ll eat after some time,’ she replies. He understands there’s no rice left. He stares at her – she is pouring water into a steel glass from the earthen pitcher. He was all of twenty-one, orphaned for two years and working as a weed-cutter, when she entered his clumsy home as his sixteen-year-old bride. Together, they have been through a lot of hardships – their only son died of measles as the doctor at the hospital refused to admit him – the child was just three and half. He remembers that night when he had to carry his own child to perform his last rites – it was a night of thunder, the trees swayed their heads frighteningly in the dark as rains lashed the village, and he walked for eight kilometers with his son’s body on his lap, and only a few neighbours as companions. ‘Why aren’t you eating? I’ll get some vegetables from the market tomorrow. I have some money inside the iron trunk under the cot. I had saved it for emergency. But tonight, you have to manage with this leftover rice,’ she tells him and turns back to shutting the window. Their hut has just one window – a small two feet by two feet square hole in the wall with a plastic sheet braving the gusty winds. The two people have been staring at the stars and the rain through this little window for more than they can afford to remember. Brijwasi Lal looks at his wife’s fragile body – she wakes up even before the birds start chirping, and when he leaves home just at sunrise, she stands at the door until he turns into a tiny black dot far, far away. Marks of mosquito bites are so prominent on her wrinkled skin – they sometimes look like measles that killed their only son. She suddenly turns and their eyes meet, and she notices he has not eaten a bit. As she sits beside him on the floor, her knees hurt, but she keeps her frail hand on his arm, and she slowly speaks – ‘Have you ever thought differently about the bones of a cow and a pig when you carried them to the buyers? People of all communities called you when cattle died in their houses. We are Dalits,

but we are not criminals. What is our fault that God has given us this kind of life?’ she sobs, resting her head against her husband’s arm. ‘Sarla,’ he says in a comforting tone, ‘Every miserable, suppressed soul on this earth is born right after God dies there. If God really existed, humans wouldn’t have dared to divide the earth wrongfully in the name of religion.’ They share the small amount of leftover rice from the same bowl – sometimes, something that is too inadequate for one person satiates two people, only if there is love. In the middle of the night, when hunger wakes them up from sleep, they look out at the sky full of stars through the tiny window in the wall and thank their forefathers for getting them married. Brijwasi Lal leaves home just before sunrise, and he walks the usual path to the west of the village, where the boundary walls of a dilapidated house – only a few thick-bricked arches surviving the test of time – opens into a barren marshland. This land once belonged to a despotic feudal lord who killed fiftyseven villagers in a single night by serving them porridge laden with poison. Nobody has ever known why he did this, but some say his astrologer warned him that someone from the village was conspiring to assassinate him. Upon reaching the barren land, Brijwasi Lal begins to walk following the stench – under the shade of a large banyan tree, crows scavenge the carcass of a goat. The skeleton must weigh over three or four kilos, which means he can sell this for twenty-five or thirty rupees, he quietly calculates. Dark clouds begin to gather as Brijwasi hurriedly washes the skull in a nearby pond. Decomposed flesh slips down the surface of the skull into the water, and the smell is unbearable. It has been several decades now but still both the nose and the mind have not been able to get used to the reek of rotten flesh, he ponders, resting his elbows on his folded knees. He wipes the bones several times with his bare hands, until the surface looks somewhat clean, and then he puts them into the jute sack he usually carries for this purpose. As he starts walking towards the bone dealer’s house, large drops of rain begin to fall, and he holds the sack closer to his chest. The gusty wind rumples his hair as he escalates his pace. He does not get to see a single familiar face on the way, as if he is the n

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only man who has got out working this morning. Three men jump out of a thick bush near the abandoned well behind the ancient temple – the tall man has a thick moustache, and the two short men are fat. All three of them are dressed in black trousers and white vests, and the tall man has a red cloth folded around his neck. ‘What’s in there?’ the tall man asks in a hoarse voice as he snatches the sack from Brijwasi Lal, and peeps inside. Within seconds, the expression on his face changes – he stares inside the sack wide-eyed and turns to his companions. ‘Look in here,’ he says to them. The two plump men take a quick look inside the sack, and one of them holds Brijwasi Lal’s collar. ‘You’re smuggling cattle skull,’ the man hisses at him, and he feels miniscule drops of his spit all over his face. Brijwasi’s old neck hurts. ‘I just collect… bones of dead animals. I don’t know much about how things happen after we sell the bones,’ he pauses, and then continues speaking, ‘I’ve just heard that there are huge factories that crush the bones to make a type of powder that is used for processing chemicals. Please let me go,’ he pleads, not looking up at the men. The other fat man pushes him, and he feels his back against the roughness of a tree bark. ‘You think we are fools? You’re here at this odd hour, walking away hurriedly with the skull of an animal. Where did you throw away the torso? Tell us the truth, or we’ll kill you. Cow slaughter is banned in this area and anyone who is caught with animal remains will be killed,’ he speaks in a hissing tone like his friend, exhaling an intolerable smell of beetle nuts. Brijwasi joins his hands as he looks at the men. ‘I swear I did not kill the animal. I collect bones for a living, and I’ve been doing this odd job since I was a school dropout…’ The man pushes him, compelling him to stop explaining midway, and as he falls on the wet soil, the men run away with his sack. Brijwasi Lal gets up after a few minutes, his clothes all drenched in mud and his hands and feet trembling in fear. Inside their shabby little hut, Sarla massages his back with a cloth dipped in hot water as he sits on the cot, warm tears running down the sides of his face. ‘I don’t want you to do this work anymore,’ she tells him, but he does not utter a word in reply. There is no food at home as he has seen the empty utensils. He wipes his eyes and turns back at his

wife. ‘I can’t do anything else, Sarla. I have to go out and collect bones; that’s what I have been doing for years,’ he says. ‘What if they attack you again? What if they beat you up?’ she asks. He shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just an incident,’ he says calmly. It rains through the night, and water enters through the small window of their hut, damaging their belongings. The two aged people hold each other tightly in their sleep, shivering without a bedsheet to cover their bodies as the roaring thunderstorm destroys crops and cattle and human lives like ravenous monster. Sarla wakes up to the faint light of dawn falling on her face, and Brijwasi whispering to her, – ‘I’m going out, just for an hour, and I shall return with something. You don’t worry, I’ll return even before anyone wakes up.’ She held his hands in fear – ‘You don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll beg for some rice from the neighbour, it’ll last us a few days,’ she says. Brijwasi shakes his head, ‘You don’t have to beg. I’ll get something. Shut the door,’ he walks out of the hut, and she stares at him until he turns into the tiny black dot far, far away. The sun rises after eight, and Sarla realises her husband is supposed to return home by now. She begins to worry, moving around inside the little space nervously, when she hears a knock at the door – a large-eyed boy of about ten or twelve years stands there, looking at her. ‘Come quickly, he is lying dead there,’ he says and turns back and starts running away. Hell breaking loose on her, Sarla runs behind him, blindly following the path after the boy and she notices a small crowd has gathered under the large banyan tree. She pushes her way through the crowd, and her eyes immediately fall on the body lying on the ground. The man lay face downwards on the grass, stripped naked – countless blood drenched gory marks all over his back are evidences shrieking in silence of how brutally he has been beaten up and stabbed. The fragmented skull of a cow lay beside the body – it looks like someone has broken it into pieces with a stick. Sarla kneels beside her husband’s lifeless body, burying her face in her hands, breaking down into copious sob. She had warned him not to leave home that morning; there was a premonition that eroded n

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her heart. The crowd is talking incessantly. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hands as she takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t want my husband to be cremated. I want his body to be buried behind our house,’ she mutters, and her wish raises eyebrows all over the village. ‘They’re Hindus. Why does the woman want her husband’s body to be buried?’ – A few voices are heard whispering in the crowd. After hours of argument, Brijwasi Lal’s body is finally buried behind his hut, just before sunset, as the west sky turns from a pale tint of orange to a dusty purple hue of dusk. After everyone is gone, Sarla stands there staring at his grave – the dug-up soil looks like the ruggedness of their lives. The dusk blends into the darkness of night, as one by one oil lamps illuminate the other houses of the village, the winds swallow her wails of agony. Three years later, a tall man enters Sarla’s shabby hut – he is the member of the rural welfare club, distributing sweets after a ceremonious puja at the ancient temple. ‘Maa ji, I’m here to give you the prasaad,’ he smiles as he approaches her, lying on the cot with her aching back rested against a tattered pillow.

He is holding a medium sized boxful of sweets in his hand. ‘Keep the box on the cot. Thank you for coming all the way to my house,’ she smiles at him as she pushes her frail body on the torn mattress and sits up. ‘Nobody comes here. We’re untouchables,’ she says. The man sits on the edge of the cot, looking around the hut. There isn’t much to see – two or three utensils and a few discoloured sarees. ‘Wait, I’ll get you a glass of water,’ she tells him, and he nods. A moment later, a loud thud is heard – no outsider can hear it as the hut has only one tiny window – the man is lying on the floor – groaning in pain as blood oozes out of the side of his head. Sarla stands near the bleeding head of the dying man, her uncombed grey hair let loose like the Goddess they pray to at the ancient temple, breathing out hard like she has just finished a long race – in her right hand she holds a bone – a human femur bone. It is difficult for her to carry the bone.Brijwasi Lal was a tall man. ‘In the name of God,’ she mutters, as she hits the man’s head one last time. r

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THE PARROT Bakul Banerjee, Illinois

“K

hnachar Bhiitor Ochin Pakhi Kemone Asy Jay… (Translation: How does the unknown bird in the cage fly in and out?” – Lalan Fakir, 19th Century Bengali Mystic) At work that morning, Chilka couldn’t get rid of the strain of Lalan Fakir’s song out of her head. She had been listening to it while driving to work. A little, brown bird with a long beak was sitting on the powerline outside her office window. She could hear it singing a soft song as if it was an accompaniment to Lalan’s song. The bird song seeped through the office windows. These windows mustn’t be airtight, but I am glad that it is not. That bird would neither enter any cage nor would escape. For a second, she thought she under-

stood what the mystic was trying to say, but the phone rang. It was around 10:30 am. The call was from the head of the Computer Security of the laboratory. “Can you come to my office now?” He said. The urgency in this voice was unmistakable. What might be the reason for such a summons? Chilka wondered. She knew that such a call is never good. When her previous employer was going through a massive lay-off period, it had happened to her. At the end of that walk, like many n

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others, she had no job. However, it was expected. People were being laid off every day that month. She had heard no such rumors here recently. The man at the desk was staring at a stack of old-fashioned perforated computer printouts. He didn’t offer her a seat. Several rows of the top sheet were highlighted in yellow. “I am sorry. We have a serious matter at hand,” he said. “Somebody in your house is surfing through porn sites,” he said fixing his gaze on her face. She felt as if somebody was choking her. Her eyes began tearing up and a tremor ran through her body. Within moments she understood this was about the ISDN line the laboratory had provided to her home. Since part of her work was related to the 24x7 control system software support for the scientific facilities around the world, she was asked to install the dedicated ISDN equipment at home. In late nineties, decent ISDN equipment was becoming cheap enough so that companies could offer them to employees to squeeze out every drop of productivity. She never liked

the idea yet had no choice. As the sole earning member of a household with two children in college, she wasn’t in a position to argue with the bosses. She had to sign about half a dozen or so agreements promising to keep the system secure. Accessing any vulnerable sites was prohibited. She explained the rules to her family members before the installation of the system on her home computer. The ISDN line was much faster and, of course, free. Her children were away at college and they used the internet at school. Her husband lost his job several years ago and stayed at home. How could this happen? There must be some mistake. Everything she did at home was work-related. Although there was no rule against a modest amount of surfing, she had no time for that. She made sure that everybody at home knew that her system would be monitored. Every company had zerotolerance for porn-site surfing but tools to prevent such activities automatically were few. She heard that some employees were walked out without any notice for internet misuse. Perhaps, the terror was visible on her face. “Chilka, please sit down. We checked. You were here when these sites were accessed. Did you explain the rules to your family members?” He continued. She plopped down on the hard office chair opposite him. Taking the stack from his hand she scanned the timestamps on the highlighted lines. None of the children were at home on those weekdays either.

“Only my husband was at home – like every day for the past seven years!” She couldn’t hide the frustration in her voice. She was sure that it was her husband. It wasn’t enough for him to paste porn queen pictures on the desktop screen in the privacy of the den. He had to do it on her work computer. When he lost his job, she was upset but didn’t give much thought to it. He never bothered to look for another job or help out with household chores, but she earned enough money and housework was something she enjoyed doing. It gave her some reprieve from long hours of sitting at the desk. “Doesn’t he work? Do you think he was the one who was doing it?” “Yes, I am sure of it. And no, there is nothing wrong with him. He has been unemployed for several years,” Chilka said letting her frustrations gush out. Chilka, you are doing it again. When would you learn your lessons? She fought back her instinct to defend her husband. “We thought so. In this case, the management has decided that it is best to remove the equipment from your home. You may have to come to work at odd hours whenever needed.” “Thank you very much. I will return the box and wires tomorrow,” she replied. However, her anxiety persisted. She wasn’t exactly paranoid, but there were enough people in the laboratory, particularly in the management fiefdom, that would be happy to get rid of her. This incident would be a suitable weapon to them. n

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She took her walk of shame through the Computer Security Department hallway, lined with offices of system administrators and technicians. Some of them looked up as she passed by. She was sure that several of them would know about the trouble she was in. She kept her tearing eyes fixed to the floor. It was strange that in spite of her agony, she noted the weirdness of those offices. The lingering odor of sweaty exercise shorts and dirty socks turned inside out hanging on the cabinets in one of the offices followed her. She noted the clean spiffy desk of the brown-nosing middle manager who made a career of endearing himself to big honchos by snooping on others. His papers were always neatly filed and locked away in cabinets. She walked past an office piled high with stacks of yellowing papers everywhere although he worked on computer security. What was this man doing with so much of yellowing papers? It was a fire hazard. She couldn’t rationalize why she was thinking about these men while she should be petrified with fear about the prospect of looking for another job soon. Three different computers loaded with three different operating systems and security levels were spewing out hot air in her office. The songbird was still swinging on the wire outside. It turned toward her as if trying to tell her something. Suddenly she recognized it by its yellow breast. It was an eastern meadowlark, somewhat uncommon in this populated area. Chilka couldn’t remember

how she managed to return home that day. Before entering the garage, she didn’t notice that Raj, her husband, parked his car over the middle line of the garage again. She barely had any space to get out of her own. He did it routinely in spite of her repeated complaints. He would park carefully for a couple of weeks but would return to his old habit. That day, like an automaton she squeezed her car in. She decided to get out of it twisting her hip. Later, she would regret this huge mistake. She went straight to her computer and ripped out the ISDN box. She tried to explain to Raj that she might lose her job because of his pornographic obsessions. “What is the big deal? Everybody watches porn,” he replied and left the room. After living in the marriage arranged by her parents for twenty-five years, Chilka knew that it would be pointless to try to explain to him the terror she felt about the prospect of another job search. Within two days, an excruciating pain crept through her left hip and leg. At first, she thought she must have sprained her leg. She was organizing an important conference with big bosses in another city. All her energy and attention were concentrated on it. On the last day of the three-day meeting out of town, the pain became unbearable. Carrying around a heavy backpack with conference materials didn’t help either. The usual over-the-counter pain medication had stopped working. On

the day of her return, she had to order wheelchairs at both departure and arrival gates. It took three more days to get appointments with her primary doctor and an orthopedic doctor. She found out that her left pelvic ring was broken into two pieces. The good or bad news was that the doctor told her such fractures cannot be repaired surgically. “You have to lie down on your back or tummy for at least ten days. Also, that cane won’t do. Get a walker today. I am going to give you a referral for a handicap parking tag,” the doctor said. “What about work?” Chilka asked. “If it is allowed, you can work from home.” She still had the dial-up internet line and the phone. She went home afterward. “Oh well. You do whatever you have to do. I am leaving to play cards now,” Raj said when Chilka told him about the broken bone and asked his help with getting the walker and the tag. Hobbling on her cane, she managed to get the handicap parking tag and the walker. Returning to work, she downloaded the necessary files on her laptop. For the first two days, working from home wasn’t bad although her upstairs bedroom was somewhat uncomfortable in the afternoon. It was an unusually hot summer. On the third day, the heat became oppressive. On Sunday morning, she n

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cooked a big dinner. Before going upstairs to lie down after lunch, she made sure to turn down the thermostat to 73 degrees. Raj kept the thermostat downstairs at 78 degrees. That meant that the temperature upstairs would reach 90 degrees or more. However, it was futile. She knew that the moment she would go upstairs, Raj would reset it to his liking and continue with his TV watching. Chilka told herself that she just had to get through five more days of lying down. She would try to drink more water to ward off the possibility of dehydration. On the following Wednesday afternoon, she completed a scheduled conference call. Since morning she had a headache but tried to concentrate on writing the meeting summary while lying on her stomach. Fearing an oncoming migraine, she managed to fish out the old barfing bowl and a water-bottle from the bathroom and left them under the bed as a precaution. Soon, those two things came in handy. After throwing up most of her stomach content, she felt better and started typing minutes of the meeting. She wouldn’t be able to remember when the chaotic dream started filling her brain. Days later, she would stitch together a disjointed set of strange happenings that might or might not have occurred during that long summer afternoon. A squawking noise woke her up with a start. The room was

very hot and humid. Although sunlight was filtering through the old windows, a thick fog enveloped her. She saw the small vice that she had set up in her tiny jewelry workshop in the basement. She used it to make tiny tubes twisting copper wire. The vice grew large – almost a hundred times bigger. Using that vice, somebody standing behind her was twisting a length of wire tightly around her head. In her terror-filled nightmare, the bird in front of her office window appeared, but not with its sweet song. She couldn’t tell if it was flying above the fog or just floating in it. She couldn’t tell if it was outside or inside the room. The color of its back was turning green. The long beak was yellow and much shorter. It must have escaped from the golden birdcage hanging from the ceiling beam. But the cage hadn’t been there before. The bird looked familiar. She knew it from her long-forgotten childhood in her grandfather’s home, perhaps she was about six years old then – but that couldn’t be. It must be dead now.The parrot could really talk. Its favorite word was “bloody swine,” her grandfather’s curse word, a proper British one. The parrot belonged to her grandfather. She corrected herself. Birds do not belong to anybody. Even if they are trapped in a cage, they are always free like our consciousness. They can come and go as they will. “Chilka, wake up, wake up,” the bird kept screeching and swooped down on her hitting her with its beak. Chilka could-

n’t stay awake. “Chilka, you are going to die now. Chilka, ekhon tui more jabi.” The bird squawked again, first in English, then in Bengali, the language from her childhood. It kept on pecking her, repeating those two phrases. Chilka sat up and tried to shake herself out of the torpor. She managed to call 911 and give them enough information. It took ages for the paramedics to arrive, at least that’s what she felt. The silly parrot never stopped circling above her. The next waking moment was when she heard the piercing sounds of the ambulance or police cars – who knew what else. Somehow, she knew she had to drag herself out of the room to the top of the foyer. “Nobody called 911 from this house. You are mistaken.” Raj was arguing with the officers at the front door and was about to close it on their face. Chilka mustered all her strength to stumble out of the bedroom, collapsing with a big thud on the landing. Within seconds, officers were around her doing whatever they do. “It is so terribly hot here. No wonder she is suffering from dehydration,” one of them said. That was the last thing she heard before she lost consciousness again. Her daughter, Preeti, was by her side when she was released from the hospital two days later. In the car, she handed Chilka a crushed golden birdcage earring. She remembered that it was sitting on her bedside table. “What happened? You were n

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hallucinating about a bird in the hospital. What was that bird? Paramedics folks found this earring in your fist. I know it is one of your favorites.” She asked. “It was the old parrot at my grandpa’s house where I was born. He saved my life. And …” Chilka didn’t tell her daughter about the mystic Lalan Fakir’s song that she kept hearing during this ordeal. She knew children didn’t like parents talking about leaving this world as implied in that song. “By the way, Dad left for his card game. He told me to tell you that we are out of leftover food. What a jerk!” she said, with a knowing smirk hanging on her lips as she negotiated the car out of the parking lot. “Chilka, let the bird have its cage, but leave the door open, always …” She heard Fakir’s voice. At that blink of a moment, she knew, unlike the meadowlark, she could never fly away. Her mother, living ten thousand miles away, stopped speaking or writing to her for eight months when she shortened her hair. She couldn’t imagine her mother’s reaction to a divorce. “You never told me why you never divorced Dad? You could have done well all by yourself!” I didn’t do it because of you. Your dad would have returned to India to get married within a month abandoning you, Chilka thought as she touched her daughter’s cheek riddled with pesky acne spots. Even my parents would have severed any ties with you and me. We get only one mother in a lifetime! r

At the Bus Stop Debu Majumdar, Washington

stood at the bus stop near the big market in Shyambazar. It was early afternoon. The smell of rotting vegetable trimmings on the sidewalk suffused the area, competing with the suffocating exhaust of buses and taxis that whizzed by. Handpulled rickshaws and carts loaded with goods crowded the street. I saw a sweet store nearby, displaying layers of decorated sandesh, rasogollas and samosas inside a glass cabinet. A street-dog sat at the entrance of the store, looking at the sweets and occasionally wagging its tail. I looked at the far end of the street; a tram was coming, but no bus. My eyes shifted to a large billboard on top of the opposite building with a brightly colored poster advertising a Hindi film; the hero looked eagerly at a slim–waisted, heavy–bosomed dancer, one leg stretched forward with decorative silver bells on her ankle. In the background a train was climbing a beautiful scenic hill with green pine trees and snowy mountains—a dreamland. Then my attention drifted to an older lady under the concrete bridge over the canal. Thin, dark, shriveled, she wore only a dirty rag which looked as if it had never been washed. A refugee. She squatted before a small open fire. She had just cooked rice in a can over her fire. Steam was still rising. I recognized the can, a Ganesh Oil can. She must have collected it from the garbage and was using it as her cooking pot. I kept on watching the lady. She had a little bundle next to her and a long stick. Her graying hair was long, dusty and knotted. There was something unusual about her. I didn’t know what it was, perhaps her wide, black eyes, and her quiet demeanor. Perhaps her aloneness. I started to imagine her life and how she happened to come to this spot; perhaps she was the only survivor on a train, fleeing from East Bengal, dripping with blood—all other passengers killed by the

swords of the Muslims. A double-decker bus came. My bus? No. There must be something wrong; why was the bus so late today? I was annoyed and gazed again at the lady, who was cleaning a little place to sit down. The woman looked old but she was probably in her midthirties, at most forty. She must have been forced to leave East Bengal in her prime, a decade and a half back. According to the custom I knew, she must have been married off early, as most girls were at that time, perhaps to a landless laborer. But life wasn’t so bad in East Bengal; there were always fish in the rivers and ponds, and rain and warm weather allowed rice and vegetables to grow abundantly in the fertile delta. n

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Another bus came, obstructing my view. Some men got down, some got up, the bus rolled away belching dense, black diesel fumes. No sign of my bus. My view went back to the refugee woman. She was transferring the cooked rice into another can. The water from the boiled rice looked brown when she slopped it onto the ground; it wasn’t the color I had seen in my mother’s kitchen. The sun’s rays cast sharp shadows from the bridge. Watching those geometric patterns, I drifted to daydreams, continuing to imagine the life of the refugee woman in East Bengal. I saw a village with lush green trees and rice fields. The woman was now young and standing in front of a hut with a gamcha—a thin, red cotton towel—in her hand. She wore a clean, white cotton sari with blue border, part of which she had pulled over her head, as married Hindu women do. She had a large red mark of sindur on her forehead. How young, how healthy, she looked. Then I imagined her husband coming from a distance with sweaty body and dirty feet. He only said, “Give.” She gave him the towel and he marched away to the tubewell to wash. She went inside to prepare his supper. The loud shout of the sweet shop owner distracted my reverie. “Hut, hut, go away,” the sweetshop owner cursed the stray dog. Still there was no sign of my bus. I looked at the woman again. She was taking a morsel from the can to her mouth. Only boiled rice. That’s all she would have, perhaps, until the next day. The vision of an actual scene of a wedding feast I had observed the month before came to my mind. A variety of wonderful food was cooked—meat, fish and sweets. And more food was served than the guests could eat. It was part of the custom. The leftover food on the banana leaf plates were then wrapped quickly to clear the place for the next batch of eaters, and thrown away to dustbins. Beggars waited outside the house and fought over the food—a piece of fish, or meat, or sweet that they had not tasted for so long they had forgotten it existed. They fought like dogs. The shrill crying sound of the dog woke me from daydreaming. The shop owner must have given it a good kick. “Stupid dog, entering my store?” The dog ran almost blindly, limping and crying. “Oh, not there,” I cried out as I saw the dog run toward the lady and dash into her. The woman fell

on her side, and the can dropped from her hand. A small amount of rice spilled out on the dusty concrete path of the bridge. I wished someone would lift her up, but no one came to her. It seemed no one had noticed the event. The haggard woman pulled herself up and, dropping to her hands and knees on the hard cement, fumbled to collect the scattered rice. She then used a corner of her sari to wipe dirt from the rice and placed her handful back into the tin can. That was inviting disease; she shouldn’t be eating anything from the dirty ground. My heart sank and I sighed deeply wishing for a miracle. But nothing happened. The woman bent down and collected a few more of the scattered rice grains. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I could do something for the poor lady. Hadn’t she suffered enough? I reached into my pocket and found that I had two rupees and a few coins; I could buy her food. Perhaps today, once in many years, I could make her happy. I could buy something right here from the sweet store. Just then a double-decker bus showed up. It was my bus! I hesitated for a moment. The bus obstructed the view of the refugee woman, and somehow, I reverted to habit and boarded the bus in a sort of daze. As I reached the top deck, I looked back and saw the lady still picking rice up from the wet ground. I looked back at the steps—they were jammed with new passengers. I couldn’t get out of the bus even if I wanted to, I told myself. “What are you looking back at the bridge for?” the man behind me asked. “It will be there tomorrow. Please move forward, so we can stand at ease.” The bus gave a jerk and moved on. r n

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Noorjahan Anita Sharif-Hyder, Massachusetts

he came to work at my shoshurbari at the age of seven. Her mother deemed a pagol, her father deceased, she an only child. Noorjahan was skinny and scrawny and illiterate. At first, she helped the elder servants of the house with minor household tasks, such as cleaning, folding laundry, setting the table, clearing dishes. She was clothed and fed three meals a day, with the bonus of receiving new clothes for Eid. Noorjahan was safe, happy. I met Noorjahan on July 29th, 1999, the day I was married. She

was twenty-five years old. I arrived at my shoshurbari as a notunbou bou, apprehensive, quiet, shy. I was greeted by countless family members on my husband’s side, eager to welcome me as the newest member in their home. There she was, quietly going about her assigned tasks, serving the guests, making sure that the festivities ran smoothly. I recall her glancing at me from time to time, with a cautious yet tentative smile on her face. I immediately smiled back… somehow, she understood how overwhelmed I was feeling with n

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all the probing faces around me. It was finally time to go to sleep. I saw her entering the decorated bridal bedroom, with 2 water glasses on a tray. As I settled into my new surroundings, she quietly asked, “Bhabi, apnar aro kichu lagbe?” I assumed she meant to help me take out the safety pins, clips, and the weighty adornments covering my body. I thanked her and said no, that I would manage, still feeling unsure as to what I could and could not ask of her. She responded with a simple nod and left the room.

I recall vividly these days after my wedding, where Noorjahan was on call to be by my side to cater to my needs. Ironing my clothes, heating the balti of hot water for my baths, helping me set my hair, assisting with any finishing touches, fixing the pleats on my sari. We would have stolen conversations amidst the busy household, where I caught glimpses of her personality… honest, grateful, uncomplaining. She worked tirelessly from dawn to late night, well past when the occupants of the house fell asleep, always preparing for the day ahead. Since that occasion almost twenty years ago, I have seen Noorjahan six times during my visits to Bangladesh. She has since married, had a daughter, and has transformed from the timid, unassuming girl to a mature, clever and enterprising woman. Thanks to the oversight of my shashuri, Noorjahan is the unspoken “head of the household”, who governs the daily operations, supervising the other servants, managing the expenses of the daily khoroch for everyday expenses. Her daughter Shamina, age fourteen, is an avid reader, speaks English, and excels in her studies. Due to her hard work and loyalty to the family, Noorjahan is the caretaker of my father-in-law’s

dhaan-khet in Kishoregonj gram, where she and her husband toil all day tending to the livestock, the fish in the pukur, and maintenance of the gram’er bari. Now, whenever we plan our visits to Dhaka, Noorjahan is there to greet us with open arms when we enter the door. Having her there is comforting… you know that you will be well looked after. She asks me every day what I want to eat, if I need anything, or if something is not to my liking. All of this is done with her genuine smile, compassion and diligence. I have not seen her complain, despite the occasional dhomoks and bokas she receives from the maliks of the house. Without asking she sits next to me during the lazy hours of the afternoon and presses my feet, massages oil into my hair. We chat, laugh, and share our mutual love and fondness for each other. I know that our time together is short, and I do what I can to bring her what she asks for from abroad without compromising her status with the other servants in the house. I know I will cry when I hug her goodbye. Noorjahan…I miss you...thank you for all that you are and all that you do, and I can’t wait to see you again. r

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Cynthia Basab Dasgupta, California

ynthia Schmidt was the first Caucasian woman I developed a connection with during my graduate student days in Physics at the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. I viewed all other white women that I had met until then, in personal or professional situation, as objects of lust. I was happily married at the time. The thought of any infidelity never crossed my mind. Cynthia was a slender woman, blue-eyed with blonde hair, of German origin. She was an attractive woman, but not sexy. She was dating Marco Pirelli, my very extroverted Italian officemate at school, and frequently used to stop by to see Marco. That was how I met her. I realized very quickly that Cindi, as Marco called her, was not only a very intelligent person herself, she also admired and respected other intelligent people. Unlike many other women, she saw me as a fellow student and not as a foreign student. She was also mature and professionally experienced, having worked as a head nurse at a local hospital. She was a pre-med student as she wanted to become a doctor. I had plenty of topics to talk to Cindi about whenever she stopped by, whether Marco was there or not. I enjoyed those conversations. Unlike my wife she also had a wonderful sense of humor and appreciated my jokes. I still remember one incident to make this point. My desk was always cluttered with stacks of various papers usually covering the entire desktop. One time, I found

that all the papers covering my desk were glued together by some transparent spray-on glue and there was a piece of paper on top with the note: “Underneath all these rubbles, miracle – we found a table”. It was Cynthia’s writing! Marco and I would occasionally talk about Cindi in a “guy-to-guy” sense. He would talk about her physical attributes and how she was in bed. It was probably such discussions that made me start thinking of Cindi in a sexual way. I must confess that I started to like the fantasy of being in bed with her. Marco said she liked me. I remember one morning I ran into her on campus between classes. She looked at me, smiled and said, “You look very handsome”. No one and I mean no one, male or female, Indian or American, had complimented me like that until that time. I was a teaching assistant and coincidentally, Cynthia ended up being a student in one of the undergraduate classes I was teaching during one spring semester. She was a reasonably good student and I was always happy to help whenever she came to my office with any questions. I gave her an overall grade of “A minus” at the end of the semester. n

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Being a pre-med student aiming for the fiercely competitive admission into a medical school, she was not at all happy with that grade. She wanted an “A”. So, she came to my office during lunch break one day and started to argue/negotiate/plead with me to change the grade. Marco was not around. I closed the office door and continued the exchange. It was almost summertime and Cindi had a long shirt on and presumably a very short shorts underneath it because her legs were completely exposed. Through the opening in her partially unbuttoned shirt I could see that she was wearing a skimpy green bikini. Perhaps for a moment I felt vulnerable to being seduced. I did not want to continue the discussion for too long. I maintained the dignity of my marriage as well as my profession by giving her an “A” — just to end the session. To this very day, I wonder how far Cynthia would have gone in her efforts to negotiate her grade. Cynthia remained a good friend. One evening, she invited me and my wife as well as Marco for dinner at her place. She lived in the upstairs level of a traditional east-side bungalow close to Lake Michigan. She shared the place with another girl, Paula Bagola, who was a sexy brunette with a big bosom. Cindi cooked Beef Stroganoff — a dish that we really enjoyed. We reciprocated later by inviting her and Marco to our house on my birthday. They gave me a T-shirt with the iconic picture of Farah Fawcett in an orange swimsuit on the front as a gag gift. I never made a pass at Cindi, but always had a crush on her. Marco soon left town to pursue his PhD study at another university. My attraction towards Cindi only increased after that. I remember, when my wife was pregnant, she would often go to bed early, leaving me feeling somewhat lonely. One such evening, I ended up calling Cindi and talking about various things. She did not consider it to be strange that a married man was calling her late in the evening for no good reason. I informed Cindi about our daughter’s birth. She said she would definitely stop by to see the baby. She did, but with a gentleman accompanying her whom she introduced as “my fiancé”. I was disappointed and surprised; surprised that she had not only found another man so soon after Marco’s departure but also got engaged to him.

We left town soon thereafter and moved to Arizona, where I found a job as a post-doctoral research associate at the University of Arizona. Although I did think of Cindi many times after we left Milwaukee, I assumed that she got married to her fiancé and I got busy with my new job, baby and other chores. It was not until 1995, some fourteen years or so later and after my divorce, that I thought of Cindi again. Now that I was free, I could date her, and she could be the perfect wife for me. Even though she had a fiancé, I knew how flimsy such relationships were in this society. I tried to locate her in Milwaukee through the only avenue available at the time— the telephone directory — but with no luck. Then I tried to locate Paula, Cindi’s roommate. Once again, my efforts failed. I rationalized that they either got married or moved out of Milwaukee. Many years later, in 2012 to be exact, I suddenly had an opportunity to visit Milwaukee to attend the wedding of a friend’s daughter. I started thinking of Cindi again before my trip. I did many searches on the internet using various search engines— the Linked-in website, Facebook and other social media networks — for Cynthia Schmidt as well as Paula Bagola. and once again had no luck. However, I found several people with the last name Schmidt in Oshkosh, Wisconsin and started calling them at random to see if anyone knew Cynthia. After about three tries, I ended up talking to a very friendly lady who knew a Cynthia Schmidt, who was a cousin of her husband and lived in Milwaukee. Cindi was a medical doctor and married by now, but she did not remember Cindi’s married name nor her phone number. However, she believed that Cindi had a brother named Steve, who lived in Oshkosh! I immediately started to search for Steve Schmidt in Oshkosh. Google search popped up several websites. Most of them referred to some sort of counseling center, named “New Life Counseling” and I clicked on the one which was apparently their website. The website had both an e-mail address as well as a phone number of the center. First, I tried the e-mail: “I am trying to locate Cynthia Schmidt, who I went to school with. She is most likely a medical doctor, living in Milwaukee, and has a brother named Steve living in Oshkosh. I am hoping that you are that brother. If n

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so, please let Cynthia know that one of her old friends from college, Ashok, called. I would visit Milwaukee next week after a long time and would love to see her. She can contact me by e-mail or phone. If you are not that Steve Schmidt please accept my sincere apologies”. As my luck would have it, the e-mail bounced back as being “undeliverable”. I had only one hope left: perhaps I could get through to Steve by phone. I called the number at the website which had a prerecorded message. I left basically the same message as I had written in the e-mail. Once again, there was no response. Three days later my phone rang, showing a number from Milwaukee. I assumed that it was someone related to my friend. A female voice asked, “Can I talk to Ashok?” I answered, as a matter of habit, “Who is this?” The voice at the other end said “Cynthia; Cynthia from Milwaukee”. I was completely speechless for several seconds and then exclaimed “Just hold on. It is a miracle!” I was truly ecstatic. I had given up hope of ever reaching her. Her voice now seemed so familiar from all those years ago. Many thoughts flashed through my mind in those few seconds. Was she single? How did she look? Judging by the fact that she called me, she must still remember me very fondly! Even if she was married, would she have dinner with me in Milwaukee? Could there possibly be anything more? We talked for a very long time. I was going on and on about all the things that had happened to me since I had last seen her; she was also reciprocating. She was married to an architect who was “different” from her, but the marriage was working. They did not have any kids. After her medical school, she joined the Military and spent six months in Egypt during Desert Storm. She got married late – at age thirty-eight. She had retired from Military as a flight surgeon and now worked at a health clinic. They had a house in Appleton but lived most of the time at a lake-front home in Milwaukee. There was one piece of bad news: Paula had developed breast cancer and passed away at age twenty-five. It was ironic that a woman with beautiful big breasts would die of breast cancer. I told her about my impending visit to Milwaukee and asked if she could join me for lunch or coffee. I stepped back from the dinner idea since she seemed

to be happily married; I even suggested that she could bring her husband if she wanted. She said that they were leaving for France over the weekend and would be away for two weeks. However, she seemed very interested to see me and, in any case, continue the interaction through phone and/or e-mail. She gave me her contact information. I mentioned her home-cooked Stroganoff and her grade negotiation clad in a bikini. She remembered both events and we had a good laugh. Even though she was married, I felt happy. It was that connection which I had not felt with too many women. I was dying to see what she looked like. She said that she was a few pounds lighter but did not have any gray hair. I even told her, “Send me a photograph from France”. Now that I knew her married name was “Cynthia Baxter”, I again did a Google search when I went home. Several websites came up and some of them had a photograph of her. She still looked beautiful and had all the features I remembered in her face. I stared at the picture for a long time. I wished that I was with her. I wished that she would get divorced and we would finally fall in love with each other. I fantasized that we could live in Arizona during the winter and at her lake-front home in Wisconsin during the summer. Judging by her looks in the photograph, I started to wonder when this photograph was taken. I was certain that it was not a current picture because she was, at least, as old as I. In the photograph she looked to be in her forties or early fifties at most. I started to go through all the websites that resulted from Google search to see if I could find some other photos of her. I hit a jackpot: one website had a short video clip featuring her. Next came the most anti-climactic moment. She looked so old in the video! She had sunken eyes, wrinkled skin and drooping flesh in the chin – looking nothing like the Cindi I remembered or the picture on the other website. I was truly shocked and sad. I was sad not for Cynthia; she was probably happy with herself and enjoying her life. I was sad and horrified for myself. I realized that this was how I would look like in a few years. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my hairline to see how large my bald spot was and how much gray hair I had. I pulled my chin to see how loose my skin was. I smiled and looked at my yellowing irregular teeth n

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with a few missing ones. I wondered if anyone would say “Ashok, you really look very handsome today”. Of course, I know that I am aging. However, I had this “aging gracefully” concept embedded in my head. I assumed that my aging would be continuous and dignified – kind of like Sean Connery. Suddenly I realized that, continuous or not, I would look like a gargoyle in a few years. I would not want to be seen by anyone when that happens. I would want everyone to know that, inside, I am still forever young. I realized once again that life is just an illusion – a game that God plays with us to see how much we can learn about the absolute truth by passing through this illusion. I suddenly found value in the idea of growing old together. Perhaps if one stayed married to the same person, the love and attraction transcended age and physical looks. Perhaps that is the main benefit of a long marriage. Perhaps Paula was the lucky one : no one would ever see her as

an old hag. I wondered why Cindi did not take better care of her looks, especially (considering the fact that she was a doctor) by eating healthy food and taking various vitamins and supplements. Why didn’t she undergo some plastic surgery? I did not know how much longer I was going to live, but it became clear that I would not have a look presentable to women for too many more years. Time was running out for me to do anything a man did with his physical beauty and strength. I entered my next mid-life crisis, or more precisely an old-life crisis! Cindi did not call me after her return from France. She probably realized that I was still somewhat obsessed with her looks which she no longer had. Continuing a social interaction with me would serve no good purpose. I was also relieved that she did not call. It would have been awkward if I saw her again. r

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Shards of Memory: Apartment Search Benoy R. Samanta, California

1. Coming to America When I entered engineering college in India over 55 years ago, I had neither the desire nor any inkling that I would head for the United States for further studies right after my graduation. America was a distant, far-away place. All I wanted was to finish my engineering education and get a job in the industry. Things changed, however, in my second year of college with a new roommate in the college hostel. He planted the seed into my head that going to America to study could also be a viable option. My roommate, who was an orphan from an early age, had migrated from Bangladesh (then East Pakistan) by crossing the border with India a year earlier. He was a Hindu and naturally wanted to be in secular India and join the rest of his extended family who had migrated earlier. Though he came to study engineering in India, his ultimate destination was America. There

he had an elder brother who was a medical doctor in Cleveland, Ohio. We soon became good friends. During college breaks in the summer months, we often visited the USIS (United States Information Service) library in Calcutta looking for American universities where we could apply. Our search was random, as we had no specific university in mind. We were looking in particular for colleges where financial aid was possible and there was no application fee. (The application fees back then varied from eight to twenty dollars, but even for that small sum we had to apply to the Reserve Bank of India. Dollar was in exceedingly short supply.) I soon discovered that getting admission into an American university was not difficult. What was truly difficult was obtaining any kind of financial assistance. Furthermore, without any evidence of financial support, the US Consulate would simply not issue a student visa. My friend had his brother to support him initially, n

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but I had no one. Or, at least that is what I thought. While growing up, our parents always put forward an example in front of us of one distant relative who was extraordinarily brilliant, had endured tremendous hardships in life, and gone to the United States for medical research at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) in Bethesda, Maryland. I was only five years old when he left. With much apprehension, I wrote him a letter, not seeking any help, but only informing what I was up to. To my surprise, he wrote back almost immediately and arranged for my admission for graduate studies at Howard University. He also arranged for a part-timer job in a research laboratory in the College of Medicine. Per US Immigration rule, a full-time foreign student could work for no more than twenty hours a week. By the time I wrote to my relative, he had left NIH and joined Howard University College of Medicine as a Full Professor. He was quite an influential man in the university. So, I arrived in Washington, DC, with one suitcase containing a few books, a few personal belongings and eight dollars in my wallet. Yes, eight dollars! That was all the Government of India allowed people on student visa to carry, and it was handed to me at the airport when I produced my passport and the student visa. My friend joined University of Missouri at Rolla for his graduate studies. 2. An angry Man with a Gun I lived for a month with my relative and then, after receiving two paychecks, I wished to be on my own and have my own place. Living in the University dorm was too expensive and hence out of question. I decided to live off-campus in an apartment. I found another Indian graduate student to be my roommate. However, I had a few challenges to overcome about the apartment. I needed an inexpensive but safe place, a place with easy access to public transportation and a place not too far from the campus, in case I wanted to walk to the campus to save on the bus fare. I selected an area about three miles from the university and, one weekend afternoon, ventured out on foot to look for an apartment. I entered a high-rise building in the Adams Morgan area of Washington, DC, with a vacancy sign outside. The building looked good from the outside, but not so clean in the lobby area. I could not locate the resident manager’s office and did not find anyone to ask, until I found a

man near the mailbox area. He was a resident of the building and directed me to a floor below in the basement where I could find the manager’s office. When I took the staircase down to the basement, I heard a loud and angry exchange of words between a male and a female voice. I had no doubt that the noise was coming from the manager’s apartment and thought of leaving the area immediately, but I did not. With some hesitation I knocked on the door. Everything became instantly quiet. Several seconds later, a middle-aged African American woman slowly opened the door. Her face was calm, almost serene, without a trace of any agitation whatsoever. She didn’t look like the woman who could be screaming and yelling moments earlier. She didn’t speak a word, but the look of her eyes asked me, “What is it?” “I am looking for an apartment,” I said. “Come in please, my husband is the manager,” she calmly said. I had just one foot in, in a somewhat dark apartment, and saw a bare-bodied African American man wearing only an underwear standing at a distance. He was sweating profusely, and his body appeared to be swelling in rage. And I had a quick glimpse of his angry eyes. The moment we made eye contact, he came running at me like a wild boar and slammed the door on my face. I had just stepped in and so was able to back out immediately, but I still got a little hurt in the foot. Though I was stunned by the man’s behavior, I felt an instant sense of guilt that I had gone in the middle of a violent argument between a man and his wife. I immediately came upstairs and saw the same man I had met moments earlier. I had just started describing to him what had taken place downstairs, but I could barely finish when the angry manager came up the staircase with a gun in his hand. He had put on pants but was still shirtless and barefooted. He put the gun on my chest and shouted right into my face, “Did you just now enter my room?” I felt the pressure of the nozzle on my chest, but I remained calm and quietly replied, “No, I didn’t.” He did not believe me and turned to the man I was speaking with while still holding the gun on my chest and asked, “Did this man just now enter my room?” This stranger echoed my lies and calmly replied, “No, I have been talking with him here for a while.” n

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“Someone entered my room just now and I am going to kill him,” he angrily announced. The manager was not in his senses and ran amok like a wild animal — from the back of the lobby to the front and up and down the stairway — looking for the man who had entered his room. Finally, he took the staircase down to his apartment. All through this time, I remained standing there with the stranger, completely unperturbed. I did not panic or make any attempt to run away. However, I was quite shaken up after I came out on the street. At the time, I was in the country for barely one month and knew nothing about America’s gun rights and gun culture. Though I was appalled at the man’s behavior, I blamed myself for my own stupidity and did not tell anyone of this incident. Not too far from this place, I found another high-rise apartment building. It was ideally suited for me and my roommate and met all our requirements. The building was safe and was guarded by a security guard in the lobby. He was African American named Clarence. He sat at a desk in one corner of the lobby and knew all the residents of the building. He greeted everyone when they came in and would always get up from his chair to open the locked glass door at nighttime if the hands of the residents were occupied with either groceries or books or other things. He was uniformed like a cop and his demeanor was tough, but he was a very kind man, and also a man of few words. An equally kind, affectionate and endearing person was his wife, Emma, who treated me very affectionately. Once Emma scolded me for not wearing a winter coat on an especially cold day. She feared I would catch pneumonia and bought me a parka the following day. In the evening she came down from her apartment in the building and sat on a chair next to her husband. She knew my schedule and would often wait with freshly backed chocolate chip cookies wrapped in paper towels to hand to me when I returned from school in late evenings. 3. A Pleasant but Discriminating Woman with a Smile Two years later, I graduated and got my first job in a company in Silver Spring, Maryland, just outside the DC border. The distance to the office was not much but the commute was long because I had to drive through the city with endless traffic lights. So, I decided to move. An apartment complex on 16th

Street, near the border of DC and Maryland, caught my eye. It was a huge garden-type complex with numerous three-storied brick buildings surrounded by tall trees. It was located in a quiet area adjacent to the well-known Rock Creek Park, had plenty of parking space and an easy access to public transportation. And most importantly, the rents were reasonable. The only problem was there was no vacancy. That’s what I was told by a very pleasant and attractive woman in the rental office. However, she made me fill up an application form and told me to check with her later. The rental office was right on the main road I drove by every evening, so It was not a problem for me to stop by and enquire. In the beginning, I started stopping by the office every week, but later slowed down to once every two weeks. The answer from her was always the same: no vacancy. The woman was so pleasant, gentle and soft spoken that I believed her and hoped someday there would be at least one vacancy for me. The Americans are a mobile people, and the place was so huge that I did not lose any hope. Also, my mind was so set on that apartment complex, I did not look anywhere else. I was willing to wait. Months went by, seasons changed, but nothing happened. I also ceased stopping by the office that frequently. Several months went by, winter began, and the days were becoming shorter. By the time I got out of work, it got dark. While driving by the rental office on an especially cold, rainy December evening, I saw the lights were on and decided to stop by. I hadn’t done that for quite some time. Once again, I received the same familiar answer as soon as I walked in.There’s no vacancy. I was about to turn around and leave, but something happened with the weather outside. It felt like a huge storm moved in with a heavy downpour accompanied by thunder and lightning. I waited near the door for a while, thinking what to do, when Helen (that is what the woman’s name was) told me not to go out in that rain but wait till it stopped. There was a sofa nearby and I sat down. No one was waiting for me at home in those days. I do not recall how the conversation started, but Helen reported that she was very sad that she recently lost her mother to a long battle with cancer. She started talking about her mother at first, but she soon went back to her childhood in New Orleans, Louisiana, where she grew up. Her story was long, very long, and she spoke very n

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slowly and softly. Though I was thinking when her story would end and I could go home, I paid full attention listening to her. I didn’t even look at my watch once. In any case, the story finally ended nearly an hour later. She was so much overcome by emotion, she started sobbing. I probably said I was sorry to hear about her loss but did not know what else to do. I remained seated, immobile, at my place. There was a box of tissues on her desk and she wiped away her tears and regained her composure. That is when she said this: “I know my story was long, but I do not think there’s a single person in this world who would have the patience to listen to such a long story. You did. And I am going to do something for you. I have four vacancies and I will let you choose one that you want.” At first, I could not believe what I had just heard. Having said what she did, Helen opened a map of the area to show which apartments were available and let me choose the one I wanted. I was equal parts surprised and amused, to say the least, though I still did not understand why she had refused to rent me an apartment for so long and the cause of her sudden

change of mind. I did not know what else to say, except to thank her. She then told me this: “When you move in, you would be the first nonwhite person in the entire complex.” Now I understood! This was 1971 in Washington, DC. Obviously, I had faced a soft and subtle form of discrimination. My wife and I stayed in that apartment for many years. These two incidents, first the man who once held a gun to my chest and then the woman who refused to rent me an apartment perhaps because of the way I looked, took place nearly fifty years ago. I have not shared the experience with anyone. These are minor glitches in the overall scheme of life. I do fondly remember the woman who bought me a winter jacket when I had none and who patiently waited for me with freshly baked cookies when I returned home late in the evening. She was elderly then and must be gone by now, as is my distant relative who basically brought me into this country and became a father figure. My college friend who inspired me to come to the States achieved enormous success in life — academically, professionally and financially. We remain good friends to this day. r

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The Color of Wheat Tilottama Bose, New Jersey

Agni shone bright when born, with light killing the Dasyus and the dark: He found the Kine, the Floods, the Sun. —Rigveda 5.14.4 I scrubbed my face till my skin turned an ugly red and burned. That didn’t stop me from scrubbing it a bit more, and then slathering on a paste of yogurt and gram flour for added effect. I had to get the tan off my face, my hands and my feet, and especially my nose which had burned a bit more than the rest of my exposed skin. In that moment I had forgotten that a few days earlier I had enjoyed the dry and hot sun as I broke into an impromptu dance on the desert sand. And in that moment, I sadly devolved into a woman enslaved– old ropes that had slithered out from the depths of my subconscious to tighten the noose around the woman I choose to be. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

It’s her – the one with her lighter skin tone. It’s her with that chiseled nose. It’s not me – all tanned and dark from walking around in the Kolkata sun. It’s not me with my round tipped nose. I am just a dark skinned, flat nosed young adult trying to figure out why I should feel so attractive when everything else around me is telling me that I should not. From callous comments to huge sign boards advertising the unparalleled benefits of Fair & Lovely, from matrimonial ads touting a “wheatish” (did they mean wheat, really?) skin tone, to commercial films defining the Dream Girl, I was surrounded by messages dictating that I step back from who I thought I was and shine a little less. It is in this country where, for the first time in my conscious life, I heard strangers tell me they love my skin tone and that I was pretty. I am human, so it made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, till I figured out I could do better. So, I grew out of the labels to start defining myself beyond my physical characteristics. I realized that in our Eurocentric world, we set standards for ourselves which are artificial to our ethnicity and race. In India, perhaps we have an Aryan hangover and barring three, our plethora of divine beings are depicted as white. In the most recent bout of selfchastising, stemming from the act of scrubbing my skin, I tried to explore the whole culture of discrimination in India based on skin color. One of the articles I came across was by N. Mishra titled “India And Colorism -: The Finer Nuances”, which articulates, based on excerpts from the Rig Veda, n

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that in ancient Indian society, discrimination was based on the difference of color between the invading Aryans and the darker toned tribal population of the region known as Dasyus and Dasas. As most of us are aware of, there was constant war between these groups, and the Aryans conquered the land, pushing the tribes into secluded regions. Though there is much debate on the literal versus the metaphorical interpretations of the Vedas, the idea of dark being negative and white being pure, is clearly established. The current Varna Hindu population being descendants of the Aryans and followers of the caste system, holds on to this ancient and outdated notion of the ideal skin color. Racial mixing and adapting to a tropical climate may have led to the acceptance of a “wheatish” tone, moving slightly away from the original Indo-European skin color of yore. From almost white to the color of wheat could well be an upward move on the enlightenment scale, and I hope one day we will be as accepting of “coffee-ish” skin colors as well. From grain to seeds, I say!!! Much to my dismay, I catch myself looking in the mirror and pondering how many weeks need to pass

till I get back my almost “wheatish” complexion. The nose is a different matter. Going under a surgeon’s knife is quite different than putting on a mask of homemade paste. But I have caught myself thinking that if I had a nicely shaped nose, I might have had the joy of wearing a nose pin – a single sparkling diamond, no less. The struggle, my friends, is real. But what if I did fit the image of the societally touted version of a beautiful woman? Would I then dive deep into such matters? Perhaps not. I would have an enviable collection of nose rings which I would have bought with the money I saved from not buying yogurt and gram flour every time I returned from sunny lands. Pardon my levity, but perhaps an attempt at humor can dilute our tragic obsession with light toned skin. I have built myself up enough to recognize that I am having an undesirable long-drawn moment. Selfreflection is a critical attribute to rise above all things that plague my mind. Though I may still long for a better-defined side profile, I have not by any means sacrificed my learning, self-esteem and confidence to the altar of ignorance. r

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Memorable Maitreyi Devi Mandira Chattopadhyay, New Jersey

handful of critics have commented on the two books, “It Does Not Die” by Maitreyi Devi and “Bengal Nights” by Mircea Eliade. But I have not come across any account describing Maitreyi Devi’s avid love for her ‘Gurudev’, as described in “It Does notDie.” In that book, she expressed her wholehearted admiration towards Rabindranath Tagore by narrating how the poet had lifted her up from all kinds of adverse situations. Maitreyi Devi always fascinated me, because my late mother adored her; she was her favorite character. Maitreyi Devi was famous in my mother’s time; and very often my mother would bring up her story. Both the characters Mircea and Maitreyi seemed to me to be very interesting. In the beginning, much like his fellow Europeans Mircea saw Indians as ignorant, dark skinned and inferior. Even after moving into Mr. Sen’s (Maitreyi’s father) home to learn Eastern philosophy and Sanskrit, he did not find Maitreyi very attractive. Gradually Mircea was enchanted by the beauty and mannerism of the sixteen-year old Maitreyi. Soon they

became close to each other. Maitreyi Devi was born in an upper-class Hindu household and was constantly confused between her parents’ view of what was right and what was wrong. She liked Mircea a lot, but she told him, “Why can’t we like each other as brother and sister?” They both adored each other. When Maitreyi’s sister reported to their strict parents about the intimacy that grew between them over the months, their father instantly banished Mircea. However, Mircea did not leave India instantly. Instead, he stayed in an Ashram and led the life of a hermit. In the meantime, like Shakespeare’s tragic characters, they both tried to send letters to each other through Khoka, Maitreyee’s cousin. Eventually Mircea left India and wrote a juicy novel about their relationship that sold like hot cakes in his native country. On the other hand, Maitreyee kept their precious relationship private, but confided everything to her guru Tagore. She did not think that she did anything unethical. Mircea came from a foreign land where promiscuity was openly permissible; n

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so, what he wrote was acceptable there. Whereas, in India at that time women were scrutinized under the eyes of the elders. Even after Mircea left, the taste of love that she shared with Mircea lingered with her, though she was happily married. Her parents married her off hastily but nonetheless she was always content with her husband. Though she remembered Mircea during her wedding night, she still had Tagore’s training on the back of her mind, recalling what her guru had said when she sought his blessings prior to her marriage. “You can make your life as pretty as possible.” Mircea’s presence came like a sudden blow of wind into her adolescent life. It did affect her life afterwards, but she still anchored herself amidst her husband and children, remembering the teachings of Tagore. On the other hand, Maitreyi’s personality haunted Mircea. In his book, Mircea described how he cherished his fortune of having European blood and how he tried to hypnotize Maitreyi in order to make her forget her love for Gurudev, whom she was devoted to from her very childhood. Mircea Eliade noticed Maitreyi’s obsession towards Tagore when she would say, “Robi Thakur did not come to my lecture today.” Mircea then would retort to this by saying: “You love him.” Eliade believed that Maitreyi had loved Tagore since she was thirteen and had spent every summer at Shanti Niketan staying with the poet’s family. In his book, he fabricated and fantasized how Maitreyi would listen to the poet intently while the poet would “stroke her hair,” and that would “transport her beyond ordinary consciousness into a never-ending, unspeakably exquisite dream.” Whereas in Maitreyi Devi’s book, she echoed her admiration for Tagore, as if she was standing at the altar of Tagore murmuring, “Whatever I could offer, I feel I have offered. I have known the glory of the supreme love, a love that became a worship, a love that threw an upward flame the world is still the same.” At one point in her book, Maitreyi wrote that, despite the unbounded affection for her Gurudev, about whom Mircea was so jealous, she experienced an ecstasy that was beyond the world of minds and words. Many years later, one of Mircea’s friends during his visit to Calcutta informed Maitreyi that overnight Mircea had become famous in his coun-

try by writing a juicy love story describing how Maitreyi Devi would visit him at night. Maitreyi’s anger erupted, she thought, how could he stoop so low? What would her master say? When Maitreyi read the account of her polluted relationship with Mircea, she sought Gurudev’s help, “Do not leave me master, and come back to my heart. Will a stranger ruin my peace today by trifling talk?” She always appreciated all the decorum she learned from Thakur Bari since her childhood, and the etiquette from Tagore at Shanti Niketan. .”Yes, yes,” she said, “that one man fills our sky with stars…” In her book, she described how her room was always fragrant with incense of flowers and a bust of Tagore. When Maitreyi came to know about the love story as narrated by Eliade she was already married for thirty-two years. Whenever Maitreyi had a troubled mind, she always sought the help of her Gurudev, who would say, “Keep your mind clear and quiet like the water of a deep lake, as transparent as a crow’s eyes.” Her father’s reverence for Tagore was limitless; he constantly recited his poetry. When she was shattered about the remarks Eliade had made about her, she felt like crying, “Give me strength, my master. Make my mind powerful, so that I can accept all the tasks you gave me, so that I can endure the fiery troubles of the world.” After she got married, she went to Gurudev and cried incessantly as she was apprehensive whether or not she would be a good wife. The master stretched his arms, took her to a room, and said:” Before one has control of another, Amrita, one should have control over oneself. I do not know anything about the person you are married to, how he is, whether the environment suits you – yet I hope that whatever your destiny, you will grow bigger than this. I know you have powers to make others happy, but what I ask you is to be happy….Of course you can build a beautiful nest, your happy home where everyone is happy, I promise you I will visit your joyful home.” Maitreyi Devi talked about Tagore who would say, “I keep coming again and again at this age because you two members never quarrel. It is a beautiful home flowing with ease like the singing brook.” Maitreyee’s book aimed to capture the totality of her life and her own self, very different from Eliade’s false representation. She traveled across n

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geographical boundaries to confront Mircea, when both of them were quite old. We must remember that Maitreyi wrote her book some forty years later, in response to Mircea’s false assertion of their intimacy. She was never miserable; maybe she was lonely, after her marriage. She blossomed by her husband’s affection and love, and he was the one who encouraged her to go and challenge Mircea in the USA. She took her husband’s blessings before she left overseas, maintaining the Indian tradition and the old norm. Although she felt somewhat desolate in the remote quarters she lived with her forest officer husband, she would never complain, but would admit her feeling of desolation had nothing to do with her past affair with Mircea. Eventually she became a Tagore scholar herself, traveled to the University of Chicago, to give lectures, and planned to meet Mircea who worked as a professor of religion there. One day Maitreyi appeared in his office unannounced. It is quite interesting to

note how Maitreyi ended her book making Mircea an Avatar, although she was bitter about his hypocrisy in writing about their relationship. Mircea wrote about sex and flirtation in his book to make it spicier, and thus marketable. Maitreyi still described the Indian mantra of spirituality, how the body leaves and the soul stays behind. At the end of her book she said, “Time has come again at the bank of Ganges.” She would then hear Mircea’s voice from the back, “Amrita, wait a little. Why are you breaking down now, when you were brave for so many years? I promise you I shall come to you and there on the shores of the Ganga, I will show you my real self.” The entire episode reminds me of Eliot’s Wasteland, how we come out of the ashes of sufferings and come out better. The ending of her book reminds me of Tagore’s “Sannyasi Upagupta” where Upagupta says, “The time has come for me tonight, and I have come to you, my dear Basabadutta!” r

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The Intriguing case of the

Bhawal Sannyasi Jayashree Chatterjee

t was May 8, 1909. Sometime after 7 pm, a funeral procession left Step Aside, a bungalow in Darjeeling, and wound its way to the old cremation ground. What was the predominant emotion of the people accompanying the body? Sadness? Tension? Fear? As, the procession finally reached its destination, the skies above darkened and then rain poured down with a vengeance. The pallbearers left the body and ran to seek shelter. When they returned, they found that the stretcher was still there, but the body had vanished! Or was that not what happened that evening? In the related court case that became famous in the annals of the Indian justice system, the defense (the main defendant was Bibhabati Devi, wife – or widow, depending on one’s point of view – of the Second Kumar of the Bhawal Zamindari) produced municipal weather reports to show that it did not rain at all on the evening of May 8, 1909. However, those

on the side of the plaintiff (the Bhawal Sannyasi, who claimed to be the Second Kumar of the Bhawal Zamindari) said that the report had clearly been tampered with. And then there was the fact that the defense maintained that the cremation had taken place on the morning of the 9th of May, and so those who were saying that the body was taken to the cremation grounds on the evening of the 8th were lying. The Bhawal Sannyasi case took the popular imagination by storm. Not only were the facts of the case dramatic but the case lasted for several decades. It was in 1921 that the Bhawal Sannyasi (the Second Kumar?) appeared in Dhaka, and he filed a suit to be recognized as the Second Kumar at the Dhaka District Court in 1930. Following the judgment of this court, an appeal was made to the High Court in Calcutta in 1938, and then to the Privy Council in London, which declared its verdict in 1946. Interest in the Bhawal Sannyasi Case has now revived in Kolkata due to Srijit Mukherjee’s movie “Ek Je Chilo Raja” (very different from the earlier movie “Sannyasi Raja”) and historian Partha Chatterjee’s 2002 publication “A Princely Imposter? The Strange and Universal History of the Kumar of Bhawal.” But for me, it was meeting two sisters, New Jersey residents, who are related to the Bhawal family that drew my attention to the Bhawal story. Their mother Jaba Bhattacharya’s maternal grandfather was Tarakeswar Roy, who was a cousin of the n

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Kumars, and so of the Second Kumar, Ramendra Narayan Roy. So Jaba’s mother Renubala Chakrabarty (nee Roy) grew up in the surroundings of the Bhawal Rajbari at Jaidebpur. But what was this court case about? In the early 1900s, the Bhawal Zamindari, 579 square miles in size and composed of 2,274 villages, was the second most important zamindari in the area after that of the Nawab Bahadur of Dhaka. One of its best-known zamindars was Rajah Bahadur Kali Narayan Roy (1818-1878/9) who extended the Bhawal Zamindari and administered its affairs efficiently. But his son Rajendra Narayan Roy left matters in the hands of his able but autocratic manager and took to a life of luxury. Rajendra Narayan Roy died in 1901, leaving behind three sons – Ranendra Narayan, Ramendra Narayan (the supposed Sannyasi) and Rabindra Narayan – and three daughters – Indumayee, Jyotirmayee, and Tarinmayee. Soon after his death, his wife Rani Bilasmani dismissed the autocratic manager and hired a Briton, H.C.F. Meyer, to replace him. History is a fascinating study of the thoughtprocesses of and actions taken by those in charge of a country and its people. By the late 1800s, the British government in Bengal was trying very hard to bring the management of zamindari estates under its control. The government felt that many of the zamindars were corrupt; besides, a large part of the government’s income came from these estates, and so it was to the government’s advantage to have their administration under its control. There were two main ways of doing this: encouraging zamindars to appoint European managers or having the Court of Wards take over the management of the estates. So the government was pleased to have Meyer replace the Indian manager. In 1904, Meyer wrote to the Collector of Dhaka, J.T. Rankin, to complain that the Rani was interfering in his work. This made the Rani dismiss Meyer; but very soon thereafter, Ranendra Narayan, who was under the influence of Meyer, came of age, and formally asked the government to take over the management of the estate. So the Court of Wards took charge of the administration of the estate. But Rani Bilasmani went to court and got the management of her property back in March 1905, and so Ranendra Narayan had to take charge of the zamindari.

But our interest is in the Second Kumar Ramendra who, writes Dr. Partha Chatterjee, took little interest in the estate, and who spent his time hunting, racing and listening to musicalperformances. By the time he was twenty-one, he was reported tohavecontracted syphilis, and by 1909 ulcers broke out on his body. Meanwhile, in 1902, Ramendra Narayan was married to thirteen-year-old Bibhabati who came from a progressive family that believed in women’s education. From her mother’s letters to her, it seems that she was not very happy in her new life. In 1908, Bibhabati’s brother Satyen Banerjee arrived at Jaidebpur. He did not have a job and clearly felt that he could live off his sister’s family. In 1909, Ramendra’s doctors suggested that for health reasons it would be good for the Kumar to go to a hill station for the summer. So Ramendra, together with Bibhabati, Satyen, the family physician’s son Ashutosh Dasgupta and some others, went to Darjeeling. There the Second Kumar’s health deteriorated to such an extent, that he became bedridden. On the evening of May 8, 1909, he fell into a coma, and then it appeared that he had passed away. Or so some witnesses said. They also said that the body was taken to the cremation grounds sometime after 7 that night. But Bibhabati’s witnesses claimed that the Second Kumar died around midnight and was cremated the next morning. Then in 1910, Ranendra Narayan died, causing the management of the zamindari to go back to the Court of Wards! Around this time, Bibhabati left Jaidebpur. She received her husband’s life insurance money, and a monthly allowance from the Bhawal estate that gradually increased, and by 1919 amounted to Rs 7,000. She moved, with her brother, to Kolkata, and finally to a house on Lansdowne Road that was bought with her money. Twelve years passed by. In 1921, a sannyasi who looked very much like the Second Kumar arrived in Dhaka, and the story broke that in 1909 when the Kumar had been taken to the crematorium, though he seemed to have died he was actually alive! After his pallbearers had left him to seek shelter from the rain, some Naga sannyasis who were close by had heard him moaning. They nursed him back to health and took him away with them to northwestern India. He had lost his memory, but now he slowly began recalling things from the past, and his guru advised n

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him to go back to Dhaka. In Dhaka, in 1921, his sister Jyotimayee Devi recognized him, as did many other relatives and tenants. With their encouragement, in May 1921, the Sannyasi finally declared that he was the Second Kumar. Bibhabati and her brother refused to believe this. So did the Court of Wards. The Sannyasi went to court and the trial began in the District Court in Dhaka in November 1933. Judge Pannalal Basu delivered his verdict in August 1936 – he ruled in favor of the plaintiff, the Sannyasi. He pointed out that the physical characteristics of the Sannyasi and the Kumar were identical– they both had the same scaly feet, a scar on the left ankle, etc. He also said that the Kumar had probably become comatose that night in 1909 due to the arsenic that Dr Ashutosh Dasgupta had administered to him. The judge added thatit was not clear whether Dr Dasgupta had done this due to ignorance or whether there had been a more serious motive. Bibhabati took the case to the High Court in Calcutta and the hearing began in November 1938. Of the three High Court judges, Justice Biswas sided with Pannalal Basu’s judgment, Justice Lodge was against it, and Justice Costello (who had gone to the UK after the hearing was over, and who was then unable to return because of the outbreak of World War II, thus adding to the tension of the situation) finally sent in his judgment by mail. He sided with Justice Biswas. In November 1940 the High Court finally declared that the appeal must be dismissed. So Bibhabati turned to the highest court available to her, the Privy Council in London. Her petition was heard in 1945, again by three judges, and again one of the three was of Indian origin. The judgment was given on 1946. It was that the Sannyasi was, indeed, the Second Kumar. In Calcutta, Ramendra Narayan went to the Thanthania Kalibari to offer thanks. On his way out, he suffered a stroke and died 2 days later. Bibhabati declared that this was just retribution, inflicted by god. She also refused to take an additional sum of money from the Court of Wards that was offered to her as the Kumar’s widow. She said she was not a widow of the imposter. The Bhawal Sannyasi Case is interesting for other reasons as well. It was known in British circles as the “Indian Tichborne case” because, in 1867, a

similar case had been lodged in Tichborne in the UK. But in India, there were 3 such cases (2 of them in Bengal) that had occurred (before the Bhawal Case) where zamindars had supposedly come back from the dead, claiming to havebeen rescued by sannyasis or fakirs! However, what is noteworthy about the Bhawal Case is that Ramendra Narayan’s great grandfather, Golok Narayan, had really given up the zamindari and handed it over to his son Kali Narayan in order to lead a life of religious meditation. So one of the Second Kumar’s ancestors had actually given up his life as a zamindar in favor of a religious one. And then there is the historical background against which all these events were taking place. Dr. Partha Chatterjee points out that Pannalal Basu of the Dhaka District Court and Justice Biswas of the Calcutta High Court were able to rule against the interests of the Court of Wards because, by the 1930s, the political situation in India was clearly changing. Events like the Salt Satyagraha of 1930 occurred during that time, and by the end of the decade, Indians were being given greater political rights at the provincial level. The two Indian judges were able to disagree with people like Dr. Calvert who issued a death certificate that stated that the Kumar had died of biliary colic, and J. T. Rankin and J.H. Lindsay, two of the collectors of Dhaka, who appeared in support of Bibhabati Devi. Partha Chatterjee suggests that even the Privy Council decision, given as it was in 1946 (4 years after the Quit India movement) was made by judges who knew that Indian independence was soon to come, and so they did not wish to disagree with a District Court and the High Court in India. But it is talking to a descendant of the Bhawal family that makes this story really moving. For Jaba Bhattacharya, the human side of the story is, understandably, of the greatest importance. She speaks of her 1982 trip to the Bhawal Rajbari at Jaidebpur, and her tone of voice is full of emotion. The Rajbari is now an assortment of government buildings including a court, but tourists are allowed to enter it, and Jaba says that while she was looking at the different rooms in the Rajbari, she noticed that a man kept looking at her. It transpired that he saw a resemblance in her with the Bhawal family because he finally asked her whether she was related to the family. At first, she hesitated in telling him the truth, but after a while she admitted thatTarakeshwar Roy n

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was her maternal grandfather. Then the most dramatic thing took place. The man fell at her feet and wept. “Tarakeshwar Roy was like the Almighty to us,” he said. “Uni amader ki hochche seta mukh dekhe bujhten. Uni sukhedukhea amader sathe thakten.” He just had to look at our faces to know whether we were going through good times or bad. And He stood by us at all times. Renubala’s older brother Saileshwar Roy had stayed on in Jaidebpur. Now, though Sileshwar Roy was no more, his son was still living in his father’s house, and so Jaba went to meet him. Later that day they, together with the Bangladeshi gentleman, Jaba visited the crematoriums and saw the samadhis, the memorials, to Tarakeshwar Roy and Saileshwar Roy. Jaba says that it was an incredibly moving experience for her. Here was a Muslim Bangladeshi whom she had never seen before telling her how good her grandfather had been towards his tenants. “One must remember,” Jaba added, “that even during the time of the Second Kumar, it was the tenants who kept raising money for him. He did not have any money of his own.” What is equally thought-provoking is that though most of the tenants of the Bhawal estate were Muslim, they supported the Second Kumar right from 1921 till 1946, and even, at one stage, paid him, and not the Court of Wards, their rental dues. (Most of the legal fees were paid by Sarajubala, widow of the First Kumar.) Yet it was at this time that the Praja Movement in East Bengal with its goal of abolishing the extralegal rights of the zamindars, and ultimately the zamindari system, came into being and the movement gained real momentum in the late 1930s. Dr. Chatterjee explains this by pointing out that these were also the years of the Khilafat and the Non-cooperation Movements when the popular sentiment was against the British government and therefore in favor of the Second Kumar. In 1983 or ’84 Jaba took her mother to Jaidebpur, and that was another emotional experience. As the

car drove up to the main gate, her mother told the driver to stop. She opened the car door and almost ran into the gardens of the Rajbari. Time seemed to turn back, and she became a young girl again. She showed Jaba the rooms where she had played as a child, where her marriage ceremony had taken place, and where she had stayed when she visited her parents after she got married. She had no doubt that the sannyasi was the Second Kumar. Of course it should be noted that she was born around 1921, and so it was the Sannyasi whom she knew from her childhood. She heard a great deal about him – about the fact that he had been a good hunter and had killed a tiger. The tiger skin was on display in the Rajbari, and she felt proud of him when she saw it. She said that the Sannyasi used to take her on his lap, stroke her hair, and tell her to take care of her tresses. “Beti, tell agabe”, You must rub oil in your hair, he would say in a mix of Hindi and Bengali. After she got married and became a mother, when he saw her son, Jaba’s eldest brother, he exclaimed, “Tera bhi beta ho gaya!” You have a son! Those were sweet memories; but they faded later that day in Jaidebpur when Jaba and her mother heard loud music and saw that tourists were cooking biriyani outside the natmandir, and that other tourists were bathing in the pool that used to be reserved for the women of the Rajbari. Jaba’s mother became extremely upset. She was ill for several days after that. “I understand that life has to move on,” said Jaba. “But how could I explain that to my mother. That was her home.” Times change. Dynasties come and go, and the edifices associated with them are entrusted to other hands. That is the way of things. But personal narratives still have the power to make an impact, and the intriguing elements of the Bhawal Sannyasi Case continue to arouse one’s interest because of the multilayered historical and personal aspects of this fascinating story. r n

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Evolution of Islam in Pre-modern Eastern Bengal Mosleh Ahmad, New Jersey Editor’s Note: This article is based on the book ofRichard M. Eaton, “The Rise of Islam and the Bengal Frontier, 1204 – 1760”, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1993. The views and opinion expressed herein are those of the authors of the book and the article. Introduction Ayub Khan, former President of Pakistan (1958-69), stated in his book, Friends Not Masters (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967), that the majority of the Bengali Muslims were converts from the lower caste of local Hindus. This observation created a major controversy in the Bengali Muslim community, who were East Pakistani sat the time. An old question seemed to have gotten a new life: Where did the Bengali Muslims really come from? This question and the debate around it began immediately after the first ever census in British India in 1871-72. It revealed an unexpectedly high Muslim population in Eastern Bengal, exceeding 70% or more in many districts. A few western Indian states, such as Punjab, also showed a high Muslim concentration. That, however, should not be too surprising. Punjab’s geographical proximity to the epicenter of the Islamic origin and its location on the Muslim migration route to India provide a possible explanation. It is somewhat puzzling that besides the geographical regions encompassed by the Bengals (Eastern and Western), Assam and Punjab, no other region in the vast stretch of middle India had a Muslim populationgreater than 20%. For example, Oudh (part of today’s Uttar Pradesh), which was a strong Muslim cultural center located near the heartland of the Muslim power center of Delhi and Agra region,

showed a meagre 11% of Muslim population in the 1872 census report. The question then becomes: if not Uttar Pradesh, Western Bengal, or even Assam, why does Eastern Bengal show such a dominant Muslim concentration? There are, of course, a number of conventional theories attempting to answer this question. We find that these theories are mostly based on opinions rather than supported by adequate historical evidence. They also seem to be too generic in nature and unspecific to the geography, history and culture of the relevant areas. Any such generic explanation can only lead to the conclusion about a uniform distribution of Muslim population across all of India. However, that’s not what we see in the census report of 1872. Therefore, something very unique had to happen in the Eastern Bengal that did not happen elsewhere in India. We will try to understand this unique phenomenon from Professor Eaton’s studies. Conventional Theories of Islamization Mr. Henry Beverley, the compiler of the 1872 census report, was quick to claim, “the existence of Muhammadans in Bengal is … due (mostly) to the conversion of the former inhabitants for whom a rigid system of caste discipline rendered Hinduism intolerable.” (Eaton, page 120). This theory, coined as the Social Liberation theory, supposes a voluntary conversion to Islam by the oppressed caste of Hindus. Not too comfortable with the thought that the majority of the modern Bengali Muslims may be descendants of the lower class of Hindus, a respectable Muslim gentleman of Mymensingh district, Abu A. Ghuznavi (Eaton, page 122), claimed that “the man

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jority of the modern Mahomedans are of foreign extraction, though in many cases it may be of more or less remote degree.” This explanation, known as Immigration theory, claims that the bulk of Bengali Muslims are descendants of Muslims from outside of Bengal who had emigrated. The third theory of Islamization is named as the Religion of Sword which claims that the conversion of local Bengalis was done by the Muslim military force. The fourth theory, the Patronage theory, is defined as a voluntary conversion to Islam in order to receive favor from the Muslim ruling class. Before further discussion of the individual theories, it will be useful to look at the observation of the well-known Indian Bengali historian R. C. Majumdar, who, writing in 1973, described the growth of Islam in pre-modern Bengal as (Eaton, page 128): “The Hindu and Muslim communities resembled two strong walled forts, standing side by side, each of which had only one gate,-that of exit in the case of the Hindus, and that for entrance in the case of the Muslims. Even for the slightest deviation from the rules of touch and purity the Hindus were cast out of society, with no chance of re-entry, and once they entered the fort of Islam the door of exit for the newcomer was forever barred. This, together with forcible conversion, and voluntary acceptance of Islam by temptation of material gain or benefit, rarely by conviction, resulted in the steady flow of the Hindus to the fold of Islam, which constitutes the most important change in the Hindu society during the middle age.” Although it is easy to agree with some of these comments and disagree with others, this captures the aspects of many of the theories we are going to discuss. The metaphor of the two forts captures the essence of an underlying foundational advantage of Muslims in terms of enhancing their numbers over time. This model alone, however, is quite inadequate in explaining the scale of the massive transformation in the religious landscape in Eastern Bengal. Critique of the Conventional theories Social Liberation theory Social Liberation theory claims that the majority of the conversion is a voluntary choice by the lower castes of Hindus as an emancipation from the oppression of the higher castes. This was first introduced by Henry Beverley, the compiler of the 1872

census report, and later endorsed by many Pakistani and Bangladeshi nationals and countless journalists and historians of South Asia, especially Muslims. This theory has long been the most widely accepted explanation of Islamization in the subcontinent. In Freedom at Midnight, Larry Collins and Dominique Lapierre suggest, without much elaboration, that “the mass of Moslems were the descendants of Untouchables who’d fled Hinduism to escape their misery.”1 The problem, however, is that no evidence can be found in support of this theory. There is evidence that the pre-modern Eastern Bengal had little Brahminic dominance and therefore minimal oppression of the outcastes. (See E. A. Gait report of 1901 Census of India). In addition, the perception of social equality and universal rights (such as in writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau or Thomas Jefferson) was not widely known in the context of the pre-modern “oppressive Brahmanic tyranny”. Pre-modern Muslim intellectuals did not stress their religion’s ideal of social equality as opposed to Hindu inequality, but rather Islamic monotheism as opposed to Hindu polytheism. Of all the conventional theories of Islamization in Eastern Bengal, Social Liberation theory is considered the most widely accepted, despite being the least supported by reasoning and evidence. Immigration Theory Immigration theory claims that the bulk of the Bengali Muslims are descendants from Muslims from outside of Bengal. This is not a theory of conversion, but of a migration of people. This theory, however, is not supported by the various blood group and anthropometric studies (studies of head length and breadth, nasal length and breadth) done at a later period in both Eastern and Western Bengal (Eaton, Page 126). The blood-group data of the Muslims in selected areas indicate that these peoples descended from lower caste Hindu converts. Another study found an affinity between rural Muslims and their low-caste Hindu neighbors, and that urban Bengali Muslims were serologically (properties and reactions of blood serum) closer to the distant Pathans of India’s Northwest Frontier province than they were to rural Bengali Muslims. It is safe to conclude that immigration theory may explain a small part of the Muslim population in Eastern Bengal, but the blood group studies, and n

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serological studies do not support a mass immigration to account for the high Muslim population in Eastern Bengal. (Note: Work in progress to include references to more recent findings based on DNA analysis which supports the view that the local population of eastern Bengal is overwhelmingly local rather than immigrants). Religion of Sword theory Sword theory claims that the bulk of the Islamization in the Bengals was accomplished by Muslim military force. Sword theory of Islamization had been quite popular among the orientalists as captured by Sir William Muir, a British official in Colonial India, in 1898 (Eaton, Page 113): “It was the scent of war that now turned the sullen temper of the Arab tribes into eager loyalty.…Warrior after warrior, column after column, whole tribes in endless succession with their women and children, issued forth to fight.” Sir William might have a motive for capturing the Arab conquests in this thunderous narrative, but it provides very little historical substance for forcible conversion to Islam, in India or elsewhere. Every conqueror had a certain amount of brutal behavior, in ancient and medieval periods. Alexander the Great was not as great in the eyes of the citizens of Persia who he conquered. Genghis Khan and his descendants, Christian crusaders, Muslim conquerors, all have had their shares of brutalities. Were the Muslims any less brutal to each other when the Sunnis fought the Shias, or when the Abbasides fought the Umayyads2? The brutality is often undermined or magnified depending on which side of the brutality one experiences. The question is: To what extent was the Muslim brutality in India, or in particular, in Eastern Bengal, instrumental in the conversion to Islam? Before we answer this, here is another lurid portrayal of the Turkish conquest written in 1963 by Suniti Kumar Chatterji, the reputed linguist and historian of Bengali language (Eaton, Page 128): “The conquest of Bengal by these ruthless foreigners was like a terrible hurricane which swept over the country, when a peace-loving people were subjected to all imaginable terrors and torments—wholesale massacres, pillages, abduction and enslavement of men and women, destruction of temples, palaces, images and li-

braries, and forcible conversion. The Muslim Turks, like the Spanish Catholic conquistadores in Mexico and Peru and elsewhere in America, sought to destroy the culture and religion of the land as the handiwork of Satan.” Chatterji’s description of ruthlessness in Bengal is rather qualitative and lacks historical evidence for any systematic perpetration consistent with the purported outcome in the Bengals especially in the areas of “forcible conversion”. One saving grace for the Muslims, however, is his recognition that “handiwork of Satan” is not unique to Muslims and has other similes in history. Peter Hardy in “Modern European and Muslim Explanations of Conversion to Islam in South Asia” has observed that “those who argued that Indian Muslims were forcibly converted have generally failed to define either force or conversion.” Richard Eaton thinks that the proponents of sword theory in India have failed to satisfactorily explain how this mechanism worked. He explains, “… proponents of this theory seem to have confused conversion to the Islamic religion ... with the literal translation of Persian narration of Islamic conquest of India... it was the IndoMuslim state, more explicitly, its military arm, to which people were said to have submitted, and not its Islamic faith. Nor does the [sword] theory fit the religious geography of South Asia. If Islamization had ever been a function of military or political force, one would expect that those areas exposed most intensively and over the longest period to rule by Muslim dynasties—that is, those that were most fully exposed to the “sword”—would today contain the greatest number of Muslims.” The distribution of Muslim population across India, and the Eastern Bengal, does not support this view. In summary, in the context of India as a whole, the observations of Sir William Muir and S. K. Chatterjee are inconsistent. In the context of Eastern Bengal, the inconsistency is even more evident. There exists no significant evidence of any state-sponsored forcible conversion to Islam in the pre-modern Bengals. Religion of Patronage theory Patronage theory describes the voluntary conversion to Islam in order to receive favor from the Muslim ruling class. Most of these recorded conversions are from the upper echelons of the community, and the benefits sought were mostly political and financial. n

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The instances of these conversions could have accounted for only a tiny fraction of the total Muslim population in Eastern Bengal but cannot explain the appearance of the millions of Muslim peasant cultivators recorded in the census figures. Muslim High Fertility Rate Did the high fertility rate of Muslims contribute to the high volume of Muslim population in Eastern Bengal as reported in the 1872 census report? The most likely answer is no. In order for the high fertility rate to kick in and contribute significantly, one must have an initial base number of a minimum threshold. In Eastern Bengal the Muslim population started from a very small number not much sooner than the Mughal period. High fertility rate alone cannot fully account for the massive outcome of the 1872 census. Having said that, Muslim high fertility rate in India is a factor more relevant today than in the pre-modern era. The greater fertility among Muslims has been ascribed “to their practices of polygamy and widow remarriage, their greater longevity, and the absence among Muslims of a caste system or institutionalized celibacy” (From Abu A.Ghuznavi book, quoted in Eaton page 122). Richard Eaton’s Thesis on the Rise of Islam in Eastern Bengal Professor Eaton’s findings suggest that the mass conversion into Islam in Eastern Bengal was a slow evolutionary process, set in motion by the confluence of several factors – economic, political, and, of course, religious. Consolidation of Mughal rule in Eastern Bengal and raising of tax revenue were the major driving forces. Mughal land grants (Pattan) for clearing forests for new rice cultivation fields, and building religious institutions were the steps to achieve these objectives. Mughal advent into Bengal was greatly facilitated by the change in the course of the river Ganges, most likely around 1500s, from the original BhagirathiHooghly channel to further east to the present-day Padma-Meghna system (Eaton page 194, 306-307). The new Ganges, now named Padma, provided easy navigation to Eastern Bengal, made the land more fertile for rice cultivation (through silt deposits), and provided a route for exporting the surplus rice and other merchandize outside of the Bengals. The land grants included additional funds allocated for building religious institutions for all communities – Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists.

However, Muslim pioneers, holy men, and Sufis, were able to utilize these funds more advantageously than other communities. Muslim institutions, such as mosques, shrines (dargahs), and religious schools, flourished in the rural areas. These institutions, acting as an agent for economic and religious transformation, served as the nucleus for the formation and growth of a large rural agrarian Muslim community in Eastern Bengal. Richard Eaton’s thesis is based on the Mughal documents of land grants which are available today. The clearing of forest space and the Muslim role in it are also supported by the contemporaneous Bengali folk literature, traveler records, and Government documents, such as, District Gazettes. How did the Mughal Grants favor Muslims? It seems that the grants awarded to Muslims allowed for additional support clauses that were not always available in other grants. For example, grants for Hindu pioneers did not include (in many cases) either dependents or community building institutions, but the grants for Muslims did include those additional funds in most cases. One other factor that worked in favor of Muslims was the role played by the Muslim pioneers in converting forests into arable land. The upper-class Hindus – Brahmins, Kayasthas, Baidyas – dominated the top of the land tenure chain through financing and money lending, but social taboo prevented them from undertaking cultivation. The mass of the laborers at the bottom tier tended to be indigenous people – typically followers of folk religious practice or some form of Shiva worshippers. The middle tier, the typical leaders of the laborers, were Muslims, “local man of some consequence,” (a pioneer) locally known as Qazi, Pir, Shaikh, or a Sufi. It is this bottom tier population that eventually evolved around the nucleus of the community mosque, initially a mixture of both Hindu folk practices and a folk version of the Islamic practices. Francis Buchanan, an English explorer in 1798 (Eaton page 248-249) describes the inhabitants of the uncleared jungle as non-Muslim tribal peoples who practiced some form of Shiva worship, whereas the cultivators of lands already cleared, are described as Muslims. This suggests that peasantization and Islamization proceeded hand in hand in rural Eastern Bengal. With the proliferation of Quran schools built as part of the Mughal land grants, this folk Muslim n

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community, over centuries, transformed into a more authentic Muslim community, albeit a Bengali Muslim community. Forest Clearing Model in Bengali Literature The tiered workforce model of forest clearance is found in many contemporaneous Bengali literature, such as in Mukundaram’s Chandi-Mangala. The goddess Chandi entrusted Kalketu (the hunter) to oversee clearing of the jungle and to establish there an ideal city whose population would cultivate the land and worship the divine benefactor, goddess Chandi. In Chandi-Mangala, Muslim pioneers, such as, Zafar Mia, are unambiguously associated with the clearing of forests and the establishment of local markets3. Why Western Bengal is less Islamized than the Eastern? In the pre-modern period, there were differences between Eastern and Western Bengals in terms of economy and the religious penetration. The entire delta east of Karatoya river and south of Padma was largely underdeveloped, covered by marsh and forest, in the early seventeenth century. In contrast, the western delta already had a functioning agrarian order. The Mughals simply overwhelmed or coopted the existing elites (zamindars) in the Western Bengal much as they had already done with those of the upper Gangetic plain (northern India). No new land needed to be brought under cultivation in the Western Bengal as they did in the Eastern Bengal. By the time of the Turkish invasion (1204), a scripturally based religious culture under Brahman leadership had already become well entrenched in the western delta. In this context, the intrusion of another scripturally religious culture, Islam, failed to have significant impact in the Western Bengal. The Bengali Hindu society in the Sultanate period was dominated by two religious orientations: the Vaishnava devotions and the Goddess cult. The Viashnavaswere centered in the Western Bengal, while the Goddess cult was spread throughout the delta, especially in the south and the east, the most significant of which was Goddess Chandi. The cult dominated folk culture in the east, and the porous religious atmosphere provided a receptive environment for integrating another religious ideal (Islam) into its own. The geographical distribution of the Hindu temples built in the medieval period shows a clear con-

centration in the western sections of the Bengal delta (Eaton,pp. 185). Of the total 230 surviving temples built between 1570–1760, about 193 (84%) were located in western and southern delta, whereas only 37 (16%) of them were in the eastern delta. If one maps the locations of the rural mosques based on the Mughal land grants (pattan), one sees a mirror image of the Hindu temples. In other words, mosques flourished only where there are few or no temples. This clearly explains why the ideals of Islam failed to penetrate Western Bengal at a level comparable to Eastern Bengal. Conclusion We found very little evidence in favor of the conventional theories of Islamization of the Eastern Bengal in the pre-modern period. They do not provide a full explanation of the massive rise of Islam in this region, or why there are differences in the penetration of Islam between regions, particularly between Eastern and Western Bengals. It seems that the proponents of these theories were driven more by religious or political affiliations rather than convincing arguments or evidence. The documents and arguments presented by Professor Richard Eaton provide the most convincing and comprehensive explanation of this massive religious transformation in Eastern Bengal. This transformation was motivated by the Mughal consolidation of power in the Eastern Bengal, introduction of Mughal land grants, and funds for building religious institutions. Muslim pioneers were able to take advantage of the land grants and religious grants better than other religious communities. The nucleus of the Muslim community formed around the Islamic institutions built by the pioneers – mosques, shrines and religious schools flourished with time. A pre-Islamic Bengali folk Hindu religious culture intermingled with another folk religious culture – the Bengali folk Islam in its infancy. As Bengalis adapted to Islam, Islam too adapted to the Bengali culture. The process of adaptation and evolution is continuing. r —————————————————— 1 L. Collins and D. Lapierre, “Freedom at Midnight”, pp. 29, London: Harper Collins Publishers, 1997. 2 Philip K. Hitti, “History of the Arabs”, pp. 285-286, London, New York: Macmillan Publishers, 2002. 3 Kavikankana Mukundaram, “Chandi-Mangala”, ed. Sukumar Sen, pp. 68, Kolkata: Shahitya Academy, 2007. n

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VS Naipaul’s Legacy is Complex – But His Writing Must be Celebrated Amit Chaudhuri, India Editor’s note: This obituary was originally published by The Guardian following the passing away of V. S. Naipaul in 2018. Anandilipi wishes to thank the author and The Guardian for allowing the reprint. Amit Chaudhuri is considered as one of the most versatile and talented writers of his generation in the English-speaking world. His books have been published in many countries and figured in New York Time’s best seller list. He has won numerous prizes including the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, the Betty Trask award, the Encore Prize, LA Times Book Prize, and the Sahitya Academy award. He also served as a judge of the prestigious Man Booker Prize.

is comments about Islam, women and Africa were often unjustified, unpleasant and untrue –– but that can be acknowledged alongside his gifts The life of the greatest prose writer in the English language of the last 60 years has ended at the age of 85, though many of us were reluctant to celebrate VS Naipaul in such terms when he was alive and we may stop short at acknowledging his full significance when we mourn him. Some of us may not mourn him at all: a fate generally reserved for dictators. The reasons for turning away from Naipaul the writer are related to how his writing expressed his

humanity –– or lack of it. Naipaul’s discomfiting assertions –– about Islam, about women, about countries less fortunate than the one he lived and died in (especially the Trinidad of his birth, Africa, and to some extent, India) – are often unjustified, unpleasant and untrue, though he insisted that, despite their unpleasantness, they possessed the unflinching quality of truth. I think this part of Naipaul’s contribution was overplayed, both by those who couldn’t abide him and by himself. His achievement has to be the writing itself: time will tell us if this true. Certainly, it won’t be possible to keep alive the idea of his gift for very long if he was just an agglomeration of blind spots and hostile prejudices. This is the paradox of literature, whose value lies in itself and not in the writer’s “views” (as WH Auden pointed out n

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in his elegy to WB Yeats): none of Naipaul’s regrettable opinions will make the writing disappear, if it indeed possesses originality. Naipaul’s writerly achievements have taken a backseat for reasons I’ve mentioned; but there’s another reason, which is so obvious that we aren’t conscious of it. Naipaul was not white. This means we must primarily view him as a representer –– or misrepresenter –– of the culture he came from, rather than as one who’s renewing language and radically rethinking the form he uses. After all, how can you renew something –– in this case, the English language and the novel as a genre –– which you don’t have cultural ownership of (the novel is seen to be a Western invention “adapted” to other milieus)? At most, you could admit Naipaul wrote impressively (the implication being that he wrote English unusually well for a non-white person). That his impact as a formal innovator was greater and more crucial than almost any of his contemporaries’ is something we’re just beginning to understand, because none of us as yet have the critical language with which to think of a brown man in that way; especially a grandson of an indentured labourer. Despite Naipaul’s vision darkening with the political turmoil of 1970s Africa, I don’t think his deep and defining love of life ever vanished If we were to look at two books that exemplify Naipaul’s achievement, they would be A House for Mr Biswas (1961) and The Enigma of Arrival (1987). Neither novel received any awards. Despite its occasionally difficult subject –– the transformations and travails of Mr Biswas, a man of little means who was based on Naipaul’s father, and who marries into a powerful but crass Trinidadian family –– Biswas expresses Naipaul’s astonishing capacity for joy. This joy, this buoyancy and love, animated his early works. It can be seen in the opening sentence of his first piece of writing, the stories in Miguel Street: “Every morning when he got up Hat would sit on the banister of his back verandah and shout across, ‘What happening there, Bogart?’” Immediately, we’re taken out of the sense of interiority we associate with the psychological novel. Naipaul was beholden to cinema, and his attention to the visual is evident in Biswas too, which contains an unusually compelling immediacy that is almost unthinkable for a novel of over 500 pages. Given its

size, we think of Biswas as a proto-Victorian novel, but it isn’t one: its preoccupations are the momentto-moment transformations of Biswas’s world, and his proneness to daydreaming. As a commentator, Naipaul excoriated, and was haunted by, the “halfmade” (his assessment of West Indian society); as a novelist, the half-made –– a sign being painted in Trinidad; a ruined cottage in Wiltshire – excited him deeply. Despite Naipaul’s vision darkening with the political turmoil of 1970s Africa, I don’t think his deep and defining love of life ever vanished. In fact, I see the despair – the madness, almost –– of some of the less tenable pronouncements to not be just a denial of love, but inextricable from it. This love lights up The Enigma of Arrival, Naipaul’s novel set in rural Wiltshire (where he himself lived), but it is also a work of revelatory self-reflexivity. Few writers have dwelt on the strange contingency that writing entails with as much as richness as Naipaul did –– first in the short Finding the Centre, then most powerfully in this book. The Enigma of Arrival is, besides being a novel, an essay enquiring into writing and living, and into what comprises the line that ostensibly divides the two. By 1987, that dividing line was wavering for Naipaul, and proving increasingly irrelevant and cumbersome. And so he departed the realist novel for what was at first mistaken by some for a protomemoir. The Enigma of Arrival appeared at an odd and, for it, isolating time, when postcolonial studies and the epic Indian novel in English were in full swing, and some years before WG Sebald’s formally hybrid works, dealing with similar questions (but in his case legitimately so, since he was European), made their appearance. It’s clear now, though, that many younger writers then, who were bored of realism and magic realism, and categories such as “autobiography” and “fiction” –– I’m thinking of myself, certainly, but also of Deborah Levy, Teju Cole, Caryl Phillips, and Karl Ove Knausgaard, among others –– had silently registered the impact of this anomalous book. Though many of us disagree fundamentally with his views, we are beholden to what Naipaul has given us: not as members of a particular ethnicity, group, or gender, but as people, whose experience of the world flows into the experience of writing. r n

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Ebb and Flow

The Wildest Rose

Vishnupriya, New Jersey

Maharshi Bhattacharya, Germany

When night comes dropping low Darkness weaves a blanket Round your soul, Unshed tears numb you - an otherworldly lullaby Of voices you knew from eons ago Now dead but not really so. Strange shifting shapes Nebulous, fluid, blobby Hushed wordless whispers Faint, thin, sloppy On the bleached walls And the vacant mind Where only dying embers Now rub shoulders with The spark long snuffed out By the torment and wound Of wisdom that can Lacerate and slash and cut A jillion splinters and fiords - an already mangled self. Follow the footfalls? Unlock the door? Listen to the mumble? Break the core?

Draw up your blinds, I’m standing by the window, Covered in rhymes, The birds were singing on the roses below, In deserts they grow, Who could have known.

Daybreak caresses the cheek Holds in a soft embrace Whistles another song Of battles lost and won Of birdsong and sun Of uncharted roads to take Memories to forsake Of homes to build And voices to be stilled.

Step into night, The sky bejeweled by the diamonds they shine, Only defeated by the flames in your eyes, The winds all subside, The world is alive. Come, come into seas, Where sands are flowing gently by your feet, Waves, of flowing dreams, Engulfing all our fears in ecstasy. The wildest petals of rose, Your night is aglow, Shining on. Don’t wish the sun to appear, The moonlight is here, To rain on down. Grip on my soul, A mystic chanting from the temples of gold, Your whispers penetrate the blood in my veins, You hold the reins, No glance away. Lips of desire, Dewdrops are glistening like kingdoms on fire, Hiding from day and night, the kisses await, Electric embrace, In potions of fate. Come, to wilder fields, The flowers in the breeze from you to me, Breeze, far out the East, Washing all our thoughts in ecstasy. The wildest petals of rose, Your night is aglow, Shining on. Don’t wish the sun to appear, The moonlight is here, To rain on down. n

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Celebration Fariza Hasan, Massachusetts The silent music is streaming, a familiar melody from the blooming flowers An invitation to join them, to celebrate the new day of life Reminding me of the present, a unique one has arrived For me to enjoy and cherish every moment of it The obscure future is waiting around the corner Gone may be the flowers, the music may stop The dark shadows, the frightening scenes from yesterday May hide the brilliance of today Only if I let that happen, by forgetting they are part of the past This moment is all I have, for me to enjoy to the fullest Not sinking in the past, not worrying about the indefinite tomorrows Be part of the present, join the surrounding music Celebrate the moment!

Night Flight Indrani Mondal, Illinois Flying through vistas of darkness and endless night Floating motionless, Poised on pinpoints of light A brittle fragment of mortality Transformed under this thousand eyed gaze of eternity To a moving buoyant entity awake and purposeful In search of horizons where the sun is youthful, first defining the meaning of morning! Weights shift, zones move Boundaries blur Just holding a glass of pinot noir At the epicenter of two distinct pulls from opposite directions, With nothing astir and no connection With anything in space, hence motionless What is more clear in this metamorphic process What I’m born as or what I grow into Being and becoming converge and construe Ether borne expectations gravitate and soar In this field of indigo waiting to explore Heights to be reached Diorama to be searched Mysteries to be unraveled Landings to be fulfilled And soils to be stepped on .... Dear, dearer, dearest What I leave behind or what I seek to re-find, in this quest , Star bright awareness up above the world so high Spend light years to answer as I fly through the sky. n

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Just Hanging Out Sucharita Bhattacharyya, New Jersey Blue was your skin Blue was mine We happened to meet each other at a social event Just hanging out. Your soul touched mine And mine touched yours Just hanging out. We connected We vented We bonded We texted We reached each other’s souls Just hanging out. You were my bliss during our solitude I was your escape and respite, From the mundane life of duty, obligations, stress and doubt Just hanging out. You brought hope to my life As a friend A breath of fresh air A beautiful personality A person who wears his passion on his sleeve Without any doubts A pure and brave soul With no false airs or pretenses Just hanging out.

You have your obligations and responsibilities I have mine After all we are responsible people Without any doubt Just hanging out. But in the eternal darkness In the shadows of the great valley When your beautiful soul crosses mine I hope we can simply enjoy each other’s company Without anyone else’s impure thoughts, suspicions or doubt I hope ..... one day .... we’ll be just hanging out. n

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Of Silence and Infinity

For the last time, I see you…

Aparna Ganguli, West Bengal

Chitra Mondal, New Jersey

(Inspired by the Theory of Infinity/ Unboundedness in the Isha Upanishad)

A series of memories Held together by a storyline Looking through my cracked lens I see the youth that I had lost.

Not a word passes between us, Not because we have nothing to say, But because we don’t have to say anything. And we know that in every way! Yet I shall follow you to the end of this world And, for you, around every bend and cover!

Anguishedand uncertain And no understanding of life Always, longing for something But I did not know what!

The ‘noor’ of my eyes, the ‘rooh’ of my heart.... And, for you, incessant times over While the moons shimmer on your roof, And a ‘thousand splendid suns’ arise and sleep.... There’s a way to be one again.... in Silence! And, for you, infinite times over!

I suffered daily from my plight And had many restless dreams Woke up to the same life A life that I had slept on.

Blue Singers

My mistakes and regrets And my oft so troubled past I return to see you For one final time.

Bakul Banerjee, Illinois Under the umbrella, we huddle to listen. My teen girls are restless on their feet. Raindrops fall on our foreheads and glisten.

Oh, my erratic youth Our work here is done Can you hear the parting song? Because the last train has come…

Father rolls eyes standing at a distance, impatient with my taste in music – it’s grit. Under an ominous sky we huddle to listen. From earth, music came to us as children of unfathomable loneliness of a mean street In summer heat, wrinkled foreheads glisten. Once, women in a bridal party sang in a train rushing to the city of Ajmer. In the desert heat they lamented separation. I huddled to listen. The bride sobbed, I remember. She was hidden, wrapped in a red sari. Drummers kept the beat. When they laughed, I saw nose-rings glisten. The sky clears. Sun makes its appearance. My teen girls are restless and tap their feet. No need to huddle – now it is easy to listen. A tern flies above the lake. Its wings glisten. n

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Wish

Ananda Mandir &

Anandalipi success Pranab and Krishna Dutta Roy n

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Youth Corner

Manakamana Aaryana Rajanala (Age 15), New Jersey

he village was absolutely bustling as people started to close up shop, packing up their wares and heading home for the day. Of course, many people were still there, demanding last minute discounts from vegetable and clothing stalls and the merchants vehemently refusing, indignant at the very idea that people could ask such a thing of men who could barely provide for their families as it was. So even though it was closing time, it was just as loud as the rest of the day. The marketplace, however, was not what I was looking at; my eyes were locked on the golden sun in the background as its light faded slowly. I sighed as I watched it dip behind the mountain in the background, taken by its beauty. And then, before I knew it, the sunlight was gone, casting the village in darkness. I’d always wished the sunsets could be longer. If only it wasn’t for that darned mountain sitting in the way! I chuckled softly to myself. If my parents heard me saying that, I don’t know what they would do to me. That mountain was far too special to be spoken about like that, for that was the mountain upon which rested the Manakamana temple. Legend has it that whoever makes the pilgrimage up and prays to the goddess Bhagawati there will have their wish granted. But I didn’t believe in it. It couldn’t possibly be true, could it? It just seemed so unrealistic to me to imagine a goddess sitting up there, waiting for offerings and sacrifices and making wishes come true. I sighed wistfully, wishing that the sun would come back out. No one, goddess or not, could make that happen again until tomorrow. Suddenly I gasped as someone tackled me from behind, knocking me from my extremely comfortable cross-legged position to the ground. “Aya!” I shouted, more surprised than angry as my best friend

looked down at me, grinning playfully. “Good evening, Lakhan!” she exclaimed cheerfully. Even if I had been mad at her, I couldn’t have stayed that way after looking at her, observing every feature, her long black hair braided down her back, contrasting against the bright yellow shawl she was wearing over her dark blue dress. Her fair skin accented her warm brown eyes, practically glowing as the moon rose over the mountain. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Isn’t it time to go home? I was thinking of staying in the village tonight, but I think I’ll go back home.” “Didn’t appreciate that,” I muttered. “Why are you going home? It’s a little late, don’t you think?” Aya lived by the edge of the mountain with her mother, which was quite far from the village. The glee vanished from her eyes as I said the words. “I know, but...Amma….she isn’t exactly…” I frowned, concern creasing my eyebrows. “Aya, what happened?” I demanded, careful to speak gently. Why did she seem so delicate all of a sudden? “I’ll come with you,” I offered after she didn’t answer. Hesitantly, she nodded her consent at the idea and we left the village, taking a final look back at the calm, peaceful lights behind us. We walked at a moderately fast pace, both of us wanting to get out of the chill that any night brought, whether or not it was actually cold. By the time we reached her house, the moon had risen high over the top of the mountain. “Amma,” Aya called softly as she stepped past the blanket hanging over the entrance. Their house wasn’t much more than a small hut, looking especially small next to the colossal mountain. “Aayusha?” a voice called back. “Why are you back...so soon?” The words were slurred by sleep, which made sense since it was late. n

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“It’s night,” was Aya’s reply. The inside of the house wasn’t exactly anything to be proud of. A small wooden chair sat by the doorway, across from which was a small cot, the only bed in the house. And upon this bed lay Aya’s mother, looking so...frail. Her skin looked deathly pale, her eyes half closed, her hair hanging limply off the edge of the bed. Almost like she was… Suddenly I realized why Aya seemed so hesitant when I asked about her going home. “Is that Lakhan?” her mother asked, attempting to sit up. Aya hurried over to her and pushed her back down. “Yes, yes,” she answered. “Please, Amma, don’t try to sit. You should sleep, alright? I asked Lakhan to come with me because it was late when I finished at the market and I was too scared to come home alone. Don’t say that I could have stayed at the village. You know I couldn’t have, not with you like this.” She clasped her mother’s hand tightly in her own, smiling sadly. “I almost have enough money for the doctor.” Her mother smiled back at her, but didn’t really seem to understand what her daughter had just said. “That’s wonderful. Now, if you two don’t need anything—” She yawned and turned around in the bed— “I’ll just go back to sleep. Good night.” Within moments her mother’s steady breathing filled the air as Aya turned around to look at me, shrinking back with guilt at the horrified look on my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. “Aya, is she—” “Stop!” she exclaimed before I could finish. “Stop, Lakhan, please, don’t make me think about that now. I don’t want to consider it a possibility. I’ll keep going to the market, and eventually I’ll be able to pay for a doctor, and then...and then everything will go back to normal.” I melted at the hopelessness in her voice. “You don’t almost have the money, do you?” “What else am I supposed to do?” she sobbed, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “She’s my mother, Lakhan, I need her, so I need to do whatever I can to save her. Please, I’m begging you just try and give me the hope that I’ll be able to cure her.” “The temple,” I breathed, the words almost inaudible. The tears vanished from her face. “The temple!”

she scoffed. “Lakhan, you don’t even believe in that! What makes you think that the two of us, two little kids, can —” “It’s just like you said, though,” I interrupted. “What else can you do? Aya, by the time you get the money, she might already be…” I didn’t finish the thought as I watched her cringe at the words. “If we go to the temple, it at least gives us more of a chance. Please, Aya, at least consider it.” A bitter self-reproach welled up inside me as I watched the conflicting emotions on her face, watching her battle with herself. It would put the lives of both us and her mother at risk, but what other choice did we have? “I can’t ask you to do this with me,” she said at last. “You’re not asking me. If you’re going, I’m coming.” After another moment, she nodded. “Okay. We’ll leave tomorrow early in the morning. We shouldn’t need too many provisions since it’s only about eight hours there and back. I’ve climbed the mountain before, but I’ve never actually made it all the way to the temple.” She looked up at me and I took a moment to figure out what she was asking for. “Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly. “It’ll be alright, Aya. It’ll be alright.” And for the first time since we left the village that evening, she smiled, hope gleaming in her eyes. We woke up early the next morning, but to be entirely truthful, I don’t think either of us slept. We weren’t scared about climbing the mountain; no, that wouldn’t be difficult at all. We were scared that we would take too long to come back. Aya packed just a little food and water for us with the logic that the less we had, the easier the trek up the mountain would be. Even without much of a load, I wasn’t particularly excited about the hike up the steep, rocky slopes. I had never climbed a mountain before, so of course, I didn’t know what it would be like. It wasn’t too bad to start since we began climbing so early in the morning. The sun hadn’t come out and was not yet glaring on the back of our necks as we made our way up the narrow trail. Well, it wasn’t much of a trail, more like just a pathway where no vegetation grew because so many people walked there. My legs ached by the time Aya decided it would be a good time to rest, which was at least two n

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hours into the journey. She simply sat down on a rock at the edge of the path, waving me over to follow suit. I frowned a little as I sat beside her, wondering why she hadn’t said much during the first half of the trip. A serious demeanor seemed to have taken her over, a hard set determination — she would conquer this mountain and go back home to tell her mother all about it. “I wish we had something for to offer,” she muttered absently. Once again she was silent, an amazing amount of contemplativeness showing on her face. I sighed, taking in the crisp air. It had only been a couple hours and the sun had already come out, thin beams of light streaming through the thick foliage. “Lakhan, why don’t you believe in Bhagawati?” I lifted my shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “It just seems unrealistic to me. Why do you believe?” “Because I want to. It’s not necessarily that it’s our culture or our religion. I believe in it because I want to believe that there is some divinity up there watching over us, someone powerful enough to decide that destiny exists, someone who can decide what destinies people have. It’s comforting to think that there’s someone who can reward me for my faith and all the good I do.” She paused. “You know you’re namesake was the founder of the temple?” “Of course I do,” I muttered resentfully. “And I’ve never liked it, but it’s not like I can change my name. So I’ve learned to live with it.” I sighed sadly, suddenly questioning why I’d ever even mentioned the mountain. I really didn’t believe that it would help, but thinking about it, I suppose...I did it for Aya. To give her the hope that her mother could still be saved, even though I truly didn’t believe that this temple could help. Based on the skepticism she showed when I proposed the idea, she didn’t think much of it either, but talking to her about it just then, her faith was so apparent. My thoughts were cut off as she stood up. “We should start again,” she said. “It’s only an hour or two from the top now. The climb won’t be too bad from here. At this rate, I think we’ll be back long before sunset.” My heart skipped a beat at the mention of sunset. If we stayed up on the mountain we’d be able to watch it, the whole sunset, not half of it disappearing behind the mountain. But...this was more important. Nodding, I stood and we continued up. She

was right. I hadn’t even noticed the time passing beneath my legs, which were now burning from the climb, two hours passing in the blink of an eye. But we’d made it, and that was all that mattered. I shivered as we climbed over the last rocky ridge and stepped onto the cold stone ground. Every stone seemed new, like not many people had walked on them. I looked around, taking in the sight before us. I don’t know why, but the temple didn’t seem very impressive to me. There were only a few people there, praying and wishing, then moving on to whatever came next in their own journeys. Slowly, Aya walked forward to the temple, but...I didn’t follow. Somehow it felt wrong for me to be there, about to pray to a goddess I didn’t really believe in. What good would a prayer do? I couldn’t help but feel like we’d wasted our time here. But...what if there really was something about that goddess? I hated this feeling of doubt, this uncertainty in my thoughts. If only there was something more definitive I could use to base my beliefs on, something more solid than a legend! Without realizing it, I had allowed the time to fly by as fast as the sun across the sky. Aya walked back to me, grinning broadly. I raised a quizzical eyebrow at her and she shrugged off my look. “I feel a lot better about this now,” she said softly, wiping tears from her eyes. “Thank you, Lakhan. I needed this. We can...go back now.” I returned her grin for just a moment, at least knowing now that this hadn’t been a complete waste of time. I helped my friend by giving her something that none of my own words could have given her. Hope. We began our trip down the mountain again, the receding sunlight casting our side of the mountain into shadow. Either the journey down only seemed shorter and easier because we were going downhill, or it really did go faster. Whatever the case, we soon reached Aya’s house once more and entered immediately to see what condition her mother was in. “Amma!” she called hurriedly, pushing past the blanket in the entrance. “Amma, are you…?” She froze in her tracks, and I froze behind her. Her mother looked...perfectly fine, standing and walking slowly over to me and Aya. “Aayusha,” she said sweetly, her voice having the same honey-like tone as any other parents. “Where have you been all this time? I was getting worried.” n

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Expressions of awe were visible on both of our faces. “Wh-What...how did…” Aya stuttered for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “Amma, what happened?” Her mother chuckled and tilted her head back slightly, remembering something that had happened earlier. “You see,” she began slowly, “I think it was probably around midday when a doctor happened by. He saw me and gave me some medicine, saying that he came from the city for a medical camp. Oh, Aayusha, you’re a miracle worker. You sent him,

right?” I didn’t even bother hiding the surprise on my face. It was just a coincidence, right? It couldn’t have been...but what else was there? An unbelievable amount of amazement surged inside me. This was the sign I’d wished for at the temple, and now here it was. Bhagawati had granted Aya’s wish and mine. I took a deep breath, staring in the direction of the mountain. Yes, I thought to myself decisively, that was definitely a solid enough reason to believe. r

Unfolding Lives Anuraag Sarkar (Age 15), New Jersey

e met him while walking home from school. Aarav was sitting near a fire, his hands folding a piece of a newspaper. The boy’s hands moved gracefully, carefully folding the paper. You may have thought that the dirty piece of paper was an important personal belonging. Vivaan walked up to the boy, curious. “Why are you folding that old newspaper? Does it serve any purpose?” He asked. Aarav looked up. “No, I’m making a swan. It was something my mother taught me when I was younger,” he replied. He then looked down again, continuing his work. “How can you make a swan with that dirty piece of paper! Everyone knows that a swan can only be borne from other swans!” Vivaan exclaimed. The boy looked up again, and then looked back down, continuing to fold the piece of paper. “Not a real swan, silly. I’m making a model of one, something that can represent the elegance of one,” the boy responded quietly. “But how can you make a swan using one piece of paper? Whenever I make something, I always use many! The more you use, the better it comes out!” Vivaan blurted. The boy looked at Vivaan again, except this time he held Vivaan’s stare. “Well then, that is an awfully stupid way to waste some good paper!” Aarav exclaimed. As he continued to fold the piece of paper, Vivaan noticed a head poke out from the many folds. After a few

more folds, two wings magically appeared on the sides of the figure, and soon the piece of paper looked like an intricate model swan. “Wow, that’s beautiful! How did you do that?” Vivaan asked, amazed by how beautiful the swan was. “You can constantly add many pieces of paper, but if you don’t handle the paper well, it falls apart. However, one piece of paper can be folded infinitely, and if you spend a lot of time, you will produce something amazing,” the boy responded. He suddenly stood up and held out his hand. “My name is Aarav, what is your name?” Vivaan took the hand and shook it, grateful for finally knowing the strange boy’s name. “Mine is Vivaan. I live in that building over there.” Vivaan exclaimed, pointing to a massive building in one of the most upscale neighborhoods bordering the slum right next to it. “Where do you live?” Aarav spread his arms out. “I live here!” Aarav responded excitedly. Vivaan looked around. There was a small, ragged shack surrounded by many other similar makeshift shelters behind Aarav, and besides these shelters was the campfire. He had a small clothes line set up with two shirts and pants on it and they were as dirty as the one he was wearing. “I don’t believe you. This place is awful!” Vivaan exclaimed. “People live in houses, everyone knows that!” n

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Aarav smiled faintly. “This place may not be as fancy as your house, but at least I can still call this place home,” Aarav murmured. Vivaan then noticed two fishes cooking on sticks by the campfire. The chaarapona smelled absolutely delicious! Aarav noticed Vivaan eyeing the fishes and chuckled. He grabbed the fishes and slowly removed them from the stick. The fishes came out with a “pop” and Aarav held one of them out for him. “I caught these by the khaal the other day. You want one?” Aarav asked. “Yes please!” Vivaan exclaimed, grabbing the fish from Aarav’s hands. He slowly took a bite of the fish, savoring the flavor. “This is amazing! It tastes so much better than the ones my mom makes!” “That’s because it’s fresh from the canal. The stupid stores that you guys probably get your fish from probably lather them with chemicals before selling them,” Aarav responded. “Oh,” Vivaan said simply. Aarav took out another piece of paper and held it out to Vivaan. “I see you are impressed by my origami,” Vivaan began. “Here, I will teach you how to do it. In exchange, can you get me some food?” Vivaan was perplexed. This kid was willing to teach him something so amazing? None of his friends ever taught him anything so amazing, let alone a complete stranger. “Of course! Thank you so much!” Vivaan chirped. “Ok, so origami is basically folding paper to make a shape of some sort. If you fold it like this… ” Aarav started saying. For the entire day, the two boys worked together on origami. When the sun was beginning to set, Vivaan ran to his house and stormed into his kitchen. He quickly took out a bag of tomatoes from his refrigerator and ran back to give it to Aarav. When his mom asked why he took so many tomatoes, he said that he had a school project. “Wow, these are great! I haven’t had such great food in a long time!” Aarav exclaimed, devouring the tomatoes. “They are just tomatoes. I thought you would be disappointed.” Vivaan responded. “When you don’t know when you are going to eat next, everything tastes amazing to you, even

bugs!” Aarav hummed. Ever since that day, the two boys met every single day. Each day, Aarav taught Vivaan how to do origami, and in return Vivaan gave Aarav food. One day the boys were talking about their parents. “I hate my mom and dad!” Vivaan exclaimed. “I can’t do anything; they always fuss over everything! They make me study and go to school, and whenever we go on vacation, we always go someplace stupid, like a lake or something!” Aarav stopped eating the carrots that Vivaan had brought for him. “You know, you’re very lucky to have parents. Ever since I was little, I had to worry about what I was going to do each day. Everyday people looked at me with disgust. Your parents pack your lunch, they look out for you, and they are there for your birthdays. Do you know how many times I have had to sing happy birthday to myself? Heck, I don’t even know when my birthday is anymore!” Aarav fumed. He threw the paper that he was folding, and it landed on a puddle, completely ruining it. Aarav finally came to his senses, and quickly scrambled for it. When he returned, however, Vivaan became angry at him for yelling so much. “Hey, you don’t have to do anything someone else tells you to do. You’re completely free, with no bounds! You don’t even have to go to school, you spoiled brat!” Aarav looked at him, a tear going down one eye. “Me? Spoiled? Look at a mirror, and then come back to me.” At this Vivaan stood up abruptly. “I don’t want to see you ever again! You and your stupid origami can stay here forever, for all I care!” Vivaan spat. He threw the paper he was working on at Aarav and stormed away. “Wait! I didn’t mean that!” Aarav called back. This was useless, however, as Vivaan was already long gone. A week passed without the boys meeting again. Vivaan, however, felt bad for saying what he had said to Aarav. He now realized that he was the spoiled one, not Aarav. Vivaan bought a pizza pie and headed back to Aarav’s home. After he reached it, however, Aarav was not there. He could tell that Aarav had not started a fire in a while, as the wood was damp because of the heavy rain from two days back. “Aarav! Where are you!” Vivaan called. He n

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searched everyone –– the tea shop, the place where Aarav worked, and even the shops. However, Vivaan could not find Aarav. Vivaan went back to Aarav’s home and started crying. Why had he said those awful things? It was all his fault. Suddenly, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Vivaan looked up and was surprised to see the tea shop owner, Aarav’s boss. “Are you looking for Aarav?” He asked. Vivaan nodded. The man with the mournful look took a deep breath. Vivaan could sense his sadness, but he couldn’t pinpoint where it was from. Finally, he looked at Vivaan and said slowly, “He died in a car accident yesterday. A car swerved too far right and hit him while he was working on something. I identified the body myself, so I know it was him.” Vivaan froze. He looked around. There were people talking, laughing, shouting. He then looked at Aarav’s home. He looked at the many newspapers piled in Aarav’s tent. He really looked, and noticed the headlines. A FATAL JUMP, one of them was labeled. CAR CRASH, POISONING, DISEASE, many more were labeled. He noticed, for the first time in his life, all the things he had been folding without really

looking at exactly what he was folding. Finally, the truth hit home, and Vivaan finally processed the fact the Aarav was dead. Dead. The last thing they did was squabble over something silly. Dead. He won’t see his smile anymore or learn from him anymore. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead! “Hey, are you Vivaan by any chance?” Aarav’s boss asked, breaking Vivaan’s trail of thought. “Yes, why?” Vivaan sniffled. Aarav’s boss went into the tea shop where Aarav used to work and came back with an origami swan. This swan was different however, because it was one of the most intricate origami swans he had ever seen in his life. Vivaan could see Aarav working gingerly on the wonderful masterpiece, folding the paper with care. Not only that, but this swan was not made out of newspaper. Instead, it was the paper people bought from art stores, the silky and colorful ones. “This is for you. It’s even labeled. I managed to take it from Aarav’s body before the cops could confiscate it.” Vivaan took the swan carefully and took a good look at it. He broke into tears again, for on the swan, was written in deep blue ink “I’m Sorry Vivaan.” r

Best Friends Forever Annesha Ghosh (Age 15), New Jersey

aindrops soaked her gravestone. It was as if the skies were crying with me. The flowers I brought had already begun to wither. Yet I could not bring myself to throw them away, so I lovingly tucked them into a corner of the gravestone. They were the blue lilacs from my garden. Her favorite. It had been a week since she passed away, but the thought of her dead was unbearable. She was my best friend. The most incredible person I had ever met. I shared with her the best memories of my life. Now my heart ached from all that was unsaid; all the life drained out of me, now that I would have to live without her. She, Aaliyah Star, was truly a wonderful per-

son. She was kind and always so supportive. I still remember the time when I got into a car accident. She was the first one who came to visit me, and she kept coming every day, even staying up all night to make sure I was fine. From the day I was admitted to the hospital to the day I was released, she brought me soup and ice cream and would update me on everything outside the hospital doors. Then there was the time I was heartbroken when my first book was rejected by all the publishing companies and editors. When I dropped out of college to pursue writing, she was the only one who did not cast judgment on me. She gave me the confidence and motivation to n

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keep working hard and revising. “Failure should not make you feel the need to suppress your talent, but encourage you to do better,” she would say. Now, publishers and editors are reaching out to me to print my work. All my success and all my happiness… I owe to her. We have so many cherished memories together. Like the time when we dressed up as Beyoncé and Jay-Z for Halloween, or when we both cried hysterically watching The Lion King in the movie theater. My life just won’t be the same without her. The sky faded from blue to grey. The rain started pouring heavily. I took out an umbrella and held it over my head. I wish I could hold it over her head too. Everyone loved her. She was like a Disney princess come to life. Smart, kind, beautiful. She was honest and helpful to everyone she met. She had virtually no flaws. We had the closeness of sisters and we shared everything with each other, from our most prized possessions to our deepest thoughts and ambitions. We would talk for hours about our dreams. I told her about how I aspired to one day become the head of a publishing house and share a corner office with her. Together, we would rule the publishing world. Thunder crackled in the sky. It was darker now. The wind was strong and slashed at my exposed skin. I licked my chapped lips as the moisture escaped and rubbed my hands together while deftly holding my umbrella so it would not fly away. My shoes sploshed in the mud, moving to the beat of the crickets’ chirps, as I took shelter under a tree. A squirrel scurried by. This was the first living thing I had seen in a while. There were people everywhere, yet I was too blinded by grief to see life in them. Since Aaliyah’s death, it seems the town has lost its luster, and my life, its meaning. She had become a part of me since the day we met, though it took me a long time to meet her. Or at least her to meet me. Thanks to social media, I actually knew quite a lot about her before meeting her: her favorite foods (chocolate ice cream sundae with two cherries and a teaspoon of syrup), where she lived (a small brown brick house five blocks from mine), where she worked (as a reporter in a cramped newsroom on Fulton Street) and where she got coffee (the cozy cafe on the corner). I had planned

out the way I was going to meet her, how I was going to accidentally bump into her when she was getting her daily coffee. It was much easier becoming friends with her knowing all that information. I still remember that day vividly. I went in line so she would be standing next to me, and then ordered her favorite drink: decaf, soy latte with an extra shot and cream. She seemed pleased to see we had similar preferences. Then, I purposely made her spill her drink on me. The hot coffee seared my skin with its heat, but I was willing to bear it if it meant I could finally meet her. She felt so bad that she took me to the clothing store, where she offered to buy me a new blouse. I felt guilty for making her feel this way when I was the one responsible. I did, however, share my contact information with her. Soon enough, we were friends. 8:53 p.m. It was late now. There were few cars on the street. I pulled my hood tighter over my head. There was a sign nearby on the cemetery gate reading “Home of the Peoples.” That frustrated me so much. The ignorance of this town never ceased to amaze me. How could they think of pluralizing an already plural noun? And on a sign for everyone to read, no less. A malicious grin appeared upon my face. I tried to resist, but it overcame me. There was actually one thing that did annoy me about Aaliyah. Her grammar. For some reason, she just could not get it right. At first, I felt her flawless personality outweighed her careless mechanics and superfluous vocabulary. When she messed up, I would subtly point it out, explain her error, and show her what she should be saying. But then it got repetitive. She kept making the same mistakes, like writing “your” instead of “you’re” and saying “less” when she really meant “fewer.” It really began to get on my nerves. I could not accept the fact that a person as perfect as Aaliyah could have such horrendous grammar. Or even worse, that someone so amazing would make zero effort to improve. It hurt me. Mocked me. She called me a grammar Nazi. I think that was an exaggeration. I preferred to be called meticulous. Normally, I would not mind correcting people, but with Aaliyah, it had simply become a pain. I miss her so dearly, bad grammar and all. But I really shouldn’t have killed her. r n

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Perception: In the Present Tense Swayamshuvra Chakraborty (Age 17), New Jersey

erception, an interesting word, though its meaning is ironically skewed through the way people perceive it, although the dictionary defines perception as “the organization, identification, and interpretation of sensory information in order to represent and understand the presented information or the environment.” Essentially, perception is how you as a human being see, view, and altogether experience the world around you. The idea of perception is interesting in and of itself, as every human is aware of the fact that only they can perceive something in a certain way and that no other human being can ever experience that same thing in the same way. That was a confusing string of words, an example is required, okay, let’s see, look at something yellow. It is an inexplicable shade of the color. You have been taught the color from when you were little, the way you see the color yellow is ingrained into your memory through past experiences, although you have no way of knowing whether the color you see as yellow is even the same color that someone else sees as yellow. Perception is different for everyone, and we really have no way of knowing what it really is. In reality, we don’t even know if perception exists, at least we are “sure” that it does for us, but we don’t know if anyone else’s perception even exists, let alone how it works. We have strong evidence to date that suggests that other people perceive things too, in all seriousness though, we really have no way of knowing. There are even theories that state that we are actually living in a computer simulated world, a very advanced computer simulation, of course, and that our existence could easily end from just the accidental unplugging of a computer. This theory arises from the assumption that our civilization, in the far future, could have massive computing abilities, and through this, could run detailed simulations of organic minds to see them

perceive and react to their simulated environment. Thus assumed, we could also be simulations run by a race for the same reasons, and they also could be simulated, this chain would go back as far as the first actual biological civilization to run a simulation. Going back from that slightly depressing tangent, we come to the main point of writing this, the present. The present seems like such a short period of time, as you’re reading this, the moment after you process the words of this article, the words are becoming part of your past, even as I’m writing this, the letters that pass by my cursor are becoming the past, becoming part of my past and becoming part of the past of the world at the same time, interesting how this small piece is becoming logged in the past of the entire world, of the history of man, of ages and ages of the perceived and unfathomable beginning of time, leading all back to the letters passing by my cursor, strangely philosophical, is it not? We have different quantified values for the present, according to the calculations of Max Planck, present takes approximately 10-43 seconds, which would be the amount of time for a photon travelling at the speed of light to cross one Planck length, which would be approximately 1.6*10-35 meters. Both of these values are extremely small and arbitrary, but essentially, Planck believed that the present passes by at an almost nonexistent time frame. Other people believe that present passes by in 200 milliseconds, and only to add to the confusion, it seems that our brains make decisions approximately 7 seconds before we are aware of its process. It looks like even our thoughts on the present are up to our own perception, how ironic. Perception is an interesting thing, and we have a logical idea of how it works, but in actuality, it goes deeper than what one sees, smells, touches, tastes, or hears. Something that we cannot explain or even prove, our perception. r n

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Still You Aratrika Dey (Age 18), New Jersey When the day is done, it’s you I think about, When the night is young, it’s you I think about When the shadows fall, and the ground grows cold When the wind slaps against my ear folds When the crowd is wild enough to get lost When the streets are thick with a layer of frost. When every shade of truth shows a face of lies When the clouds above gift its rain in my eyes When grains of sand curl beneath my feet When I witness a ragged child with a morsel to eat When the blare of traffic deafens all sound When a present is sealed and waits to be found When my room is engulfed in blackness so deep When I cradle a baby and lull it to sleep. When my fingers trace the pages that spill The spaces our silences would always fill When my mind searches in a vision of red For words left unheard, and those left unsaid When the skin on my lips ache with thirst, The memories are what come to me first. Of melodies I’ve learned to sing and forget, Of steps and turns that lead to regret The stars I’ve learned to live without, It is still you I think about.

Family Tree Eeshan Saha (Age 9), Massachusetts I hold everything about your family, All the data and feelings in it, like a very busy bee, I am like a chest full of secrets about your family’s ancestors, I am a family tree. I remind you about everything that happened to your family, Ranging from sadness to happiness to romance. I am very diverse. But since I hold everything, even when your family is depressed, I remind them about happiness in their ancestors and fix them, like a nurse. I am like a chest full of secrets about your family’s ancestors, I am a family tree. n

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