Was it not yet ten o’clock? Madhab Babu arrived, bringing along the doorman and a lantern, to fetch the bridegroom’s party. Meeting the wedding procession on the road, nearly half an hour was spent in mere courtesies—one gentleman insisted, “Sir, please proceed ahead,” while the other replied, “No, sir, you go first.” At last, Beni Babu of Bali stepped forward and said, “Whichever of you it may be, let one of you go ahead. We cannot stand here in the cold all night.” Thus resolved, everyone proceeded to the bride’s house and entered within, while the groom went and took his seat in the assembly. The drummers, the musicians, and the hired singers surrounded the gathering on all sides—village drummers and various other performers began their chatter. Thakchacha stood, negotiating the terms—much haggling over the share of sweets, but when it came to the fruit, only a token amount was offered. Among the musicians, a burly fellow suddenly charged forward and shouted, “Who is this barber’s son, eh? Get out of here, boy! Why is a Muslim meddling in a Hindu ceremony?” At once, Thakchacha’s temper flared. Stroking his beard and glaring, he began to hurl abuses. Haldhar, Gadadhar, and the other young gentlemen watched the scene, each hoping to see what would happen next. They saw the clouds gathering—there might be a storm. Some abandoned their seats, some adjusted their turbans, some tossed coins into the air, some flung things over each other’s heads. Two men from the bride’s side, witnessing this commotion, uttered a few strong words, and it nearly came to blows. Matilal, seeing the quarrel, thought to himself, “Perhaps marriage is not in my fate—maybe I’ll have to return home with the sacred thread in hand, as a bachelor.”

11. On the Occasion of Matilal’s Wedding: Poetry and the Professors of Agarpara

The professors of Agarpara were seated in the evening under a tree, having spread out their mats. Some were taking snuff, some smoking hookah, some coughing and clearing their throats, while others exchanged a few light-hearted stories and jokes. Among them, one asked, “How is Vidyaratna these days?”

“A Brahmin, driven by hunger, went to a feast in Monirampur and ended up breaking his leg!” replied another. “Ah, just yesterday he was hobbling along with a stick to bathe. Seeing him, my heart was filled with sorrow.”

Vidyabhushan: “Vidyaratna is well. With a little lime, turmeric, and a warm compress, the pain…”

It has diminished a great deal. On the occasion of the invitation at Monirampur, the poem composed by our dear Kavikankan brother is quite colorful—let me recite it for you.

Dimiki, the nahabat rings out with a clatter and a clang. Madhab Bhavan. Devendra Sadan. The one who reigns over the world resides here. A wondrous assembly. The glow of lights. The brilliance of chandeliers shining in between. All around, flowers of every kind. Both banks overflowing with blossoms. The music’s tumult resounds with zest. Marigold garlands in hair buns. Red saris,