S atyaboti came and stood at Byomkesh’s side with a cup of pomegranate juice. She said, ‘Here, can you please drink this up?’

I glanced at the clock; it was exactly four o’clock. The clock could be set by Satyaboti and her ministrations.

Byomkesh was sitting in his easy chair reading a book. He stared gloomily at the proferred cup for a while and then said, ‘Why do I have to drink pomegranate juice every day?’

Satyaboti said, ‘Doctor’s orders.’

Byomkesh grimaced and said, ‘The doctor can go to the blazes. I don’t like drinking that stuff. What good is it, anyway?’

Satyaboti said, ‘It’ll increase your blood count. Please, dear, drink it up.’

Byomkesh stole a quick glance at Satyaboti’s face and asked, ‘What’s for dinner tonight?’

Satyaboti replied, ‘Toast and chicken broth.’

The frown on Byomkesh’s face deepened. He said, ‘Hmm, broth. And who, pray, will eat the chicken?’

Satyaboti hid a smile as she said, ‘Why, your dearest friend, I suppose.’

Hastily, I pitched in, ‘Not all by himself. Your better half will also get her share.’

Byomkesh glared at me once and then screwed up his face and drank up the pomegranate juice.

It was a few days since we had arrived in this town, which was located on the western fringes of Bengal, for a change of air. Byomkesh had been afflicted by a serious illness in Calcutta and was bedridden for a while; it had taken Satyaboti and me two months of constant care to bring him back to health. The toll of nursing him had begun to tell on Satyaboti who had been reduced to skin and bones. I was not much better off either. So, at the doctor’s advice, we had set off in search of the rejuvenating climes of the Santhal district around the middle of December. The results of the change had been miraculous too. Not only had Satyaboti and I regained our health, but Byomkesh too was getting better by the day. His appetite was increasing rapidly as well. After the long indisposition, he had turned into something of an unreasonable child; he craved for food every waking minute of the day. The two of us were having a hard time restraining him.

We had thus far made the acquaintance of only two gentlemen in the town. The first was Professor Adinath Shome; it was the ground floor of his house that we had rented. The second was the local doctor, Ashwini Ghatok. Since we had arrived with a convalescing patient, the first thing we had done was to look up the nearest physician.

There were many other Bengalis in the town, but we hadn’t had a chance yet to meet any of them. We hadn’t been able to go out much in the past few days. It took a while to settle down into a new habitat. This was the first day we would have an opportunity to venture out—we had been invited to tea by a prominent Bengali gentleman of the town. Although we had tried to keep as low a profile as possible, the news of Byomkesh’s arrival, like an unmistakable scent wafting in the air, had soon become common knowledge. Hence the invitation to tea.

We would rather not have taken Byomkesh out to a tea- party this soon. But Byomkesh, after being confined to the indoors for a long time, had grown quite restless. The doctor

also gave us his permission. So it was decided that we would g°.

Sitting in his easy chair and leafing through a book, Byomkesh was fidgeting and glancing at the clock at regular intervals. I was standing by the window and lazily puffing on a cigarette; the charming natural landscape of the Santhal district had me completely in its thrall. Here was an unique marriage of lushness and aridity, of abundance and dearth; human presence had not succeeded in reducing the rocky soil of the place into molten sludge.

Suddenly, Byomkesh asked, ‘What time have you asked the rickshaw to come?’

I replied, ‘Four-thirty.’

Byomkesh threw one more glance at the clock before lowering his eyes to the book again. I realized that the laggard pace of the clock’s hands was making him impatient. I laughed and said, ‘Patience, my friend, and the fruits will be—’

He snapped at me, ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself— brandishing your cigarette in front of me?’

I threw the half-smoked cigarette out of the window. Byomkesh was not yet allowed to smoke. Satyaboti had extracted a grave promise—if he smoked without her permission, he would see her dead. I too had stopped smoking in front of Byomkesh; there was no sin greater than tempting an addict who was bound by a pledge. But there were times when I would err.

Exactly at four-thirty, two cycle-rickshaws arrived at the main entrance. Byomkesh and I were dressed and ready; Satyaboti had also completed her toilette. So we set off at once.

The two storeys of the house we were staying in were not connected; the stairway to the first floor was set at the far end of the open veranda. In front of the house was an open courtyard and across it lay the main gate. When we came out of the house, we saw our landlord standing by the gate with exasperation writ large on his face.

Professor Shome was close to forty, but he didn’t look much over thirty; his demeanour, too, didn’t speak of his age at all. He was quite nimble and spirited in whatever he did. But if there was one difficulty that daunted the professor’s life, it was his wife. Marital bliss was not something that Professor Shome had ever found.

He was dressed to go out. Seeing us, he gave a wan smile. We knew he was invited to the same party and so I asked, ‘Why are you just standing there, aren’t you coming?’

Professor Shome cast a telling look at the first floor of his