Seven

By the time I returned after finishing my work at Howrah Station, dusk was about to fall. The main door was half-closed. Entering, I saw that Ushapati Babu had already left; in the shadowy room, at the far end by the window, Satyabati and Byomkesh were sitting so close their shoulders touched. A gentle southern breeze drifted in through the window. Seeing me, Satyabati shifted a little.

I approached and said, “Well, well, like a pair of doves, you sit here enjoying the Malaya breeze. —Where’s Khoka?”

Satyabati, a little embarrassed, replied, “Putiram has taken Khoka for a walk in the park.”

Byomkesh said, “You see, Ajit, the poets are not liars. There’s good reason for the way they lose themselves at the advent of spring. It’s true, the Malaya breeze strikes hardest at young men and women, but the elders aren’t spared either. I believe, if it hadn’t been spring, Ushapati Babu might not have murdered Satyakam.”

I said, “You don’t say! The poets never wrote about such deadly powers of spring.”

Byomkesh replied, “Even if they didn’t write it plainly, they hinted at it. All power is dangerous; the same fire that gives light can also burn everything to ashes. —But let that be. Tell me, what news from Kashmir?”

I said, “There’s fighting in Kashmir, ordinary people aren’t being allowed in. To go, you need a permit from the Government of India.”

I fetched a chair and sat down on Byomkesh’s other side. Byomkesh said, “Getting a permit won’t be hard. The Government of India and I are on excellent terms these days, at least as long as Vallabhbhai Patel is alive. But the question is, is it wise for all of us to go to Kashmir? Khoka has only just started school, and there’s still time before the summer holidays. I don’t think it’s right to take him out of school.”

Satyabati said, “Why should Khoka go? He’ll stay at home. Thakurpo, can’t you look after Khoka?”

I gazed at Satyabati for a moment and then said, “Ah—so that’s the plan. You two will fly off to Kashmir like a pair of swans, and I’ll be left at home with Khoka. My friend Byomkesh, you’re right, spring is indeed a dangerous season. But, no matter. Go on, wander as you please, I’ll stay at home with Khoka and enjoy myself. To tell the truth, I never had the slightest desire to go to Kashmir. Bengal is my own earthly paradise—janani janmabhumishcha swargadapi gariyasi.” With that, I lit a cigarette.

Satyabati pressed her sari’s edge to her lips to hide a smile. Byomkesh, in a low hum, recited poetry, “Youth is the sweetest time, but it will not last—so drink the nectar of love while you can. —Give me a cigarette.”

Handing him one, I said, “Reading poetry has corrupted your character. But leave that for now—do you mind telling us the tale Ushapati just confided in you?”

Byomkesh said, “Not at all. I was waiting