The village was named Baghmari. It was situated just by the railway line, but to reach the village one had to walk about a mile from the station. Between the two lay a dense forest. The villagers did not usually enter the forest when going to and from the station—they slipped under the barbed wire protecting the railway line and walked along the tracks instead.

The station was named Santalgola. It was quite a large station, and a small town had sprung up around it. The area was rich in paddy. Both paddy and rice were exported from the region. There were a couple of rice mills too.

During the war, a company of American soldiers had camped for some time in the forest between Santalgola and Baghmari; they used to wander about bare-bodied, dressed only in trousers, and share a smoke with the farmers. They returned home after the war, leaving behind several illegitimate children and some small arms.

The assignment on which Byomkesh and I were in Santalgola for some length of time was related to the abovementioned arms, details of which I shall disclose at the appropriate time. The story I am relating at present is set primarily in the village of Baghmari, and the individuals from whom I had heard the early parts of this tale were all young men from the village. In order to sacrifice verbosity, I am writing their testimonies in abridged form.

Of the handful of full-fledged houses in Bagmari village, Sadananda Sur’s was the oldest. It comprised about three rooms, a paved courtyard in front, and another yard at the back with a wall running around it. The jungle began immediately behind the house.

Sadananda Sur was getting on in years, but since he had no family or wife or children, he lived all by himself in his ancestral home. He did have a solitary sister who was married to a railway employee, but they were townspeople to whom Sadananda-babu enjoyed no particular proximity. His relationship with other people in the village was not very close; while there was no antagonism with anyone, there was no intimacy either. On most days he awoke early and went to the station-town, returning to the village in the evening. Nobody knew what exactly he did for a living. Some said he was a broker dealing in paddy and rice; others said he ran a pawnshop. In sum, he was rather a secretive and thrifty person, which was about all that people knew about him.

One April morning, Sadananda left his home early; bringing a medium-sized trunk and a canvas bag out of the house, he locked the door. Then, holding one in each hand, he proceeded on his journey.

There was a clearing in front of the house, almost a field. As Sadananda was on his way towards the railway lines after walking across the field, he ran into Hiru, the village headman of advancing years. ‘Where are we off to with all those boxes first thing in the morning?’

‘I’m going away for a few days,’ answered Sadananda.

‘Ah,’ responded Hiru. ‘Pilgrimage?’

Sadananda merely smiled.

‘Already thinking of atoning for your sins?’ remarked Hiru. ‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-five.’ Sadananda continued on his way.

‘When will you be back?’ Hiru called behind him.

‘In a week or so.’

Sadananda left.

His sudden pilgrimage became a minor subject of discussion in the village. No one had suspected his soul of yearning for religious rituals. He had not spent a single night outside the village in the past ten years. Everyone assumed that Sadananda Sur, who usually went about his business without drawing attention to himself, was travelling on some secret purpose.

Three or four days later, the young men of the village were huddled in the field opposite Sadananda’s house. The village was home to some twenty-five or thirty respectable families; after sunset, the local young men gathered here for a chat, some of them sang songs, others smoked. Barring winter and the monsoon, this was where they always congregated.

Today, everyone was teasing a young man named Amrito. Somewhat eccentric in nature, Amrito was the orphaned nephew of one of the inhabitants of the village. Absurdly thin and lanky, he was rather garrulous, and forever trying to prove his courage and intelligence. Therefore, he became the butt of everyone’s jokes whenever they found an opportunity.

It had begun that morning. A young man named Nadu had got married recently; his wife’s name was Papia. She was on her way to fetch water from the pond, carrying a pitcher; other young women were present too. Amrito was skipping stones on the water; when he saw Nadu’s wife, on an impulse he imitated the cry of the papia—the Indian nightingale—‘Piu piu, pia pia papia …’

The young women giggled. Humiliated, the bride returned home at once and reported the incident to her husband. Flying into a rage, Nadu came running with a stick, whereupon Amrito promptly scaled a coconut tree at the edge of the water. The village elders arrived to restore peace. Everyone—even the stubborn Nadu—knew that Amrito had no evil intentions. Things didn’t get out of hand.

But Amrito was not spared gibes and taunts by his friends. Everyone gathered around him as soon as he arrived at the evening haunt.

‘You’re such a brave man,’ jeered Patal, ‘but you couldn’t fight with Nadu. You had to escape into a coconut tree!’

‘Hmmph!’ countered Amrito. ‘I climbed the tree for a coconut. I’m not afraid of Nedo; if he didn’t have that stick I’d have tripped him so hard he’d be groaning in bed right now.’

‘Wonderful!’ said Gopal. ‘You got a thrashing from your uncle when you went home, didn’t you?’

‘Uncle didn’t thrash me, he loves me.’ Amrito shook his head. ‘But my aunt boxed my ears—you’re an ass, she said.’

Everyone chortled with glee. ‘Shame on you, such a coward,’ declared Patal. ‘Imagine having your ears boxed by a woman.’