One

The first spring after the attainment of independence has arrived. A gentle breeze has begun to blow from the south, and even the few city trees scattered here and there in Calcutta have donned a flush of crimson new leaves. I have heard that, at this time, the very glands of the human body are infused anew with sap.

Byomkesh lay sprawled on the divan, reading a book of poetry. I was thinking to myself, He has become quite the poet these days, with evening drawing near. Of late, whenever spring arrives, my heart grows strangely wistful. I am growing older.

As dusk approached, Satyabati entered our sitting room. I noticed she had done up her hair, entwined a garland of jasmine in her bun, and was clad in a light sari of spring’s yellow hue. It had been a long time since I had seen her so adorned. Sitting down beside the divan, she smiled at Byomkesh and said, “Why do you spend all day and night with your nose buried in books? Come, let’s go out somewhere.”

Byomkesh did not respond. I asked, “Where do you want to go? The Maidan?”

Satyabati replied, “No, no, outside Calcutta. Somewhere like—Kashmir—or—”

Byomkesh closed his book, slowly sat up, stretched out his right hand theatrically, and recited in pure Mandakranta metre:

“The desire to wander is strong, But provisions there are none; Chains bind my feet, my mind longs to fly— Is this the curse of fate alone?”

Astonished, I asked, “Where did you get that from?”

“Hmph—why should I tell you?” Byomkesh lay back down and reopened his book.

When a man is idle, he undertakes pilgrimages with his uncles; Byomkesh, instead, had immersed himself in the old poets of Bengali literature. He was working his way through them all, from Bharat Chandra onwards. He had threatened that he would not even spare the ultra-modern poets. I had grown apprehensive—one day, he might even begin composing poetry himself. Nowadays, with rhyme and metre having fallen out of fashion, there is nothing to hinder one from writing verse. But the thought of the truth-seeker Byomkesh turning poet is enough to make one’s hair stand on end. It all began when I bought Khoka a copy of ‘Abol Tabol’; that, it seems, was the root of Byomkesh’s poetic inspiration. Then, becoming a partner in a bookshop only added fuel to the fire.

Satyabati gave Byomkesh’s big toe a playful twist and said, “Get up now. Why are you lying down again?”