The two brothers, Devdas and Dwijdas, and several villagers returned together to the Mookherjee manor. After the funeral. Dwijdas wept loudly and carried on as though he had been driven out of his senses with grief. His companions could hardly restrain him.

All this while, Devdas stood calmly leaning against on of the marble columns. No sound issued from his mouth, not a tear fell from his eyes. No one touched him, no one offered him comfort. At one point, Modhusudon Ghoshe approached him, saying, “Dear boy, if it was to be …”

He never finished what he came to say. Devdas gestured in Dwijdas’s direction, “Over there,” he said.

Taken aback, Modhusudon Ghoshe exclaimed, “Yes, he is very much affected.” And moved away. Nobody else drew near him.

It was past two in the afternoon , when Devdas took himself off to his mother’s chambers, where she sat, half swooning, among several women. Parvati’s grandmother was there too. Perceiving Devdas, she cried out in her cracked voice, “My dear, look, your son Devdas is here.” Devdas said softly, “Mother!”

The widow looked up briefly and said, “Child!”, then she closed her eyes but tears still flowed. At this , several of the women present also began to weep. Devdas sat with his mother for a while, then he rose and slowly made his way to his father’s bedroom. Still dry-eyed, calm and solemn, he entered and sat down on the floor. If some stranger beheld him now, surely they would have been frightened. His eyes were reddened from drink and sleeplessness, veins stood out like ropes on his forehead, his hair unkempt and rough, hooded his face. The warm gold of his skin had dulled and darkened in an unhealthy way. His mode of life in Calcutta, his sudden journey home, the sleepless vigil at his father’s sickbed, his father’s death, all had taken such a toll on his appearance that people who knew him of old could barely recognize him.

The door opened slightly, then Parvati’s mother stepped inside.

“Devdas!”

“Why, aunt!”

“It won’t do to go on like this, my dear!”

Devdas gazed tranquilly at her.

“What have I done, aunt?”

She did not answer; instead she drew Devdas to her in an embrace.

She said, “Your father , …, your father..”

“What is it, aunt?”

“He is with the gods, my dear.”

Resting his head on her shoulder, Devdas allowed himself to weep.

Even in the most grif-stricken families, the daily chores will not wait. Eventually the weeping died down, Dwijdas showed signs of normalcy, his mother sat up, wiped her eyes and continued with the housework.

After a few days, Dwijdas inquired of Devdas, “How much do you think we should spend on the funeral ceremonies?”

Looking at his brother, Devdas replied, “As you think fit.”

“No, brother, it cannot be my decision only. You are of age now, I must consider you too.”

Devdas asked, “How much ready cash do we have?”

“Father had