They will run away. For years, wherever they have gone, they have eaten everything—who will they show their double-facedness to? If you go home, will you be able to walk straight behind them? If you do, your voice will tremble in fear.”

Nebamani, sitting on the cart, spoke with irritation, “Oh mother earth, why did they run away from there and come here? I told you, how could they have come if they had a fever? Why is everyone so afraid of this? Why speak like a coward, saying they ran away from there—oh mother earth. Everything must be done.”

“Why are you talking like that—leave it. In the morning, they will go to the ripe paddy field. How will they go if they are ill—if Amar doesn’t recover, it’s all over.”

Nebamani said, “Yes, that’s true.” In the next room, Baraja, hearing the conversation in her ears, said, “Didn’t I say, how will they go if they are ill?”

Chapter Twelve

After many days, it was a bright morning. Baraja, rising from the deep darkness, woke up the children and went out of the house. She went to the cowshed—where the hay was piled, where the paddy was kept, she checked everything. Whatever property there was, it did not take more than an hour to inspect it all.

Baraju said, “What, now everything is clear—this time it has to happen—doesn’t it?”

Chhakadi replied, “Yes—if only they would divide it up properly—‘No, Chhakadi, do you think I have any say in this matter?—Father and Paghu have forbidden it, this property will not be divided.’”

“Well, do whatever you want, who is there to say anything about it?” Chhakadi felt a surge of strength.

Baraju went towards the house and saw: the hasboard, the clock, the cot, the lagapara—all sorts of things tied up in bundles, ready to be taken away. Baraju asked, “What is this, a factory school?”

“Won’t you take your friends along?”

“Who says one should tie up so many things?—I had told you not to take the bronze utensils—would it be good to take even the clock from the house?”

Haraboad, his face burning with fever, said, “Oh—I had just kept them aside for convenience.”

“Take them out, take them out—what all have you kept aside! Take everything out, whatever is tied up, show it to Sanabohu and then tie it up.”

Haraboad turned his face away from Baraju. Baraju laughed—Haraboad laughed. Both understood—there was nothing more to say, nothing more to move.

Hagbou says nothing to anyone—Baraju’s leaving home, the talk of going to the school, the news spreading through the village like smoke curling over the dandak. The women—Shaighaboi, Nandi Pandi Ani, Nevagh Ma, Shoi Nag, and so many others—gathered in the headman’s house, their faces drawn with worry. Some held pieces of neem twigs in their hands, some smeared turmeric on their bodies, some oiled their hair, others tore banana leaves and fanned away the thick smoke rising from the hearth.

“Chhuth, what is