“Give him some brandy to drink.” “Call Shyamadas the physician tomorrow—” Uncle uttered a few harsh words and left the room. For the first time, I saw him being insolent in front of Father. I felt angry at my uncle. How dare he speak to Father like that—was it not Father who had made him what he is? I sat there, speechless—two lamps glowed in the room, yet the people seemed like shadowy figures in the darkness—even Father. Father’s shadow had moved to stand near my bookshelf. He was searching through the books. The first one he pulled out was a Japanese fairy tale book, bound in bright blue cloth, with a strange golden animal embossed on the cover. Slowly, Father opened the pages and tore out the dedication page. That book—he had given it to me. Then he did the same with the book ‘Hunger’. One by one, he took out the books and tore out the dedication pages. When he took out Goethe’s biography, he couldn’t find the inscription—it had been on the first page, stuck to the cover like a lining. That little bit of handwriting, that single mark, is all I have left of him for my whole life—nothing else, not even a photograph.

Father slowly tore the papers into tiny pieces and threw them out the window. In another house, perhaps the books themselves would have been destroyed. But that could never happen in this house—even though Chinggis Khan may live here, he cannot destroy books—he can burn people, but not books. Books are his gods.

Father’s friend was going to Madhupur with his family for the Puja holidays—we too needed a change of air—Father said that a new place would be good for both body and mind.

But my mind was only getting worse. Above all other reasons, one thought stabbed at my heart like the edge of a sharp knife, leaving it raw and aching—if only I could ask him once—why don’t you answer my letters? But how could I? Who would take me to Ripon Street? It’s not that I don’t know the streets of Calcutta, but going out alone is impossible and dangerous. I have never walked alone on the streets of Calcutta. I could send the driver, but I don’t like that man—his eyes are like those of a beast, always watching us. He frightens me.

Khoka never comes anymore.

The day we were to leave for Madhupur, he came. He would go to the station with us, help load the luggage.

I found a moment alone with him and asked, “Khoka, why don’t you come anymore? At least I could talk to you about him.”

Khoka was silent. “Why don’t you come, tell me?”

“I can’t bear to see you suffer so much, Ru. There’s a limit to what a person can endure.”

“But if I could talk to you, my pain would lessen. What is he doing now?”

“He’s not here anymore, he’s gone to the Himalayas.”

“The