“No, Ma, no. That day when he left, you made me stand on the veranda, and after that, I never saw him again!”

“Then you must have written letters, kept in touch—tell me the truth?”

“No, no, no. I wrote a letter, but he never replied.”

Mother sighed deeply. “It was all because of your father. A Frenchman, bringing him into the house, and then again—”

I feel like laughing—Mother simply cannot let go of the idea that he was a Frenchman!

“When did you write the letter, Ru?”

“In 1953, from Paris.”

“Then why didn’t he reply?”

“Would it have been better if he had replied? Would you have minded, Ma? Wouldn’t that have been wrong?”

Mother sighed again—“Now, nothing is wrong anymore, Ru—but perhaps it was for the best that you didn’t write. Even though he was French, he was a very sensible boy. Maybe he didn’t write back for fear it would harm your family. Ah, all this pain you suffered was only because of your father. And—who knows how fate works, we drove that boy away and from the very next year my own family began to fall apart!”

Seven years after this, that is, in 1965, worn down by illness and broken in spirit, Mother died, her being utterly shattered.

## Na Hanyate 11 Third Part

Another eleven years have passed. I have traveled to Europe twice, to various countries. Never again did I hear his name. I didn’t even remember him anymore. These eleven years, I took on certain responsibilities. My time is no longer my own, my age has reached the threshold of old age, my body too is growing frail. With my children and grandchildren, I have a happy family, but besides this, I have built another large family—of friends and colleagues. Among all of them, I have managed to establish a certain image of myself. As far as I believe, it is something like this—I am a very strict person, especially regarding unsanctioned love affairs, I am known to be merciless. So, if any such incident happens among my friends, it is carefully hidden from me. My views on right and wrong are inflexible, I speak harshly if there is even a slight deviation from propriety. And I am excessively practical. I have surely created an image of myself even in my own mind—that is, I do not compromise with wrongdoing. Any kind of excess, from drinking to anything else, is poison to my eyes. Every person has a responsibility to society; one cannot neglect that responsibility for personal indulgence or for the sake of literature. If anyone does, I criticize them. In short, all the virtues and vices of a minor leader are visible in me. Some may dismiss my altruistic zeal as idle busybodying, but I have received ample praise and help as well. On the whole, the circles of both my small and large families are complete. I feel no lack, no incompleteness.

At such a time, in