A FEW MONTHS passed.

Shorbojoya was on her way home from Bhubon Mukhujje’s well, a large pot of water balanced on her hips. Her son followed closely behind, fisting his small hands in the free end of her sari.

‘Stop doing that!’ Shorbojoya finally said. ‘I have lots to do right now, Khoka. I don’t have time for your mischief.’

Opu refused to let go. ‘Do your work in the evening. Go to the bathing steps first! Now! Go now!’

Shorbojoya gave him a quelling look.

‘No-o-o-o!’ whined her son. ‘Go to the pond! Then come back and give me my lunch!’ Then he set his features in the most piteous expression he could manage. ‘Aren’t I allowed to be hungry? I haven’t had a real meal in four days!’

‘And whose fault is that? Did I ask you to run around in the sun and bring home a fever? It’s not like I’m sitting around doing nothing. I’ll go to the pond when I finish all my other chores.’

Opu held on to the sari tightly. ‘You work all the time! What will it matter if you skip a day? I’m hungry-y-y-y!’

Shorbojoya softened. ‘If you don’t let me go, how can I start making your lunch? Come on, Baba. I promise I’ll be quick. Lunch will be ready before you know it. Now, how many gourd-leaf fries will my little boy have? Hmm?’

After about an hour, Opu sat down to eat with a great show of enthusiasm. He mashed the hot rice with great delight, and bit into two gourd-leaf fritters at the same time. After only a couple of handfuls, however, his enthusiasm began to wane. He began taking long, gurgling sips out of his water glass, chased the fried leaves around with his rice, scattered some accidentally on the ground, and in between put a few reluctant morsels in his mouth. Then, before his mother could say anything, he finished his water in a sudden single gulp and ran off to wash his hands.

‘No! You come back here!’ his mother called after him. ‘“I’m hungry, I want my rice! I want my fried leaves”—is this how much you eat after all that? How will you live on so little, you silly boy? Opu! Come back!’

When her son showed no signs of compliance, she mashed some of the rice into a bowl of warm milk and sat down right in front of him. Opu tried his best to avoid the little milk-soaked rice balls, but his mother had considerable expertise at bypassing his reluctance.

‘Let’s see, my angel, just two more gulps . . . did you know there’s going to be an idol immersion at Tunu’s place this evening? Open up, sweetie, just one more . . . There will be lights and drums—so much fun! We’ll all be going! Won’t that be nice? This is the last one, I promise . . . no, no, don’t purse your lips! Honestly, it’s a wonder you’re still alive!’

This was the scene that Durga walked into. As usual, her tangled hair stood out at all angles, and her feet were covered in dust. The moment she saw her mother, she was stopped short.

‘Come in, come in,’ Shorbojoya greeted her daughter with biting deference, her earlier warmth vanishing. ‘Good of you to finally grace this humble house with your august presence. Now please oblige your mother by swallowing your lunch. I’m sure you’ll have to run out at any moment to keep all your pressing noon-time appointments. No?’

Durga swallowed. She had indeed been planning on leaving right after lunch. The orchards and woodlands of the village were her whole life. She knew which berries were the sweetest, whose orchard had the sweetest plums, and which bush of berries ripened first each season. Even when she walked on human paths, she kept a sharp eye on the sides for pretty insects, or little treasures like the yellow nightshade, the fruit of which made perfect little toy brinjals for her doll box. Even shards of broken, throwaway clay were swiftly wrapped up in the ends of her sari to use as hopscotch markers later. Orchards, games and treasures for her doll box—these were the soul and centre of her life.

Shorbojoya, meanwhile, was slowly giving in to her rising temper.

‘Look at you! No oil, no combing, loose hair flying everywhere . . . who’s going to say you’re a brahmon’s daughter? You look just like a tribal girl! Just as well, since no doubt that’s who you’ll end up marrying. All the other neighbourhood girls are lighting lamps and praying to Shib Thakur for good husbands . . . but not my daughter! Oh no! Old enough to be married, and here she’s running around the jungles doing god knows what! What’s that knot in your sari?’

Durga looked around helplessly. She had hoped to slip indoors and unload her morning’s pickings into the doll box, precisely so her mother wouldn’t find out about them. She hadn’t been prepared for a confrontation.

Her obvious fear sharpened Shorbojoya’s suspicion.

‘Open up!’ she demanded. ‘Let’s see what secret treasures you’ve brought home this time.’

Reluctantly, Durga began to unknot the loose end of her sari. ‘It’s, um . . . I saw these under the sophera shrubs . . . only from Uncle Neelmoni’s garden, nowhere else. There is this yellow bird that comes every day . . . so I thought . . .’

‘To hell with your yellow bird!’ thundered Shorbojoya. ‘This house is not your dumping ground! If I see any more useless junk coming in, I’m going to take your stupid doll box and drown it in the old pond—you see if I . . .’

Her threat was cut off suddenly, for with an abrupt burst of noise, the third-eldest mistress of the Mukhujje household swept into their compound. She was followed by her daughter Tunu, her nephew Shotu, and four