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