HORIHOR’S ANCESTOR BISHNURAM Roy had been one of the first brahmins to settle in Joshra-Bishnupur at the invitation of the local landlords. The Choudhuris had wanted to set up a brahmin neighbourhood in the village as part of their legacy, and to that end had donated tax-exempt land to a handful of prestigious brahmin families.

This was before the British had fully consolidated their occupation of the land. Power was in a flux, and travelling far outside one’s village offered a buffet of terrors. Land routes were stalked by thuggees, thyangares and other groups of highwaymen. River pirates terrorized the waterways. Thieves and dacoits hounded homes, barns, temples and inns. Most of these robbers were poor, lower-caste men trying to supplement their income. But upper-caste criminals were far from rare. Indeed, many of the richest families today owe their initial wealth to dacoit ancestors. During the day, all of these men—upper and lower caste alike—went about their lives like everyone else. At night, however, they convened in secret meeting nooks to worship the goddess Kali (whom they had fashioned into their patron deity), and went out to loot and pillage in her name. To this day, hidden shrines to this avatar of the goddess, locally called the ‘dakate-Kali’, can be found in remote crannies of old villages.

Of all the above enterprises, being a highwayman was the least profitable. All too often, thuggees and thyangares discovered that their freshly murdered victim had nothing of value on them, or had only a few measly pennies. Standard practice in such cases was to bury the corpse and go back to the highway, in the hopes that the next victim would make the night worth their while. Like pirates and dacoits, most thuggees and thyangares were also men from the lower castes: milkmen, fishermen, woodcutters, palanquin-bearers and the like. But just like its sister professions, they sometimes had an upper-caste employer or colleague. Biru Roy, son of Bishnuram Roy, was rumoured to be such a man. He paid monthly stipends to a group of powerfully built men, skilled with the spear and wooden club, and frequently accompanied them on their post-sunset hunts. His men staked claim to a section of the highway north of Contentment, unavoidable for people travelling east towards Chuadanga or Taki. And even though people tried their best to avoid travelling after dark, Biru Roy and his men managed to fill the ground with so many corpses that even today, ploughing those fields turned up human skulls and bones.

On the night that the Roy family was cursed, an elderly brahmin and his young son had been travelling eastwards from the market town of Kaligonj. It was late autumn, and the man had been out visiting acquaintances and disciples to raise money for his daughter’s impending wedding. They had cooked and eaten their lunch at an inn in the smaller market town of Horidashpur, and had planned to spend the night at Nawbabgonj. It wasn’t that the brahmin hadn’t known about the dangers of the road. But he was in a hurry to get home, and had estimated that by walking fast, he would reach the inn at Nawbabgonj well before darkness fell. What he had forgotten to take into account were the short daylight hours of near-winter, and also perhaps the slowness of his own elderly pace.

The duo had reached as far as Shonadanga when the sun slowly began to dip westwards. Alarmed, father and son started to stride across the landscape, desperate to make it past the infamous grassy moors before darkness fell. But their speed was in vain. The thugs caught them just before the Pond of the Sisters-in-Law.

The father took the first blow on his head. Clutching his bleeding pate, he broke into a desperate run, shouting at his son to follow. But given that he was old and his son very young, it wasn’t long before the thuggees overtook and surrounded them. Village lore said that Biru Roy was with his men that night. Recognizing a fellow brahmin, his victim begged for mercy. He offered to let Biru Roy’s men kill him and take all the money he had raised, if only they would let his young son go.

‘Think about my family and ancestors!’ he is supposed to have begged. ‘This is my only son. Without the prayers and offerings from him and his progeny, the souls of all our ancestors will be doomed!’

It hadn’t occurred to the poor, simple man that a seasoned murderer would have little interest in the well-being of his victim’s soul. He would be far more focused on quashing the danger of being recognized by a runaway prey. So, in the early hours of that night, two more bodies were buried at the shores of the Shellcutter’s Pond, and Biru Roy and his men returned home richer by a few paltry rupees.

About a year after this, Biru Roy was returning home by boat from his father-in-law’s house at Holudbere. Durga Puja was only a few days away, and he and his family had spent a happy few weeks with his indulgent in-laws. The entire party was cheerful and relaxed. In those days, big boats had to first cross the broad saltwater inlet south of Noneepur, then ride the high tide for two days till they reached south Shreepur. Only then could they enter the Ichamoti. Joshra-Bishnupur was a further four days’ journey west from there, with parts of the river route running parallel to the highway that Biru Roy’s men terrorized.

After two days on the Ichamoti, the crew stopped at Taki to shop for the upcoming Durga Puja at the Roy household. The next night, they dropped anchor on a quiet stretch of saltwater, next to an island in the middle of the river. The place was close to the confluence of the Ichamoti and the Dhobolchiti rivers. The meeting currents created a soothing, watery burble that filled the air. Light from the full