SHORBOJOYA HEARD THE news at the bathing steps.

Trouble had been brewing between Neeren and Awnnoda Roy for the last few days, and more particularly between Neeren and Awnnoda Roy’s eldest son, Gokul. Things had finally come to a head yesterday afternoon. There had apparently been a great deal of screaming and shouting. As a result, Neeren had packed his things and left the village late last evening.

Horimoti, the wife of Awnnoda Roy’s neighbour Joggeshwor Deeghri, was holding court by virtue of being the closest observer. ‘I don’t believe the story they’re putting out—their daughter-in-law is not the type. Then again they do say that Neeren gave her money in secret, and she sent it to who-knows-whom. The receipt came back and Gokul found it—that’s what led to all this trouble. Who can really tell what’s going on in people’s minds? Best not to speculate—that’s what I always say. I did hear Neeren, though. He was saying, “But it’s all right for all of you to gang up on and torture someone? I don’t care what anybody else thinks—if my sister-in-law commands, I will bear her away from this place with all the honour and respect I would have accorded to my late mother. You can raise whatever hell you please after that!” Then there was some more shouting. Finally, Neeren called for a bullock cart from the milkman’s neighbourhood. He was gone before the lamp-lighting hour was over.’

Shorbojoya felt cut off at the knees. She had been asking her husband to write to Neeren’s father, proposing a match between Durga and his son. In the meantime, she had invited Neeren for lunch again twice—and Neeren had come. Her husband had tried, several times, to discourage her. ‘They’re too rich for the likes of us,’ he had said. ‘Neeren’s father wouldn’t waste his son on a family like ours.’ But Shorbojoya had persisted. She had really liked Neeren. Surely there was no harm in trying? Finally, Horihor had given in and spoken to Awnnoda Roy, asking him to write to Neeren’s father on his behalf. And now this! How was she going to get Neeren’s father to agree to the match after this?

A few days later, Durga met Gokul’s wife in one of the back lanes of the village. In the privacy of the empty road, Gokul’s wife broke down completely. She sobbed her heart out while telling Durga the whole story.

‘This is my life, Dugga—kicks and beatings till the day I die. I have no one, no one. Only one brother, and him worthless. No place I can escape to for a few days’ peace!’

Durga’s heart swelled in sympathy. Gokul’s wife was her favourite village aunt, and she was torn by her despair. She wanted to viciously condemn the people slandering her aunt’s virtue, but she also wanted to simply soothe the sobbing woman. Outrage, protectiveness and affection mixed together in such a lump in her throat that she ended up not expressing any of them properly. ‘That Shokhi grandmother, she’s always been like that!’ she finally settled for saying. ‘Let her say what she likes—what can she do? Don’t cry, Auntie. I’ll visit you every day, I promise.’

When she later told her mother about the conversation, her mother perked up immediately. ‘So what else did our sister-in-law talk about, Durga?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Did she mention Neeren at all?’

‘I don’t know about any of that,’ Durga mumbled, suddenly shy. ‘You go ask Auntie about that yourself.’

When Opu heard that she had spoken to Gokul’s wife, he, too, asked about Neeren. ‘What did Auntie say, Didi? Is Master Moshai coming back or not?’

‘I don’t know anything about your Master Moshai . . . go ask Auntie yourself, shoo!’ Durga snapped.

But these reminders of Neeren brought back her sense of impending loss. She wished she could forever hold on to this house, these woods, these familiar roads. But most of all she wished she could hold on to her beautiful, silly little brother. She and Opu sniped at each other all day, but if she didn’t see him for a few hours, her mind would fervently begin to list all the terrible things that might be happening to him at that very moment. It almost made her burst into tears. Right now, her brother was playing hopscotch in their courtyard. Brinjal-and-seeds, they called it in their village. His fair, vermilion-in-milk complexion had turned golden in the sun. Poor boy! A solitary game of brinjal-and-seed was all the entertainment they could afford for him. Every now and then he would come to her, asking hopefully for a few paise to buy trinkets with. Durga never had any money to give him, and it broke her heart.

A few days later.

The wedding at Bhubon Mukhujje’s house was over, but not all of the visiting relatives had left. The house was still full of their many children. Durga had made friends with a little girl called Tuni. Both of her parents had come for the wedding, but her father had left just this afternoon after lunch to attend to his place of work for a few days.

The third-eldest mistress was doing something in her room when she heard Tuni’s mother’s exclamation from the next room. She hurried into the next room, saying, ‘What is it, Hashi? What’s wrong?’

Tuni’s mother was frantically turning up the bedding and pillows, bending to look under the bed and between the sheets.

‘I can’t find my gold vermilion box!’

‘What? Are you sure you didn’t take it with you when you went inside?’

‘No,’ said Tuni’s mother distractedly. ‘It was right here, on the bed. My husband came home, Khoka cried out in his baby swing . . . I went inside to look after him, completely forgot about the box. Where could it have gone, Grandma? It’s nowhere in this room . . .’

Everyone gathered around to search the room, but the box