CHOROK PUJA WAS almost upon the village. Boidyonath Mojumdar from the village started making the rounds, account book in hand, soliciting contributions from every household for the community celebrations. When he came to Horihor, the latter was shocked at Boidyonath’s expectation.

‘No, Uncle,’ he insisted, ‘it’s very unfair of you to put me down for a whole rupee. Look at me—am I in any state to contribute a rupee?’

‘But you don’t understand!’ Boidyonath exclaimed. ‘We’ve bagged Neelmoni Hajra’s troupe of performers. No one in these parts has ever seen a troupe like that. The Paalpara Market people have booked Mohesh Jeweller’s choir of devotional singers—we have to beat them at the game!’

From his fervour, one might have thought that the very survival of Contentment was dependent on winning a non-existent competition with Paalpara Market.

The argument would have carried on, but Opu interrupted it by dragging a long piece of split bamboo into the courtyard.

‘Look at this, Baba,’ he called out to Horihor. ‘It’ll make for good pens. I saw it lying under the bamboo tree near the pond, so I picked it up for you.’

Then he brought the branch up to Horihor and held it up for a closer inspection, grinning with pride and satisfaction. ‘Good bamboo, isn’t it, Baba?’ he asked again. ‘Nice and ripe . . . no, Baba?’

Days passed. Choitro arrived. The festival of Chorok was now only a few days away. The dancing ascetics had already begun doing rounds of the neighbourhoods, seeking alms. Durga and Opu had given up on meals and sleep just so they could follow them around the village through every single neighbourhood, near and far. Most of the families gave generously of their old clothes, uncooked rice and spare paise. Some even donated a few of their old utensils. At their own house, though, there was never anything to spare except a small handful of rice. After years of receiving practically nothing, the ascetics had learnt not to come by their house at all.

The dancing ascetics took almost ten to twelve days to complete their rounds. Then, the day before the Chorok festival was to begin, came Neel Puja—the worship of the blue-skinned god, Shiva.

Every year on Neel Puja afternoon, the ascetics would perform the ritual of breaking the thorns on a date-palm tree. This time, Durga brought the news that they wouldn’t be performing the ritual on the usual tree. A different tree had been chosen on the banks of the river. Brother and sister joined the boisterous group of neighbourhood children as it set off towards the river. Once the ritual was over, nearly all of them walked over to the field where the festivities would be held. Thick clusters of undergrowth––chiefly toothbrush-bush, and a few other shrubs––had already been cleared from the field. A Neel Puja platform had been set up in a corner, fenced in with branches of the date-palm. The older girls of Bhubon Mukhujje’s household were already