THE JATRA BEGAN. Everything else in the world dissolved into nothingness; there was only Opu and the performers in front of him.

The troupe’s violinist had begun playing an opening piece in the yaman raga just before darkness had truly descended upon the arena. He was a fairly skilled musician and the forlorn notes floated far across the neighbourhood. Opu had been mesmerized. He was a simple rural boy—music like this was well beyond his staples. The forlorn tune touched spots of melancholy in his soul. He thought of his father, sitting in the isolated old house, writing in the dim light of a lamp. He thought of his sister, who had dearly wanted to come with him, but had not been allowed.

When the first players descended on to the stage, their magnificent, gold-trimmed costumes glittering under the cowrie-shell chandelier, Opu felt a second rush of sympathy for his father. Poor Baba! He didn’t even know what a spectacle he was missing! Why wasn’t he here, anyway? Almost everyone else from his village was there . . . he could see several men from his own neighbourhood right over there. Why couldn’t his father come? He’d heard that boys’ devotional choir once before . . . it was nothing compared to this. Such actors, such costumes, such beautiful people!

He had been completely immersed in the fast-paced plot when a familiar voice behind him said, ‘Can you see everything, Khoka? This is not too far for you?’

It was his father! Goodness, he hadn’t even noticed when his father had come to sit right behind him!

‘Is Didi here?’ he asked immediately. ‘Is she with the women, behind that screen?’

Meanwhile, the plot on the makeshift stage was thickening. The throne had been usurped by the evil, scheming minister, and the king had been exiled from his own kingdom. He was forced to wander the woods with his wife and children. The violins played a heart-wrenching score to mark their exit from the kingdom. The king, his arm linked to his queen, took a step, then stopped dramatically to look forlorn. Of course, no man would have ever walked like that in real life, unless he was quite mad, but the players seemed determined to wring the last drops of tragedy from every scene. The scheming minister, for instance, gnashed his teeth and shivered so hard in villainesque rage that he looked remarkably like a person in the throes of an epileptic fit. But Opu was enchanted by it all. He had never seen anything so utterly amazing in all his life.

And then, and then . . . where did the king go? Where did the queen go? The only people left on stage were their two young children, Prince Awjoy and Princess Indulekha. The two children roamed the forests helplessly. There was no one to care for them, no one to show them the way. One day, Indulekha went to pick fruits for her little brother, and