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 never came back. Anxious and terrified, Awjoy went to look for his sister. He found her at the end of the day, sprawled out next to the river, dead. Starvation had driven her to eat poison-berries. Awjoy threw himself down next to her and broke into a beautiful, heart-breaking song:

Where did you go, leaving me alone in this forest,

Oh dearest of my heart, the partner of my soul?

Ah, such music! Opu’s previous rapt enchantment dissolved into tears. His body shook with barely restrained sobs.

And then came the big fight. Sword in hand, General Bichitroketu charged the king of Kolingo. Such flourish, such deafening clangs! There was no way at least one of them wouldn’t lose an eye! The audience shouted, ‘Watch out! Watch out! Watch out for the chandeliers!’ But despite the fierceness of the fight, both the chandeliers and the eyes remained miraculously untouched. Now that was truly magical swordplay. All hail Bichitroketu . . . he truly was a hero!

In between there was a break, when the musicians and singers played their longer pieces. In the middle of it, Horihor leaned forward to ask his son if he’d had enough.

‘Are you sleepy, Khoka? Do you want to go home?’

Home? Sleep? No no! He wasn’t going anywhere—definitely not home. In the end, his father settled for calling him outside and giving him two paise.

‘Here, keep this. Buy something to eat, all right? I’m going home now.’

After his father left, Opu looked around the shops that had sprung up around the arena. Looking at the crowd around the paan shop, he suddenly really wanted to buy one readymade paan, worth one paisa. He began pushing his way through the crowd. When he reached the front, he was amazed to see Bichitroketu, in full costume, buying and lighting up a Bird’s Eye cigarette. And then poor Prince Awjoy came around the bend and touched Bichitroketu on the arm!

‘Buy me a paisa’s worth of paan no, Kishorida?’ the prince begged.

Instead of immediately obliging his prince, the loyal general shook the arm off. ‘Scoot! Haven’t got money for that . . . did you tell me when you two used up all of the soap this morning? Eh?’

‘Don’t be that way, Kishorida,’ Awjoy pleaded. ‘Have I never given you anything? Come on, just one paisa’s pan . . .’

But Bichitroketu wasn’t swayed. He shrugged off his prince’s petulance and walked off with the lit cigarette.

Up close, Awjoy looked about Opu’s age. Fair-skinned, good-looking, a beautiful singing voice. Opu stared at him, fascinated. He wanted to say something, anything . . . but what could he say? Suddenly, he heard himself saying with considerable shyness, ‘Um . . . would you like some paan?’

Awjoy looked at him, surprised. ‘Are you offering? That’d be great. Let’s get some paan, my brother.’

And that was how the two became friends. Or rather, that was how Opu acquired the chance to bask