IT HAD BEEN raining quite heavily for the last few days. That evening at Awnnoda Roy’s temple courtyard, the session centred on tales of the unbelievable. The assembled men told tales so tall that they rivalled the Arabian Nights. If someone spun a fake thriller about the indigo plantation’s past, then another informed the assembly about the five-maund magnet that was mounted on top of the Jogonnath temple at Puri. It was so powerful, apparently, that it regularly pulled ships from the middle of the sea to the shore, crashing them against the submerged rocks.

Tales of the unknown were attractive at any time, but on this dark and rainy evening, they were particularly delicious. Evening began to turn to night, but no one wanted to leave their cosy conference and trudge home in the rain.

After the geographic believe-it-or-not, the subject turned to the miracles of astrology. Dinu Choudhuri was saying, ‘There’s no book to rival the Bhrigu Shonhita. The name of the star you were born under—that’s all one needs. The book will give you your father’s name, your family’s name, details about your past and future. Match it—it’ll all be true. Everything’s written in the stars, brothers. It’s all a matter of correct calculations. Some say that even the details of your past life . . .’

At this fascinating juncture, Rammoy suddenly interrupted the flow. ‘Nah, everyone, time to go. Do you see the state of the sky? If we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it home tonight. Let’s just hope there isn’t going to be a storm with all that rain. Move, all of you. Let’s go.’

The downpour had been ceaseless since that evening. Sometimes, the clouds pretended that they were done for the day. But just as the sky lightened and the rain slowed down to a pitter-patter, darker clouds swept in over the village, and the downpour began anew. The village had been enveloped in a permanent mist for days.

Horihor had sent five rupees, and that had been several weeks ago. Since then, there had been neither word nor money from him. Every morning Shorbojoya woke up with the hope that that day would be the day the money finally arrived. Several times, she had scolded her son for not being more vigilant of the post.

‘Only playing about all day—why can’t you go sit by the post box? The moment you see the peon, go up to him and ask him about your father’s letter.’

‘Playing around!’ her son would retort indignantly. ‘I sit by the post box all day. Yesterday the peon brought a letter for Puti’s family—go ask her if I’m lying. How did I get our newspaper if I didn’t sit by the box for the post? It came with Puti’s letter. I’ve been there the whole time!’

The early rains continued to drench Contentment by day and by night. Opu took himself to the post box in Awnnoda Roy’s outer courtyard in the morning, and then waited all day for the peon—just like his mother had asked him to. As the downpour began to seep through Shadhu Kormokar’s thatched roof, the pigeons holed up within it scrambled out and flew to the balustrade above Awnnoda Roy’s windows. With nothing else to do, Opu watched their struggle to stay dry. He could live with the rain, within reason, but he feared the thunder. Every time lightning flashed across the sky, he shuddered and told himself, ‘Look at the sky god go. Here it comes now, his big roar!’ Then he quickly jammed his fingers into his ears and tightly shut his eyes.

Upon returning home one afternoon, he found his mother and sister thoroughly drenched in the kitchen veranda, sorting through a huge pile of arum greens that they’d spent the afternoon picking.

‘Oooh—that’s a lot of greens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where’d you get them, Ma?’

Durga grinned at him. ‘“Oooh, where’d you get them!”—you have it easy, sitting by that post box all day. We had to go all the way to the little pond in the garden over there, the one next to the black plum tree. The water came up to our knees, on top of all this rain! Fancy giving that a go?’

The next day, Shorbojoya hid a bowl in the folds of her sari when she went to the bathing steps in the morning. While she was sure no one else was watching, she cornered the local barber’s wife.

‘Look, this is something I had at home. Pure kansha—no filler, no nothing, and an original floral design. It was a wedding present from my family. You wouldn’t get something like this today if you paid for it. I heard you saying the other day that you wanted a white-brass bowl, so I thought, let me show her what I have at home . . .’

After much bargaining, the barber’s wife shelled out fifty paise from the coin-knot at the end of her sari, and swiftly hid the bowl in its folds. Shorbojoya reminded her several times not to mention the deal to anyone.

A couple of days later, monsoon truly arrived in Contentment. Water fell from the sky in sheets. Ditches and pools were flooded. The bathing steps disappeared under the rising water of the ponds. Water stood knee-high on the low village lanes. Easterlies rampaged through the neighbourhood, filling days and nights with an ominous whoosh and whistling. Bamboo groves went to war amongst themselves, whipping into each other and bending down almost to the ground. The sky became permanently overcast—not even a little sunlight made its way through to the village. Occasionally, the already-grey sky would become even darker. Coal-black clouds would sweep over Contentment from east to west, like battalions rushing to war under the command of invisible generals. The gods and monsters must be at war above the sky—nothing else explained this dark pall over creation. The gods’ lightning bolt might rip through it in a