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