THE DAY HIS parents had The Conversation, Opu had not been asleep. He had been lying down with his eyes closed, listening to his parents talk. They would leave this land and go to Kashi—that was the plan. His father had been explaining the many advantages of Kashi to his mother. Horihor knew the land well, for he had spent a long time in Kashi as a young man. Everyone there either knew or respected him. Besides, things were cheap and plenty in Kashi, unlike in this village, and there were friends there who would be willing to help them.

His mother was so keen to leave that she would have packed up that very night if she could—she had no desire to spend a single day more in the village. From his father’s words, Kashi seemed like a golden land of plenty . . . unlike this village of theirs, where sorrow was a constant companion from season to season. All they needed to do was muster enough courage to leave this place. And then the happiness of the golden land would be theirs! Finally, after much discussion, his parents decided that they would leave Contentment at the beginning of summer, in Boishakh, the first month of the local calendar.

This plan, however, presented a crucial problem. Sometime back, Shorbojoya had vowed an offering at the temple of Goddess Shiddheshwori in Gonganondopur. But the temple was almost ten kilometres away from their village, and this fact had kept her from fulfilling her promise. But now that they were leaving this land, she could no longer afford to put it off. Unfortunately, neither could she find a single volunteer to accompany her to the temple. In the end, Opu offered to go. He could travel alone, perform the puja on his mother’s behalf, and finally visit the aunt on his father’s side that he’d heard about but never met, given that she lived in faraway Gonganondopur.

At first, Shorbojoya dismissed him outright. ‘Yes yes, of course you’ll go alone . . . do you even know how far it is, you silly boy? Go alone indeed! It’s almost thirteen kilometres one way . . . as if!’

But Opu was insistent. ‘Why can’t I go? Don’t I have eyes and ears and legs? Or am I supposed to stay indoors for the rest of my life?’

‘Oh yes, you have everything! Our big-man hero, you’ll go alone to Gonganondopur! Go on, run along now. Don’t bother me with this nonsense.’

In the end, however, she had to give in to his unrelenting pleading. And thus Opu set out alone, for the first time in his life.

The raised dirt road cut straight through the middle of the Shonadanga moors. The fields on either side were filled with crown-flower plants, their long white stems curved with the weight of the blossoms till they were almost one with the grass. Not a single other person was on the road. The morning was almost spent, and the shadows of trees were shortening rapidly as he travelled from the east to overhead. Opu’s bare feet had become caked with a thin layer of warm, sandy soil. It made his feet toasty and comfortable. Bushes and woodlands bordered the road on both sides, and he lost count of the number of shrubs and plants that were in blossom. The fields were dotted with acacia trees, heavy with bright yellow blossoms. Certain bushes and plants had already begun to bear fruit. He passed one with clusters of small, bright, berry-like fruits, much like the inedible wild fig. An aroma of the sun-toasted, slightly wet earth permeated the entire stretch. From time to time, he bent down to rummage in the bushes for fallen ramontchi fruits, and stowed them in the two pockets of his home-sewn red satin shirt.

The journey filled his heart with joy. He could never find the words to make people understand how much he loved this fresh, sun-baked smell of the soil, these shadow-darkened clusters of scutch-grass, these sunlit fields, this never-ending road, the chirping birds, those flower-dotted bushes, the dangling clusters of fruit and berries on familiar plants: the velvet bean, the white morning glory, the bluebell vine. What was home, compared to this? If only his father would say to him, ‘Son! You’re free to roam all the roads and fields you like!’ How marvellous would that be? He would walk through fields just like these, pass through the hanging flowers and shadowy bushes, going further and further . . . his eyes fixed on those far woodlands. Only the occasional cry of doves would keep him company, and the susurration of leaves in the bamboo grove. When the setting sun coloured the sky with its golden glow, he would watch as the brightly coloured birds sang on their way home.

Opu had been reared in the lap of rural nature. Here, the change of seasons always sent word ahead of itself—through trees, the winds, the sky and birdsong. The magnificent canvas of this riverine land had taught him to know instinctively what the first subtle changes in the surrounding trees, air and flowing water meant. This harmony was something he loved and cherished, and he couldn’t imagine a life bereft of it. The shimmering heat of summer, the gradual gathering of deep blue, solemn, serious clouds across the horizon at the end of the hot months, the magical sunset colours above the Shonadanga moors, the uninterrupted stretch of white kans-grass flowers from here to Madhobpur as the month of Bhadro came to an end, the webs of moonlight that filtered through leaves on the golden full-moon nights, and wove patterns on the village roads . . . all of these had found an eternal home in Opu’s young mind. From birth to boyhood, they had trained his senses in the grace and splendour of everyday life, had whispered chants of the infinite into his eager ears. Without him realizing