THAT SUMMER, AT the beginning of the local new year, Horihor decided to begin moving his family permanently out of Contentment. Things were sorted through swiftly, and anything they couldn’t carry was sold off to meet numerous small debts. The unused rooms of their old house had been used as storage for a pile of ancient furniture—old jackfruit-wood divans, sitting stools, strongboxes. People came from two or three villages away when they heard such vintage furniture was being put up for sale. Horihor sold them at practically giveaway prices.

The elders of the brahmin neighbourhood had tried their best to make Horihor change his mind. They waxed at length about the abundance of fresh milk and fish in Contentment, and the unbelievable cheapness of prices. Instantaneous lists were composed orally, comparing the inexpensive cost of living in Contentment, vis-a-vis the terribly high expenses beyond its borders. Only Rajkrishno Bhottacharjo’s wife, when she stopped by to invite Shorbojoya to the summer’s Shabitribroto observance, was encouraging.

‘What has this place to offer that I’ll ask you to stay back?’ she said. ‘Besides, sinking one’s paddles in the mud and vegetating at the same shores never did anyone any good. One becomes a frog in a well, small-minded. Travelling really does cure that—I’ve seen that in myself. I hate being stuck here for too long these days. If the divine father allows, perhaps we’ll be able to visit his temple at the Chondronath hills this time . . .’

Ranu came over the moment she heard the news, full of hopeful disbelief.

‘Opu! Is it true that you’re going to leave the village?’

‘Yes, Ranudi. Ask Ma, she’ll tell you.’

Ranu refused to believe him till Shorbojoya did, in fact, confirm it.

Ranu stood blankly in the Roys’ outer courtyard for a few seconds, trying to process the news.

‘So . . . when are you leaving?’ she finally asked.

‘The Wednesday after the next.’

‘And you’re never coming back?’

Opu wisely kept quiet.

Tears filled Ranu’s eyes. ‘Then why did you always say “Our Contentment is the best village?” Why did you say “No other place has such a beautiful river, no other place has such vast fields?” If everything’s so wonderful, why are you people going away?’

‘It’s not like I asked to go!’ Opu finally protested. ‘If Baba wants to move back to the west, what can I say? And anyway, we barely make a living here, so . . . I’ll leave you my notebook, Ranudi, all right? Maybe, when we’re both grown-ups, we’ll meet again?’

‘Notebook! You didn’t even finish the story you were writing in mine. You said you’d finish it and then sign it with your name—what happened to that, eh? Some boy you’ve turned out to be, Opu!’

Then, before he could defend himself, she squeezed back her tears and all but ran out of the house.

Opu shrugged. What he said was true: he hadn’t decided to leave Contentment. In fact, truth be told,