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, he wasn’t even leaving of his own free will. There really was no reason for Ranudi to be so upset with him.

Later in the day, he met Potu at the men’s bathing steps. He thought it was as good a time as any to let him know as well. Unlike Ranu, village gossip had not yet reached Potu’s ears. But when he heard, he became just as upset as Ranu—only he didn’t cry.

‘I went into the water myself to clean out the algae,’ he said morosely. ‘But you won’t have time to fish even once before you go, will you?’

This year, the Chorok festival, the Goshthobihar fair, and the festival of colours celebrating the birth of Lord Ram on Ramnawbomi were scheduled to follow each other in quick succession. In any other year, this stretch of spring and summer would have marked a period of unbridled happiness for Opu. These festivals were the days when he and his didi were allowed to run free of most rules, spending all hours of the day either at the fairground or trailing behind the travelling companies of actors and performers. Of course, excitement wasn’t in short supply from Opu’s end this year, either. Despite circumstances, he was really looking forward to the joys of the season.

Then, on the day of Chorok, old Aturi Buri passed away suddenly. Her little hut was fairly close to the new fairgrounds, so Opu saw the crowd on his way to the fair. Curious, he joined them. The last time he had actually spoken to Aturi Buri was on that afternoon when he had run from her. Through the fields, through the bamboo groves—goodness, how scared he had been! It made him want to laugh now, that silliness. He was much younger then. A child, really. Now that he was older, he was certain Aturi wasn’t a witch at all, much less an evil one. She was just a lonely woman living in a lonely little hut—poor, helpless, without a son or daughter to care for her. After all, if she really had been a powerful witch, would she have been lying in her hut, unnoticed and dead, for almost a day? Would finding enough people to take her to the crematorium been so difficult?

Meanwhile, Pachu the fisherman’s younger son brought out an earthen pot from inside the hut. It was full of desiccated mango powder. The old woman would go slowly through the woods, picking up mangoes that no one wanted and grinding them into a powder when dry. She would then ferry this tangy spice from market to market. Opu knew this because he had seen her at it during the last rothjatra fair, setting up shop by simply putting her spice tray on the ground.

Despite his earlier excitement, Chorok this year seemed . . . empty. He vividly remembered how happy his sister had been just last year, when he had brought home a painted earthenware plate for her.