THEY HAD TO change trains at Ranaghat that afternoon. Opu had had powdered coal fly into his eyes twice already, but he couldn’t bear to keep his head inside the large windows. There was so much to see! What were those things at every station? ‘Signals’? Why were they going up and down? And look, wherever the train stopped, someone had built a raised platform at just the right height to help people get on and off—just like verandas in front of a house! Were these the ‘platforms’? There were boards stuck on these verandas, with the name of the stations written in English and Bangla: Kurulgachi, Gobindopur, Baanpur. Just before the train left each station, someone would hit an iron disc four times with an iron mallet. Dhong-dhong-dhong-dhong! It was exactly four times, he had counted. And then the signal would go up and down. The signal was controlled by an iron disc with spokes sticking out in all directions. He saw a man in the Kurulgachi station turning it with some effort, and the hand of the signal moving.

Shorbojoya, too, was looking around. This was only the second time she had been on a train. The first time was . . . oh, years back, when he had first returned from Kashi. It was in summer, during the month of Joishtho. She had gone to Aranghata to see the Jugolkishor—a temple dedicated to a flute-playing Krishno, and his consort Radha. She was a new bride then, fresh from setting up her own home in Contentment. Ages . . . it had been ages back. She leaned out of the window like her son, and happily watched the crowds of people getting on and off the train. Look at those women, she thought to herself. Such nice clothes, such jewellery! At Jogonnathpur station, she saw a man peddling good moa—large balls of fluffed rice, jaggery and reduced milk.

‘Opu,’ she said eagerly, ‘shall I take some moa for you? You love it . . . these are good.’

After a while, her son pointed at a bird on the telegraph wires accompanying the tracks in sudden excitement.

‘Look, Ma! Someone’s pet mynah has escaped its cage!’

The sun had begun to set when they changed trains again at Noihati, and thundered across the bridge over the Ganga. Shorbojoya stared mesmerized at the red-gold glow spreading from the horizon. The cool river breeze rushed past the train, bathing the travellers in its crisp freshness. Boats went languidly by on the river below. From her vantage point, Shorbojoya could see beautiful houses and gardens scattered on either side of the river. Never in her life had she seen such marvellous sights. When a steamship came around the distant bend, she clutched her son’s arm in thrill.

‘Opu, look! A real smoke-top ship!’

A few minutes later, she joined her palms and raised them to her forehead in silent prayer. ‘Mother Gonga, forgive us for crossing you, Ma,’ she begged earnestly