HORIHOR’S ACCOMMODATION WASN’T particularly good. He had managed to secure two rooms in the damp, dark ground floor of a three-storeyed house. Even during the day, anyone coming suddenly out of the rooms was dazzled by daylight for a few seconds. Shorbojoya had never lived in such a joyless place. Their home in Contentment might have been old, but they had large doors and windows to let in unending amounts of air and light, and the walls remained dry throughout the year. This dampness and lack of daylight began giving her regular headaches.

Opu spent as little time as possible at the house. Much like a sapling, his body and mind turned towards sunlight and open spaces. He was raised in such spaces, amidst the sun, rain and wind. The rejuvenating greenness of Contentment’s fields, woodlands and sunbathed rivers had surrounded him all his life. He felt strangled in the damp darkness of the rooms. In general, Kashi had disappointed him. Yes, there were imposing houses and temples everywhere, and the roads and carriages had been impressive at first, but where were the woods? How could such a famous place be so bereft of trees? How was he going to gather things to play with?

In the middle of all this, the ballad singer visited Horihor’s place again one evening. After some polite catching-up, he asked, ‘Where’s your son? Doesn’t seem to be around . . .?’

‘Probably gone outside to play,’ supplied Horihor. ‘Somewhere around Doshashwomedh Ghat, most likely . . .’

The balladeer began untying something from a knot at the edge of his shawl.

‘I’ve become good friends with your boy,’ he told Horihor. ‘Had a long chat with him the other day. Said he loved cowries. So when I got this in my bowl the other day, I thought . . . Here, you keep them with you for now. Give them to him when he comes home.’

He held out two large sea cowries to Horihor.

Towards the end of the dry season, Opu pleaded with his father to go to school.

‘Everyone here goes to school, Baba! I want to go too. There’s a good school just around the corner, at the end of that lane . . .’

Horihor agreed. Though the school was a charitable institution, they did teach English. In all his years, this was only Opu’s second experience of classroom learning, the first being his stint at Proshonno Gurumoshai’s two-in-one shop and school.

Towards the end of that winter, the ballad singer visited Horihor at home again, this time with a piece of paper.

‘Take a look at this,’ he said, offering Horihor the document. ‘Do you think this will hold up?’

Horihor read the text. It was a document drawn at the behest of one Ramgopal Chokroborti, bestowing ten bighas of his own land—located in the village of Shwogram—to the ballad singer. It was witnessed by so and so, at Dasaswamedh Ghat at Kashi, on such and such date.

‘It’s like this,’ explained the balladeer, when Horihor finished reading. ‘Ramgopal Chokkoti was a learned man from Kumure, a village near my ancestral home. Much respected. Now, a few years before he passed away, he said to me, “Ramdhon, my boy, you have nothing. If I donate, say, ten bighas of land to you, will you accept it?” I thought, if such a learned brahmon wants to give me something of his own volition, who am I to refuse? So we made a verbal agreement. But back then, I had planned to live out my days in Kashi. What use did I have for a few acres in a far-off village? So I forgot about it. Now, though, I’ve been thinking. What’s the point of living if there are no sons to carry on the family line? I don’t mind telling you, I’ve actually managed to save some three hundred rupees. If I can manage about two hundred more, I can afford to marry a girl from a shrotriyo brahmon family. But then I’ll need the land to make a living. But remember, Chokkoti Moshai’s promise had been verbal. What if his sons refuse to believe me? That’s why I thought I’d make this document. All of this writing is my own, heh heh. Even the signatures. Those witnesses are just made-up names. Perhaps a written document will convince them. I’m going to try, anyway: go to the sons and say, “Look, boys, your father had willed me this land, so now that I’m back . . .”’

A little later, at the point of taking his leave, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, this coming Tuesday is the full moon of the holy bath—Maaghi purnima. The Kashi household of the maharaja of Teota always feeds brahmons on that day. It’s close, right next to the Maanmondir.’ He stopped for breath, then added proudly, ‘They personally invite me every year—send a letter and everything. Good food, too. I was thinking of taking your son along this year. How about it? I can come by on Tuesday evening and pick him up. Tell him it’ll be a royal feast!’

On the day of the holy bath, Shorbojoya was amazed to see queues snaking from the direction of the bathing steps at the crack of dawn. She was told that the crowds had been lining up since the middle of the night, making sure that they had the chance of a dip while the auspicious hours lasted. The bathing steps were teeming with both men and women, determined to brave the bitterly cold winter waters. Chants of ‘Jai Vishwanath ji ki jai’ and ‘Bolo Bom!’ reverberated through the air.

A little later in the day, Shorbojoya went with the Punjabi woman for her own holy dip. The bathing steps, the shallows at their bottom, the temple area . . . every bit of space was overflowing with men and women, resplendent in their festive finery. Wading through them to reach the water