A FEW DAYS later, Opu was passing through the broad ground-floor veranda just as the second-eldest bourani’s daughter, Leela, was coming down the stairs.

When she saw him, she called out, ‘Hey! Wait a minute. What’s your name? Opu, right?’

Opu was rather taken aback. The children of this household never stooped to talk with him—certainly not in such a social way.

‘Opu is what I’m called,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Properly it’s Shree Awpurbo Kumar Roy . . .’

Leela ran down the remaining stairs, then ran up to him. Opu realized, up close, that she had a stunningly beautiful face. He had seen beautiful women before; for example, his Contentment neighbours—Ranudi, Awtoshidi, Awmoladi—had all been good-looking. But his idea of beauty had been turned on its head ever since he had arrived at this household. The women here were from a different world altogether! Especially Leela’s mother, the second-eldest bourani. Opu had never seen anyone as stunningly beautiful as her. And Leela had inherited those looks. The other day, when she had been reciting funny poems at the women’s gathering, he had been so mesmerized by her face that he’d barely heard her actual words.

‘When did you come to our house? I didn’t see you the last time we returned—I would have remembered.’

‘We came in the Falgun . . . this last Falgun.’

‘Where from?’

‘From Kashi. That was where my father passed away, so we had to . . .’

Opu still couldn’t believe his luck. Not only was someone from the actual household finally talking to him—out of their own volition!—but it was the only daughter of its brightest star, the second-eldest bourani. Delight coursed through him.

‘Come to my study,’ Leela invited. ‘My master moshai is supposed to come any minute now. Let’s go wait for him in the study.’

Once again, Opu was taken aback. ‘Me? You want me to go to your study?’

Leela grinned. ‘Didn’t I just invite you? Goodness, you really are shy! Haven’t you seen my study before? It’s the room at the other end of the western veranda.’

Leela’s study wasn’t large, but it was beautifully appointed. Her table was small, round and stone-topped. The two chairs bracketing it were fitted with leather-covered cushions. A large calendar full of pictures hung from one wall, while the others were scattered with framed photographs. There was a small bookcase, and on top of it, a timepiece clock in a green vulcanite shell. Leela opened an attaché case and took out a sheet of transferable pictures—little designs that could be transferred to paper or skin with just a few drops of water and a good scrub.

‘Master moshai bought me these,’ she said. ‘He’s going to get me more when I learn division. Do you know how to transfer these pictures?’

‘You don’t know division?’

‘Do you? Have you done division sums before?’

Opu curled his lips in disdain. ‘Oh, ages ago.’ The expression sat beautifully on his handsome face.

Leela laughed. ‘Aww, the way you speak! It’s funny!’ Then she reached forward and put her finger on a little freckle under his lower lip. ‘Oh look, you have a freckle. It looks good on you. How old are you? Thirteen? I’m eleven—that’s two years younger than you . . .’

Opu said, ‘I really like the poem you were reciting from memory the other day. It was funny.’

‘Do you know any poems?’

‘I do. My father had a book . . . I learned a few from that.’

‘Let’s hear one, then!’

Her voice was so sweet! He had never heard such a lovely voice on a girl before. Without needing to be prompted, he began reciting, nodding his head in time with the rhythm:

If raised to sleep on mats of leaves, or on bundles of hay

By fate

Can a man rest on mattresses and beds

Or in a mosquito net?

Then he looked at Leela and bobbed his head in inquiry. She was laughing so hard that she nearly rolled out of her chair.

‘You’re so funny! How do you know these things?’

Opu was beyond delighted with this praise. ‘It’s from Dashu Roy’s Book of Ballads. Do you want to hear another one?’

Then he looked at the support beams above, riffling through his memory. ‘All right, listen to this,’ he said after a few seconds, then began nodding in time to the rhythm again:

An ascetic desires only his god; he has no other wish

The lazy thinks of rolls of dice, or a deck of cards’ swish.

The rich thinks of his wealth, and of numbers to fudge

The Vaishnav thinks of Jagannath, the fakir thinks of Hajj

The householder thinks only of making his roof stronger

A child thinks of his mother; an animal, its hunger.

Leela didn’t understand this poem too well, but she dissolved into laughter again anyway.

‘Wait, I’m going to write this down!’ she exclaimed.

After she took out a pen from the attaché case, Opu began reciting the poem again. After a few lines, he stopped in confusion.

‘How is that pen still writing?’ he asked. ‘Where’s your ink?’

‘Oh, this is a fountain pen,’ Leela said. ‘Haven’t you seen one before? You don’t need ink—it’s all inside.’

Opu took the pen from Leela and examined it. ‘This is wonderful,’ he said, impressed. ‘A pen without ink—who would’ve thought?’

‘Not without ink . . . the ink stays inside. When it runs out, you have to fill it again. Here, let me show you how to do it . . .’

‘This is great!’ Opu exclaimed. ‘Can I see it again?’

Leela put the pen in his palm, then grinned. ‘You don’t have to give it back,’ she said. ‘It’s a gift.’

Opu was caught so completely off guard that he simply stared at her. Then he tried to give it back, embarrassed. ‘I . . . I can’t take this,’ he said, not looking at Leela.