TOWARDS THE MIDDLE of that summer, Shorbojoya finally managed to beg and borrow enough to hold Opu’s holy thread ceremony. It wasn’t anything like she had imagined her son’s initiation into potential priesthood would be. To begin with, it had to be done quietly, in one little corner of the bigger courtyard, for fear of offending or intruding upon the convenience of the people whose house they lived in. Bamni Mashi helped Shorbojoya wok-roast the coconut-jaggery mix for celebratory sweets. A couple of brahmin cooks from the kitchen building were invited to fulfil the requirement of a brahmin feast. Among other notable guests were Beeru, the rent collector for the family’s lands, and the household manager, Deenu.

A few days after the ceremony, Opu was sitting in his room reading the bound issues of Mukul that Leela had given him, when he heard someone come into the room. Looking up, he couldn’t believe his eyes. After gaping at the entrant for a few seconds, he finally found his voice.

‘You?! But . . . when?’

Leela simply stood there, grinning at him with her laughter-filled eyes.

‘You’re some girl!’ Opu said. ‘When you left you said you’d be back from Calcutta by Monday. Monday after Monday passed . . . but no sign of you!’

Leela sat down on the damp floor, laughing.

‘And how was I supposed to come? Baba has put me in school in Calcutta—no more coming and going at will! Besides . . . he has not been well. So from now on, we’ll stay at the Calcutta house instead of here. I could only come with my mother because I have a few days’ holiday at school. We’ll have to go back on Wednesday . . .’

The smile vanished from Opu’s face. ‘You won’t be living here any more?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know . . . we might come back once Baba gets better.’

Then she grinned. ‘Now close your eyes for a bit!’

‘Why?’

‘Arre, close na?’

Opu closed his eyes, and immediately felt something heavy descend on his hand. He opened his eyes to the sounds of Leela’s laughter. A cardboard box sat on his lap. Leela opened the box to show him his presents: a dhuti with a matching shawl, and a raw silk panjabi kurta. ‘Ma bought these for you when she heard you had your thread ceremony,’ Leela explained.

The dhuti and chador—and especially the panjabi—were of excellent quality. It was clearly a very expensive gift. Opu had never even seen anything of its kind before, much less held it in his hands. While he admired his present, Leela scrutinized his face.

‘Your face has changed a lot in this past month,’ she observed after a while. ‘You look grown-up now. Where’s the new brahmon’s sacred thread—show me? And didn’t you need to pierce your ears? One of my younger cousins also had his investiture ceremony recently, he started sobbing during the piercing . . .’

In the