Sitting on the floor, Harirhar's six-year-old daughter was silently watching the crumbs of the fried snacks being taken from the plate. Occasionally, she glanced hopelessly at the nearly empty brass pot. She tried to say something a couple of times but couldn't. Indira's mother-in-law, after picking up a handful of the fried snacks, finished the plate and, looking towards her daughter-in-law, said, "Oh, I left two pieces for you, didn't I?" This was her way of speaking to her young daughter-in-law—after Ramchand came to this village, he started studying Sanskrit under the care of his father-in-law, and soon became a good scholar in this region. However, he never engaged in any worldly affairs, and there was considerable doubt whether he was even capable of doing so. For nine months of the year, his wife was also called from home by her mother, and she would return and sit there contentedly. Getting up, the young woman said in a sad voice, "Let it be, you eat it." She happily got up, frightened. Still, in a commanding tone, her mother said, "No. Why would she sit like that while eating? I don't like that at all; come, get up." Indira's mother-in-law said, "Stay, daughter-in-law—she's sitting here with me, she's not doing anything. Stay, sit—Path-er Panchali."

When Indira's mother-in-law became a widow, every twelfth day, in the early morning, she would bring a snack prepared with her own hands and feed it to her. Where did they all go! There was no one left from that time to share both happiness and sorrow. It is said that Indira's mother-in-law was married to a well-born, high-status man from the eastern region. Her husband would arrive in this village after a fortnight of marriage. After spending a night or two, he would collect the travel expenses and the respectful honorarium, mark the account, and set off towards the next in-laws' house with a palanquin-bearers, so Indira's mother-in-law could not possibly like her husband. After the death of her parents, she used to get a handful of food under the care of her brother, but he also died at a young age. Harirhar's father, Ramchand, soon built a house in this neighborhood, and that was when Indira's mother-in-law first entered this household. That's all ancient history. The son stayed at his in-laws' house.

He used to spend most of his time at the adda (informal gathering) with Patiram Mukhopadhyay, his own neighborhood's Patiram, and only visited his in-laws' house for meals twice a day; if anyone asked - "Panditmoshai (Respected Pandit), there's a little boy, you must see the sugarcane?" Ramchand would say, "No worries, Bhaiya (brother), even if they play by picking the husk from the paddy of Brajo Chakraborty's field, they'll manage to have fun now." Then he would think to himself how he could manage to fix the pair of socks and underwear to get them to fit. It had been a long time since the lineage of the Nal flower in Shankharipukur had come and gone. In the empty field of the Chakrabartys, Sitanath Mukhopadhyay had planted a new mango orchard, and all those trees were about to grow old. How many new households had settled in the neighborhood! How many had become deserted, how many Golok Chakraborty, Brajo Chakraborty had passed away, the ever-flowing, restless, clear stream of Ichamati's current, like a race against the endless flow of time, like the foam of the waves, like the blue tile of the village, where had Mr. John San Johnson swept away so many Majumdars? Only Indir's grandmother is still alive. No, you, Raju... 6. After the street vendor on the path, the landlord of that house, Ramchand, died, and his son Harihar was born that day. He used to jump and play on the way to the ghat, he fell from the tamarind tree in the Mukhopadhyays' yard while eating raw tamarind and broke his arm, and was bedridden for two or three months; that was the day. He had a lavish wedding at a young age - after his father's death, he left his newlywed wife of ten years in his father's house and went abroad. For almost eight or ten years, there was no news - sometimes he would send a letter or two, sometimes he would send two or five rupees in money order in his grandmother's name. How much suffering this house has seen, how many days have passed watching and worrying at the neighbor's door without eating. In Harihar's previous neighborhood, the thatched house is still in a state of disrepair for a long time. Buri (grandmother) lives in this house. On a bamboo stool, two torn and tattered pieces of cloth are tied together with a rope to make a seat. Buri can't thread a needle these days, so she can't sew clothes, if it gets too torn, she just ties it with a rope. On one side, there's a torn mat and some torn quilts. On a stick, a bundle of torn clothes from the state is tied.

It seems those materials for quilt-making have been carefully stored for a long time, never used. Now, even if they are needed, there's no eye-teeth left for quilt-making. Still, they are taken out with utmost care, and in the bright sunlight of Bhadramas, after the rains, they are spread out in the courtyard to dry. Some torn, red-bordered sarees are tied with a string inside a bamboo basket—those could have hidden his little girl, Bisweshwari, from the world—he himself had a daughter, named Bisweshwari. She was married at a young age and died shortly after the marriage. Bisweshwari, the daughter of Harirhar, has returned to her orphaned mother's lap after forty years from the land of death. The dormant, sleeping motherhood of forty years awakens in an instant in the girl's vulnerable, unskilled expressions, in the innocent smile of her eyes—with alert interest, with the eager hunger of the last stages of life. Many years later, Harirhar has now settled down with a family for six or seven years, and he has a daughter—she is almost six years old. The old woman thought that the childhood home would be re-established after so long. She doesn't desire any other happiness in her narrow life, nor is she capable of conceiving of any other kind of happiness or sorrow—if the wheel of life turns back to its old path, the path of her childhood habits, then she is happy, that is the ultimate story of happiness for her. She quarrels with the old woman every two o'clock with that stick. After a lot of quarreling, the old woman would hang a brass pot on her waist and a cloth bundle on her right arm and say, "I am the new daughter-in-law, and if she ever sets foot in this house, then it's me—." Leaving the house, the old woman would sit all day in the bamboo grove, sad. In the evening, Harirhar's little girl would find her and start pulling her sari—"Come, grandmother, I'll tell Mother, I won't tell Father, come, grandmother." Holding her hand, the old woman would return home in the darkness of evening. Sarbajaya would turn her face away and say, "She has come! Where else would she go! Where else is there a stove besides this...? There is still some life left here, sixteen years, but what she thought would happen has not happened." Harirhar's wife, though not very beautiful to look at, is very quarrelsome, she can't stand her at all.

No one knows where Kothakar is, nor does it matter if there's any connection with him. He just comes to the house and starts destroying things, sitting down and doing so. This has been going on for several years now—it's happened many times and happens frequently. The roads are still not well-maintained under British rule. The roads are full of danger, thugs, bandits, and pirates.

Harihar Ray's original residence was in Jashda-Vishnupur, where the ancient wealthy Chaudhuri family donated land to Brahmins, allowing them to live in the village. Harihar's ancestor, Bishnuram Ray, was one of them. Bishnuram Ray's son, Biru Ray, had such a reputation. He had thugs on his payroll. To the north of Nishchindipur village, along the unpaved road leading from Chuyadanga to Nawabganj via Taki, lies the vast, boundless golden paddy field of his daughter, Bishweshwari. There's a brass pot, an earthen pot, and two earthen pots in total. The brass pot is filled with cooked rice. At night, she grinds it with a stone mortar and pestle and eats it occasionally. One of the earthen pots contains a little oil, another a little salt, and another a small amount of date palm jaggery. Since these items are not always available at Sarbajaya's, the old woman secretly brings them from home and hides them in the wedding chest. Saying this, she looks at her niece with a smiling, expectant gaze. Khuki enthusiastically says, "Churobondha ek-minse."—emphasizing the 'mi' syllable and tilting her small head forward as if to present it, finishing the pronunciation. Khuki finds it very amusing. Her aunt tries to deceive the niece by reciting such rhymes and leaves for the sake of completing the task, which might take ten or fifteen days—though Khuki remembers it exactly, making it difficult to deceive her. After a few nights, her mother starts to leave. Sarbajaya rarely comes to this room. But in the evening, she sits on the torn quilt on the floor of her daughter's room for a long time, listening to fairy tales from her aunt with a focused mind. After listening to these stories for a while, Khuki says, "Tell me the story of the bandit! The story of the bandit who attacked a house in the village fifty years ago."

It had been said many times before, but it had to be repeated every few days, without fail. Then, he would hear rhymes from his aunt. Indira Thakrun was familiar with many rhymes from that time. In her childhood, Indira Thakrun had earned much praise by reciting rhymes to her peers on the ghats and roads. She hadn't had such a patient audience for a long time; later, they would get bored, so she would recite all the rhymes she knew to her little niece every evening to pass the time. She would recite, drawing out the words—

The fishermen, after hiding the corpse in the pond, returned silently to the trees along the pond's edge, hoping to retrieve their futile efforts at the next hunt. The banyan tree still stands in the vast field to the north of the village, on a relatively low-lying stretch by the road, still called Thakurjhi Pond. The pond has no distinct features; its fourteen annas of land has been filled in—during the cultivation of paddy, the soft soil still occasionally rises under the plow blades of the farmers. It is said that an old Brahmin from the eastern region, returning to his home from Kaliganj towards Taki Shripur with his young son, saw the sun setting in the Sonadanga field long before reaching Nawabganj market. He had set out abroad at the end of Kartik month to raise funds for his daughter's wedding, accompanied by some money and belongings. After having a meal in the market of Haridaspur, they set out again on their journey in the afternoon, intending to spend the night in the market of Nawabganj, five *krosh* away. They were not unaware of the dangers of the road, but had miscalculated—it was a short day in Kartik, and they saw the sun setting in the Sonadanga field long before reaching Nawabganj market, and began to walk quickly. But as they approached Thakurjhi Pond, they fell into the hands of the fishermen. This incident happened not long after, but exactly a year later, during the Puja. It was the Bengali year 1238. Biru Roy was returning to his in-laws' house in Haludberhwa by boat with his family. After crossing the large salty river below Nokipur and landing in Madhumati, they had to wait for two days for the tide to rise before landing at Ichamati near Dakshin Shripur. From there, it was only a day or two's journey to his village. They set out in the morning and arrived at Taki's ghat in the afternoon. There was a puja at home. After buying the necessary items for the puja from Taki's market, they stayed there overnight and set out in the morning, heading home. Two days later, in the evening, they moored their boat at the confluence of the large canal of Dhabalchiti and the Ichamati, in a deserted char, waiting for the tide. The large char had no vegetation except for occasional patches of reed beds. The boatmen were in one place, and Biru Roy's wife, Randhon, was in another.

Everyone's spirits were high, and just two days later, the full moon rose over the riverbank. The salt water of the river sparkled. In the whooshing wind, the fluff of cotton flowers swirled in the sky, the moonlight, and the water of the river merged and flew away. Suddenly, hearing some sound, a couple of boatmen left their cooking and stood up, looking around. From behind the cotton bushes, there seemed to be a commotion, a frightened voice cried out once and then stopped abruptly. The curious boatmen, unable to see what was happening, somehow made a noise and jumped into the water and dove in. That side of the river was deserted—no one saw anything. Before they could understand what had happened, the rest of the boatmen arrived. Hearing the commotion, Biru Roy came, followed by his servant. Biru Roy's only son was in the boat, who was it? It was learned that he had gone out into the moonlight a while ago, seeing the delay in the cooking. The faces of the boatmen turned pale; from their experience with the salty rivers of this country, they understood that a large crocodile was lying hidden in the sand behind the cotton bushes. They went to get Biru Roy's son from the boat. He had been lying down since dusk. There was no one at home, his aunt had gone to some relative's house in a distant village two months ago after some quarrel with his mother. His mother's health had been very poor for so long that there was no one to see her. Recently, since his mother entered the delivery room yesterday, no one had noticed when he ate or slept. He had been calling for his aunt all evening while lying down, waiting for sleep. After lying there for a while, he woke up to some voices and saw Kura Neer's mother standing in the courtyard of the kitchen, talking, the old woman of the neighborhood, and others were present. Everyone seemed busy and anxious. He lay there for a while and then fell asleep again. Biru Roy didn't live much longer after coming home. Thus, a strange thing began in his lineage. Although his own lineage was lost, his brother's lineage remained. But the eldest child of the lineage never lived long, they died of some disease before reaching adulthood.

Everyone said that a curse had fallen on the family. Harihar Roy's mother went to Tarakeswar for a darshan and, after pleading with a sannyasi, received a small pot. It was said that the pot held the essence of the curse, and that Harihar Roy, though seemingly immune to its effects, would die when the pot's contents burned away like incense. The vaidya had tried to cure him, but to no avail, and he would reach the end of his life. Especially near the puja, he was always joyful. And so it happened. They searched everywhere for the boat, until everyone searched the middle of the river deep into the night—then the wailing and flailing of arms and legs. It was as if an invisible judge had delivered judgment on the deserted shore of Ichamati that very year, just as a similar incident had occurred in the Thakurjhi pond of the country the previous year. The foolish Biru Roy realized that he could not deceive the invisible court of justice with the dark waters of the Thakurjhi pond; even in the dark, it would find its way. After a few hours of sleep, he was awakened by a faint sound and commotion. He heard his father rushing out of his room and running towards the attic, calling out anxiously—"How is Khuri? What happened?" He heard a voice from inside the attic. It was his mother's voice. He sat still for a moment in the darkness, unable to understand. He was afraid. Why was his mother acting like this? What had happened to her? He sat for a while longer, unable to understand, and then lay down and fell asleep again. He didn't know how much later—he was awakened by the sound of a cat scratching at the roof. He immediately remembered that his aunt had hidden the cat's kittens in the broken bricks of the wall in her room in the afternoon—several tiny, blind kittens. He thought—what if the cat came and ate all the kittens... Oh no! He thought, what if his aunt came and saw! Everyone would see, and where had his aunt gone? And would she ever return? Though he was a child, he understood that no one in this house loved his aunt, and no one would try to bring her back.

Looking at Pisi's room from the veranda, one's heart feels a certain way as the door of the room remains open day after day. The sound of spoons clinking in the dishpan has settled. In the courtyard, there's no longer the flurry of activity. There's only the Sheora grass here, and the Kachu plant there – did Pisi ever understand? The next morning, she rubs her eyes, and Kurunir's mother says, "Oh, child, you have a little brother now, won't you see?" "Oh, mother, last night was so much commotion, so much noise – where were you?" "Whatever happened, they've taken the child to the Kalpur Pir's Dargah, in the Sini Deban – they've kept him safe for the night." Sleepily, she quickly goes to Pisi's dishpan in the darkness and, peering into the pan, sees the baby sleeping soundly. There's no sign of a cat anywhere. Then, surprised, she comes back and lies down, and soon falls asleep. But in Durga's house, the kitten is calling out again. Once, she even brought food in her doll. Bishweshwari is barely two years old. Everyone says, "Just like the sugar dealer's son." She even ate a little of the Ganga water with the bullet. That man came – the old Peepal tree, standing at dusk, saying he had come from his in-laws' house, with a letter. There was no one to read the letter, and Golak had died the previous year – he himself went to the graveyard at Braj Kaka's Chandimandap, in the neighborhood adda, with the letter. That day's events are clear in his mind today – Na-Jotha, Mej Jyetha, Braj Kaka, Jadhu Roy, the brother of the disreputable Roy from the neighborhood, and also Bhajhari, related to Golak. The letter was read by Sej Jyetha. He was surprised and asked, "Who brought this letter, Indu?" Then, Indu's grandmother came home and immediately took out the silver bracelets, gifts from her parents at the beginning of her youth, and removed the vermillion from her forehead and went to bathe in the river. How long ago that was – it's all become a dream, yet it seems like that day...

Under the cool shade of the bamboo grove, amidst the lazy afternoon haze, the old woman remembers many things as she cuts the kanchi. The old woman startled and looked up to see Durga panting, as if she had run a long way. The old woman eagerly reached out to hold Durga—immediately Durga jumped into the old woman's lap—laughing, yet with tears in her eyes. Many of the young women present in the courtyard also had tears in their eyes. The wife of Prabina Hari Palit said, "Oh, Thakurzhi, you had another daughter, that daughter has returned to you—Nibaran, Nibaran! Braj Kaka's son, Nibaran. A sixteen-year-old boy, what a dark complexion, what hair! That Chandi Mandap's grandson is lying covered in jungle leaves, in the bamboo grove—he was bedridden with a severe fever in that house—he stayed that way for two or three days. Ah, the boy was always crying, but Ishan Kabiraj forbade giving him water—he was slightly sucking on a mauri doll. Nibaran died on the fourth night, and in the morning, the old woman got up and rushed inside with great joy. She cleared the jungle of weeds. Durga feels as if the household is finally running smoothly again, as if everything was just right for so long.

When she came home, the old woman was overjoyed to see Khoka. After many days, the moon has risen again. That day, Hari Palit's daughter came and told her mother, "I saw your old woman on the way to the ghat, coming from the field with a pot and a mauri doll in her hand—she came and sat down in the house, swatting mosquitoes. Send her to call Durga, take her hand and bring her, otherwise she will get angry now." Sitting in Hari Palit's house, the old woman was then listening to the neighborhood women's stories about Hari Palit's son. When she felt sad, she would say "No, no, no, no" and start crying with a loud, piercing scream. She would bite whatever was in front of her with her new teeth—earthen pots, pieces of wood, her mother's sari; when she sat down to be fed, she would suddenly bite the brass spoon with great joy with her two new teeth. Her mother would laugh heartily and say, "Oh, Hara, oh Khoka, why are you biting the spoon? Let go—let go—oh, what are you doing? You only have two teeth, what will you do if they break? Khoka still doesn't let go."

Her mother, using her finger, pried open his lips and extracted the betel nut. "There's no water to drink, Dad—Kabrej Mashai has forbidden it—don't drink water," she pleaded, "Just take a sip—just a little—it'll help you recover..." Unable to rely on the patient all the time, she raised the edge of the kitchen platform slightly, enclosed it with a bamboo fence, and placed her son inside, resuming her work. The boy, confined within the bamboo enclosure, remained silent, like a defendant in a criminal trial, occasionally laughing to himself, or staring blankly at the invisible audience, mumbling incomprehensible words, or standing by the bamboo fence, gazing towards the bamboo grove. Her mother had bathed at the ghat just a little while ago—still, not a single drop of water had touched his lips. After the boy's death, for five days, no one dared to offer him water. On the fifth day, his brother-in-law, Ramchand Chakraborty, went to his sister's room, folded his hands, and said, "What will become of me if you leave? Where will this old mother go?" The eldest daughter was from a wealthy family—her beauty rivaled that of Jagaddhatri, and there was no more radiant bride in the region. She had never drunk water without first offering it to her husband's feet—she was a true embodiment of a devoted wife, cooking and feeding her relatives before partaking herself in the third phase of the meal. She was a living Annapurna, devoted to charity, meditation, and feeding the hungry. She loved cooking and feeding people. So, her brother-in-law's words struck a chord in her heart—after that, she got up and drank water, but she didn't live much longer; within a year and a half of her son's death, she followed him. Chaturbhuttar's mother says, "Okay, stop shaking the bamboo cage, Khoka, enough, enough, too much." Sometimes, while working, Sarvajaya would listen intently, hearing no sound from inside the bamboo enclosure—it was as if he had become silent! Her heart would pound—had the jackal taken him?

He came running and found Khoka sleeping on the ground, sprawled out like a cluster of flattened marigolds, his little hands thrown up haphazardly. Flies and bees buzzed around him. Khoka's thin, red lips quivered slightly in his sleep, as if he was breathing heavily, then suddenly waking up, only to fall back into such a deep sleep that not even his breathing was audible. Just then, at the sound of his mother's wet cloth, Khoka lifted his face from playing, looked around, and upon seeing his mother, grinned and stood up, grabbing the edge of the bed. His mother said, "Oh, my dear, I put kajal on your face, and you've smeared it all over, looking like a disheveled crow! Come here, let me wipe it off." As she forcefully rubbed her nose and mouth, Khoka's red face turned completely saffron. He protested vehemently, saying "Jee, jee, jee, jee!" but his mother didn't listen. Seeing the towel in his mother's hand, Khoka panicked, yelped, and ran away. One day, while returning from the ghat, Sarvajaya said, "Khokan says 'Tu-u-u!' Let's swing Khoka! Let's swing Khokan!" Khoka immediately sat down and swung himself back and forth, flapping his little hands in joy and singing. From evening until late at night, the secluded house by the bamboo grove echoed with the meaningless joy and innocent laughter of the ten-month-old. Suddenly, a myna bird came and sat on the railing. Khoka looked at his father's face, surprised, pointed, and waved his hand, saying "Jee, jee, jee, jee." One day, when Harihar was busy calculating and writing down his accounts, Sarvajaya took the boy and said, "Oh, take the boy for a moment, won't you? The girl has gone to the ghat... hold him for a bit! I won't be long, will I? Just let the boy sit on your shoulders." Harihar said, "Ugh, don't bring all that commotion here now, I'm very busy." Sarvajaya angrily put the boy down and left. While writing his accounts, Harihar suddenly saw the boy chewing on the tip of his sharp pencil!

Harihar, holding the shoe tightly, said—

"Look, a strange thing happened. I'm a man who makes children dear and beloved, and for ages, the glory of mothers has been expressed in everyone's minds. But what does a child give to the mother? She comes empty-handed, but who gives the price for her priceless laughter, childishness, moonlit face, and the half-understood babbling? That is her wealth, and in return, she takes service, not like a beggar with empty hands. The other day, after consulting everyone in the village, I brought my wife home from her parents' house from the West. Harihar's annoyance disappeared, and great affection arose. I remember a night long ago. De - de - de - de - de - je - je - je - A14 ☐ Pather Panchali (song) Today, the pull and inflection in the village girl's words seemed new and very sweet to Harihar in his wife's conversation. Later, he noticed that his wife had no jewelry on her hands except for a few wooden bangles and glass bangles. She is from a poor family, no one to give her dowry, he has done very wrong without inquiring about her for so long. Sarvajaya also wanted to see her husband. Today, she has peeked from behind the curtain four or five times—healthy youth has given Harihar's well-built body a heroic posture that is not commonly seen in the villages of Bangladesh. In his parents' conversation, he has heard today that her husband has supposedly learned a lot from the West, and it's not that he hasn't brought any money. Her sorrow has subsided, perhaps God has shown his face after so long. Everyone was saying that her husband had become a sannyasi—he would never return. Although she didn't believe this wholeheartedly, her husband's return seemed as distant as ever. How many nights she has spent awake with worry, she couldn't properly participate in the village wedding ceremonies—everyone would say, "Oh, poor thing," and offer their sympathy; tears of pride would come to her eyes—her golden dreams of youth have fallen like tears in the lonely nights behind the curtain all this time, she hasn't expressed it to anyone, but she has thought so much sitting alone—this is the state of the household, if her husband really doesn't return, where will she stand after her parents' death—who will give her shelter?"

They met at night. Sarvajaya, protected from poverty, arrived at his mother's house many nights later wearing a red-bordere

Harihar felt that in the shade of the bamboo grove at the edge of this secluded Bengali village, a corner of a loving home had been waiting for his arrival for months, years even, adorned with welcome decorations. He wandered, homeless and destitute, through the barren, unfamiliar desert hills of the west, like a sleepless bird calling out endlessly as the moonlight outside gradually faded. This night felt particularly mysterious to him; the path to their new life, stretching out before them, seemed to begin tonight. Who knows what their life would be like? Who knows what fate had in store for them in the form of their uncertain future? The night dragged on with various trivial and insignificant conversations. The mention of the late grandfather brought tears to everyone's eyes, and they couldn't hold back. Harihar asked, "Where is Bina's wedding?" He didn't know the name of the younger sister; he had just heard about it from his in-laws today. A question kept recurring in Sarbajaya's mind: would her husband take her with him, or would he go back to Kashi after taking a look around? She wanted to ask, but couldn't bring herself to; it was as if a rebellion within her heart declared, "No, don't take him away again. Why be so small-minded?" It felt like a drumbeat resonating in Sarbajaya's chest as she managed to say, "Why only tomorrow? Why not stay for a couple of days if you come this far? Will your parents let you go so soon? My bakul flower house has invited you again the day after tomorrow—did you even enter the house?" After a moment of silence, she asked again, "Well, tell me, did you recognize me? Tell me by touching me." It seemed that a similar, albeit unclear, feeling had stirred in both their hearts. Both fell silent, gazing out the window at the moonlight night. Indira Thakurun had returned six or seven months ago, but Sarbajaya hadn't had a single good conversation with the old woman since. Lately, she felt even more strongly that the old woman loved Satkulkhagita, her daughter, more than her. There was jealousy, there was anger. She was favoring her own daughter.

In the middle of their conversation, Buri was advised to find a way to pass the time. She was asked which way to go – until she knew, it was seventy – her marriage was in the old, crumbling Binodpur – that big river, what's it called? Madhumati – on the banks of that Madhumati. – This village is home – in this neighborhood, and then the marriage happened in that neighborhood. Later, she said again, "He said he would come to see you tomorrow morning," that Harihar had resolved the problem himself. He said, "Tomorrow I will take you to your home in Nishchindipur" – how many days have passed since then? Where was this child then? – Who is your master? Astounded and bewildered, Chandra Majumdar initially raged heaven and earth, then understood the matter and came and paid his respects to his mother-in-law, taking the dust from her feet. Regaining his composure, Buri lifted the cloth from her head and, placing it on her lap, said, "Babaji, I have come to you after so long for a little bit of affection – and I will not live without it for even a single day! There is no one else in the three worlds – at this age, for two meals and a piece of cloth – Buri recognized – but was surprised – this is her son-in-law, Chandra! Comparing the robust, well-built, handsome young man of forty years ago with this aged, frail man in her mind, she was as if struck. In the next moment, with a mixture of various emotions – neither laughter nor sorrow – she cried out in a bewildered manner. After many days, she cried out her daughter's name. But ten or twelve days passed, and Buri felt as if she was in a new place, finding no peace – new doors and windows, new paths, a new way of life. It was as if it wasn't her own home at all. Every evening, she remembered the familiar courtyard and the faces of the children playing. Twenty days later, Buri started packing. She couldn't bear it here anymore. The elder son's mother was not at all pleased with the sudden appearance of the mother-in-law and her intentions, but she was neither happy nor unhappy at her disappearance. God knows what Chandra Majumdar's intentions were, but the elder son and daughter-in-law couldn't say anything out of fear. Before evening, the carriage was stopped in front of a large pavilion in the village of Bhandarhati. At the call of the carriage driver, a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five years old came and asked, "Whose carriage is this?"

An old man followed her inside the house, asking, "Who is Radhu? Where are you coming from?" Majumdar sahib asked the elder son to unload the car's belongings and sent the son and his mother-in-law inside the house. The other woman is a widow, the daughter of the second son, and the mistress of the household with a large son. There are three other daughters-in-law. There are also three or four grandchildren. The old woman couldn't find him for a year, and she couldn't believe he would be found after so long. After Akbar, she took Durga close to her, holding her hand, and sat down with Khokakaka, the five-year-old girl - the five-year-old girl of the two paths. The old woman still couldn't believe it. With joy, she hugged her tightly and said, "Dibyee, how are you? Such a beautiful, thick Dibyee cloth - Oh, grandfather, you're alive - I pray you live long, may you be immortal - no one gives to the poor and needy, but that generous man, Chachchi, has been asking for a piece of cloth for three years - he kept saying he would give it, but he never did - I haven't seen him for so long, where will I find him now?" After wandering around for many days, one day, she took out a fine cotton sheet from the red cloth shop in Kushtia and gave it to her, saying, "Here, Didi, it's very warm - only nine and a half annas - you won't find anything better in Nawabganj. I bought it on Wednesday - look, I'll open it for you." Winter arrived. The old woman went to the Ganguly house in the neighborhood and told Ramnath Ganguly, "Oh Ram, the cold has gotten worse again - I don't even have a proper cloth to wear in the morning - I sit shivering, and if he gives me one - Khuki initially felt very hurt and wouldn't talk to me or come near me. After much consolation, he seems to have understood now." The old woman stroked her niece's head and said, "If you like, I'll give you a beautiful, red pair of *dheri* - they look beautiful, don't they? But these days, they're hard to find - what are they called?" Durga said happily, "What's the price, Pitima? How much?" "Not much," the aunt said reassuringly. "I'll give it to you when I die, give it to you when you're older." The smell of the new sheet's starch seemed very pleasant and delightful to the old woman. In the morning, while dusting the sheet, she would sometimes look at herself.

Unnecessarily standing by the ghat, calling out to the innocent passing women, who goes? Raji's mother? —What time is it? —Without further preface, smiling slightly and glancing at her own body, she says, "This body's clothing is now worth only nine annas and a half in this neighborhood—Ramchand-Saree nine annas," Ram Ganguly said. "Okay, sister, come over one day, this month won't pass—rather, I'll see you next month." As she was expressing her joy to Sarbajaya, she said, "Listen, Thakurji, it won't be long before you'll be living in a house with seven doors, I'm telling you clearly. Make separate arrangements—beg for it." The old woman digested that. She has to digest many such things ten times a day. She still hasn't forgotten that morning's incident—the Dasithakur is a shrewd businessman. From a slight tamarind to a whole tree, Sarbajaya does all the household chores. She said in surprise, "You bought the salt from him?" The Dasithakur of that neighborhood came and said with a smile, "I came for two pennies, sister. Indir Pisi took a salt from me yesterday, she said, 'Go and check the price tomorrow and bring it back—nothing less than a needle's point, a stone for a meal.'—Seeing the gentle swaying of the coconut branch laden with dew, the old woman feels sleepy with joy. A couple of mischievous girls say, "Oh, Thakuma is making Thakurji wear a red sari! Thakuma is getting married—" "I won't give less than four pennies," says the old woman, "I feel like eating—" "Then let it be for two pennies," Sarbajaya said, inviting her home. "Why do you want to bring misfortune upon yourself unnecessarily? Let's make a home with children, shouldn't we see some good fortune from those who play? It's bad to go hungry and then bring misfortune upon yourself, isn't that your wish? If you didn't have such a crooked mind, this wouldn't happen." A little before noon, Indir's old woman is leaving the house. In her left hand, a small, dirty rag doll, in her right hand, a brass cover hanging from a string, on her shoulder, an old mat, the edges of the mat are torn and hanging down. No words came out of Sarbajaya's face in anger. Sarbajaya cannot comprehend that there are people in the neighborhood who buy and eat fruits like salt, which are so insufficient, that even cows and calves in the forest and jungle become disgusted with them, and then buy and eat them with money. The old woman went to the house of Nabin Ghosh in the other neighborhood of the village.

Newly married Ghoshal's wife, upon hearing all this, placed her hand on her cheek and said, "Oh, I've never heard anything like it, Khuki! Well, you stay here. After staying there for a month or two, the old woman left that place and took refuge at Tinkari Ghoshal's house, and from there, at Purno Chakraborty's house. In every house, after the initial hospitality, the household members expressed their annoyance in various ways after a few days. Khuki said, 'Oh, Auntie, where will you go?' Later, she rushed over and pulled Madhu's ear. 'If you leave, I'll cry, Auntie.' 'Alright,' and then she took the pot and went out through the back door towards the river. The old woman didn't return. Khuki cried and cried, following her for a long distance. The old woman's face was drawn, and she tried to smile a little, saying, 'Oh, daughter-in-law, give me some cooked rice. I thought I'd eat that, how else will I survive? Give me two paise.' Sarbajaya, multiplying her cries fourfold, said, 'Big paise, have you ever seen them? Sell your pots and pans and get some money.' The street vendor - 19 www.12. One doesn't stay in people's houses for twelve months. In the East neighborhood, there was a small room in Gayalani's house - after a month or two, everyone together decided that room for the old woman, and they decided that everyone from the neighborhood would help her a little. The room was very small, with thin walls, far from the neighborhood, in the middle of a bamboo grove. Sarbajaya, according to what I heard from the people, said, 'Look, five people, this is not a house, but the face of my children - I don't want to see it anymore, I don't want to see it, I will die in misery.' Those who were supposed to help joined in with great enthusiasm for the first few days, but gradually their interest also waned. The old woman wonders, why did she get so angry that day? The daughter-in-law asks, 'Khuki cried so much, pulling and tugging at her hand!' Her face, swollen with tears of deep sorrow, floats away, saying, 'The other day, I was so sad - if the girl were here today - she would have given advice, resolved the quarrel, and returned home.' The old woman wandered to a couple more houses, all the time hoping that at least someone from the house would send for Harihar. But three months passed, and no one came to call with interest. Durga didn't come either.

Budhi

She knew that from that neighborhood to this one was too far for a little girl to come. Hoping, she had gone to that neighborhood a couple of times and hadn't met Khuki. "Pisima!"... Budhi jumped up, throwing aside the quilt. Khuki was standing at the doorstep, and behind her was Raji, the daughter of the Behari Chakraborty from their neighborhood. Khuki was wearing a thin cotton sari, with a variety of trinkets tied to the edge of her shawl. Not much came out of Budhi's face. With great curiosity, she reached out her thin hand and hugged her tightly to her feverish chest. The heat had been swirling around this house for days, and Budhi had been feeling a little feverish every evening. She was lying quietly on the mat at the door, with a clay pot of water by her head. The brass-covered pot had already been tied with four strings and the rice had been purchased. From time to time, she was drinking a little water from the clay pot, thirsty from the fever. "Pisima, here's a couple of *muri* for you, two *kadam* fruits, and a wooden doll for Khoka." Budhi sat up properly. Shaking the items, she said, "Let me see, let me see, oh my jewel, what all you've brought. You're like a queen, so kind to poor Pisima! Let me see the wooden doll for Khoka! Oh, what a beautiful doll! You took so much trouble..." Although she was a boy, she understood the reason for Pisima's heat. Sadly and with compassion, she stroked Pisima's thin body and said, "You must definitely go home. You haven't heard any stories in the evening for a while. How about we go tomorrow? It's the Sankranti of Chaitra. There was strong sunlight all day, and now there's a little breeze in the evening. The *dhol* of the fair is still playing in Gosainpura, and the fair hasn't ended yet." "No one seems to notice when I talk to someone, Pisima. Seeing the fair, I came quietly in the evening. Raji also came with me. I brought all this for you from the fair. I've been like this all day, wandering around. That's why I'm a little tired. So, let me rest for a bit." With a slight sigh, Khuki said, "Pisima, your body is so hot!" Budhi became elated with joy and said, "Sister, did Bou tell you something today?" Raji said, "Khuri Ma didn't tell me anything, Pisima. She doesn't let Khuri Ma come here. We tell her that you are Khuri Ma, then you are Pisima. If you say a little, Khuri Ma won't say anything else." Khuki opened her bag.

The old woman stood there, a bundle in her arms, seemingly expecting nothing. Like a drowning man clutching at straws as he goes under, she looked around wildly, seeking refuge, her eyes unfocused. Today, it seemed to her that the long-standing shelter was indeed slipping away from her feet, and she had no way to hold it back. With great effort, she climbed the steps, the bundle in her arms. As she approached the front door, her gaze fell upon her prized tamarind tree, leaning against the corner of the veranda, untouched for three or four months. This patch of grass, that carefully nurtured lemon tree, this beloved tamarind tree, Khuki, Khoka, Braj Pisi's garden – in her seventy years, she knew and understood nothing else. Soon after, Sarbajaya, having finished her bath and returned from the river, pushed open the window and, upon seeing the old woman sitting there, stood speechless in surprise for a moment. The old woman smiled and said, "Oh, my child, are you well? Where else would I go at this age, leaving you all behind? That's why I've come back." The old woman became as still as wood, no words coming from her face. Then, suddenly, she burst into tears, saying, "Oh, my child, please tell me – give me a little space – where will I go now? You told me it was the end, didn't you? And yet, in this old age..." The old woman entered the house to find no one home. After suffering from a fever all night, she had come this distance in the hot sun with her weakened body, seemingly exhausted, and, placing the bundle down, she sat on the platform in her room. There was no more enthusiasm in her expression or voice for laughter. Without answering Sarbajaya's words, she said, "This house and your place are no longer mine – I told you that day – why have you brought me back?" As Sarbajaya was about to go to her side with the bundle, the old woman of the Raybari said from behind, "Grandmother, where are you going back to? Won't you go to the house?" Receiving no answer, she said, "Grandmother, these days, my head and ears are completely addled." In the morning, the old woman felt a lightness in her body. After a while, with two tattered pieces of cloth and a dirty towel tied to the small bundle, the old woman headed towards her house. On the way, Gopi Bostom's wife said, "Sister, Grandmother, are you going to your house? Has your anger with your daughter-in-law passed?"

Khuki said, "You go home tomorrow, Pishi. Ma won't say anything. So, go home now, Pishi. Tell someone, won't you? You go tomorrow morning, that's fine. Sarbajaya said, "Go on, don't sit there, Thakurji. It's getting late, I have work. I can't give you a place here. No, no, don't beg. Thinking of your well-being, you can't sleep. Go now, say goodbye, or else I'll force you." The old woman smiled crookedly and said, "The other day when Durga went to call you in the morning, how much she cried and wailed. Ma said, 'Call Pishi home.' I said, 'You go today. Let it be morning, I'll go home in the morning.' My daughter cries so much, she doesn't want to go. That's why I'm going in the morning." As always, they were moving away into the distance. Sarbajaya came running and said, "What do you think of this house? Pathar Panchali."

Now middle-aged, a full-fledged householder, a father of children, Harihar roams around in the village with a bag of money, searching for the rooms of his disciples from the past, conducting his guru-giri, haggling with landlords in the markets, dealing with the affairs of the land. There is no resemblance to his former free-spirited, unrestrained, carefree young self. Gradually, that life in the west has become very distant - sitting on the wide wall of that lime fort, watching the sunset of the distant mountains, spending the night in the Tejpatra forest on the way to Kedar, picking and eating sour oranges from the garden of the shrine of Shah Qasem Suleimani, it is true that Indira Thakrun died under the large banyan tree with its roots like a stream of molten silver, cooled by the winter. Returning from Harihar's home, his body somehow couldn't bear the heat, and he fell asleep here, unable to reach home. The Palits had placed him in the Chandi Mandap. After massaging his chest and back with oil, fanning him, and doing everything, they brought him down, thinking his condition was bad in the late afternoon. Many Palits and neighbors were standing around. Some were saying, "Why did he come out in the sun? Did he get directly in the sun today?" Some were saying, "He'll faint now, he's probably dizzy." The old woman opened her eyes and kept looking at his face, blinking. No answer was heard from her. Phani called again, "How are you, Pishima? Do you feel unwell?" Then she poured a little Ganga water into his mouth.

The water, however, did not enter his mouth, Bisu Palit said—"Give him a little more, Dadathakur—it has been four or five years since Indir Thakur's death. It's the end of the Magh month, the cold is quite something. A few people from Nishchindipur were going to see the blue-throated bird in the field outside the village at the time of the Saraswati Puja, following the narrow, muddy path flanked by thick bushes. Upon hearing this, Fani, the elder son of Dinu Chakraborty, came to see what was going on. Everyone said—"Give him a little more, Dadathakur, thankfully you have arrived, please give him some Ganges water in his mouth. Look at the condition, doesn't anyone from Bamunpara give him a little water in his mouth?" One of the group said, "Hey Hari, have you guys re-established the Kalabagan because of Bhushan Gowala?" And a little while later, as soon as Fani closed the old woman's eyelids, a lot of water from her mouth flowed down her wrinkled cheeks. "He's going, he has been lying with the Palits since noon, he was returning in the sunlight, and couldn't go—did you once go and see if S-dadathakur's house is still there?" He sent someone to check, but the Palit said—"It's not there. The old woman won't live long, Hari, the house is probably gone, the news has been given, but who comes so far?" Fani gave the cane stick in his hand to Bisu Palit and sat near the old woman's face. He called out with a full cup of Ganges water—"Oh Pishimindrajit Thakur, with the death of Thakur, the village of Nishchindipur ended its era." The five-year-old Palit, with a picture of a rabbit in his alphabet book at the letter 'K', also said, "Hey rabbit, croaking rabbit. There are rabbits in the haystacks here, that's why." The boy had never thought about whether the picture in the alphabet book at 'K' for rabbit showed it jumping and running in real life, or if it could be seen with the naked eye. It had gotten quite cold, and suddenly Harihar's son ran towards a nearby owl's haystack, pointing and shouting—"Look, father, look father, the big ears, he's gone, father." The young Palit said, "Do one thing, Hari, if you have to catch fish, then one day let's go to Bil during the monsoon—Nepal Para in Purbapar is giving birth, it's falling like one and a half or two maons every day—there are no fish under five seers!" "I heard, one night at midnight, in the middle of the Bil, in the deep water, there was a sound like a calf calling—did you understand?"

A six or seven-year-old boy, small and thin, came running from behind a bend in the road and caught up with the group. "What if you fall behind again?" Harihar said. "Keep moving forward," Harihar said. "I don't know, father, I can't answer your questions anymore. What have I seen since I started walking? What all is there in the forest, I don't know. Keep moving forward," he said. "You've seen the old banyan tree, the deep water, the water in the middle looks like black ink, the forest of lotus plants, some say it's Raghav Boyal, some say it's a Yakshi—until you get tired, everyone sits on the boat and it rocks back and forth." His father called from behind, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh—prick, prick, prick." Then he quickly came and caught up, grabbed his son's hand and said, "Oh, you're so annoying, I tell you a hundred times not to do it, but you don't listen, that's why I didn't want to bring you along." "What have I seen?" Harihar said. "It's going to be a pig and a goat—let's go, walk right in the middle of the road—the king of the water's edge of the Swargnandi Alaknanda, the Dashashwamedh Ghat—it's like remembering something from a long time ago." Harihar was about to say something significant when he turned back and said, "Where did the boy go again?" "Hey, hey—oh—" Harihar's son said again in a tone of interest, "Where did you run to, father, into the forest? Big ears? Big ears? Rabbit! Alive!—it jumped right in front of you and ran away—it's not a picture, it's a glass doll." He kept scolding the girl. "It's not a pig, father, it's a small one!" Then he lowered his head and looked up at the object from the ground to show its height. "Let's go, let's go—yes, I understand, I don't have to show you anymore—let's go forward." ...Everyone left the narrow path surrounded by the forest and entered the field. Behind the banyan and jhilik trees on the riverbank, a large brick structure caught the eye, the remains of the furnace of an old indigo factory.

In the days of the indigo factories, this Nischintipur was the headquarters of the Bengal Indigo Concern, where the manager of the Nischintipur factory reigned supreme over the fourteen factories in the area with the might of John Larmer. Now the factory's broken watchtowers, storerooms, sahib's quarters, offices, and overgrown brick ruins stand as a testament to the past. The powerful Larmer Sahib, who once held court like a tiger in this region, is now known only to a few old-timers, if at all. The thickets of the field are filled with owls, wild boars, jackals, and wild tamarind trees. The tamarind trees have spread their large green leaves over the thickets, casting cool shadows inside. Small creepers, ferns, and wild blue hibiscus flowers face the sunlight, blooming in the cool shade of the late afternoon. The greenery, the birdsong, the wealth of nature spread freely in all directions like a king's treasure—there is no attempt to seek refuge in such poverty, no miserliness of the middle class. In the magic of the late afternoon, the fields, the river, and the forest are enchanting. The boy raised his head and looked towards the tops of the nearby babul trees. The field was dotted with many ripe tamarind trees, low and stunted. The boy looked at them in amazement. Several times he went to the tamarind trees and was scolded by his father. "How can there be tamarind on such small trees?" He wanted to say that the tamarind trees on their side were very tall, but he couldn't. He realized that even with a tight grip on the heavy branch, he couldn't lift it, and hiding the crooked things became difficult. Upon learning this, his mother came and took him home, saying, "Oh, what will become of me! You have become such a naughty boy? You were sick with a fever the other day, and now you're running around eating tamarind. Just a little behind, and I come back and see the house is gone! How much tamarind have you eaten? Let me see your face." As he walked through the field, the newly arrived gentleman began to tell the story of how he had profited from cultivating sweet potatoes on the land in the northern part of this field. Someone said, "I heard that the bricks from the factory will be sold. I heard that Moti Da of Nawabganj is offering a good price." At Moti Da's words, the story of how that man had become rich from a humble beginning came up.

Then began the exchange of various necessary news: the current worthlessness of money, the burning of Kundu's goldsmith shop in the Aashadh market, the date of the marriage of the daughter of the village's poor Ganguli, and so on. No—absolutely genuine, true stories! Such a strange tree! —How could such a thing be possible in this earthly world made of water and clay? The boy couldn't figure it out at all. He said, "Mother, I haven't eaten any *kul* (fish roe), there's not a single *kul* in my stomach, do you think I can understand?" Then he brought his face very close to his mother's and whispered. His mother, after looking closely, kissed her son's beautiful, fragrant mouth, like a lover, and said, "Don't eat it at all, my dear! I will collect the *kul*, pickle it, and keep it in a jar—so you can eat it for a month and a half; don't eat it secretly anymore—what do you say?" Harihar said, "Kuthi, kuthi," pointing to the *dakho* (watchman's hut), "you see, the *sahibs'* (British officers) *kuthi*, you see it? Look, the basketball is coming to sit here now—" Harihar said, "Neelkanthi Shashuri (blue-throated mother-in-law), father?" The fourteen-year-old boy looked around in amazement. This was the first time in his six years of life that he had come so far from home. Until now, his world was limited to the neighbors' houses, the front of his own house, and the houses of the elder sisters-in-law. Only once in a while, while bathing with his mother at the ghat of their neighborhood, he would look at the broken watchman's hut near the bathing ghat and ask, pointing, "Mother, is that the *kuthi* over there?" He had heard about the *kuthi* grounds from his father, his sister, and so many people in the neighborhood, but today was his first time seeing it. Beyond that field was, he assumed, the realm of the fairy tales on his mother's face. In the land of Shyam-Lanka, under the Bengama-Bengamir tree, where the exiled prince sleeps alone with his sword, with no human habitation beyond, where the edge of the world begins. Beyond that begins the land of the impossible, the land of the unknown.

Amidst the other vegetation, a wild tamarind tree has grown tall, spreading its branches and leaves over the spot. During the months of Chaitra and Baishakh, the forceful flow from the mouth of the Arandhati River deposits heaps of its yellow blossoms all night and day upon the forgotten foreign child's broken tomb. Though everyone has forgotten, the forest's vegetation still remembers the child. On the way back home, he reached out his hand towards a bright-colored fruit hanging from a low bush by the roadside. His father said, "No, no, don't touch it—it's a stinging nettle." "What are you saying, Father! It looks like a big fire." "I told you not to take it anywhere else. If you touch it now, your hand will blister. Walking like this in the middle of the road—you won't listen at all." Some distance from the courtyard gate, the tomb of the son of Mr. Larmar, the Kuthial, lies abandoned and overgrown with jungle. Apart from this, no other sign of the vast headquarter of the Bengal East India Company remains intact on the ground. Upon closer inspection, the inscription on the black stone slab of many years ago can still be read: "Harrihar entered the house with his son through the gate of the courtyard in the village." Sarbajaya came out at the sound of the gate opening and said, "Oh, it's so late! Why did you take him there? Didn't you even swing him or take him to the other side of the river? The old house where the huge, ferocious beast of the prehistoric era lay like a skeleton, the symbol of the dynamic age, slowly spread its gray, tattered covering over the deserted winter afternoon." Harrihar said, "Oh, go away, you bother him! He goes this way, that way, I can't keep him under control—he's going to pick the nettle fruit." Then, looking at his son, he said, "He wants to see the courtyard, he wants to see the courtyard—what's the point of seeing the courtyard?—don't touch it, don't touch the nettle, Father? It will blister and burn if you touch it—then you'll start screaming." He clenched his fist, "Why, Father?" Here lies Edwin Lermor, The Only son of John & Mrs. Lermor, Born May 13. 1853, Died April 27, 1860. It was morning. Eight or nine o'clock. Harrihar's son was sitting on the floor in his room, playing. He had a small tin box, its lid broken. He had emptied all the contents of the box onto the floor.

A painted wooden horse, costing four paise, a tin whistle with a broken mouthpiece, a handful of raw betel nuts. He had stolen these from his mother's Lakshmi Puja box without her knowing, and no one had noticed.

His voice was a little hesitant. Hearing human voices, Lakshmi's box of trinkets quickly hid itself like a scarecrow in a field of corn. Then he said, "Hey Didi, Durga is ten or eleven years old now. Her build is thin, her complexion not as fair as Apu's, a bit sallow. She has glass bangles on her wrists, wears dirty clothes, her hair is flying in the rough wind, her face isn't bad, but her eyes are just like Apu's, very large." Apu got down from the roof and went closer, saying, "Hey? Durga has a coconut garland in her hand. She lowered it and showed some unripe mangoes. Sur lowered his voice and said, "Ma hasn't come back from the ghat yet, has she?" Apu said, "Give me the coconut garland. I'll take it and bring it back—you go and see if Ma is coming at the window." Durga said in a low voice, "Be careful not to spill the oil on the floor, or Ma will find out—you are a clumsy boy." Durga whispered, "Can you bring a little oil and a little salt? I'll make a mango pickle." Durga said, "It was lying under the sindur-kotar in the Patlidars' garden—did you get a little salt and oil?" Apu got up with the food and said, "Where did you get it, Didi?" Durga waved her hand and called, "And listen—" Ashwe shook his head and said, "Uh-huh—26 ☐ Panchali of the five paths## Eighth Chapter. Apu looked at his sister and said, "Ma will kill me if she touches the oil container? My clothes are dirty." "The longer you delay, the later Ma will come—she has gone to wash the rice—if you hear the call of the water carrier one more time, you won't have a chance to answer, Didi's face is full." She quickly started eating the slices of ripe mango. Later, seeing that there was still a lot left, she went near the jackfruit tree and stood behind the hut, devouring them. Apu stood beside her and devoured his share with all his might, because there was no time to chew. While eating, he looked at his sister and smiled, a smile indicating awareness of guilt. Durga threw the empty garland over the veranda railing into the dense forest of the Nilmani Roy's estate. Looking at her brother, she said, "Wipe your face, you monkey, there's salt on it..."

The Durga's house is surrounded by a forest. Nilamani Roy, the cousin of Harihar Roy, recently passed away, and his wife and children are living in their ancestral home. That's why this nearby area has also become overgrown with forest. There's no one's house nearby. Bhuban Mukherjee's house is a five-minute walk away. Harihar's house also hasn't been repaired for a long time; the front veranda is broken and cracked, and the forest and Kalmegh trees have grown over it—the shutters of the doors and windows are all broken, tied with coconut ropes. "Where did you come from?" I heard. How far will I go alone? Since morning, my body has been aching from the cold dew; I haven't even broken a small branch of the Kato tree, just walking straight along the path—where is that monkey? "Do you understand too much?" This is too much—okay, give me two more branches: they look quite good. Can you bring a Lanki? And if you give me one more, then—there was the sound of the window being unlocked, and after a moment, Sarvajaya's voice was heard—"Dugga, O Dugga"—Durgi said, "Mother is calling, go and see what's there, there's salt powder stuck in her mouth, she's choking"—Durgi's words were cut short by the tears in her eyes. Her mother asked, "Where did you find it?" When Apu came out of the house, Durgi took the mala from her hand and rubbed it well, saying, "Oh, my dear." A little later, Sarvajaya sat on the stool in the kitchen veranda. Apu sat down next to her and said, "Don't take out any more flour, mother, my mouth feels sick." "Oh dear, wait a little, Bapu...let it cool down a little! You all are hungry day and night and night and day! O Dugga, why is the calf mooing?" Later, Durgi peeked out of Nishithimukherjee's house and said, "What is it, mother?" Durgi took her share of the rice and said in a subdued voice, "There's no more rice, mother?" Just like Pitta Shleshnashong, so is Pitta Shleshnashong. Path-er Panchali 0 27—"Did you eat so much, sister?" While eating, Apu said, "Ugh, it's not going down. My teeth are aching..." Unable to muster the courage to tell the truth, Apu looked at her sister with a questioning gaze. "How will I get a Lanki, sister? Mother keeps it on the table, I can't reach it?"

"But let it be—let me bring them again now—the mango tree on the other side of the Patlis' boundary, the one that has caught fruit—it has fallen under the hot midday sun. A little later, Harihar sat down to eat and said, 'I went to the landlord's house for the partition today, you know? A very wealthy man, with five or six bungalows, quite rich—he greeted me respectfully and said, "Do you recognize me, Uncle?" I said, "No, son, how could I?—he said, "When your master was alive, he used to come to our place for puja and offerings all the time, and he would touch our feet. You people are like our gurus to us, and we were thinking of having a family priest—so, if you would be so kind, we were hoping you would give us the priest." So I told them I wouldn't say anything more today, I would come back in a day or two—you know? Who else would I tell? Anyway, Sadgop, go and give it to them, this suffering will go away—those eight rupees of the Raybari are reliable, even if it's only every two or three months—and besides, there's the state allowance. Yesterday, on the way to the ghat, that old man said, "Bouma, I can't lend money without collateral—" but you insisted, so I said, "It's been five months now, I can't keep the money any longer." Meanwhile, Radha Boshthom's wife is tearing things apart, she started nagging again this morning. The boy has no clothes—sewn together in two or three places, my dear, he grows up smiling and dancing—it's as if I want to go away somewhere—Apur went to see Didi after milking the buffalo. As soon as she stepped into the outer courtyard, Durga slapped her hard on the back and said, "You monkey, without Lakshmi!" Then, with a distorted face, she said, "My teeth are broken from eating that—don't you eat it again—eat ash—this time I'll bring the Patlis' crab-apples, they have grown so big, they're sweet like jaggery—will you eat them now? Where's the harm—if you have that much sense—" And they were saying something else, you know? They were saying there are no Brahmins in the village, and if you come and live in this village, we would like to have a Brahmin living here—we would even give you some paddy land—we have no shortage of money! These days, the farmers' houses

It was barely dawn when this restless, impatient calf was tied up—Sarvajaya stood at the door with a pot of milk, placed it on the floor, and sat down in front of it. She said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? Don't you want some milk? What caste are you?" Harihar called out—

"Don't tell anyone." —Sadgopa. "You always have to tell stories." Durga, in distress, said, "Don't ask him! I'm standing here under the jackfruit tree—when you called, he only came home after finishing his work in the afternoon." He works as a Gomasta at the village Anudar Ray's house these days. He asked, "Did you see Apu?" Always looking at you, he said, "I wonder why you're looking at me now?" Sarvajaya's words began to falter with interest—"Just now. So, if you don't mind?" Always saying, "Whatever happens, happens." —Durga Puja, I mean, at this time, the girl Durga, tippy-toeing, came from somewhere and peeked cautiously from behind the outer door, and seeing the other side completely awake, she quickly stepped onto the veranda next to the door and climbed onto the roof of the house. She slowly pushed the door of the veranda and saw it was closed. Meanwhile, it was impossible to stand on the veranda; her feet would burn in the heat, so she came down and stood under the jackfruit tree in the courtyard. Her face was flushed with the heat, and she carefully tucked the edge of her sari. She had come so that if the outer door was open and her mother was asleep, she would quietly enter the house and take a nap. But she didn't have the courage to enter the house through the front door, especially in front of her father and mother. There was a large ashvattha tree a little distance from Apu's house. Only its head was visible from the veranda window. Apu would look that way from time to time. Every time he looked, he felt as if he was thinking of some very, very distant country—some country, he couldn't quite grasp which one—somewhere, nowhere. He had heard stories of the kings of those countries from his mother. Standing under the jackfruit tree in the courtyard, he couldn't decide what to do and looked around helplessly. Then he sat down there, untied the knot of his sari, and took out some dry, shriveled fruits.

Sitting for a while, he began to count them in his mind, one-two-three-four... twenty-six. Then, doing two or three, he sat on the back of his bent elbow, raising and throwing them up, then catching them on the flat of his hand. He began to say to himself—"I'll give these to Apu—and these I'll keep in the doll's box—what beautiful kites! They're shiny with oil, they fell from the tree today, thank goodness I went early, otherwise the cows would have eaten them all, those crazy cows go everywhere, I brought some the other day and there were many holes in these, many holes." In his childish mind, a sense of wondrous joy was created at the thought of things so far away. The blue sky was so far away, the kite-flying field was so far—he couldn't explain it, couldn't tell anyone, but his mind seemed to fly somewhere with these thoughts—and the most amazing thing was that this imagination from so far away pressed so heavily on his mind, as if lifting him up somewhere—exactly like his mind would rise up for his mother at that time, where he was going, his mother wasn't there, his heart would become eager to go to his mother immediately. How many times this has happened. A hawk was flying in the sky, far away—gradually becoming smaller and smaller, the tall head of the tamarind tree behind it smiled and said—"Fool! Are you going to agree just like that? Little one, you'll think you're seeing the Thakur's pot and get scared—uh, you have to play with it—no, see, you should quietly consult with Majumdar sir—and now, just because he says so, are you going to come? All the people will come and say, give money, otherwise we won't let you go—see what kind of situation you get into after consulting—well, okay, we'll come!"—Does your village have the shelter of such a great man? Just wandering around getting bitten—He stopped playing and carefully tied all the kites to the peg of his sleeve. Then, suddenly thinking something, with his rough hair flying in the wind, he happily went straight down the road again. Among all the characters of the Mahabharata, he likes Karna's character very much. The reason for this is that he has a kind of affection for Karna.

The chariot's wheel had sunk into the ground—he was trying with all his might to pull the wheel out of the ground with both hands—the unarmed, helpless, distressed Karna pleaded and begged, but Arjuna shot and killed him! His childish heart was filled with sorrow upon hearing this part from his mother's mouth, tears welled up and refused to fall—he buried his face in her soft, tender lap, tears mingling with the joy of human suffering in his young mind, a new sensation taking root. In the path of life, where people find solace in tears, in poverty, in hopelessness in death, in the pain of failure, in the fragrance of yellowed pages of old books, in the sweet voice of his mother, in the sunlit afternoons, his childish eyes vaguely sought that path. When the day was over and his mother went about her household chores, he would come outside and stand by the veranda, gazing at that distant banyan tree—perhaps in the harsh heat of Chaitra-Baishakh, the top of the tree was hazy and smoky, or perhaps in the red afternoon sun, the lazy rays clung to the top of the tree—his heart felt a certain way looking at the tree bathed in the red afternoon sun, more than in the morning. It was as if Karna was still pulling the chariot's wheel out of the ground with all his might, under the sky, far away, beyond that banyan tree—he pulled every day—he pulled every day—O great hero, but Karna, the eternal recipient of grace! Not the victorious Arjuna, who gained a kingdom, gained honor, and destroyed the endangered enemy by shooting arrows from the chariot; the victorious Karna, who remained eternally awakened in the tears of mankind, who lived as a companion in human pain and emotion—that was he. It was gradually fading away into the distant sky—just as a flying eagle disappears from sight, he suddenly lowered his eyes and ran from the veranda to the kitchen, hugging his mother who was engaged in household chores. His mother would say—"Look, look at my son's antics, look at those trembling hands... Leave it, leave it, my jewel, my gold, I am frying prawns for you—do you like prawns? Don't be naughty—leave it—" After lunch, in the afternoon, his mother would sometimes lie down by the window with her veil covering her face, reciting the tattered Kashidasi Mahabharata.

On the edge of the house, the coconut tree called out to Apu, who was sitting nearby, lost in his own world, scribbling something in his notebook while listening to his mother's recitation of the Mahabharata. His mother called out to Durga, "Hey, bring him a betel leaf." Apu immediately held out his hand towards his mother's face and said, "A betel leaf for me, please." His mother, chewing the betel leaf, placed it on her son's outstretched hand, saying, "Oh, you big boy—it's because of these betel leaves that I forbid you from going to the market every day. It's as if they bring bad luck. Still—30... the king of the road says, 'Listen, listen, O son of the moon.'" It is impossible to describe the wonderful things he says.

A king named Somdatta lived in the Sindh region. He had an intense hatred for priests. One day, after listening to the stories of the Mahabharata war, he felt that there wasn't enough war in the Mahabharata. To fill this void and to enjoy the war, he devised a plan. Taking a stick or a small branch of a tree as a weapon, he would wander around the bamboo grove behind his house or in the outer courtyard, muttering to himself, "Then Drona released ten arrows, and Arjuna released two hundred arrows, killing them all! And then—oh!—that was a battle! The sky darkened from the arrows! (Here, he imagines the number of arrows as much as he can, although his imagination doesn't exceed what he has heard about the war in the Kashi Das Mahabharata.) And then Arjuna did what? He jumped out of the chariot with shield and sword—oh, what a battle! Duryodhana came—Bhima came—arrows darkened the sky—nothing else was visible. The chariot warriors of the Mahabharata fought for only eighteen days and earned their fame, but if they had lived with bodies of blood and flesh, they would have understood how difficult the path to victory was becoming. Could they have wielded their weapons equally for months to satisfy the boy's desires?"

On the morning of that day, Dronaguru had fallen into great danger in the forest on the way to Neelmani Ray's abode - the chariot of the monkey god was almost upon his neck, the moment the Brahmastra was released from Gandiva's bow, a cry of alarm arose among the Kuru soldiers - when suddenly a voice of curiosity came from the other side of the Sheora forest, asking, "Oh, what is this, Apu?" Apu, startled, turned and saw his sister standing in the forest, looking at him and laughing heartily. As soon as Apu saw her, he said, "Oh crazy, what nonsense is going on in your mind, and why are you waving your hands and feet?" Then she rushed over and affectionately kissed Apu's cheek, saying, "Crazy! Where did you get that crazy from, what nonsense is in your mind?" Then she took Apu's hand and walked into the forest. After going a little further, she pointed with a smiling finger and said, "See? How juicy they are! How can you eat them now?" Apu's sister loves to wear the 'Nolka' flower, which blooms in the forest. She often searches for it in the forest and has even put it on Apu several times before. But Apu doesn't like wearing the 'Nolka' flower at all. He says he doesn't need it. However, when his sister brings the 'Nolka', even if they try together, they can't pick more than four or five fruits - the trees are very high, and even Durgā can't reach the fruits on the highest branches. Then she says, "Okay, let's take these today, I'll bring mother along next time - I'll be able to handle it better. Give me the juicy ones, you take the 'Nolka'." Durgā said, "You do one thing, run and go inside the house."

Durgā ran ahead, and Apu ran after her and came out of the house. As they were walking on the road ahead, the peacock of that neighborhood, not a monkey, came out with food on its head. In that neighborhood, he has a shop, besides that he also does business in jaggery and paddy. But due to lack of capital, he can't make any profit, he sits idle after a short time. Then he might carry potatoes and pointed gourd on his head and wander around, or sell water and make a living. Finally, when there is no profit in that either, he might start the business of carrying loads on his back. Later, suddenly one day it is seen that he is again selling and making a living by carrying stone lime on his head.

People say there's nothing that can't be sold, and it's true. Yesterday was Dussehra, and people had already bought and stored *murki* sweets. Chini Bas Harirar Ray passed by the door of the house but didn't enter because he knew the people of this house never bought anything. Still, seeing Durga and Apu standing at the door, he asked, "What do you want?" Apu, out of fear, said nothing. He didn't want to scold his sister because she was the one who roamed the forests and collected *kulata*, *jamata*, *nonata*, and *amrata* fruits, hiding them and feeding them to him, even things that were probably forbidden for them to eat. So, even though it was wrong, he didn't have the courage to disobey his sister. Breaking a bud, he applied the white sap like water to Apu's nose, then applied some to himself, and then, putting his hand on his brother's cheek, he turned him towards himself and said, "Look, how do you look?" "Wow, nice," said Durga. "I'll show it to Ma." Durga said, "In that *lichu* forest—there are many, you'll pick them tomorrow, Ma?" "So ripe—exactly the color of vermillion." Durga suddenly said, "Come on, Apu, where is that *dugdugi* sound coming from? Come on, let's go play with the monkey, quickly!" Sej-Bou's age must be over forty, and she is known for being a very strict person. Apu, in shame, quickly plucked the flower bud from his nose. He said, "That aunt put it on." Coming home, Durga placed the sour fruits on the kitchen counter. Sarbajaya was cooking and, seeing them, she was very happy and said, "Where did you get them?" Apu, with his nose ring on, was standing behind his aunt. Sarbajaya laughed and said, "Oh Ma! Who is this?" "Can't you recognize him?" As soon as Chini Bas Harirar Ray took off his turban at the door of Bhuban Mukhujye's house, the children of the house surrounded him, making a commotion. Bhuban Mukhujye is a well-established man, and there are five or six *golas* in his house. In this village, his name can be mentioned in connection with land and property under Anuda Ray. Bhuban Mukhujye's wife has been dead for a long time. Currently, his brother Sej's widow is the head of the household.

Ashwe said with a shy face, "No, Didi, he left the veil and stood there, saying, 'Look, it's open, it's like an open sesame seed, it's enough.' Sej-bou, holding a brass pot, came from near Chinibas and looked at Murki, Sandesh, and Apu Didi's face. Durga turned her head towards Chinibas and said, "No, he took the fiveali-batasha for the Dashahara Puja on the 32nd." Bhubon Mukhujyer's children and his own son, Sunil, were standing there, and he bought food for them too. Later, Durga, taking Apu with her, entered and stood in the courtyard, watching Chinibas. Sej-bou, putting her hand on her son Sunil's shoulder and pushing him a little, said, "Go on, go up and eat. There are things for the gods here, they will be thrown away from the mouth and sit down." Sarbajaya brought water from Bhubon Mukhujyer's well; behind her, Apu came from that house, holding her mother's anchal tightly. Sarbajaya put down the pot and said, "Why are you wandering around aimlessly behind me? Will I do all the household chores at the ghat? Won't I give you work to do?" Exiting their house, Durga said to her brother in a consoling tone, "Chinibas has a lot of food! I'll take four paise from father at Rath time—two for you, two for me. You and I will buy murki and eat—" As soon as they crossed the main gate, Sej-bou turned around and said, "I can't see, Bapu. What a strange nature the girl has—she has her own house, why doesn't she go and sit and eat her fill? No, she goes from house to house, just like her mother—" Chinibas raised his head and went to another house. Durga said, "Come, Apu, let's go see Tunu's house." Apu said, "Okay, but you do the work then, mother, you go to the ghat." Later, in a very sorrowful voice, hoping to evoke her mother's sympathy, she said, "Well, don't I get hungry? I haven't eaten for four days—what will I do? The sun will rise and rise, and I'll get a fever, won't you listen to me? If I have to do chores, I'll go to the ghat. I'm sitting here, aren't I? Why do you do such mischief? I can't do the work you ask me to do." Apu, holding her mother's anchal even tighter, said, "I will never let you do any work. You work every day, will it never end? Go to the ghat right now—no, I won't listen..."

Sarbajaya sat down to feed her son a bowl of rice and milk. "Eat up, you rascal—look, your forehead is all wrinkled like an old man's. Two more bites of rice, and then, you know, if you eat your rice, I'll take you to the ghat, and you can run and splash water on your rice—be a good boy—eat a little more—go to the ghat, run back, and pour the water over your rice—be a good boy—what? Stop fooling around, let go of your cloth, and eat the fried lentil dumplings, I'm telling you to eat them—are you eating or not? You've been pushing the rice around for so long—eat the lentil dumplings—lentil dumplings—I told you to leave all that and eat—are you playing or what? He picked up the glass, clinked it, and emptied half of it, then ate a couple more spoonfuls, scattered some rice under the plate, finished the rest of the water, and wiped his mouth. After a while, Apu asked, "How many more days until Ratha, Didi?" "Several months have passed already." A quarter of an hour later, Apu sat down to eat with great enthusiasm. Perhaps, on the way, he had been sitting somewhere, buying all sorts of snacks and trying them, testing which one was best at the Ganga-Yamuna fair—once he found the best one, he would carefully tie it in his shawl. He was always busy with his toy box and playthings. He entered and looked at his mother with a guilty expression. Sarbajaya said, "Oh! Come, get ready for your meal. Eat and save me—then you'll have to go out again. It's Boshakh month, and everyone's daughter is getting ready, doing Shivpuja—and such a big girl, just running around all day and night. She left that morning, and now it's almost noon, and now you've come—it's as if there's a wedding at Dulal's place—so much wealth tied up in shawls at Dulal's place—sitting down to eat, making faces—will you survive eating? Did you come to survive? You came to burn me, didn't you? Don't make that face, you rascal—eat up, Lakshmi—look, this bowl is already empty—soon it will be time for the boys to have their feast at Tunu's house. Do you understand? Eat quickly and get going. There are many stone-hearted creatures in the world who don't melt at the words of a poor woman."

Sarbajaya, burning with anger and resentment, said, "Your little sister-in-law hasn't done anything wrong. She's been carrying around all that ash and soot for days. If I don't throw your doll's box into that bamboo grove today, then—" The matter escalated so suddenly, and their activities seemed so mysterious to everyone in the house that no one spoke for a while. Eventually, Sarbajaya found her chance and asked, "What is it, what happened?" Then she hurriedly got up from the kitchen counter. Before anyone in the house could say anything, Tunu and Satu together brought the Durga's tin doll box out of the room and placed it on the veranda. Tunu opened the box, searched for a while, and then took out a string of beads, saying, "Look, Ma, here's that necklace of mine—the one that was stolen the day we went to the fair." Before Sarbajaya could finish speaking, something happened. First, Sej-Thakrun entered the house through the front door, followed by his daughter Tunu and the neighbor's son Satu, and then four or five more children. Sej-Thakrun, without looking around or greeting anyone in the house, went straight to the veranda. Turning to his son, he said, "Bring it—get the doll box out. Let's see—Durga, trembling with fear, fumbled with the latch and opened it." He then said, "Those Ray children's house, under the Kalka Sundari tree in the backyard—go and check." After rummaging around, he said, "Here's a lot of your little sister-in-law's things." Satu searched a corner of the box and took out a handful of mangoes, saying, "Look, Jethima, our Sonamukhi tree has borne mangoes." Sej-Thakrun left the house with the group of children. Sarbajaya, upon hearing this, raised her voice in response to someone's words on the path, saying, "That little rascal in this house, stealing that string of beads from Tunu's box and hiding it in his own box—and look at these mangoes—there's a garden right next door, they can pick as many as they want—so why would they say that? (Here, Sej-Bou imitated Sarbajaya's tone of speaking)— Oh, they just bring it up like that—is your name written on it or something? (Lowering her voice) Ma, isn't stealing common anymore, or has my daughter's education become so bad?"

All the thieves in the house—Sej Thakuru, the embodiment of fire, declared—you're chopping up the words, aren't you? You say the mangoes aren't named—well, aren't they? Can you tell me which garden they came from? You say the money wasn't named either—so you could have taken it, couldn't you? It's been over a year now, give it today, give it tomorrow—just give it now with money, I can't keep it anymore, I'm telling you to gather the money. In insult,

Tunu, are you stealing the garland? Sarbajaya, somehow, got a little angry—she's not one to back down in an argument, she said—Sej Khuri, you don't know about the daughter's garland, but have you looked at the mangoes? You brought them up from the cellar, there's no name on them, Sej Khuri—and if you catch the boy, he'll be the same. Durga, frightened of being beaten, ran out through the window and door. A few strands of her torn, rough hair remained in Sarbajaya's hand. Simultaneously, stunned by the unexpected thievery, Durga leaned against the wall, sweating. Sarbajaya inquired—did you steal this garland from their house? The street vendor had been watching the whole thing in amazement. Sister, you stole the daughter's garland—www. —here, look, see what happened, look at the shop once—your daughter stole this daughter's garland from Tunu's dollbox that day when she went to play—your daughter has been searching for it for days. Then Satu went and said, I saw your daughter's garland in Dugga Didi's box—look at the incident once—are you and your daughter less than anyone? Thieves upon thieves—look at that—don't the mangoes in the garden rip quickly? They stole them and hid them in the box. Durga, unable to respond, Sej Bou said, —if you don't bring it, am I lying? Look at this mango, aren't I Sonamukhi's mango? Don't you know this? Is this also a lie? Sarbajaya, bewildered, said—no, Sej Khuri, I didn't say you were lying! I was asking her. As she was walking past the house, she thought—what if he's sitting in the bamboo grove? She went that way and looked everywhere. She entered the house through the window and door, and found no one at home. Her mother must have gone to the ghat or somewhere else. The evening shadows had fallen on the house.

Near the front door, a bamboo grove leans precariously, and on a single, drooping, dry shoot of it, the familiar yellow-crested bird has perched. Every evening, just before dusk, it comes and sits on that withered shoot of the bamboo grove - day after day. And how many other birds are chirping in the surrounding forest! The dense foliage of Neelmani Roy's large mango orchard is filled with shadows. Apu stands at the gate, gazing at the top of that distant peepal tree - a little red sunlight still clings to the treetop, and something white is swaying on the branches, perhaps a heron, or maybe a torn kite caught in the branches - it's as if shadows and darkness are descending across the entire sky. Everything is quiet... no one is around... In Neelmani Roy's large compound, the fresh, dark green leaves of the mango saplings are rustling. Suddenly, her heart cries out. How long has it been? He's gone, he hasn't come home - where has Didi gone? Ma knows if she brought it or not - she has never seen her wear that beaded necklace before - but she herself knows that her necklace is not stolen. Yesterday afternoon, Didi had taken her to collect mangoes in Tunu's orchard, and mangoes were lying fallen under the Sonamukhi tree, Didi was collecting them...

Evening has fallen - the banyan tree stands sprawling its branches far and wide, its form blurry - the ground is dark. No one is anywhere... if anyone is hiding behind the foliage! She called out - Didi, oh Didi! Only a thorny branch rustles in the dark. Only a faint voice asks - Durga? No, I haven't seen her! Isn't she under the banyan tree?

Durga ran through the mango grove, her mother chasing after her from the doorway, shouting - "Go, go away - just like you were born - and never come back home - let calamity enter, just come through the roof!" Returning home, she suddenly stopped. There was that mango tree in front of her! She had been walking through the path under this mango tree for an evening! Damn it! She felt like she was being pricked with needles. She didn't know why she was afraid to walk under this tree. There was no reason, yet she was terribly afraid for no reason. She had never stayed outside the house for so long before - she hadn't even realized it today. If her mind hadn't been preoccupied and distracted, she would never have taken this path. Many questions arose in her mind. Why did her elder sister get beaten again? Where had she been all this time? What did her sister eat for lunch? Did she steal something again? But, afraid to say anything, she obeyed her mother like a puppet and entered the house. Later, fearfully lighting a lamp, she took out her small bookcase and sat down to read. She was reading the third volume - but in her bookcase were two thick, heavy English books, a list of medicinal herbs, a torn copy of Dasharatha's Panchali, and one from 1303.

She had collected these from various places and, even if she didn't read them, she would open them once a day and look inside. She looked up. A little further from the banyan tree, near the pond, was a date palm tree, now in the season of flowering. Her elder sister sometimes stays there. But it was getting dark, and there was a bamboo grove on both sides of the pond. She didn't have the courage to go there. Moving closer to the banyan tree, she called out a couple of times - the animals in the forest responded to her voice with rustling sounds and ran towards the pond. The village cremation ground was on the roof. Her whole body felt cold and heavy like stone. Her mother had just entered the inner house and was taking the earthen lamp from the edge of the roof. As she stepped into the house, her mother looked at her and said - "Where have you been all this late? Did you even eat today?" Apu stood looking at the dark mango grove for a while and then turned back.

There's another way to get to their house—by taking a slight detour through the Patils' courtyard, one can escape the clutches of that unknown terror in Gabtala. He ran towards home. From behind, Patil's sister, Raji, shouted, "Come early tomorrow morning, Apu—we've built a new room for playing Ganga-Yamuna!" Tell Dugga behind the dhakshala in the Nimtala—Patil's grandmother sits on the veranda in the evening with the grandchildren, telling stories. Patil's mother is cooking in the kitchen. Vidhu Jeleni is standing on the veranda stairs, counting the money from selling fish. He wondered what she was thinking, looking at him. Later, once again raising the lamp, Diatakur-ma said, "Dugga, this is home. It's been so long—where have you been? Perhaps you haven't reached home yet—"

That afternoon, Berul—his hair hadn't been seen all day—neither eating, nor drinking, where He was sitting in the garden of the neighborhood's caretakers, sitting there eating raw mangoes and jamruli, now He's sending someone to call him—don't cry, don't make a fuss—it will come back—Apu sat up in protest. —No—truly, I'm touching your body, Didi, I'm not lying. I don't know what's in your box—yesterday afternoon, Satu came, we were playing with her big red doll—after that, understand, Didi, what Satu was looking at in your doll's box—I said, brother, don't touch my Didi's box—Didi She scolded me—at that moment, seeing—without repeating, Apu raised the bowl and started drinking the milk. It would have been very difficult to persuade him to drink milk so easily if it were another day. He only drank a little, and then took the bowl away from his mouth. Sarvajaya said—What? Drink it all up—if you leave that milk, then What will you eat?—Apu, without protest, raised the bowl of milk to his mouth again. Sarvajaya saw that he was holding the bowl to his mouth but not sipping—his bowl-holding hand was trembling. . . . After a long time, holding it in his mouth, he suddenly took the bowl down and looked at his mother, crying in fear. Sarvajaya said in surprise—What is it? What happened, did you bite your tongue? It's very late. Apu and Durga are sleeping on the mat in the guest room. The place next to Apu where his mother sleeps is empty. Because mother has not yet finished her work in the kitchen.

His father, Aharadi Saria, is sitting in the next room, smoking. Father has come home and brought Durga, searching for her from the neighborhood. Durga hasn't spoken to anyone since arriving home. She came in, ate and drank, and then went and lay down silently. Apu put her hand on Durga's body and asked, "Didi, did Ma beat you in the morning? Did she pull out your hair?" Then, wiping the tears from the boy's eyes with her end of her sari, she took the bowl to her mouth to feed him the rest of the milk—"Say yes, Didi, Lakshmi Sona, she'll call you when she comes now—completely mad—somewhere a mad person has been born—another sip—yes—later she put her hand on Durga's body and said—"It hurts a lot, Didi? Where did Ma beat you?" Durga said, "There's a house next to my ear where Ma died—blood was coming out, it's still dripping, touch here with your hand!" This—while aimlessly flipping through the pages of the torn 'Panchatantra' in the veranda, Sarvajaya came in with a bowl of milk in her hand and said, "Come, eat it, Didi." As soon as Apu finished talking about his mother, he couldn't control his fear and started crying loudly, saying, "Didi, how much you miss her..." Durga has no words. She asked again, "Are you angry with me, Didi? I didn't do anything." Durga slowly said, "No, how did you know that the coral beads are in my box?" "Here? That's why! It's broken, isn't it? Should I put some mustard oil on it, Didi?" Apu, after finishing the seven 'ka' and 'kha' letters on the palm leaves as per his father's instructions, went to look for his sister inside the house, wondering what to do next. Durga, fearing her mother, hasn't bathed in the morning and is performing the 'Punipukur' ritual under the guava tree in the inner courtyard. In the courtyard, she has dug a small square pit and scattered chickpeas and peas around it. The sprouts have emerged from the wet soil. Small banana plants have sprouted all around, and the edges are decorated with 'pituli' designs of lotus, birds, paddy ears, and the rising sun. The path leads through the bamboo groves and thickets and the ancient mango and jackfruit orchards on the northern edge of the village. The Majha Pukur is at the edge of the field, deep in the dense forest, far from the village.

The old residents of the village once had a moat surrounding the Majumdars' house. Now, only a part of that moat remains filled with water – the pond of the moat, as it's called, holding water for only twelve months a year. There's no trace of the Majumdars' house now. Upon reaching there, they saw plenty of fruit in the pond, but nothing special on the banks, everything was far from the water. Durga said, "Apu, look for a bamboo shoot – we'll use that to pull them closer." Then she started picking ripe sheora fruits from the sheora trees near the pond's edge and eating them. While searching for a bamboo shoot in the forest, Apu saw something and said, "Oh Didi, don't eat that fruit! – who knows what kind of fruit that is! Birds eat it – Apu laughed and walked away." As they were leaving, I started reciting, "I am Sati-Lilabati, brother and sister are fortunate, ha ha – brother and sister are fortunate, ha ha." After completing the ritual, Durga said, "Come, there's a lot of fruit in the moat pond – let's go." Mother was saying, "Let's go and bring some – Durga said, "You're getting old, aren't you? I'll scold you in front of mother." Now – Durga stopped and said with a slight, shy smile – "Why are you saying that? What do you have to do with this place? What do you? – Come on, let's go now, see now –." Then, after performing the necessary rituals, she started reciting in one breath – "It will be – I understand that we will go to the garden of the devotees in the evening? The carpenter has packed it! So big, as if telling someone! You and I will go quietly – I have eaten two pedas in the afternoon – sweet, like jaggery – Apu kept the bamboo shoot and came to his sister and said, who says that eating makes you crazy? Apu, Durga said, "Hey, listen, let's go to a place." Durga, while picking the ripe fruit and taking out the seeds, said – "Hey, look – look, eat – sweet, like jaggery – who says not to eat it? I've eaten so much. This day's story happened like this. As – as per the instructions, etc. – Where are you, Didi? Appendix 39, Special Announcement on the occasion of Sri Sri Durga Puja. With great difficulty, a bunch of fruits came close – Durga. She started looking curiously at how many fruits she had picked. Then, throwing it on a stick, she said – "Very bitter, it's not ripe yet, pick it once more." Apu again pulled it from behind and held it.

After staying for a while, as he leaned towards Didi, his feet again stepped into the water due to the sting of the thorn—later, seeing his clothes get wet, he laughed loudly. Apu had been crouching and digging the soil, cleaning it with a piece of cloth. Holding it in his hand, he showed it to Didi and said, "Look, Didi, it's shiny—what is it?" A little later, Durga entered the water and tried again, while Apu stood on the bank. At that moment, Apu pointed towards a Sheora tree nearby and exclaimed, "Didi, look, what's this!" Then he ran and started digging the soil. A little later, Durga entered the pond water a bit and said, "There are so many lotus flowers, Apu! Stand up." Entering the water further, she pulled two flower vines and threw them on the bank, saying, "Catch it, Apu." Apu said, "The fruits are very far in the water—how will I go there, Didi?" Durga tried to pull the distant fruit trees with a stick but couldn't. She said, "It's a big, deep pond—it's getting flooded—how can I manage? You do one thing," and from behind, she took something shiny and cut into pieces. She looked at it with interest for a while, turning it over in various ways. The silent bamboo grove by the pond became lively for a moment with the siblings' chatter. Durga said, "If you have this much strength in your body! Where's the drum of the harvest?" "Will this little thing not be enough? Let it be, tell me—" Finishing her words, Durga happily stuffed all the ripe fruits into her mouth. "Here, Didi, Didi..." Durga asked from the water, "What is it?" Then she got up and came to her brother. After eating, she wiped her mouth and said, "This is a little bitter, Didi." Durga laughed and said, "Hold onto the edge of my sari, I'll pull that bunch of fruits with a stick." In the forest, a yellow bird sat on the tip of a Mayanaka tree branch, swaying the leaves and giving wonderful lessons. Apu looked and said, "What bird is this, Didi? It's like a street vendor—now it's here—catch it, pull the sari hard—forcefully—" Apu looked at Didi in surprise.

The child was not unaware of the diamond; she had heard many times from her mother and elder sister about the ornaments of princesses and princes in fairy tales, adorned with diamonds; but she had a slightly wrong idea about what a diamond looked like. She thought a diamond would look like fish eggs, yellowish, but not soft—hard. . . . . . . When the children left, Sarvajaya took the thing out and looked at it closely. Round, sharp-edged, and smooth, one surface flat—like the top of a sindoor box. Quite dazzling. Sarvajaya felt as if she could see many colors within it. But it was definitely not glass. She had never seen glass like this. Suddenly, as if a current ran through her entire body, pushing aside the doubts in one corner of her mind, a deep, fearful anticipation peeked out—what if it really is a diamond? Suddenly, thinking something, her rough, hairy face lit up. She looked around fearfully to see if anyone was watching. Whispering, she said—Apu, this might be a diamond! Shhh, be quiet. Then she looked around fearfully once more. Sarvajaya's house was not there; Durga came to the neighborhood and saw the children standing near the door inside the house. Going closer, Durga whispered—Ma, we found something. We went to pick lotus fruits from the pond. We found this in the forest. Her idea of a diamond was like a stone or a snake's head jewel. Stories are one thing, but one doesn't see such big ones in the real world; and if one does, then the world's wealth can probably be exchanged for one piece of diamond. Durga said—The Majumdars were big people, weren't they, Ma? Pisi used to tell stories about how someone had found a seal in their forest. This was right in the forest by the pond, shining brightly in the sunlight, it's definitely a diamond, Ma. Durga took the thing out of her shawl and gave it to her mother, saying—Look, Ma, what is this? Sarvajaya turned it over and over. Durga whispered—Ma, it's definitely a diamond, isn't it? Sarvajaya's idea of a diamond was not much clearer than theirs. She asked in a doubtful tone—How do you know it's a diamond?

Durga came out to the courtyard and, along with the guests, told her brother, "If it's a diamond, then you'll see we'll become important people." Harihar looked back a little and said, "Glass, no—it'll be stone—so much stuff, I can't quite understand it." A little later, Harihar entered the house with a bundle in his hand. Taking it, he asked, "Where have you been?" Sarbajaya said, "Oh, listen, come this way! See what this is." Apu, not understanding, laughed foolishly. Apu said, "I saw it and told Didi, 'Ma.' Then, a little later, I said, 'Ma, I'm hungry.'" Apu peeked slightly from the side of the kitchen door; as soon as her mother's eyes fell on that side, his mischievous, full-cheeked face disappeared instantly behind the door. Sarbajaya said, "Why are you doing this, father, in the middle of the day?" While cooking, Sarbajaya repeatedly said to herself, "Oh God, how much trouble one person can cause! This suffering is because of the household—looking at the guests—oh God—why are you tormenting me like this? You see, it's getting late." A little later, Durga came and asked eagerly, "Father hasn't returned home yet, has he, mother?" Sarbajaya recognized the boy well. When Apu was a small child, one and a half years old, he looked even more chubby than he does now. Sarbajaya remembers that in his dark eyes—she saw it—he was hiding his face behind her back again. "Hee-hee-hee—" laughing, he hid his face behind the door again. It was the month of Baishakh, almost noon. He said, "Okay, wait, I'll show you Ganguli's house. I haven't seen Apu." The street urchin peeked again with a smiling face. The chubby-cheeked boy was looking at his mother's face with his mouth open, then suddenly, for some reason, he opened his completely toothless gums and, with joy, hugged his mother with his tiny, dirty feet and hid his face on his mother's back. Sarbajaya said with a laugh, "Oh, where has the boy hidden again? There he is, you can see him! Oh boy! . . ."

Later, when she turned her face towards him, the child would turn his face back towards her, smiling foolishly, and hide his face in his mother's shoulder. No matter how much Sarvajaya said—"Oh, where has my little one gone again? Let me see," the child's play continued. Repeatedly turning front and back strained Sarvajaya's neck, but the child's play didn't end. He was then completely new, like a raw betel nut, in a new home. Having found a particle of the world's boundless joy, his innocent mind, greedy, couldn't get enough of savoring it repeatedly—where was his mother to stop him then? After doing this for a while, the energy in his small body would dwindle, and he would suddenly become absent-minded and start crying. Sarvajaya would scold the little one, saying, "Enough! Look, the wall is there; I'm sleepy now." Then, looking at her son's smudged, kohl-rimmed face with captivated eyes, she would say, "How much color he knows, my little one—still, he's only a year and a half old!" Suddenly, she would fill her eager kisses with the child's rosy cheeks. But, showing complete indifference to this deep affection of his mother, the child's sleepy eyelids would droop. Sarvajaya would slowly place the child's head on her shoulder, saying, "Oh, my dear, you fell asleep so quickly! I was thinking of letting you drink milk after waking you up—look at this! . . ." He hides in places where even a blind person could find him; but Sarvajaya doesn't see even when shown—she sits him down and looks around, saying, "There! Where did you go? Can't you see? . . . How can one deceive their mother like that! It's fun to play this game with your mother." Sarvajaya knows that if she pretends to join in the play, it can go on all day, so she threatened, "Then there will be no cooking and cleaning." "Oh, you do that," she said, "if you want to play outside. You'll see where your sister is! Stand in the courtyard and call out a little. It's not her visiting day today—what's the point of getting hold of that mischievous girl?"

Laxmi's son—well, he applied a lot of kajal and put a bindi in the middle of his forehead, and on his head, he wore a cheap woolen cap with little bells. Sitting on her lap, just before evening, he stood outside on the veranda, humming a tune to fall asleep. Apu, laughing, came out of hiding and placed the spice box in front of his mother.

Sarvajaya knew—when a son turns eight, the fun of playing hide-and-seek with his mother is no longer there. Everywhere she looked, Apu saw an old-fashioned five-stringed instrument kept for offering rice at the altar. "Oh, this is about my sorrow—oh, oh, oh, oh—" the sound went. "Oh, oh, oh, oh—" A woman's necklace. A little later, she left the boy to guard the kitchen and went out to fetch water. Seeing this, Durga entered the house through the door. Her face was sunburned, her hair disheveled, and her feet, covered in dust, wore alta. She showed the mango tied in her shawl to her mother and, swallowing hard, said, "I went to the Rajis' house to get a chana plant for the sacred pond, and they gave me this mango in return." Durga wiped her face with her shawl, pushed the disheveled hair from her forehead, and said, "Laxmi's son has put alta on his feet! I bought alta for Baba at the market for one paisa, so there wasn't even enough for two leaves in my doll's box, you know?" "Aha, look at the state of the girl, her feet are covered in dust, her hair looks like it has fever; you haven't slept all night thinking about the sacred pond!" Later, looking at her daughter's feet, she said, "So, you took the alta from Laxmi's bottle and put it on?" Sarvajaya's heart filled with compassion and affection for her dusty, innocent son; but, unable to touch the unwashed clothes clinging to him, she said, "Take that towel, first wipe off the dust with that." The boy, laughing and giggling, opened the box, put it aside, and stood up. His hair, face, eyebrows, ears were all covered in dust. He puckered his face and chattered his tiny teeth. Sarvajaya said, "Where did you get the idea to put fire in the bells? You've arranged the beautiful wood perfectly!"

How long will the fire in the bamboo grove burn that I have to keep adding fuel to it every few hours? He held out a broken brass hand, reserved for extinguishing the fire, with a little flame flickering in it, and presented it with an annoyed expression. Then, softening his tone, he said, "What's wrong? Everything was fine, everyone was supposed to take the mantra, but it's becoming a little difficult. Mahesh Biswas's in-laws' affairs have caused such a commotion, Biswas went there—whether he's the real owner or not. So, it's been delayed again; and it's already late, the month of Ashadha has arrived. Oh dear, what will happen to me! Yes, poor fellow, you look like a ghost covered in dust! Uh—it's the dust from that old trunk! Pagsal Sarbajaya was very hopeful, and was completely disheartened to hear the news. She said, 'It's not there, show me somewhere else. There's respect abroad, who reaches here?' Show me—no, listen—my father, my gold, it's all there—my butler's hand—don't be mischievous, chhish—it's become a little difficult because of this! Suppose taking the mantra is delayed, then how will that be done? He came two paces forward, dragging the trunk with a thud. Sarbajaya said—'Touch, touch—don't touch my pearls—oh, I'm completely turned to wood with fear—it's been very frightening, I've brought it and placed it here with a thud.' And that place where he said he would provide a place to live, would allow me to live, what's wrong? Harihar came to light the fire in Ramchandra's lamp. 'Show, show, show me the boy's condition once. He's just like Laxmi, he's covered in the dust of the seven kingdoms. Fhal, fhal—are there snakes and scorpions in it or not? It's been taken out for so many days today—hu-u-u-um (in a deeper tone than before).' In connection with the mention of the Panchalibagan on the way, Harihar said—'Uh, how little he is, a drumbeat or not! He collects twenty-five rupees a year in rent—he suffers, so he wrote that it's five rupees! I went and told him, uncle, I have a son and daughter, they are growing up picking mangoes and jamuns in that garden. I have nothing else. And suppose, our relative's garden—you have no shortage of anything, God wills, there are two very large gardens, mangoes, jamuns, coconuts, betel nuts—what shortage do you have? Go to the garden and leave it!' Do you know what he said?

Balli Nilamoni borrowed three hundred rupees from Dada to stay alive, so he repaid him with interest. Listen! Nilamoni Dada was in dire need, so he went to Bhuban Mukhujer to beg for three hundred rupees! When he found a kind man, he patted him on the head and suddenly, as if the sky had darkened in an instant, a storm of Kalbaishakhi (nor'wester) arose. The clouds had been gathering for a long time, yet the storm seemed to arrive too quickly. In front of Opu's house, the bamboo grove bent and swayed in the storm's fury, the bamboos breaking and falling to the ground, making the house look empty—dust, bamboo leaves, jackfruit leaves, and dry twigs were flying everywhere, filling their courtyard. Durga came out of the house and ran to pick mangoes—Opu ran after his sister. Running, Durga said, "Hurry up, little one, you stay in Sindurkauntala, I'll go to Sonamukhi—run, run." Dust filled the air—large tree branches were bending and swaying in the storm. The wind was whistling through the trees—dry branches, twigs, and bamboo husks were flying in the garden—dry bamboo leaves were being lifted upwards and swirling in the sky—like the fluff of a Kusuma flower, white flowers were flying from everywhere in the storm's face. The sound of the wind was deafening. There wasn't a single mango or jackfruit in the house at this time of year. The girl had brought two half-rotten mangoes from someone's house today. Later, turning towards the west side of the house, she said, "Throw mangoes from this room in baskets—those children are watching me, you know. What a hardship it is—so many kind people! He also said, 'If you have a garden in your hand, you won't get anything else, you'll just get the fruits and vegetables. If there's some arrangement to get a little less, then you'll get the rent.' Harihar said, 'Would I not give the rent? If the garden gives income, why didn't he tell me?' He fed his sister Luchi and Mohanbhog and quietly wrote a note!" Upon reaching Sonamukhi, Opu jumped and ran around excitedly, shouting—"Sister, look, one has fallen, sister! Look, another one, sister!" The more he shouted, the less he could pick mangoes. The storm was raging fiercely.

The sound of the mangoes falling in the storm couldn't be heard, if at all. It was impossible to tell where the sound originated. Durga had picked eight or nine mangoes, and Apu had managed to collect two in the commotion. She happily showed them, saying, "Look, Didi, how big this one is! It fell over there—www. Path-er Panchali ☐ 45 is coming, I heard." Satu shouted, "Hey, brother, Durga and Apu are picking mangoes—now, at this time, the children of Bhubon Mukherjee's house are all picking mangoes too."

"Mangoes bigger than these—" "Let's have fun picking them now—come on—and by staying here all this time, we've been deprived of a greater gain. In fact, by leaving, we've been blessed, showing everyone such spirit." Saying this, Rangchita, with even more enthusiasm, took Apu along and went out of the garden through the gap in the fence. Ranu said, "Why did you chase them away, brother? It was as if the storm had softened for a moment with you. The earthy smell of wet soil was felt. After a while, the rain started falling on the leaves with a loud crackling sound in thick drops." The group reached Sonamukhi-tala. Satu said, "Why did you come to pick mangoes in our garden? Didn't Ma forbid it that day? Let's see how many mangoes you picked." Then, looking at the group, he said, "Tunu, did you see how many mangoes Sonamukhi picked? Go and tell Ma that we took them from our garden." "Come with me," he said. Durga brought her closer and covered her with her shawl, saying, "How much longer will the rain last? It's good that it's raining—we'll suddenly..." He said, "Hey, Apu—it's raining—will you pick mangoes? If you stay here, all the mangoes will be gone. Why did you come to our garden?" "No, go, Durga—we won't give you any from our tala." "Come, we'll stand under this tree—it won't rain here." Ranu said, "Why are you chasing Satu away? Let him pick some too—we'll pick some too." The dark head of the dense forest and garden seemed to stretch from one side to the other. Light appeared all around for a moment. On the branches of the tree in front, the blurred, misty fruits were swaying in the wind.

Apu clutched Durga tightly, his voice trembling with fear as he said, "Oh, Didi, in the cold, Apu's teeth were chattering." Durga pulled him closer, her voice rising and falling in a rapid, desperate chant - "Nebur patay koromcha he bhisti dhore ja—nebur patay koromcha." His voice quivered with fear. Suddenly, a flock of birds burst from the trees in the garden, their wings beating against the rain-laden air, and a flash of brilliant blue lightning illuminated the eyes of the two helpless children caught in the frenzy of the storm. Ashaleeta said, "No, Khurima, didn't you see? Where did they go?" Then, laughing, she said, "What a croaking of frogs, Khurima - the rain lashed their clothes and hair, drenching them, and they started pouring water - gum-gum-gum-m-m-m-chapa, a deep, resonant sound - as if a huge iron rod was being dragged across the metal floor of the sky from one end to the other." Apu said in a frightened voice, "Oh, Didi, again - as if someone was dragging that big iron rod from the other end of the sky back this way - how frightening! Say 'Ram Ram' - Ram Ram, Ram Ram, Ram Ram - 'Nebur patay koromcha he bhisti dhore ja—nebur patay koromcha he bhisti dhore ja—nebur patay koromcha.'" Durga looked up, her throat dry, "Is it hailing? - the forest mist is hanging from the trees." Suddenly, a flicker of lightning licked the dark sky from one end, and a roll of thunder roared in mockery, rushing from one end to the other in an instant. "No fear, no fear - come a little closer - eh, your head is so wet it's dripping - Pathar Panchali," Apu said, "Didi, what if the rain stops?" Apu closed his eyes in fear. "The two of them went out to collect ams before that storm, and they haven't returned - should we go down to the Sonali-tala now, what do you think? Oh, Ma, I thought..." Bhisti stopped, "I'll go to the garden and see once - oh, this huge narikol - let's pick it up and run as fast as we can! - God can't stand so much cleverness - go, go quickly - I'm saying it quickly, and don't eat the narikol - hurry, hurry and get under the roof - Sarbajaya returned home in great anxiety.

While wondering what to do, Durga pushed open the creaking door and entered the house, drenched to the bone, clutching a coconut in her arms. Apu followed close behind, dragging another coconut by its husk. Sarvajaya rushed to her children and exclaimed, "Oh my, what a state you're in! You're completely soaked! Where were you during the storm?" She pulled her son close and stroked his head, saying, "Oh, your head is so wet, it's dripping." Then, turning to Ahlad, she asked, "Where did you find this coconut, Durga?" Sarvajaya remained standing outside the creaking door. Observing her children's rain-soaked, pouty faces, she thought, what if they catch a cold! Their father is such a harsh man! He has a sharp tongue! What to do? As she pondered, her body shivered, and she felt utterly helpless. She didn't enter the house anymore— instead, she headed towards the Ashshoroda forest, under the bamboo grove, where fireflies glowed in the rain-soaked evening. Her legs felt heavy, as if they didn't want to move. Fearing the rain, she carried a small bucket and a pitcher for collecting water and returned home. Durga said, "Apu saw it, and I think I saw it too." Then, with enthusiasm, yet in a hushed tone, she continued, "It was lying right at the base of the tree. I didn't realize it at first. I was looking for you, and then I saw the husk lying there. I told Apu, 'Apu, take the husk—I'll beat it, it will be painful to beat it.' Then I saw—looking at the coconut in her hand, with a bright face, she said, 'How big it is, isn't it, Ma?' Apu and Durga both said in hushed voices, 'Shhh, Ma, Sej-Jethima are going to the garden—it's under that very Narikol tree at the edge of their garden that it was lying.' We're going too, Sej-Jethima have already entered. The rainwater made the children's faces look as beautiful as rain-washed jui flowers. Their lips had turned blue from the cold, and their wet hair clung to their ears. Sarvajaya said, "Oh dear, take off your clothes first, I'll give you water to bathe." After a while, Sarvajaya went to Bhuban Mukherjee's house to fetch water. As she reached Bhuban Mukherjee's creaking door, she heard Sej-Jha's cries echoing throughout the house. Sarvajaya said, "What a big Narikol coconut it is. Leave it in the veranda, I'll take the water." Apu said in a disapproving tone, "You said there was no Narikol, no Narikol—look at this huge Narikol!"

This time, however, it has to be done properly. I won't let go—never—after the storm, the Salil Hol, and Ma, where did she go? While coming, I thought—if I send them back to Narakol—would they even be ashamed? Why would they be ashamed—to return what is theirs? Ashwatthama, in a very gentle voice, said, "I am Ashwatthama Basal. Run—go home and tell the girl—Durga, bring Narakol through the Satuderi house." Hearing the name of the school, Apu, barely awake, rubbed his eyes and stared at his mother's face in disbelief. He thought that only the naughty boys, who don't listen to their mothers, who fight with their siblings, are sent to school. But he never acts like that, so why would he go to school? But in the end, his father's insistence didn't leave much room for argument, and he had to go. His eyes welled up with shame towards his mother, and while serving his food, he said, "I will never come home again." Seeing her daughter leave, Sarbajaya went to light the lamp in the Tulsi plant, covered her face with her sari, bowed, and said, "Lord, you know that Narakol didn't go to Kuru with a hundred offerings. Please don't be angry with them. Please protect them. Bless them. Look upon their faces. Please, Lord." Reaching school, Harihar said, "I will come back and take you home during the holidays, Apu, sit, sit, write, listen to your teacher, don't be naughty!" "Yes—right now, bring it. Their window is open. Go quickly. Say that we collected it, and we sent it with this boat." In response to her mother, he said in a tone of disbelief, "Oh!" Then, looking at his mother, he stuck out his tongue, closed his eyes, and made a face, not showing any sign of getting up. After a while, Sarbajaya came again and said, "Get up, Apu, wash your face, I will give you a lot of puffed rice now, eat it while sitting in school, now, get up." Lakshmi, Manik, Apu, and Durga looked at their mother's face in surprise—"Apu, won't you wait for me a little, Ma? It's very dark, come, Apu, with me." Durga said, "Right now?" A little younger boy, waiting for him, was chewing on a betel leaf, leaning against a post.

And a big boy, with a scar on his cheek, was secretly observing what the shopkeeper's son was doing. Two boys were sitting in front of him, drawing a house on their slate. One was quietly saying, "I made this charcoal," and the other boy was saying, "This is my ball," while drawing on his slate. He would glance sideways at the shopkeeper's son, who was selling things. Apu started writing big letters on his slate. After some time, it's not known exactly how long, the shopkeeper suddenly said, "Hey, what's going on on the slate?" The boy in front of him quickly covered his slate with his hands, but he couldn't escape the shopkeeper's sharp eyes. He said, "Hey, bring the slate to me!" Before the shopkeeper finished speaking, the boy with the big scar quickly picked up the slate and presented it to the shopkeeper.

In the afternoon, the school session began. Eight or ten boys and girls came to study. Everyone brought small stools from home and sat down; Apu didn't have a stool, so he brought an old carpet from home. The room where the school was held had no walls or fences, it was open on all sides; the students sat in rows inside the room. The schoolroom was surrounded by forest, and behind it was the garden from the shopkeeper's ancestral days. The hot afternoon sun shone through the gaps in the lemon, guava, and peepal trees, falling at the feet of the bamboo poles of the schoolroom. There were no houses nearby, only forest and garden, and a narrow path leading away.

Among the eight or ten boys and girls, everyone was reciting their lessons in a monotone, swinging on their stools; occasionally, the shopkeeper's voice was heard, "Hey, what are you looking at on your slate? I'll tear your ears off! Nutu, how many times have I told you to look at your book? If I see you looking at your slate again..."

The way the big boy quickly snatched the slate, and the way the boy in front of him hurried to the shopkeeper with two slates in his hands, made Apu burst out laughing. He laughed silently. Then, suppressing his laughter for a while, he laughed silently again. The shopkeeper said, "Who's laughing? Why are you laughing, child? Is this a theater? Is it a theater?"

So, assuming he was carrying the bricks, Apu became frightened, his ears ringing, his voice gone. But when he saw the bricks, he realized they weren't for him, but for the two boys. Whether because of their young age or because they were new recruits, the Guru Mahashay excused him from the journey. Shukla Mahashay was sitting on a woven mat, leaning against a post. Apu couldn't understand if it was a theater or not, but his face went dry with fear. "Go, bring a load of bricks from Tetultola, can you see how big it is?" In the Panchali path, 50 ☐, these stories and rumors would rise to the highest levels of imagination and thought, one day when Rajkrisna Sannyal Mahashay from the other side of the village would come. Whatever the story, no matter how insignificant, he had an extraordinary ability to narrate it. Sannyal Mahashay was afflicted with a wanderlust. He wasn't satisfied just by seeing Dwarka, or Sabitri Mountain, or Chandranath alone; he would always take his wife and children and return exhausted after incurring expenses. Sitting comfortably in his Chandimandap, smoking his hookah, it seemed there couldn't be a more quintessentially domestic, simple, and retired village gentleman than Sannyal Mahashay, rooted in his ancestral Chandimandap. Suddenly one day, he found the main door locked, and there was no sign of anyone in the house. What was going on? Sannyal Mahashay had gone on a trip to Bindhyachal or Chandranath with his family. He hadn't been seen for a long time, when one afternoon, with a clatter, everyone looked up in surprise and saw Sannyal Mahashay returning from abroad with his family in a bullock cart, and the people rushed to greet him and led him into the house, cutting through the Arjun tree grove to reach the house, the place on the path to the barn yard that is now called Naltakurir Jhol, where long ago—many years ago—Chandar Hazra, the brother of the village's Moti Hazar, had gone to cut wood. It was the rainy season—here and there the soil had eroded due to the torrential rain, when suddenly Chandar Hazra saw a small piece of what looked like the rim of a brass pot protruding slightly from the ground. He immediately dug it out. When he got home, he found a pot full of old coins.

So, Chandru Hazaru spent many days with a lot of childish pranks—all these Sanal Mahashay witnessed with his own eyes. The part where the bamboo stick is used to apply oil to the head has been worn out. In the afternoons, often, the village's poor Dinu or Raju Roy would come to him to tell stories. Apu liked listening to these stories much more than studying. Raju Roy would tell stories of how, in his youth, remembering 'Lakshmi's abode in business,' he opened a tobacco shop at the Ashadha fair. Apu listened in amazement. How he would sit cross-legged, puffing on his little tobacco pipe, then go to the river at night, cook fish curry and rice in a small pot, and sometimes, in front of the earthen lamp in that small, dilapidated 'Mahabharatkhana' or that old 'Dashuray,' they would sit and read! Outside, in the darkness of the rainy night, the rain would fall drop by drop, there would be no one anywhere, only the croaking of frogs in the backyard—how beautiful! When he grew up, he would open a tobacco shop. Apu's face, usually dull and absent-minded, would light up with immense joy. The ground a few paces in front of Sanal Mahashay, where he sat on a mat of palm leaves, seemed to rise with excitement. He would put his slate book aside, as if it were a holiday and there was no need to study; at the same time, his two eager eyes would devour every word of the story with the hunger of famine. One day, the story of a train journey would come up. Where there were Sabitri hills, what kind of hardship his wife had faced climbing them, how he almost came to blows with Pandu while offering Pinda at Nabigaya. In one place, there was a very good food, Sanal Mahashay named it—'Pyaara'. Hearing the name, Apu would laugh heartily—when he grew up, he would buy and eat 'Pyaara'. He would come to school with a thick stick in his hand, his long legs striding along—'Hey, look at this cheerful one, how he's set to catch flies!' A few flies had landed on him. And one day, Sanal Mahashay was telling a story about a certain place. It was said that many people used to live there, they would go there through the tamarind forest in the evening—Sanal Mahashay would repeatedly name the thing he used to see there—

He couldn't understand what it was at first, but later, through conversation, he realized it was an old, broken-down house. It had become almost dark – as soon as they entered, a swarm of bats flew out. He could easily imagine:

On all sides, a dark tamul forest, no one around, a broken old door, and as he entered, a swarm of bats flew out – the dark room was like the western veranda of Ranis. Dinu, suppressing what he was about to say, said, "When the matter of the mantra came up, I'll tell you a story. Not a story, I saw it with my own eyes. Have you seen the old cart driver of Beldaanga? If not Raju, then Rajkrisht Bhaiya must have seen him. A kind of wooden harness, tied with ropes, placed on his feet, he would drag it to the blacksmith's shop to burn the tips of the ploughshares. He died at a hundred years old, and it's been over twenty-five years since he died. In our youth, we couldn't bear to be near him, even holding our noses. Once – a long time ago – I was about nineteen or twenty years old, returning from Ganga Chan to Chakda in a bullock cart. I, my aunt, and Ananta Mukhopadhyay's nephew, Ram, who now lives in Khulna, were in the cart with the old cart driver. We were near the Kanchana field, almost at noon. Rajkrisht Bhaiya must know what kind of fear there was in those areas back then. This field road, a group of women, and some money – it was a big deal! Now, where new villages have been built – do you know what it's like along there? A mixed group of riff-raff came and surrounded the cart from both sides. Two on this side, two on that. Seeing them, I was speechless, somehow I got into the cart, and they were holding onto the cart's bamboo poles, coming along, coming along, coming along. I saw the old cart driver looking back and forth, gesturing for us not to talk. Alright! Meanwhile, the cart had reached near the Nawabganj police station. The market was visible, then those men said, "Sir, we have reached our destination, we didn't realize it, let us go." The old cart driver said, "It won't do, sir. Today, I have to take everyone to the police station and have them locked up." After much pleading and begging, the old cart driver said, "Okay, fine, I'll let you go now, but don't ever do this again!"

However, they left with the dust of the cart's wheels. I saw it with my own eyes. They caught the bull by the neck with a bamboo stick, and it was impossible to release it—they went off with the cart! It was completely exhausted. Do you understand, Bapu? Montor-tontor's story—Sannyal Mahashoy once saw a fakir in an ash-covered body. If he got a piece of cannabis, he would happily say, "Okay, tell me what fruit you want to eat." Then, if you named a desired fruit, he would point to one of the trees in front and say, "Go and get it from there." People would go and see, perhaps a jackfruit was hanging with its thorns, or a bunch of bananas was dangling from a banana tree. He would keep telling stories until the afternoon's red sun would bend and fall through the forest surrounding the school. The koel bird would sit on the creeping plant hanging from the jackfruit tree's branch, raising its head and swinging. In the classroom, the forest's scent, along with the torn and tattered books and papers, the school's mud floor, and the smoke from the strong, coarse tobacco, all combined to create a complex aroma. Raju Roy would say, "Oh, all that nonsense is just Montor-tontor's games!" That day, one of my uncles—52 ☐ Path's Panchali's village has a picture of a captivated rural boy on a dusty mud path in the shade. He is walking behind his sister, carrying a book bag, wearing a hand-woven, stitched cotton garment, returning from school. His little head's soft, silky, happy hair has been carefully combed by his mother—his dark, beautiful eyes have a kind of bewildered look, as if they have just opened in a strange world and are disoriented. This small, forested area is the only place he knows—here his mother feeds him with her own hands, combs his hair, and his sister dresses him. If he leaves this deep well, he is surrounded by the unfamiliar, boundless ocean! His child's heart cannot bear it. He cannot say it, he cannot explain it, but he knows—he often feels that the year two ago, on the day of Saraswati Puja in the courtyard, when he went to see the blue-throated bird, he saw it flying far away on a path outside the field.

On both sides of the road, so many unfamiliar birds, unfamiliar trees and plants, unfamiliar groves – he stared at the road for a long time that day. He couldn't figure out where the road had gone on the other side of the field. Listening, he felt like he had never heard so many beautiful things all at once. He didn't understand the meaning of all those words, but an unfamiliar symphony of unfamiliar words and melodious phrases, a strange resonance, struck his untrained ears, and because he didn't understand the meaning of all the words, a picture of a wonderful land repeatedly emerged from behind the indistinct mass of words shrouded in mystery. "This is the hill between the two settlements. Its peak, constantly adorned with a deep blue expanse in connection with the ever-moving water in the sky – the horizon – is serene, cool, and charming, covered with dense clusters of trees and plants... At its base, the Godavari waves spread out..." That afternoon, with no one else present in the classroom, and while he was sitting and studying – lost in thought – his teacher said, "Shale, write down the dictation." Even though he said it out loud, Apu understood that his teacher wasn't saying his own words, he was dictating, just like he had memorized Panchali from Dasharatha, and nothing more. His father had said – that golden field road, passing through Madhavpur Dasghara, merges into the grazing grounds of Dhalchity. When he grew up and went to school, he realized that this childhood dictation wasn't in the grazing grounds of Dhalchity, he knew that the road went much further; to the land of the Ramayana and Mahabharata. That narrow path that cuts past the bamboo grove on the other side of the garden – if you walk straight along that path, you will reach the land of unknown treasures in the midst of the Shankhari pond – where the soil has eroded under the rainwater at the base of the big trees – how many lids of pots and pans are sticking out. One day in school, an incident happened that was a new experience in his life. Listening to the dictation, he remembered the road he had seen two years ago. Somewhere far away on the other side of that road was that hill between the two settlements!

In the dense fragrance of the forest, no— in the twilight that seemed to bring the shadows of the past, the picture of that dreamland astonished him. How far away was that lofty peak of the Prasrabhan mountain, constantly enveloped in wandering clouds, its serene, blue beauty always hidden? But that thorny shore, the strange beach of the Godavari, that lush expanse, that wondrous plateau surrounded by blue clouds, was not in any land described in the Ramayana. Valmiki or Bhavabhuti were not their creators! They were real, absolutely genuine, very familiar, in the naive childish imagination of a village boy in the rural evening of past days, in the country of birdsong. On the earth's surface, whose geographical existence was never possible, only in the inexperienced childhood mind, that mountain of dreams, with its constantly wandering cloudy veil, took up its imperishable seat with the dream of that blue peak. As soon as Anuda Roy entered the house, he heard a commotion of wailing and lamentation. Entering the house, he stood near the door. Standing on one side of the veranda, Anuda Roy's widowed, broken sister-in-law, Thakurun, was crying and tearing the house apart: "Durga went out to look for her brother. She searched in various places in the neighborhood but couldn't find him anywhere." Anuda Roy came near the house of Mahashay and thought—let me see here once, it will be seen with the nurse now— through the veranda, Annda Roy's daughter-in-law, Nakisure, was crying and saying—"Sitting dressed as if I am the wife of a rich man! I fried ten ser of mung beans yesterday and have been sitting with the pan still on the stove all afternoon? I started in the afternoon, and when I heard the sound of the five o'clock train, I was still sitting with the pan, two portions of fried beans, broken— it got dark then I got up—is that right? My body and limbs are aching, I think I have a fever at night, does anyone see this body and limbs in pain? On top of that, this unnecessary scolding in the morning— why sit and eat in the world? At such a time, Annda Roy's son, Gokul, entered the house with a piece of raw bamboo shoot in one hand and a lamp in the other. Hearing the last part of his wife's crying, he roared and said— "You haven't had enough yet— I see you still have some senseless grief— looking at the highest branch of that Ashok tree, he remembered— that distant land.

—So, are you a little scared, or what? I've never seen such a bunch of whiners in my life, Bapu! You know, that Yama-like Swami, when he gets angry, he doesn't leave a bit of flesh on the bones, right? So, be a little reasonable, Bapu? Really, for three days now, he's been saying, "Give the paddy to the sun, give the paddy to the sun"—is that some kind of nonsense? No, listen up! Who listens to whom! The mistress of the big house will cook the paddy, she'll work—this I know—so, why is the 'Bibi of the pot' sitting there dressed up? To properly display the 'Bibi of the pot,' one should sit in a way that's perfectly arranged, that's what the old woman friend thinks here.

The fire crackles in the coal stove, many broken pots of the neighborhood people are gathered around it. A bent old man, a face like a crumpled packet, his age is impossible to tell, he could be thirty, he could be fifty, a triple-strand Tulsi mala around his neck, a scar on the right side of his face—veins like ropes protruding from his wrists; he's wearing a dirty dhoti. Many children from the neighborhood are surrounding him, moving the pots around. Durga went too. The man said—what do you want, you wretch? Gokul is no less than thirty-five or thirty-six years old, but his body isn't that strong, a malarial, weak body, if he tries to lift something with a strong farmer, the weakness will be even more apparent, understanding this, he said, "Look here—if a paddy seed gets soaked in water, will it cry? I've been saying for three days to give the paddy to the sun—look at it again! Your father won't be able to handle it if it rots! Where will he get the money to pay for the whole year from? . . . ." Before he could finish, Gokul put down the bamboo in his hand, jumped up the steps of the veranda in one leap and said—"Hey! Is today one day for you and one day for me—do you think you can just barge into my father's house like this?" Gokul's wife suddenly stopped crying and said loudly to Tej, "I'm telling you not to insult my father—what has my father done to you, that you say whatever you want in my father's name whenever you feel like it?"

Durga survived by taking a deep breath, but during the conversation with Khuriram, she couldn't understand anything. In a kind of silence, she left Annada Roy's house. Sarbajaya said, "Gowar-Gobind Chasa isn't just a farmer!" Ah, what a good person, the girl has fallen into such hands and such a house – her life will be spent eating leftovers. Returning home, she told her mother, "Mom, what will I tell Gokul Kaka about what Khuriram did?" Then she narrated the whole incident. "He loves me so much – he will keep things aside for me when he goes to his house." Seeing Khuriram's tears, her mother felt so much pain! Sakhi Thakka now scolds Khuriram again – she went to see the repairs in Jamtala for three or four days. The man inquired about her family, her house, her father's name, and all the details. He said, "Can't you repair the things in your house? Why don't you bring them here, Khuki?" The street vendor said, "Nothing, I'll see." Durga came home and told her mother, "Mom, give me all the broken pots and pans." One fine morning, Durga went to Jamtala and found the man was not there. She inquired and learned that after the previous evening, no one knew when he had left the shop – there was no sign except for the pit of coal and the ashes. Durga searched here and there – she asked everyone, but no one knew where he had gone. Durga's face turned pale with fear – what would her mother say! Half of the household utensils were with him! He had told Durga that he had a brass shop in Jhikarhat market, and he had sent the news there – his brother would bring new utensils within a day, and as soon as he arrived, he would replace all the broken ones. Where was he? And where was his brother? Durga couldn't find any trace of where he had gone, even after searching a lot. Only their things were missing – not a single piece of brass from another customer was gone. Pitam was very happy. Durga brought out a pile of old, broken pots and pans from the house and presented them to him. She spent half a day in Jamtala – sitting and watching him light the furnace and heat the iron. Pitam said he would make her a brass ring – he also said that they wouldn't need any money for the repairs. Hearing this, Sarbajaya said, "Ah, what a good man!"

It's good Wednesday, his birthday, so tell him, softly—we'll get two good meals of rice and lentils now—the man calls him by his name, Pitam, or sometimes Kanchari. While lighting the stove, he sits up straight once or twice and says, "Joy to Radha! Radha Govinda!" In the morning, many people from the neighborhood come to him in groups. He lights the stove with a match, continuously prepares tobacco, and offers it to the gentlemen—during the day, he bows his head, twists his neck to one side, and says, "Please, have some tobacco, sir, like a god! The queen of Radha! ... Don't mention coconuts, sir, and I'll offer all the fodder during the year's festivals!"—I bought half a *katha* of land and planted it with *chhagonda* fodder—it's completely free from weeds, absolutely pure. How much does the land cost? Mukhuyye Mashai sits there from morning, and somehow, with sweet words, he'll get the brass pot for free. While smoking tobacco, he caught up on old news and said, "Well, that's how it went, Bapu—this time too, I thought of increasing the fodder behind the house by twenty *kuri*—but then I got malaria—what kind of work do you have over there?" (He's been calling him *Kari* since morning). Pitam quickly took the brass pot from Mukhuyye Mashai, smiled very innocently, and said, "No, sir, please measure it, I can't give it away like that—it's not even dawn yet. No, sir, I can't—keep the pot—send someone home to weigh it—Durgar's mother says—look here—sometimes they give new pots and pans in exchange for broken ones—just ask."—"Complete—yes, sir, complete—don't mention malaria, sir—bones are burning—here, take your pot, I'll give you six *poyesa*—Mukhuyye Mashai takes the pot, gets up, and says, "Yes! Now, money for this again—if you give it to a Brahmin for free, then, in the evening, Durga cried to her mother and told her everything. Harihar is abroad—who will look for him, who will see him? Sarvajaya is completely astonished! He says—once, when you lived in Rāikalikata—you lived on the way to the upper path—Apur Mukh of the 56-paisa path dried up... the house of the impatient diner! ... where have they fallen in the evening?"

Who knows that the witch, stealing Bilati amra from the yard tree, took the life of some boy in the jail cell, tied him in a sack, and drowned him in the water, and after the fish ate it, the poor amra was eaten in this life, and it's all over! Who knows, if she wills, she can suck the blood of little boys in her gaze and leave them, and the one whose blood is sucked will not know anything, but will go home, eat and drink, sleep in that bed, and never get up the next day! How many winter nights, lying under the straw, listening to his sister's hurried stories of witches, he said - you tell such stories at night, sister, it scares me - are you telling the story of the little princess? Apu took a shortcut and reached Nilu's house. Many boys had gathered, and the game was over before Apu arrived. Nilu said - come on, Apu, let's go see the bird's nest in the south field. Apu agreed, and the two went to the south field. The road to Nawabganj, above the paddy fields, stretched east and west, cutting through the middle of the field. It must be more than a mile from the village. Apu had never walked so far - he felt like Nilu had dragged him to some distant place, far from everything familiar! After a while, he said, "Let's go home, Nilu, my mother will scold me, she will be worried, I can't go through the mango grove alone. You go home - Apu didn't listen - although he knows that his mother has kept fried food for him because he loves to eat fried rice and lentils - still, what can he do? - has the game been going on at Nilu's house all this time? When he put his foot on the outer door, his mother's call went to his ears again - where are you? Oh boy! Oh Apu, look at the fun boy! Hot food - I started frying as soon as I came up from the ghat - Oh Apu-o-o-o - turning back, Nilu lost his way. Turning around, he found a path along the edge of someone's large mango orchard.

The evening was still a little late, and the clouds were thickening in the sky—when, while walking, Nilu suddenly stopped and pointed forward, looking with a look of fear and said—"O brother, with a bewildered look, he looked ahead to see if anyone was in the house, and with looking, his whole body seemed to turn to ice... near the bamboo fence... it's not anyone else, but the very Aturi Dinei themselves—it's as if they are just standing there looking at us!" ... Unable to understand the reason for Apu's fear, he said, "What's wrong, Neelu?" Then he saw that the shortcut they were taking ended in someone's courtyard—a small thatched house and a guava tree. Before he could ask anything, Neelu said in a fearful voice, "Go to Aturi Dinei's house and tell them! I have never heard such a thing... When we came to Harihar Barir, we were told in Jhikarhat market that there is no one named Pitam with a copper shop there, nor is there anyone called Chohara." Apu was about to go to the fence in the afternoon when his mother called from behind, "Where are you going, Apu?"—"I'm frying rice cakes and fried lentils—don't go out yet... eat now—it's been several months. It's been three months. Path Panchali 71www. And that's it! There's no delay in reaping the consequences of not listening to your mother," he gathered his courage and now, with a puff of betel leaf, he went. Every moment he was afraid that this old woman would change her smiling face and, with a grotesque face, would laugh uproariously—like the story of the demon queen! Just as a fawn cannot turn its eyes away from the hypnotic gaze of a forest python, his eyes were fixed on the old woman's face—she said in a hoarse, confused voice, "O old aunt, my mother will cry, don't say anything to me now—I have never come to your tree to take guavas—my mother will cry." Aturi old woman wrinkled her eyebrows and, with her sagging cheeks, leaned forward a little, looking closely, and started walking towards them.

Apu saw that he was trapped, with no way to escape—whatever the reason, Dinei's anger was directed at him. Now, he would take his life and say, "Puri Buri," on a betel leaf. What fear did he have, O Bapara? What fear did he have? ... Later, laughing, he said, thinking it was all a joke, "Would I take the bet? This is my house, my courtyard, my garden—my own!" ... Dinei Buri, throwing the betel leaf away, wanted to trap him in the house—what else could he do? ... He had heard so many stories from his mother about how Dinei's demons deceive and trap people like this. He turned blue with fear. ... The house, the rooms, the trees, the garden, the surroundings seemed to be filled with smoke. There was no one anywhere. ... Only he and Dinei's cruel, bloodshot eyes. ... And far away, somewhere, came the call of his mother and her fried rice! ... But in the next moment, an overwhelming fear gave him a burst of courage. He let out a faint cry and, in his terror and disorientation, ran through the thicket of bamboo, sheoar, and rangchita in front of him, towards the approaching darkness of evening, as far as his eyes could see—Neelu ran after him. ... Seeing the very thing he was so afraid of standing right in front of him, Apu couldn't move a step, either forward or backward. He dropped the food in his mouth, ignored his mother's call, and the consequences of leaving the house today, causing his mother pain, followed. Helplessly, he looked around and said, "I don't know anything—O Buri Didi— I won't do anything else—leave me alone, I won't come here again—leave me alone, O Buri Didi." When Apu returned home, the evening had passed. Sarbajaya was preparing to fry the large palm fruits in the hearth, Durga was sitting nearby squeezing the juice from the palm fruits—seeing the boy, she said, "Where were you, tell me quickly? You went out this afternoon, you haven't eaten anything today—aren't you hungry?" Buri came a little closer to him and said, "What fear do you have, O Bapara? I won't say anything, what fear do I have?" Not understanding the reason for their fear, Buri thought, "I haven't gone mad, nor have I gone deaf—you little boy, what do I know why he was afraid of me that evening? Who are you kidding?"

Nilu was so frightened that she almost cried—yet Apu's fear was so great that there were no tears in her eyes. Now what would she do? ... how? Looking at the path, she saw the bamboo grove's head blackened under the dense, gathering clouds. The sky was filled with clouds, darkening, yet the rain hadn't started yet. At this moment, a kind of joy and curiosity arose in her mind—what if a terrible rain came, and the earth was washed away? But rain falls every time, and the earth is never washed away, yet this delusion doesn't disappear. Durga's mind was filled with that unknown joy. She would occasionally come to the edge of the veranda and, raising her face from the rice husk sieve, gaze at the darkening sky. The house of cards that Apu had been building in her mind since that afternoon was completely destroyed by a single gust. This was her mother loving her! She had come all this way from the ghat to fry them, ah, she doesn't play those games—yes, she's in trouble, and her mother couldn't sleep thinking about it—Mother is divine. She had fed them to Didi and was sitting there contentedly—she was just pretending all this time. She was dying to say so. Sarbajaya said a few more fried ones, "Give him this plate, it's enough."—He's hungry, he hasn't eaten anything since afternoon! This was the last straw—what would Apu do now? There was a kind of pride, but in her mother's last loving tone, the dam of her pride completely broke. She threw the whole plate into the courtyard and said, "I won't eat it, Boro, I'll never eat it again—go away." The thought of telling her mother what to do piled up in Apu's mind, and she tried to get everyone to come outside all at once, in such a way that, in the pushing and shoving, everyone's exit was blocked at the same time, leaving Apu completely speechless. She only said, "Am I going to undress, Ma? This is my only set of clothes." Then, with surprise, she saw that her mother, showing no interest in giving her fried rice, was examining the rice batter with utmost attention, whether it was thick or thin. After finishing the examination, she told Durga, "Wet two or four bowls, no, there's rice flour under the big tablecloth, bring two now." Then, looking at her son, she said, "Stand up, Apu, I'm going to give you a warm one."

Sarbajaya was stunned to see the boy's behavior. Only the poor know the hardship of making ends meet. And the poor boy had ruined the carefully collected food twice! Angrily, she glared at the boy and said, "What's wrong with you today! You're written in ash today, that's why it's so hot—it's your turn now." She had never heard such words from her mother. Where was the affectionate mother who would soothe her with loving words? She stood up and said, "Well, mother, didn't I eat the fried rice, so why does it hurt me? Have I been thinking about it since afternoon? I—I will never come to your house again—why would I eat ash? And Didi, will she eat all the good things? I won't come to you—Durga said—mother, quickly get the pot wet. If the big cloud comes and it rains, it won't be fried anymore, —the water will fall in the house! It will be like that day—but—did you eat the fried rice? So many times I called, you went out—it got cold, Durga ate it, and now you say it's too late." "I'll fry and give it—Ashwa Ballabh—why, mother, fried lentils and chickpeas? The street vendor..." Later, she ran from the old woman's house through the darkness, thorns, and groves of mango trees without a care, just as angry and distraught as when she had left. Her brother's resentful gaze, his pouted lips, and his way of speaking seemed so funny to Durga that she almost fell laughing. "Hee hee—Opu—completely crazy, mother, how could you say that—later, imitating her brother's way of speaking, said—"I didn't eat the fried rice—hee hee—so why do I feel hurt? You're completely crazy—Opu, listen, Opu-u-u—Opu ran through the path next to the jackfruit tree towards the bamboo grove behind. The clouds were still lingering in the sky; the bottom of the bamboo grove was overgrown and deserted in the gloomy evening. She could never have imagined coming to such a place alone at this time under normal circumstances. But now, forgetting the desolation and darkness all around, the creaking sound of something in the bamboo grove, the legend of ghosts in the nearby sal and khag trees, she stood and wondered—will I ever go home again?

—For this

But the problem is, if we don't coax him, he'll just go home in a fit of rage, truly. He's not entirely without self-respect, surely. This time, his sister Ranu was coming out through the window of their house. He ran and stood at the corner of the fence in front of the door. Suddenly, upon arriving and noticing him standing there by the fence, Durga exclaimed, "He's standing there, Ma! ... Look, by the fence." Then she ran and grabbed her brother's hand (there was no need to run) - "You naughty boy, standing here silently, while Ma and I are searching everywhere, look at this. Home, never coming home—." Together, they brought him inside the house. Apu had never been anywhere since he was born. His runs only extended to the Bakultola, Gosainbagan, Chaltala, the riverbank of this village, and the paved road leading to Barisal. Occasionally, in the months of Baishakh or Jyeshtha, when it got very hot, his mother would stand by the riverbank in the evening. On the other side of the river, in the hayfield, yellow flowers bloomed on the babla trees, and cows grazed. The tall, thickly-leaved sheimul tree looked ancient. This time, while returning home, Harihar took the boy with him. He said, "He doesn't get anything to eat at home, yet he comes out for milk and curd—it will do him good now." The cowherds came to water the cows by the river, a small net was cast into the village's treacherous waters to catch fish, and in the fields, clusters of jhinga flowers swayed in the cool evening breeze—it was at such a time that, suddenly, looking at the blue sky leaning over the green forest line of a distant village at the end of the green hayfield on the other side, his mind felt somehow... He couldn't express it in words. He only said to his sister when she came up from the ghat, "Sister, sister, look, look that way—" Then, pointing towards the end of the field, he said, "See that? Behind that tree? How far away, isn't it?" His sister glanced vaguely at the distant field across the paved road and suddenly said, "Let's do one thing, Apu, let's go see the railway line, shall we?"

Apu looked at his sister's face with surprise and said in a questioning tone, "The railway line—it's so far away! What will I do there?—Nothing is visible—How will I return if I go too far?" His curious eyes were fixed on the distance, filled with longing, fear, and excitement. Suddenly, his sister said in a pleading voice, "Let's go and see, Apu—how much farther can it be? We'll return before noon. Maybe a train will pass now—we'll tell mother that the calf got lost and we were late searching for it." The path to their village curved and met the road to Nawabganj, leading to the unpaved road of Ashadha-Durgapur outside the fields. As soon as they reached the Durgapur road, he asked his father, "Father, in which direction is the railway line that passes by?" First, they looked around a little to see if anyone was watching them. Then, they got off the paved road and ran straight south across the fields, breaking through the waterlogged land under the midday sun. Running, running, running—the red road of Nawabganj gradually fell behind them—Rower's field; Jalsatrala, Thakur-Jhi pond remained on the left and right, far away—only a small pond came into view in front. His sister laughed and said—

It had been a long journey, the paved road was no longer visible, and the water had broken through the paddy fields. When they finally reached the paved road again, exhausted, it was past noon. Arriving home, his sister lied, saying she had swept, thus saving herself and his back. Apu ran across the field and onto the road. Then, he stood and stared at the railway tracks on either side, his eyes wide with wonder. Why two iron rails? Why do trains run on them? Why not on the ground? Why don't they fall off? What are they called? What is that 'soo soo' sound? What news are they carrying? Who is giving the news? How do they give the news? Which way is east? Which way is west? He looked around and said, "If Ma finds out, she'll peel the skin off our backs." Apu laughed—a deathly laugh. Again, he ran, ran, ran—this was the first time in his life, in the unbridled joy of freedom, that their fresh young blood surged—where would he find the time to think about what lay ahead? A little further on, he saw, with amazement, a high road, like the paved road to Nawabganj, stretching far away in the middle of the field, on the left, towards the bird sanctuary. Reddish-brown heaps of earth rose towards the embankment, lined up. On the white iron posts, many ropes were tied together—as far as he could see, those white posts and rope bridges could be seen—you are walking... you know nothing, what might catch your eye on the roadside, your young eyes, with a world-devouring hunger, are swallowing everything around you—you are also a discoverer of your own joy. To find unfamiliar joy, you don't have to travel the world, it means nothing. I have never been anywhere else, today I took new steps, I bathed in the water of a new river, I soaked my body in the wind of a new village, whether anyone has ever been there or not, what does it matter to me? In my experience, it is an undiscovered land. Today, for the first time, I tasted its novelty with my mind, intellect, and heart—don't do that, don't ask me to come there—how will you see now? We have to sit here until one o'clock that afternoon, and if we do, we will show you the sunset on this riverbank.

The railway line will be easily visible today—so don't rush, don't get lost on the way, don't get tired—what will the train do now? ... The train will arrive at noon, still two hours late, his father said, "Look, child, keep the way—okay, son, I'll see, I've never seen one—yes, father." Apu finally followed his father, his eyes filled with tears. He said, "Father, when will the train come? I want to see the train, father." The farmhand on the path hadn't paid much attention to the boy's face until then—seeing him at the base of the tree, it seemed he was still a very young child, his facial expression as innocent as a five-year-old's. He had never seen such beautiful, innocent eyes in any child—such color, such a shape, such a beautiful face, such innocent eyes drawn with such delicate strokes—he felt great affection for the unfamiliar boy. Apu's shyness disappeared in the farmhand's behavior. He entered the house and started looking around curiously at the household items. Oh, so many things! ... They don't have such things at our place. They must be very rich! A brass mirror, colorful hanging ornaments, woolen birds, glass dolls, clay dolls, a jackfruit tree—so many things! He fearfully picked up and turned over a couple of things. Amazing! Little farmers' homes—what a name! The women are cutting grass in the courtyard, tying goats, feeding rice to the chickens, the adults are drying jute, cutting bamboo—leaving the courtyard behind, the open fields ... the water is shimmering in the ponds ... herons are sitting in the flying rice fields ... the water is not visible among the lotus leaves and blooming flowers. Apu sat down and told many stories, especially about the railway line in Kalya. After a while, the farmhand prepared and served Mohanbhog for him to eat. There was a lot of Mohanbhog in a bowl, with so much ghee that the fingers would get greasy. Apu put a little in his mouth and was surprised—he had never tasted anything so wonderful!—why are there raisins in the Mohanbhog? His mother doesn't put raisins in the Mohanbhog she makes at home. At home, he would beg his mother, "Mother, you have to make Mohanbhog for me today!"

Her mother says with a smile— "Well, I'll make you one then—later, she simply boiled the rice in water and added a little jaggery, and on the banks of the Kangsabati Lake, over the rain-washed, lush green paddy fields, under the vast blue expanse of the Bhadra sky. Such an introduction to the open sky, she had never had before, that distant land across the field was now her mystery—unveiled to the eight-year-old girl. Lakshmi Mahajan's younger brother's wife had come to the pond's ghat for her morning bath— As she was about to step into the water, she noticed an unfamiliar little boy in the banana grove by the pond, pacing back and forth with a stick in his hand, muttering to himself like a madman. She lowered her head and came closer to ask—'Whose house have you come to, child? You're very late.' As she was leaving, her father said—'You're a big talker, child, whatever you see, you just keep talking about it. Why are you wandering around? Go quickly.' Accompanied by her husband, she took him to their house. Their house was separate—slightly distant from Lakshman Mahajan's house, but the pond was in between. At first, Apur's thought was to run away. Later, in a subdued voice, he said—'That's their house.'—

That afternoon, while playing, Apu's toe suddenly got stuck between two bamboo poles in the garden fence. The fresh, sharp bamboo cut his finger, making it bleed. Amla rushed over and managed to pull his foot out of the bamboo gap before the entire toe was cut off. He couldn't walk, so Amla carried him and, walking along the path, plucked some *pathorkuchi* leaves and tied them around his finger. Fearing his father's scolding, Apu didn't tell anyone about this. That night, as he slept, he only dreamed of Amla. He was growing up in Amla's lap, sitting with Amla, playing with Amla, Amla tying a bandage around his toe, the two of them running along the railway tracks—Amla's smiling eyes and face stayed with him all night in his sleep. In the morning, he just kept looking for when Amla would arrive. Other children came, and the game started, and gradually it got late—still no Amla. His mother sent someone to call him in for breakfast—she usually prepared and fed him breakfast herself every morning and afternoon—after finishing his meal, on his way back, he asked his mother—had Amladidi come in the morning? No, she hadn't. Gradually, as it got later, the game broke up. His father called him for a bath. Still, where was Amla? His heart filled with sorrow, thinking, well, so what if she didn't come? If his bond with Amla was like his birth, and if he never even spoke to her! The next afternoon, the game started again, and everyone came—except Amla. Even though five or six children came to play, Apu felt like he had no suitable playmate! He played listlessly for a while, but still, Amla didn't appear. His mother prepared something like *pultis* and lovingly served it to her son in a copper *sarpuria* plate. Apu had been happily eating this for so long, he didn't know that such *mohanbhog* existed. But today, he felt there was a world of difference between this *mohanbhog* and his mother's homemade *mohanbhog*! At the same time, his heart filled with pity and sympathy for his mother. Perhaps his mother didn't know that such *mohanbhog* existed!—it was as if he suddenly understood that his mother was poor, they were poor—that's why they didn't have good food. The next morning, Amla came.

Apu didn't say anything. Amla sat there, not exactly close to him, but occasionally glancing sideways, wondering if he was angry. Amla couldn't understand it at first, but later, when he realized something was definitely wrong, he went over and asked, "Hey, why aren't you talking? What's wrong?" Amla, surprised, said, "I didn't come, so you're angry?" Apu shook his head, "That's exactly it." Amla laughed heartily, took Apu's hand, and walked inside. There, the bride heard everything and laughed at first, then, with a smile on her face, said, "Taapu doesn't understand at all." Apu, pouting in pride, said, "What's wrong with you? What else has happened? Why didn't you come yesterday?"

New toys to play with— A rubber monkey that blinks its eyes whenever you go near it— A kiss doll that suddenly throws its arms and legs up like a patient with epilepsy when you press its stomach— The most amazing thing is a tin horse; when you wind it up like Ranudir's uncle's clock on the veranda, it clatters and moves on the floor—it goes quite far—almost like a real horse. Seeing this, Apu was astonished. He picked it up, looked at it with amazement, turning it over and over, and then, looking at Amla, said, "What kind of horse is this? It's great! Where did you buy it? How much did it cost?" Then Amla opened a small box of vermillion and showed him—it was the same red color as a small vermillion stick. Apu said, "What's that? Vermillion?" Amla laughed and said, "Why would it be vermillion? Haven't you seen gold leaf, Apu?" Apu hadn't seen gold leaf. What is the color of gold? So red? He took the piece of gold leaf, held it up, and looked at it carefully. On the way back home with Amla, he thought, "Ah, my sister doesn't have any of these toys—only dried guava and tamarind seeds picked up, and just stolen dolls to beat up! ... How much richer are other girls of my sister's age in terms of toys, I've never seen until today. Today, comparing them, I have the opportunity to see, and my heart is melting with extreme compassion for my sister. If I had money, I would buy my sister a cell phone horse and a rubber monkey."

Wherever you go, that gaze follows you, blinking. . . . . . The bride had a pair of old cards; not exactly a pair, just a collection of discarded cards gathered in one place—Apurba shuffles them in between. Sometimes in Ranudir's house, a card session would be held in the afternoon, and he would sit and watch Tekka, Golam, Saheb, Bibi—they would fight over holding the cards—quite the game! He doesn't know how to play cards, nor do his mother or sister. One day, his mother sits down to play cards, and no one wants to sit with her, everyone says she doesn't know how to play; one day his mother sits down to play cards, she acts so experienced, as if she's a seasoned player—after a few moments, she's caught. Someone says, "Hey, sister, what's this?" "Didn't you see the Golam of colors cut in her hand?—right in front of your eyes?" His mother quickly covers her ignorance, laughing and saying, "That's why! I made a big mistake, I, Thakur Jhi, don't remember at all." Then she continues playing, smiling, pretending to be paying attention to everyone's cards, as if she knows all their hands, she won't let go without doing something—after a while, someone exclaims in surprise—"Hey, sister, look! Look at what you have! Didn't you see the bish in your hand?"—His mother smiles, pretending to be wise, saying, "Oh yes, I did! There's a reason! I just didn't want to show it. She doesn't know what a bish is at all—did you hear that again?" "Such a hand, wasted? Give the cards to that sister, give them up, you don't have to play anymore—it's over." His mother, even when insulted, remains unperturbed, "You have no business going home now, do you see? What else will you do, brother, when you can't leave her, stay here, and don't stay here either—" In the bride's tone, Amla, perhaps knowing some kind of local, shameful protest, said—"Okay, go, sister—if you act like that, then never again will you be welcome in our house—Path-er Panchali—5 Path-er Panchali ☐ 65www. If she gets a pair of cards, then she, her mother, and sister play. After eating and drinking, in the afternoon, that window on the edge of the forest in their house. . . . . . Through the cracks of which some insect has chewed the glass into mustard-like powder. . . . . .

When called, it rustles and falls, old wood dust scenting the air—from the forest by the window, the afternoon breeze carries the pungent smell of the kathal vine. In the Rowaak's cloudy grove, the familiar grasshopper of Didi flies once, sits, flies again, sits again—three of them by that window in the lonely afternoon. Sitting on the madur leaves, they'll play cards in their minds. They might not show their cards, but it doesn't matter—no one will disturb them, no one will insult them, no one will mock them. They'll play as they please. They'll show their skill through their play! Luchi! In the blue twilight of that fairy-tale land of Didi's dreams, one can see it. How many nights and days, sneaking around, nibbling and munching, how much water and snacks they've consumed—on empty mornings and afternoons, their restless minds suddenly dart off in a melancholic, lustful haste to where, in the hot afternoon sun, the village cook, Biru Raay, walks around with a gamchha on his shoulder, the large iron pot on the big, freshly prepared stove gleams with ghee, the unparalleled taste, aroma, and flavor of luchi and fries waft through the air. How many children, dressed in their finest clothes, travel to the big Natmandir of the Ganguly house and the olive grove, carefully making satarki patas in the summer days. Only once a year, they find the address of that land—on the day of Ram Navami Dol in the months of Chaitra and Baishakh. They are invited to the Ganguly house in the neighborhood on that day. But today, in a completely unexpected way, that auspicious day has dawned! While eating, he repeatedly felt that his Didi had never tasted anything like it. After playing a little, he felt that Amla was more eager to be in the team than him. He didn't know the real reason for this—Apur was a complete novice, for him, being in the team meant defeat. He was also a fast runner, catching him wasn't easy in a game. Once, Amla clearly expressed his annoyance. Apur tried his best to win, to make Amla happy—but despite all his efforts, he lost again. Tears welled up in Apur's eyes. The game suddenly seemed tasteless to him. Amla turned to Bishu and told him everything, laughing and joking with him.

A little later, Bishu asked, "What's up?" Amla, wanting to go home, repeatedly told him to come again. Apu felt extremely jealous in his heart; the whole morning had been a waste! Later, he thought to himself—if Bishu leaves the game, the fun will be reduced, so Amla laughed again as if nothing had happened, teasing and joking, and he took it that way. . . . . . . . . . The next morning, the game resumed. As soon as Amla arrived, Apu ran and grabbed his hand—"You and Amla on one side, and all of you on the other"—while forming the teams, Amla glanced at Nibhrit. While hurrying to cross the street, Sarvajaya quickly and absentmindedly entered through the front door and stepped into the yard, when suddenly, as if a thin rope was tightly wrapped around his chest, there was a popping sound, and two things fell to the ground on either side. The whole thing happened in the blink of an eye, before anyone could see or understand what had happened. Coming home, Apu started telling his strange travel story to his mother for fifteen days. How many amazing things he had seen in these few days! The railway track, where real trains pass! The clay, pumpkins, and wheat—everything seemed like real fruit! That doll, which, when you press its stomach, suddenly starts playing a tune while flailing its arms and legs like a madman! Amla! How far he had gone, how many ponds full of lotus flowers, how many unfamiliar new villages he had crossed, how many lonely paths he had walked through the fields, in that village, at the blacksmith's shop by the roadside, his father took him to drink water, they called him inside and carefully seated him on a cot and fed him milk, sweets, and puffed rice! He would tell countless stories for days, in the meantime, Sarvajaya couldn't bear not to see the boy. Durga hadn't played properly for days; a few days before Apu's foreign trip, they had had a fight over a dry pumpkin shell boat, and they had stopped talking to each other—now there were even more pumpkin shells piled up, but Durga no longer takes them to float in the water—why did I argue and hurt her ears over this? Let her come back, and never argue with her again, let her take all the shells.

He couldn't quite grasp the suddenness and the enormity of the loss at first. Later, regaining some composure, he looked around and saw the wet footprints he had left on the courtyard floor were still there. A voice within him whispered - it was his mother, no one else. Not anyone else, just his mother. Entering the house, he found his mother sitting contentedly shelling jackfruit. He suddenly stood up, and in the manner of a leader of an expedition, leaned forward and, just after the seventh note of the flute, Apu arrived home. As he stepped into the courtyard past the door, he stopped abruptly - he couldn't believe his eyes - what was this! Or, who cut the wire of my telegraph? Apu walked a little further and glanced back - no one was harmed except him, the game was going on full swing, Amla was enthusiastically standing near the pole - he didn't even look back at him. No - Apu didn't see the train. Only he was left behind - it was all his father's fault. For a solid four or five hours, he had been sitting silently by the railway track - he would have seen the train - but he couldn't make his father understand. He said, it's getting late, I'm leaving, goodbye. Amla didn't say anything, only Kamar's son, Nad Gopal, said, come again tomorrow brother, I'll tell you the story of the railway. His sister gets fascinated, repeatedly asks - how big were the buffaloes you saw, Apu? How tall were they? Did you see the train? Did it go? Apu arrived home injured and insulted, he didn't speak to anyone. Oh, Amla! She didn't even ask about him - what was that about? ...

If someone had come to Apu's house in the afternoon and seen him, they would never have imagined that it was the same Apu who had left home that morning, renouncing his mother in anger. From one end of the courtyard to the other, it was strewn with the wires of the telegraph. Apu stood staring in astonishment, nothing left, as if the full weight of a real railway had fallen upon it. Durga had to intervene in the mother-son quarrel—after much calling, she found her brother at two o'clock and brought him out. He sat on the stump of a fallen mango tree in Ray's garden on the other side of the road, his face dry, his eyes filled with sorrow. He wanted to say something very harsh, very rough, something that would pierce her heart—and after a moment's hesitation, perhaps without thinking, he said even more sharply and purely, "I won't eat rice today—never again. You are one short of a full set of utensils!" "No, Bapu!—what's hanging in the middle of the road? What kind of telegraph wires and things are these? Quick, tear them down—what will I do now, tell me?" his mother said. "I don't know. All the things you haven't brought home, Bapu, have become bones and ashes. What's hanging in the middle of the road? Quick, tear them down—what will happen now? Did I tear them down on purpose? That's why the boy is angry—I won't eat rice." "So what? Will eating rice make you a king? Fine! In the blink of an eye—everything is there, I am here, you are here—your mother is washing jackfruit in the courtyard—but where is Apu? He has vanished like incense! Just then, Durga, entering the house, saw him passing by the door and rushing out like a storm, and called out in a surprised voice, "Oh, Apu, where are you going so suddenly, what happened?" Apu, in a voice filled with sorrow and bitterness, replied, "Well, mother, didn't I bring the small ones, struggling, through the forest and garden? He went to Satuda's house and said, 'Satuda, I have hung the telegraph wires in our courtyard, come, let's play train—will you come?—What happened!' 'I hung the telegraph wires with so much effort, and they have been torn down, haven't they?' his mother said. 'I won't eat, I won't eat—will eating rice make you a king?' Meanwhile, the cook was calling for the meal—'I won't eat, let's see who will feed me when I'm hungry?' Later, he returned to his work. 'What are you saying, like a madman? What happened?

Always looking back in surprise, he said, "What have you brought? What happened? Who gave you the money? Don't I feel the pain? Do I understand when my hand gets pricked by thorns?" The grand sale had already begun. Durga herself had almost emptied the shop's stock. The game had progressed a bit when, through the front door, they let Satu in, and Apu ran to welcome him with great joy—"Oh Satu, look at what kind of shop it has become, look at the fruits. I and Didi brought them—what fruits, tell me? Do you know? While searching for sugar in the bamboo grove, they entered the forest on the side of the road." A very tall forest, behind a thick green curtain of creeping vines on the tops of the trees, hung red, large, juicy fruits. Apu and Durga were both amazed. With great effort, they plucked several fruits, tearing off a portion of the vine, and they fell to the ground. With great joy, they both ran together and picked them up from the ground. The next morning, he and his sister together built a large shop with bricks and went out to collect goods. Durga keeps a keen eye on forest products—together they collected betel leaves, yams, fruit yams, radhalata flowers, fish, oil gourds, chichchiri beans, earthen pots full of salt—so much more, and spent a long time setting up the shop. Apu said, "What will we do with the sugar, Didi?" Durga's story was not yet over when Satu, taking something from among the goods kept for sale in the shop, suddenly ran towards the door—immediately Apu, "Oh Didi, take it, take it," shouted in his ringing, sweet voice, and ran after him. Apu understood in his mind that it was not his job to call together groups of big boys and arrange for games. Who would listen to him? Still, he went to Satu once more. With a disappointed face, holding a guava, he said listlessly, "Come on, Satu, will you go? Will you play with me and Didi now?" Then he said temptingly, "I have collected so many betel leaves for tickets." He opened his hands to show the quantity. "Will you go?" Satu said, "Oh, those are just wild fruits—we have so many in our garden!" Apu felt grateful for Satu's arrival.

Satuda doesn't get along with them at all – and Satuda is a big boy. He seems to have swallowed the little boy who came to play. Durga shook her head and said, "Oh dear! You are all passengers, aren't you? You'll come back tomorrow morning, won't you?" Satuda, tell Ranu to put on some sandalwood tonight. I'll bring him back tomorrow morning." After a long season of play, Durga said, "Brother, give me two handfuls of paddy, very small, for my doll's wedding tomorrow, many people will eat." Before Durga could even understand what was happening, Satu and Apu ran out the door! As soon as her eyes fell on the playground, Durga saw that pile. Durga said, "There's good sand in that pile on the way to the bamboo grove – Mother brings paddy for frying! That sand is coming – white, crunching – just like sugar." Satu didn't want to come. Apu went outside, his face big and red, and without saying anything, he returned home. Tears were almost coming to his eyes with sadness – even after saying so much, Satuda didn't listen. Namdhu said, "We understand, don't we? – I myself brought it. Didi brought the little one – from the roadside vendor." Satu said, "You play if you want, I can't go now." Durga, advancing up to Ranu's window, didn't dare go any further. She was afraid of that boy. After standing near the window for a while, she hesitantly returned home. Entering through the front door, she saw Apu standing behind a slightly open cupboard on the left side of the door, crying silently. He is not a boy who cries easily – he doesn't cry, he gets angry, he gets hurt, but he doesn't cry. Durga understood that he was very sad today, that he had suffered a great deal... Besides, to insult him like this, with tears in his eyes! She couldn't bear Apu's crying – what was happening inside her chest? Durga rushed to the door and saw Satu going ahead on the way to the bamboo grove, and Apu running after him, a little behind.

Satu is a few years older than Apu, but he's not like Apu – a small, meek boy. He's strong, with big hands and feet – not someone Apu's family would associate with. Yet, the only reason he's been comparing himself is that Satu runs with a sense of purpose, and Apu runs for his life. – He looks at him with a sidelong glance – then suddenly puffs on his pipe and starts steaming his eyes. After a while, Apu starts to blink and look around – Durga wipes his eyes and blows several times, saying – "Can you see better now?" – "Okay, you go home... I'll go to their house and tell his mother and grandmother everything – I'll tell Ranu too – Oh, you naughty boy – I'm leaving now –" After eating, Apu stays indoors in the afternoon, not going out anywhere. It's an old, dilapidated house with old rooms. The room is filled with old furniture, old wooden chests from the past, old cane chairs with faded paint, an old mirror, and a water pot. There are boxes he's never opened, containing pots and pans he knows nothing about. He goes and takes his brother's hand – in a consoling tone, he says – "Don't cry, Apu – I'm giving you all those keys – Don't increase the pain in your eyes... Look, have you torn the cloth?" Suddenly, Durga sees Satu stop and look back once while running – Apu also stops suddenly – Satu has already run out of sight, down the path. A strange, old smell of old things emanates from the room – he doesn't know what it is, but it brings back memories of the past. Apu wasn't there in those past days, but this old mirror was, and that old cane chair belonged to his grandfather. Apu raises his hands and eyes again and says eagerly – "Uh-huh, Didi – how are your eyes? My eyes have gone bad, Didi –" Durga quickly lowers Apu's hands and says – "Shh, shh – look – don't rub your eyes like that, see? No result at all! ... " By then, Durga had run and reached Apu.

Apu, squinting his eyes, leaned forward slightly and rubbed his eyes with both hands—Durgā asked—what's wrong, Apu? Apu, without looking properly, rubbed his eyes with both hands in a pained manner and said—Didi, it's like dust has gotten into my eyes—I can't see anything.

In the highest shelf of the room's cupboard, there was a large wooden box containing a stack of palm-leaf manuscripts and papers, which he had learned about by asking his father. They belonged to his great-great-grandfather, Ramchand Tarkalankar. He had a strong desire to get those if they were within reach; he would take them down, shake them, and look through them. Every day, sitting by the window by the forest in the afternoon, he would read that torn copy of Kashidas's Mahabharata. He had learned to read very well himself; he didn't need to listen to someone else read anymore; he could read and understand it himself like flowing water. His intelligence was very sharp in his studies. His father sometimes took him to the Chandimandap in Gangulibari to the gatherings of the elderly, and would ask him to recite the Ramayana or Panchatantra. "Read, son, let them hear you read once?" The elders would praise him greatly. Dinu would say with humility, "Oh, my grandson, when he grows up, you won't believe it if he tears through two or three letters, father. He still doesn't recognize the letters well—he's just learning from his father." "Oh, how long have I been around, son? I'll have to hold onto the reins with my eyes closed soon." Harihar's chest swelled with pride. He thought to himself—what will become of them? In imagination, it was all a business of interest forever! "Oh, poor fellow, a thousand scholars in the family, but the father didn't even fill the palm leaves with lies, he wrote the manuscripts and gave a lineage—where will that go?" Just a few hands away from their house's window, beyond the fence and the other side of the fence, a vast jungle of weeds had begun! Sitting by the window, all he could see was the tops of the swaying trees like waves of a green ocean, and on these trees, all sorts of creeping vines, ancient bamboo groves bending under the weight of old age, and on the forest creepers, the dance of blackbucks on the black earth below!

Under the large trees, The dense green forest of yellow, wild, and bitter neem struggles to turn its face towards the sunlight. In this battle of life, the tree that has become incapable and proud, has been crushed under the weight of its arrogant neighbor, Its leaves have withered, its dying trunk has become thin, - in the face of death's gaze, The earth, filled with the splendor of late autumn, radiant with the eager fragrance of paragachha flowers, slowly recedes, taking with it all its beauty and mystery, its vastness. That large wooden chest was, where the head of the sonali tree emerged from the forest, In that place filled with burnt forest, there was a large pavilion of the Kahad family, and how many more names, how many children once played in this grove, where have they disappeared, how long ago the forest whispered its tender touch to their hearts. Until now, this forest is so familiar to them, their thirsty hearts are filled with so many strange, so many wonderful juices in the silent joy of every moment. The fragrance of the yellow flowers of the nata-kanta on the heads of the rain-soaked, dense green bushes, the thick mayna-kanta branches in the shadow of the approaching sunset, from the edge of their house, this forest stretches continuously from the field of the hut to the edge of the river. Near Apur, this forest is endless, how far has he wandered with his sister in the midst of this forest, he has never seen the end of the forest—only such paths under the titas trees, thick thickets—hanging, plump forest fruits all around! The narrow path ends in a mango orchard, and then, wandering through the thickets of this tree and that, through the forest thickets, nata-kanta, mayna bushes, it leads somewhere, only the vines of the forest mist sway in that emptiness, the paragachha bushes on the moss-covered branches of the ancient sirish tree draw the wanderer's attention.

The place was far from human habitation, the evening had passed, there was no one on the path, at this time, Swarup Chakraborty was surprised to see a young, beautiful girl standing by the edge of the forest. But before he could say anything, the girl said with slight pride mixed with sweetness—"I am Bishalakshi Devi of this village."

The potters will soon start rising in the village—so, on the night of Chaturdashi, Panchananda offered a hundred and eight pumpkins on the platform as if performing Kali Puja. As soon as he finished speaking, the girl slowly disappeared into the autumn evening mist of the four directions, right before the stunned eyes of Chakraborty. A few days after this incident, a terrible potter actually appeared in the village. Somewhere in this forest, there is an old, abandoned pond, and next to it is a dilapidated temple. Once, the goddess Bishalakshi of that temple was the deity of the village, just as Padmananda Thakur is now. She was the established deity of the Majumdar family. At one time, they were so successful that they offered human sacrifices at the goddess's temple. Angered by this, the goddess appeared in a dream and said that she was leaving the temple and would never return. It has been a long time since anyone has seen the worship of Bishalakshi. The temple has been broken down and stolen, the pond in front of the temple has turned into a muddy swamp, the four surrounding forests have been overgrown with thickets, and there is no one left in the Majumdar family to light the lamps. The light footsteps of squirrels, the abundance of leaves, flowers, and fruits, all the opulence—everything awaits the unknown bird that sits on the crooked, companionless branch at the edge of the dense forest. It cannot explain the strange, extraordinary, and profound joy in its heart. It is like a dream, like an illusion. Birds sing all around, flowers fall with a rustling sound, and the light of sunset becomes even more densely shadowy. It goes to bed. From time to time, the bitter-sweet fragrance of various vines and leaves drifts in the cool breeze, just like the distant call of a large tree pulling on its leaves at noon. It is as if all the small sorrows, joys, and conflicts of the past and present of this small village are above all the autumn afternoons, filled with sunlight, under the blue, deserted sky—on the path, the melancholic, wandering voice of the god fades away and merges into the distance. Every day, at this time, in this shadowy twilight, looking towards the deserted forest, it remembers all its very strange things.

An overwhelming joy fills his heart, as if these days filled with the sweet fragrance of creepers had somehow visited him before. The faint memories of the happiness of those days flood his mind, filling these days with the hope of some unspecified joy in the future. It feels like something is about to happen; these days will not pass in vain – some great joy.

While reading this nameless author's book, his eyes have welled up with tears at this extraordinary, strange melancholy. A playground by the densely shaded trees. The rustling of leaves. The rustling of palm branches. A cool breeze emanates from the forest. A red ball glistens on the head of a pomegranate tree in the courtyard. A bright brown-winged pheasant flies up and sits in the forest-like thicket. The scent of fresh earth. The world of children overflows with joy. How can he explain this joy to anyone, the message of a mysterious, dreamland hidden in these afternoons with this familiar, joyful, multifaceted forest! Looking up at the shadow-filled sky above the bamboo grove, he sees a suitor, taking advantage of a young hero's generosity, reaching out to take his imperishable armor and earrings. Drinking betel juice, he dances in joy, declaring to some poor, small children, "I have drunk milk" - that old bell-tied one - it was there that the dying Bhishma lay on his bed of arrows, and Arjuna watered the earth with the Ganges. It was near the thick banyan tree in the garden of those royal women where Dasharatha killed the poor boy who was collecting water, lost in the illusion of a deer, while hunting in the flower-filled forest of Sarayuvata in his first youth. The boy had no home. If he had a home, he would have to sit inside and study his lessons. The whole day passes, and he still hasn't been released. His mind becomes restless. How much longer will he sit and memorize the auspicious verses? Won't he play anymore today? Is there still time left? His father gets very angry and hurt. He has served the leftover rice after evening. He is sitting on a mat waiting for the call. It is very dark, and crickets are chirping continuously. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he is released.

The bookstore somehow managed to squeeze in a place, and the shadows danced happily in the courtyard. If Jadu asked, "How many days are left, Ma?" the sons were waiting, as if for an appendix or something. They have a book at home, its pages all yellowed, the cover almost gone, the title written is 'Veerangana Kavya', but they don't know the author's name; the beginning pages are torn. He likes the bookstore very much - he has read: www. Look, there's a lake nearby, a king is traveling on the banks, his chariot broken! Look, climb high and shout, what a strange dream! Nath showed me. Nowadays, he has grown up, so his mother doesn't invite him to the other side for feasts. He has almost forgotten how good it is to eat luchi. On the full moon night of Kojagori, he would walk through the village, carrying a basket full of the glow of the bamboo grove, filled with khichuri and muri for Lakshmi Puja. The conch shells sound in every house, the aroma of luchi wafts through the streets, perhaps someone from the neighborhood sends a plate of cold prasad from the puja to their house. He would bring a lot of khichuri and muri, his mother would feed them to the guests for two days, and she would eat too. That old woman had said then - will the daughter of a rich man go from house to house with khichuri and muri like the daughter of a farmer? It looks bad... Don't send it anymore, daughter-in-law - since then, he hasn't gone. Sarvajaya looked at her son with affection again and again. That day's moon, oh moon, with a 'ti-ee-ee-ee' on Khokon's forehead, it seemed like a doll's forehead tilted towards the outstretched hand. She wondered if he was sitting down to play cards today! The scene looked very novel to her. If Apu couldn't play cards, or if he couldn't win a single game by chance, or if he got bad cards and good cards came to the opponent's hand, even if the opponent was a player, she felt sad. Durga's mind is very happy today. There is often no cooking at night, the leftover rice from noon remains. Today the rice is burnt, there will be a curry cooked, she is very happy about this. Today seems like a festival. Apu said, "Tell me that story while playing cards, Ma, that story of Shyamalanka?" That deck of cards that Apu brought from the library. All three have equal skill in playing cards.

Apu still doesn't recognize all the colors—sometimes he shows the cards in his hand to the opposing player's mother and says, "What color is this, mother? Is it blue? Show her, mother—" "Aha-ha," the mother says, "the girl is scared and can't even speak all day, she's not afraid when she goes around on the ground all day, but at night, going from one room to another in the house is just terrifying! ... . . . —You know that big garden of the Gosains? You and I once went to look for that red cow, Apu? It was grazing there a lot, no one knew, mother, it was such a thick forest? Otherwise, people would have taken it—suddenly he lies down with his head on his mother's lap. Stroking his body, she says in a cooing voice—"Tell me that rhyme, mother, that one—Shyamalanka, buttons scattered on the ground. He's calculated it. His father is coming home, Apu, mother, dolls, clothes, vermillion for him. Apu said—"I went there? Uh, that big forest, Didi," Apu laughed. "I'm leaving—" Durga looked at Apu with a distressed face. Durga was cutting betel leaves with a knife. She said, "There are only twenty-two days left, mother, aren't there? Well, I'll just take that card from the room and see—" Durga said, "You'll play cards? How will you play if you recite rhymes while playing, Apu?" "Oh," Sarbajaya said, "Durga, where did you go today?" Sitting on the threshold of the path in number 74, Durga said, "Mother, the taste of the wood louse is so delicious!" Her face was filled with heavenly satisfaction. At the same time, Apu also said, "Wow! It's just like meat to eat, isn't it, Didi?" "Mother, how many wood louses are there in one place, I think they're like frog umbrellas, that's why I picked them up—" Sarbajaya's heart swelled with pride and satisfaction at their enthusiastic praise. "Still, have you found any more suitable ingredients? People call Sejathakrun to cook at feasts in people's homes, why don't you call her once and see, who does she call to cook, Sejathakrun?" "Hmm." Sarbajaya said, "Pour water on Apu's hands, Durga, what kind of behavior is this for a boy? Washing his face in the middle of the road every day—" "Every night you're on that road—" Apu said, but he wouldn't argue with his sister. On the day when his ripe guavas had been stolen, his sister had searched the forest and garden all day and in the evening, she tied her shawl and brought a pile of ripe guavas and showed them to him and said, "How are they now? You were crying so much in the morning, weren't you?"

She found more joy in those evenings—more than from the ripe fruits, more than from her sister's face, especially the affectionate, gentle smile in her dark eyes. She couldn't understand it. After that, everyone went to sleep. The night deepened, the autumn air filled with the pungent fragrance of the *shatim* flowers. At midnight, the pale light of the *krishnapaksha* moon rose over the *benubon* treetops, glistening on the dew-covered leaves and branches. The forest edge, in the unique play of light and shadow, was like a sleeping fairyland, full of mystery. Suddenly, a gust of wind might rustle the *sondali* leaves, shake the *telakucha* and the tops of the bushes, and pass on. But Apu didn't want to move a single step further, towards the gap in the broken fence, towards the darkness of the bamboo grove, the darkness of the thicket—towards the old *bari*... and the countless unknown horrors! She couldn't understand why there was so much fear on the path where life struggled. Their mother had said that behind their elder brother's house, there was a *shatim* tree, and the fragrance of its flowers. Apu and Durga both eagerly asked, "Mother, didn't you say a tiger came to that *shatim* tree once?" But their mother quickly got up and said, "Oh, that rice has burned, the smell is coming out—take the rice down, child." Near the clear water, like the roar of the *pulin shalini* tree at will, how long ago their footprints had disappeared in the cold, muddy mire covered with wild moss. Perhaps they were the ones who had never seen the ancient *saptaparni* by the riverbank, the ones who once offered flowers and fruits in worship at the old temple of the *adhisthatri* goddess of the past. Who knows her these days? "Oh mother, I don't even know the name of that *postadana* tree. Today, the Rajas' house has planted a *postadana* in the courtyard. Oh, what Rajas? The Rajas said, 'Jesthimadhu, eat it—' He ate it. Mother, standing there, she couldn't understand that *posta*—such a fool—Mother, don't you know? Apu plays *hukkar* games, does she understand them?" Durga, with great joy, began to pick up the cards and arrange them... "She still doesn't know anything. That goddess has come, the pure caretaker of that village, the helpless one." Durga said, "Mother, do you know what happened today? The *panchali* on the path..." Apu said, "Oh, then I'll play cards with you, say—every day now, I wake up from sleep at this time."

—Are you seeing all this, Didi? The land surveyor has set up camp in the north field to conduct the village survey. The senior surveyor has opened his office by the river in the middle of the field, and all the minor officials have arrived with full fanfare. All the respectable people of the village are landowners; their ancestors had acquired all this property, and they were living off it like lifeless, motionless objects, in a state of inertia, just passing their days in the same monotonous way, on the secure shore of their inherited wealth. But now everyone is in a bit of trouble. Ram might have been enjoying Shyam's land as his own without any issues, or perhaps he had been occupying twelve bighas in a ten-bigha plot without any hindrance. What had been accomplished peacefully for so long has now reached a point of conflict among them all. Although the danger is universal, Annada Ray's danger is a bit different, or perhaps a bit more serious. One of his cousins, who had been living abroad for a long time, had been enjoying the mango and jackfruit orchards and land of this absentee relative without any hindrance, and he had complete faith that when the survey was over, he would at least get some of it registered in his name. But who knows what letter some villager has written to the absentee relative – as a result, the cousin's eldest son has arrived to look after the property during the survey. Not only has he lost his grip on the situation, but there is more danger ahead. The rooms that belong to that relative are the best in the house, and Ray had been occupying them for the past twenty years; he will have to give them up. The college boy, who is a bit of a dandy, has been moving trunks, valuables, papers, and documents from the upper room. The room where the young farmer's wife, who has been living here for a long time, has been keeping her iron safe, bought cheaply from Palitpara, will also have to be vacated soon. The young woman, with a small child in her arms, had been sitting and crying for a long time right under the neem tree in the courtyard, thinking that it was now her turn. Ray lowered his head slightly and looked at her over his glasses and said, "Who is it now? What do you want?"

He knows where the wild jasmine hides its head in the thicket's corner, where the groups of white magnolias lie in the shade of the trees in the secluded forest, where the clusters of blue-petaled columbine flowers are densely packed in the crevices of the green moss on the banks of the Ichamati, where the baby birds of the Tuntuni bird awaken in their small straw nests amidst the thorns of the cactus. In the late afternoon, a few people from the Chandimara neighborhood of the village have arrived - it's time for the card game gathering. But the work is not yet finished. Anuda Roy is saying goodbye to each guest one by one. Many nights after the village has settled down, she wanders through the forest, making flowers bloom, taking care of the bird chicks, and filling the wheels of the tiny bees with the sweet honey of wild orchids, banyan flowers, and pui flowers in the last watch of the moonlit night. The forest seems filled with the soft light of her beauty. In the silence, in the moonlight, in the fragrance, in the magic of indistinct light and darkness, is the unique beauty of the night. But before the light of day breaks, the forest goddess disappears somewhere, no one has seen her since Swaroop Chakraborty. The farmer's wife, loosening the knot of her sari, said in a low voice, "I have managed to gather some money. Annda Ray Mahashay is in great trouble recently." Tamres's wife exclaimed in a distressed voice, "Where can I go, Lord, how can I feed my children, I don't have a single paisa to buy a handful of puffed rice - don't open my mouth, give me my money back - how can all this talk of money be settled just by crying? It can't be settled. Do you understand, your husband understood, what you are doing now - that five rupees are deposited in your name - the rest will be seen later." Ray Mahashay, without letting him finish, said, "Oh, I see the generosity of the beggar, the interest is almost forty rupees - here are five rupees, open your mouth and give it, the small people's affairs are different. - Do what you want to do now - oh, hasn't the wife of the village goldsmith died?

Sudhee

Actually, there were forty taka remaining, so I kept the pot locked since morning, and now—open the pot, you know—do it—do it—oh now, then—dip in—wash it and take it out, now—take it and open my pot's key, I'll survive by eating two from my mother's, after that—

the door's glass has broken, that's it—with much difficulty, take my money, . . . and open the pot's key, it's very troublesome, sir, what else can I say—

After the initial awkwardness with his age-peers faded, the tea sessions in the mornings and evenings became enjoyable with the sweetness of simple exchanges! It was no longer lonely. Durga occasionally helped Khurima with her chores. While cutting fish, she said in a low voice:

"Yes, Khurima, where did you find this crab? We don't eat crabs. This conversation stopped when the newly arrived nephew arrived to teach.

Dinu said, "Hey, Niren Babaji, I heard you went to the fields? This is your father's and grandfather's land."

"Tell me, what did you see?" - "Binoy Babu, he sent this letter."

"Why won't you eat it, you fool! Vidhu জেলেনী said everyone eats crabs." - "Yes, you too, Oma, what do you say?" Gokulchandri Srimad Bhagavat, commentary on Srimad Bhagavat. The bride now laughed and said in a low voice, "The bulb is hanging, I thought I'd wipe it a little, and when I went to lower the glass, I don't know, all the English lights..." Before she could finish, she blushed and looked down. In the tone of a boatman's song, she said, "If you didn't bring the country lights, what did you do with the lights? I heard that on the day of the Panchali Sesh, Gokul-Kaka hit Khurima on the head with a winnowing fan - Swarna Gowalini tells their story." She too was bathing at the river ghat that day. Khurima, while bathing, didn't dip her head and bathe, but only splashed water. That day, her heart was breaking with sorrow, but she didn't say anything. Khurima was shy - she felt ashamed in front of a stranger. Still, the elder brother-in-law asked, "Where's Bouma?" ... Khurima laughed and replied, "I won't go today, Didi, I'm not feeling well." ... While leaving after washing the fish, Durga fearfully said, "Khurima, do you have paddy in the granary? Mother said Apu wants to eat paddy, so we didn't buy paddy this time." Gokul's wife quietly said, "Come now, it's after noon." ... Pointing towards the veranda, she said, "The Thakur's puja has just finished."

She came out and turned her face towards the local Kali temple to the north, bowing and chanting in a drawn-out voice—"Dohai Ma Siddheshwari, din deo Ma, bhavsamudur paar koro Ma—Ma Rakhshe Kali, rakhse koro, Ma-Godurga." She didn't say anything. She thought to herself—"Khurrimma is all right, just a little foolish! Who does this crab eat, and who gives it money anyway? Vidhu has cheated him by finding a good man." At that moment, her affection for the simple Khurrimma deepened. Just as Durga was about to leave, Swarna Goyali came with milk. The bride called from the bridal chamber—"Hey Sanu, fold my hands, the calf is tied to the Peepal tree in the courtyard outside—bring it here, and tell Roak to prepare the 'maja' (sweet dish)." Khurrimma thought no one knew about her mother's death. But as soon as Khurrimma got up from the platform, Rai Jethi said—"Look at how the girl has beaten her husband black and blue, there's blood all over her hair!" Gokul's wife smiled again and said—"Why so far away? Why, is our daughter bad? Look at her... she lifted Durga's chin with her hand and raised her face a little and said—"Look at such a beautiful face, just like a Durga idol! Where is the father's money, anyway?" Gokul's wife called from the kitchen—"Oh Pishima, I've kept the coconut pieces aside, eat two and drink some water. It's ready... Rai Jethi's injustice was great. You know, father, why ask again, and why tell everyone?" Durga shook herself off and said—"Go, what does Khurrimma care?" Then she ran out through the back door. As she went, she thought—"Khurrimma is all right, just a little foolish, that's all... why not show her?" Far away... Gokul's wife's heart sank at the sound. She fears Sakhi Thakrun like death. It can be said without a doubt that God has not shown any partiality in distributing grace and mercy—towards Sakhi Thakrun. Leaning over the 'maja' pots gathered in the corner of the kitchen, Durga said with shame—"Far away..." Suddenly, Sakhi Thakrun called from the kitchen—"Bouma, go and see what's going on there." Durga asked—"Khurrimma, who has come to your house? I have never seen them before." "Haven't you seen Thakurpoke? He's not here now, he went out, come in the afternoon, you'll see him then..."

Then Gokul's wife, Hasia, said, "If you were to marry Thakurpo's daughter, it would be a divine match. Last year during Puja, she came here and stayed for four days. Secretly, she would take out some small amount of money from her box and give it to your brother. Later, one day she suddenly disappeared from here. When we inquired, we found out that she had bought a silver bangle from a vendor and had written her lover's name on it. That caused a lot of trouble. There was so much criticism and insult to the family! There's been no trace of your brother since then." Pointing with her finger, she said, "Look with your own eyes, can't you see the clear water stains? He carried the pot from here, and then that wretch, after touching it, put it back in the kitchen, making it impure for the whole household! Ha! The family lineage is completely ruined! The poor boy's mind wanders aimlessly in the evening during work breaks. Looking at the deserted field path, it seems as if the homeless traveler, your brother, is walking alone somewhere in the remote, dark forest path, with no place to lay his head at night, no one to look at his face..."

The river water has a certain cold smell, little river; a fisherman sits on a bamboo raft above the current, fishing for pankauri. The shadows of the banyan tree are very dense on the ghats, and the sun glistens on the large shimul tree on the other side. A sailboat is navigating the river's bend, its oars dipping in and out. Near the oars, a man stands drying his clothes; he lets go of the fabric, and it flies in the wind like a flag. In the middle of the river, a large turtle surfaces, takes a breath, and dives back in—

Sighs—oh—o—o—o—vhoos—every day he remembers his childhood—pankauri, pankauri, get up, get up... just like that, all the work gets done in a flash. When he took a bath in the river again, the sun, hunger, and thirst, and the hard work had dried and shrunk his face. At five in the afternoon, on the way to the 80 bigha fields, Apur's face turned red. After wandering around in several other places, failing to achieve his goal, he came near the tamarind tree close to Baburam's house in the neighborhood, and his face lit up with joy. The tamarind tree is a popular spot for playing guti (marbles). Everyone there is from the lower caste neighborhood, except for Patu, who is from the Brahmin neighborhood. Apur doesn't know Patu very well because Patu's house is far from Apur's. Patu is a little younger than Apur. Apur remembers the first day he went to Prasanna Gurumashai's school, he saw this boy sitting quietly, chewing on a betel leaf. Apur went up to him and said, "How many marbles do you have?" Patu took out a small pouch of marbles and showed him. The little pouch was woven with red thread—it was his most prized possession. He said, "I brought seventeen—seven are gold-colored; I'll bring more if I lose them." Then, showing him the pouch, he said with a smile, "See how nice it is? The pouch—"

Patu thought— I have never won this many marbles; if I play today, will I be able to take these marbles home? It's too risky! I'll lose everything! Suddenly, he took the small pouch of marbles in his hand and said, "I won't play more than one hand; I'm going home." Then, seeing the expressions and the cruel glances of the boys from the lower caste, he unknowingly clutched the pouch of marbles tightly in his fist. The game began. Patu lost the first one, then started winning.

Just a few days ago, Patu discovered that his aim in the game of carrom had improved; that's why, driven by the desire for victory, he had come so far! According to the rules of the game, as soon as Patu struck the carrom ball from above with a large carrom piece and fixed it, a carrom ball would spin around and roll out of the house, and Patu's face would light up with immense joy. Then, he would pick up the winning carrom pieces and, filling his pockets with them, look greedily and joyfully at his pockets, wondering how much more space was left to fill them. Just then, someone came and said, "That won't do, sir. If you win carrom, you have to pay. . . ." At the same time, someone suddenly grabbed Patu's carrom-stick. Patu tried to snatch it back, but couldn't; he said sadly, "Oh, let go of my hand!—Someone pushed him from behind; he fell, but didn't let go of the carrom-stick. He realized this was their plan to take the carrom-stick! Falling, he pressed the stick tightly to his stomach—some of the jail boys advised him. One of them said to Patu, "You'll have to hit him with one hand, sir, you have more tips—" Patu said, "Oh, why? Is having more tips a fault? You don't win, I didn't stop anyone." Later, he came to Apu and asked, "Apuda, didn't you like it? Coming to play carrom with the jail boys in the middle of the day like this." Niren scolded both of them. To pass the time, Niren had started a school in Annada Ray's Chandimandap with the boys from the neighborhood, and he repeatedly told both of them to go and study there from tomorrow. While walking, Patu was only thinking—"What a beautiful carrom pocket I have, I bid for it near Chibas the other day—gone! What if I don't play carrom and win anymore, what's in it for them? It's my wish! . . . . . ." Apu wasn't a little happy with Patu's misfortune at first, because he had also lost many carrom pieces. But seeing Patu fall, especially seeing him fall and get beaten helplessly, something stirred in his chest, he pushed through the crowd and went forward—"Boys, why are you beating him? Oh, let go of him—let go!"

Later, he went to pick up the stick from the ground, but after being hit by someone from behind, he couldn't see for a while. Then, in the scuffle, he fell to the ground as well. A stick! A strange thing in Apu's life! A dry, light, thick at the base, and thin at the tip, a stick—just holding it in his hand makes Apu's mind soar, strange imaginations awaken in his mind. With a stick in his hand, he wanders all morning or until evening in his own world, by the bamboo grove or by the riverbank; sometimes a prince, sometimes a tobacco shopkeeper, sometimes a traveler, sometimes a general, sometimes Arjuna from the Mahabharata—he creates and narrates imaginary events in his mind, events that would bring him joy if they happened in his life in that state. The lighter and more flexible the stick, the more complete his joy and imagination become; but Apu understands how difficult it is to collect such sticks. He searches and searches to find one. Apu tries his best to keep it a secret that he wanders around like this with a stick in his hand. He avoids places with crowds or where someone might suddenly appear, fearing that people will think he's crazy or something else if they see him in such a state. He wanders along the riverbank, in the secluded bamboo grove, or under the guava tree behind his house. No one sees him in this state. But he is just a boy, he has little strength, he can barely understand things with the strong boys of the neighborhood who are older than him! The bundle of sticks had been lying on the ground for a long time—some of the sticks had become like fans. As soon as he entered the house, Apu said to Durga—"Didi, I left a stick near the guava tree in the backyard, and you've broken it into two pieces?" Durga had indeed broken it. —"Oh, it's a great stick! For your madness—if you keep searching in the bamboo grove, you won't find any more sticks, will you? The stick is very rare." Apu said with a shy face—"It's not rare, is it? You bring me one like that! I'll search and bring you many, and you'll just break them all." —"Enough, Durga said—"I'll give you as many as you want now, why are you crying?" Tears came to his eyes.

His mother had entrusted Pather Panchali to Durga to serve. Extremely inexperienced, and trembling with fear, she placed the bowl of rice before the guests - as if she was afraid someone would speak up right then. Niren was not used to eating such thick rice; he didn't know how people could eat vegetables cooked with so little oil. The payesh (rice pudding) was watery - made with diluted milk - and just one spoonful diminished his appetite for the meal by half. Apu was eating with great joy and enthusiasm; such a feast had only happened in their house once or twice - and it was a memorable festival day! "Please have some more payesh, Mastermoshai..." she kept saying, repeatedly glancing at her sister. Returning home, Gokul's wife said with a smile, "Did Duggak like it, Thakurpo (respectful address)? It looked and sounded wonderful!" "Aha! A poor girl, no money for her father. Who will she end up with? She'll suffer all her life, wandering from door to door. Why don't you marry her, Thakurpo? You two would make a wonderful couple; the two of you would make such beautiful dolls together..." Returning from the Jari (weaving) camp, Niren took the path through the mango orchard at the back of the village that day. He saw a girl coming up the path from inside the orchard, and recognized her - it was Apu's sister, Durga. He asked, "Hey, little one, is this your orchard?" Durga, as she was about to leave, suddenly stopped and tried to look at Niren's face, bending her neck. At the same time, some fruit fell from inside her clothes onto the path. Then she stood by the side of the path, trying to let Niren pass. Niren said, "No, no, little one, you go first. It was nice meeting you." "Oh, I fell by a pond over there, and then I got lost looking for the way. The forest asked me to request something from your mother - please tell her all this, sister..." Durga didn't say anything! She knew Apu was crazy. She felt very affectionate towards him, a little foolish, innocent boy - what would happen if she told her mother all this? Only her sister knew. Her sister had already seen her in this condition a couple of times, so what was the point of hiding it from her anymore? That's why she clearly asked her sister about the bending and twisting.

If it were anyone else, Apu would never mention this matter out of shame, even though no one knows the mysterious relationship between Apu and the bamboo shoot. Yet, Apu feels as if everyone knows, and if he were to say it, everyone would tease him, calling him mad. Who would understand that holding a bamboo shoot allows him to spend the entire day alone in a secluded forest path by the Na-Khaiya-Daiya River, in unparalleled joy... On the eve of the Madhu-Sankranti fast, Sarvajaya told the boy, "Tell your master to come for a feast tomorrow at noon. There will be a feast of puffed rice, pumpkin curry, tender drumsticks, a gong of spinach, prawn curry, banana fritters, and payesh (rice pudding)." Meanwhile, she cast a very cautious glance! If anyone were to come and find out, she would cut her tongue and drop the bamboo shoot in her hand—lest anyone suspect anything, which would greatly embarrass her. Nitesh said, "What if it gets caught, you fool! What's the point of all this?" Durga turned back and looked, embarrassed, and said nothing. The street urchin lowered his head and muttered something inaudible, "It's nothing, just potatoes." Durga was extremely curious. What a five-year-old boy knows, Durga had never seen Niren so closely before—only the beautiful expression of his eyes had she seen in her brother Apu. It was as if the profound, dark, and serene beauty of the secluded chuta-bokul lanes of the village was half-asleep in Durga's eyes. Dawn had not yet broken, and the lazy darkness of the night still clung on. Yet, it reminded him of dawn—how many sleepy eyes would wake up, how many young girls would go to the ghats, how many new awakenings in every house, the festival of nectar in every window and doorway, the fragrance of incense. It was noon. Gokul's wife came up to the roof to hang out the clothes and peeked into Niren's room. After tossing and turning in bed for a while in the heat, Niren had given up on sleep and was writing a letter on the floor, having spread out a mat. Durga stood for a while, as if about to sneeze. Niren felt like she couldn't decide what to say. She said, "No, you fool, shall I take you a little further? Come, let's go in front of your house." Durga hesitated, then smiled slightly. Niren thought she would speak now.

But the next moment, Durga shook her head and said she wouldn't go with him, and walked off towards the house. Durga said shyly, "I'm taking him just for playing..." It occurred to her that it was with this bespectacled boy that Khurima had teased her about marriage that day. She was very curious to see the boy properly. But she couldn't on the day of the Madhu-Sankranti vow, nor could she today. Gokul's wife, Hasiya, said, "Didn't Thakurpo sleep? I thought Thakurpo had fallen asleep, and that's why the temple bell hasn't rung today."

"Oh, Thakurpo, you're being very mischievous!" Durga said, pointing and showing him, "Our house is just a little further on. I'll go alone now. You—" Niren said, "Okay, I'll recognize it now. Let me go a little ahead of you. Can you go alone?" And after walking a little further, he showed her a path and said, "It will be much easier for you if you go this way." The bespectacled man didn't know that. He said, "I won't eat this fruit, it's poisonous." "Oh dear, what will happen to me!" Fearing embarrassment, he silently picked up a stone and sat down. Durga shook her head skillfully as she walked away. "Ashok, remember to take the book tomorrow morning, will you?" The street vendor—"But you—this girl can weave such a delicate web of laughter and fun around her in a short time—that Niren likes. This village woman is one of those whose hearts are overflowing with such inexhaustible stores of joy that, for no reason, the source of inherent joy overflows and infects others. Nowadays, Niren waits for her arrival in his mind—if she doesn't come, he is disappointed; he even feels a little secret resentment. Gokul's wife laughed mischievously again. Squinting her eyes and tilting her face slightly upwards in a boyish manner, she said, "Oh, you've gone very far, all the way to Kashi and Mecca! I went to see the couple of teenagers with my aunt and the grandmother. Am I on a train or a temple, Thakurpo? Listen to what Thakurpo says—"

A little later, collecting himself, he said, "Well, how is the heat there, Thakurpo?" "There, where?" "In Kolkata or in the West?" "How can you understand the heat in the West from here! It's impossible to grasp from Bangladesh. Who can sleep inside the house at night in Boshakh?" "There are mud houses, and there are stone houses. No, Boudi, you're completely in the village. How far have you traveled by train?" At the end of his speech, he let out a sardonic, mischievous laugh. A little later, becoming serious, he said in a low voice, "Listen, Thakurpo, remember one thing? The engineer couldn't understand what Gokul's son-in-law was saying. He asked, 'Is the mountain made of mud or stone?'" "Well, Thakurpo, have you heard that they've cut through the mountain and laid the railway line towards Gaekash?" "Really?" "It's about two days' journey by train from here. If you board the morning train and get off at Majhpara station, you can reach by tomorrow afternoon-night." "Really. There are many big mountains, forests on top - when the train passes through them - it's completely dark, nothing is visible, the lights have to be turned on inside the train." "And signing that white paper won't be done by me, Boudi! You know I'm a lawyer. I'll listen to the matter first, then I'll reply." "Why would it collapse, Boudi? Big engineers have built tunnels, how much money they've spent, if it collapses, so what? Is it like the steps of the ghat in your Raypara that collapse every two days? Path Panchali 085 - the people of this house will go to the West! Just like you, Thakurpo! Then who will put the cot in the eggplant field in Uttar Math?" "Well, how far is it from where you live from here?" Gokul's son-in-law came inside the room from the doorway. Taking out a paper packet from inside his clothes, he said, "Will you give me five rupees for these two spiders?" Gokul's son-in-law eagerly said, "Well, it won't collapse?" "What are you saying? Tell me first." "If you are there, Boudinau said in a sad voice, "Why don't you tell me?" "Well, Boudi, let's all of you go, I'll take you all to the West once." Khurima laughed and said, "I was telling Thakurpo yesterday, 'Thakurpo, your daughter is poor, her father has nothing to give, she's a very good girl - as if she's not the only daughter of Ekal - won't you take her?'"

So, Thakurpo was inquiring about you— "Well, where did you meet on the way to the ghat that day? Where did Thakurpo end up going after getting lost on the way?" And so on. Then I've been telling my father-in-law and Thakur for three days that I will call your father. It seems Thakurpo has taken a liking to you, as if he has taken a fancy to you—Gokul's wife said with a playful sway of her neck and a smiling face—"That won't do, Thakurpo, you're quite the charmer! Then I die leaving your debt, and you—it won't do, you must repay me. Well, Thakurpo, there's a lot of work to be done downstairs—Durga has taken the calf out of the cowshed and tied it in the sun, but she didn't do any housework the whole day. One day, she gets these whims; that day she can't be held back in the courtyard—who takes her wandering from street to street. Today, the weather seems so beautiful, neither hot nor cold in the morning, some sweet fragrance is felt—like from a lemon flower, though she can't say what it is. Quietly, don't tell anyone in the house. He sent five rupees, where will I get it, Thakurpo, you know what a dependent I am? So I thought of these two spiders—give five rupees to Thakurpo—is there anyone in this world who throws away a dead spider? . . . . . Gokul's wife's voice became heavy with tears. "Yes, there are caps on everyone's heads, playing these big bansis—very big dhaaks I have seen— and a different kind of bansi plays, black, not too big, called a flute—it plays so beautifully! Have you heard the flute?" She quickly went out of the house, but turning back near the stairs she said again in a low voice—"But don't tell anyone about the money, Thakurpo! No one— understand? Niren said—"I will give you the money, Boudi, five or ten, whenever you want to repay it; but I can't take the spider." She said, "Why, Khurima? . . . . Then she told the story of that day. She told in a playful tone, how she got lost on the way—right by the village pond—deep in that forest—Durga got up and closed the window, saying, "Do you know when Ranur's sister's wedding is? It's not too far off. It will be very grand, there will be English songs. Have you seen English songs? Tomorrow afternoon, I will go to Khurima in that neighborhood."

After that, Khurima asked, "Dugga, where did you meet Thakurpo?" Gokul's wife said in a low voice, "I'll send you to a place. Look at the address on this letter, what's written in English?" Apu was awake but hadn't said anything yet. She said, "Didi, should I close the window? It's very cold." Durga, with great joy from under the quilt, called out, "Apu, oh Apu." Nutan, reading, said, "Your brother, or your sister-in-law? Tell me first, what will happen with money? Otherwise, I won't say anything now. That Thakurpo? The Durga Puja procession. Panchalisundar, the Poka – not exactly Poka – Thakur. It's very lucky to see him – he's told me, and many others. He sat contentedly on the dust, then touched his forehead once and then took the Poka and started chanting rapidly – 'Sudarshan, protect the auspicious... Sudarshan, protect the auspicious... Sudarshan, protect the auspicious' (he's heard others say this form without fail). Then he intertwined some of his own words into the mantra – 'Protect Apu, protect Ma, protect Baba, protect Khurima from the neighborhood' – then, after a little hesitation, said hesitantly – 'Protect Nirenbabu, may my marriage happen there, Sudarshan, may there be fun like Ranu's sister's wedding.' The gardens are over, and the field of the roof is ahead. The grassy field is in shadow. Durga started searching for *shonakul* in the Durga bushes – *shonakul* doesn't grow big anymore, it falls off in late winter. On that high mound, in a tree in the middle of the bushes, he had eaten many *shonakul* that day too, but now there are none, all have fallen, like pepper, dry *shonakul* are scattered on the ground under the dense bushes. A flock of *shalik* birds were chirping in the bushes, they flew away as Durga approached. He came out of the house and went to Ranu's house. Bhuban, a well-situated householder, this is the marriage of his first daughter, it will be a very grand wedding. The *bajiwala* has arrived and is playing the *bajis* properly. Satinath, playing the famous *rasun chowki* of that area, has also arrived, and families from various places have started arriving for the wedding. The courtyard of the house is bustling with their children.

After dozing off for a while in the veranda with her shawl spread out, Ma suddenly woke up with a start and went out of the house again. It was the middle of Phalgun, the sun's heat was at its peak, and the yellow leaves of the big neem tree in Ranu's garden were swirling and falling in the continuous hot wind—there was no one around, and it was as if someone was playing a tin in the direction of the neighbors' house. "Buu-ooo-ooo!" came a sound. A grasshopper! Durga, half-unaware, quickly hid it in the folds of her shawl and stared at it with astonishment. Durga felt very happy—how many firecrackers they would burst in their house in a few days. She had never seen a firecracker, only once she had seen a firecracker in the flower pot at Ganguli's house, whoosh, it shot up into the sky as if touching the clouds, and then fell back down, it looked so wonderful! ... Apu calls it a phooljhadi. The narrow path to the river ghat through the Sheora forest. On both sides of the narrow path is the mango grove. The warm air, filled with the sweet fragrance of mango blossoms, the buzzing of bees and grasshoppers in the forest, and the koel's call in the dense mango grove, was soothing. Her shawl folds opened on their own—eagerly, stepping carefully, she started moving towards the insect. On the path ahead, perched on a leaf, were white and blood-red spots like scattered sandalwood paste. The insect was spinning in a circle on the dust in a helpless whirlpool of the devotee's excess, Durga finished her prayer with a contented mind and respectfully moved past it. In the inner lanes of the neighborhood, the first Falum's blue, almost peacock-green sky was visible through the gaps in the trees. A strong wave of joy surged in her heart. The excitement of the festival, the hope of staying awake at Ranu's sister's house and listening to songs—path's Panchali 0 87www. Kailasanath, not Subarnabhoy. But before she could finish speaking, Apu jumped on her neck, tugged and pulled at her rough hair, making her restless. With a choked voice, she started saying, "Why will you hit me? Can't you understand? Let me go—I'll tell Ma—stole the alta from Lakshmi's box—after the wedding, Ma, Baba, Apu—all will have to leave and go so far away, maybe—will they let them come from there when the time comes?"

He had never seen such beauty—the garden, the hedges of hibiscus, the mango grove he loved so much, the dusty courtyard, all of it would be left behind forever! The little girl between them was crying incessantly in a boyish manner. It seemed like a village farmer's daughter was going to her in-laws' house from her father's. After returning home in the evening, she spent a long time arranging her dolls. Her mother had poured a lot of kerosene on the floor, its smell was wafting out, the air felt a bit warm. The doll arrangement was almost complete when Apu came and said, "Did you take the small arsi out of my box, Didi?" Durga got angry at the accusation of theft. She grabbed her brother's ear and shook it, giving him a few slaps on the head, she said, "Took the arsi?—I took the arsi, you naughty monkey, and you, who took the bangles off Lakshmi's doll and hid them, won't you tell Mom, will you?" Durga gave her brother a slap on the cheek and said, "Naughty boy—where are you—" "I've arranged the dolls and they're playing around—you don't have to touch anything in my box—" "I'll give you arsi. Just for the fun of making noise, he started stomping on the pile of dry leaves with all his might, making a crunching sound. The leaves broke, filling the place with a dry, dusty, slightly sticky, slightly bitter smell. As soon as he finished talking, he sat down near his sister's doll box and started looking for the arsi inside. Once, he stretched his arms out like wings and spun around a bit, then ran a few steps. He wanted to fly! ... The body is a light thing—if one could only spread their arms like wings and cut through the air and fly! But what have the fishermen caught? Prawns? If they come this far, they buy two-paisa fish and take it home.

Apu was a big fan of eating hilsa fish, and he rushed everywhere at the sound of crying and fighting. Just past a small, thorny bush and another small field was the river. Durga stared at the garage in astonishment. She also wanted to run from one end of the field to the other. "Hey, where's your Apu book? Did your mother bring it from the Khurir bari (maternal uncle's house) in O-par (the other side)?"

"Apu brought it, I had already borrowed it from Ma. No, Didi, give it back—it's mine—I saw it earlier, it was under the mat. Go, I'll keep the Apu book in my box. What will happen if the little rascal takes the Apu book again?" 88 ☐ Pather Panchali (The Postmaster's Son)

A long time passed. Suddenly, he felt someone's hand on his body. Apu called out in fear—"Didi?" Before Durga could answer, Apu buried his face in the pillow and cried loudly—"I won't do it anymore—don't be angry with me, Didi—I'll fall at your feet." His throat choked with sobs. No words came out of Durga's mouth. The doll box was her life; she arranged the doll box ten times a day—dolls, mirrors, printed clothes, alta (vermilion), so many painstakingly collected trinkets, the tin box of Apu books, the bird's nest—where could all these have scattered in the dark courtyard? She could never have imagined that her mother could so cruelly throw away her doll box! How many hard-earned, carefully collected things from so many places had gathered in it.

After sitting for a while, Durga quietly lay down. The light of the Phagun (spring) full moon was falling on the bed through the broken window, and the fragrance of lebu flowers was coming from the inner courtyard. Perhaps the punishment was too harsh for Apu. He lay down quietly without saying anything. Without finishing her sentence, she picked up the girl's carefully arranged doll box, threw it outside into the courtyard, and hurled it. With great effort, she stopped her brother's crying. Later, lying down, she started telling him various stories, especially the story of Ranur Didi's wedding. After this and that, Apu quietly touched his Didi and said softly, "Didi, can I say something?"

"Your marriage will be with Master Moshai," Durga protested. "No, Ma, look, I'm arranging my dolls, and he's come and messed them all up. He's very naughty." She cried and cried, "Look, Ma, he took my dolls out of their box and put them in his own box—he's not giving them back. He's such a bully!" She was afraid that if Ma heard Apu crying, she might beat him again. Not daring to say anything, she stood there stunned. Pathar Panchali

With great curiosity, she opened this book and that book, looking at the pictures for a while and then checking if there were any good stories written inside. Opening the cover of one book, she saw the title 'Sarva-Darshan-Sangrah'. She didn't even understand what it meant, let alone what the book was about. As soon as she opened the book, a swarm of paper-cut insects silently emerged from under the pale marble paper. Durga was embarrassed by the sight, but she was also very curious; however, she was hesitant to talk to her younger brother about it, so she remained silent. It became impossible to remain silent out of curiosity. In a careless tone, she said—

"Yes, I was saying—yes—just like you said—" Apu said again, "Khurrimma was telling Ranu's mother this afternoon. Master Moshai doesn't seem to agree—" "I thought I would ask Ma," he forgot to say. "Ask Didi?" Ma probably didn't hear; yesterday, Khurrimma called Ma and was saying—" He said later, "You'll see how many trains he'll take, Master Moshai lives very far away—he has to take the train." Apu said, "Leeladi bought a wonderful saree for Leeladi, her uncle bought it for her wedding today from Ranaghat." Sej Jethima said, "Baluchar saree—he hasn't told anyone yet—" not even his sister. Durga said with a smile, "Do you know a riddle? . . . . . . Pisi used to say, the shadow of the bamboo grove on the courtyard doesn't stretch east and west, it gathers in one place like the shadow of that ancient Ashvattha tree in the golden field of Tepantar at noon." "I saw Madhusudan in the garden, it's true." "I'll tell Baluchar Balu—do Ma know?" Durga remained silent. "Where did you see him?" She laughed with joy. Her sister couldn't say.

He asks all the boys in the neighborhood—Satu, Nilu, Kinu, Patol, Nera—

In the blink of an eye, the forest leaves were torn and scattered, and before anyone could react, the falcon arrived with incredible speed. Burrowing her face into the book, she inhaled deeply—*that* old, familiar scent! There was no longer any doubt in her mind about the truth of what was written in the book. After hiding the book in her secret box, she went outside and, while walking, she asked herself—where do falcons build their nests, Didi? Suddenly, a rustling sound came from the roadside—*www. Apu*—she couldn't believe her eyes—she read it again—read it again. Her mind felt light and buoyant, like an air-filled rubber balloon. At the same time, a shadow of doubt crossed her mind; it wasn't there just a moment ago. After finding the eggs, it was as if something vague had appeared. Before evening, sitting on the cut logs of the neem tree in the courtyard, she started thinking—if it really flies away, where will it go? To her uncle's house? Where her father is? Across the river? Like the myna birds, where in the sky has that star risen? Just a few days later, the shepherd came to their house and, calling her, took out two small, black eggs from his waistband and said—"Look, Thakur brought these." Apu quickly reached out and said—"Let me see." Then, after examining them thoroughly with the adults, she said—"Falcon eggs! Right?" The shepherd presented irrefutable evidence. There was no reason to doubt whether it was falcon eggs; he had risked his life to collect them from the top of some tall tree—but he wouldn't give them for less than two annas. That day, or the next. Just before evening, while searching for broken crabs for Durga's puja, while banging the broken pieces of cloth for cleaning Salita's pot and pan, something suddenly hit her from behind and fell on the floor. It was dark inside the room, and she couldn't see clearly. Durga got up from the cot and came out, saying—"Oma, there are two big eggs here."

Ah, the egg! Have you seen it? The mother bird has laid it right inside the house. It seemed to Apu that the caretaker was much more clever in worldly matters than he was. He wouldn't agree to anything without cash. After much bargaining, he settled for four pennies. Apu borrowed two pennies from his sister, paid him, and took the two eggs. Besides that, the caretaker also took some *kuri* (bitter gourd). These *kuri* were Apu's life, his half-kingdom; he never parting with them, not even in exchange for a princess; but what use is a *begun* (eggplant) to us for flying in the sky, mother? Many times in the afternoon, Apu would sit and listen to stories and tell stories. He knew that Narottam Das Babu was much older than his father, older than Anuda Ray, but this old age somehow made Apu feel that the old man was his companion. When he came here, all his shyness, all his embarrassment, would disappear. While telling stories, Apu would laugh openly, say things he wouldn't dare say otherwise, and the old man would call him "young master" with a scolding tone. Narottam Das would say, "Grandson, you are my *gour* (beloved). When I see you, I feel that my *gour*, my beloved, was just as beautiful, just as radiant, just as innocent as you are at your age—she had the same kind of dreamy eyes." For a long time, Apu had a great bond with the old man, Narottam Das Babu, the honor of Ganguli neighborhood. The fair-complexioned, divine, always joyful old man lived in a small thatched house. He didn't particularly like noise, often stayed alone, and in the evenings, would sometimes go and sit at the *chandi mandap* (pavilion) of the Gangulis. Since Apu's childhood, he had been taken to Narottam Das by Harihar's son, and since then, the two had become very close. Sometimes Apu would go to the old man's house, call out, "Grandpa, are you there?" The old man would quickly come out of the house, spread a mat made of palm leaves, and say, "Come, grandchild, come, sit down, sit down." The old man would bring out 'Prembhakti Chandrika' from the house. His most beloved book, he would be mesmerized and absorbed while reading it in solitude.

The picture was quite old. When it was finished, the old man said, "I will give you the bookcase when I die, grandson. There will be no insult to the books in your hands." On the way back, Apu picked a basketful of Mucukunda-Champa flowers from the trees in the courtyard of the late Nirottam Das. He placed them on the bed. Then, in the evening, when the lamps were lit, he had to sit down to study as per his father's orders. He never studied for more than an hour or two, but to Apu, it felt like many nights had passed! After getting a holiday, he went to sleep, lying down on the bed. In another place, Apu might have been ashamed to say this, but here he laughed and said, "Grandfather, if that happens, then show me the picture of that bookcase." One of his disciples would occasionally compose and recite verses to him. The old man, annoyed, would say, "You've composed the verse well, but don't recite it to me, son. The poet was Vidyapati Chandidas. After him, it sounds bad to me. Go and recite it somewhere else." Beyond the simple, humble path of life, a stream of liberation seemed to flow here, and Apu's mind somehow caught hold of it. To him, it felt as intimate and joyful as the company of fresh soil, birds, and trees. That's why the attraction to coming to the grandfather's place was so strong. "Thakurji, what can I do? I brought this boy with me." Pathar Panchali.

Apu eagerly gathered dry vines and branches. This was their first forest feast. Apu still couldn't believe that there would be a real, proper meal cooked here, not like the children's forest feasts he had experienced so many times before – dusty rice, stale potato curry, and jackfruit leaf luchis? He took out a good coconut shell, filled it with two 'pola' of oil from the oil pot. He brought out the supplies and handed them to his brother, saying, "Take them quickly, hurry, Apu – leave it there and come back, make sure the cow doesn't eat it." Durga didn't agree, she said, "Apu, there's some panta and aloo bhaja in the pot, take it and give it to your mother!" After she left through the creaking door again, the two of them started carrying the things. Matar's mother was not very old, nor did she look weak, but after her husband's death, she had become distressed, faded, and emaciated. She said, "I went to the field to collect wood – should I bring back some 'buich' garlands?"

Durga, after searching the forest garden and finding quite a bit of produce on her own, shook her head and said without turning around—she wouldn't buy it. At that moment, her mother, with her youngest son trailing behind, entered the courtyard through the kitchen door. Durga asked, "Where's Tamerer's wife?" But what a beautiful bell! What a beautiful spot for a forest feast! All around, thick forest undergrowth. Her sister-in-law whispered from the other side—"Should I make a *chhori* (sweet rice pudding)?" Her little brother loves to eat *patashi* (rice flakes) with two kinds of milk. . . . . Durga herself cut down some of the wild forest on the other side of the dense, forested interior of Nilmani Roy's estate, cleared it, and said to her brother, "Stand here and see if mother is coming from the *tentul* (palm) grove— I'll quickly bring out some rice." As the crimson evening descends on the peaceful field's forest, walking back through the bamboo grove, only her son's face remains in her mind. It was in this *panchali* (crossroads) that Nitham Pishi (aunt) used to live. Where did she go after getting married so long ago? She never returned to her father's house. It's been a long time—stories heard since childhood. Everyone says she got married in Murshidabad district. How far is that? Where exactly? No one knows her whereabouts anymore; no one knows if she's even alive. Her father never saw Nitham Pishi again, nor her mother, nor her siblings. Everyone has passed away one by one. Oh, how can people be so cruel! Why doesn't anyone look for her! For how many days has this Nitham Pishi shed tears thinking about this! What will she think if she suddenly returns today—seeing this desolate, forest-filled, abandoned father's house? The daughter of Kalinath Chakraborty from the other side of the river—wearing a slightly soiled sari, with thin glass bangles on her hands, a slightly tall build, and a very simple face. Her father, being a *yugir bamun* (a Brahmin of the *yugir* caste), wasn't invited to social gatherings in the village, and they lived in a very secluded way on one side of the village. Their situation wasn't good either. Bini immediately liked Durga's *formais* (formal address). It was as if she had stumbled upon a profitable venture while visiting. A mixed feeling of excitement and hesitation was evident in her speech and demeanor, wondering whether they would accept her as a participant in the festival.

Durga said, "Bini, bring two more pieces of dry wood— the fire isn't burning well. The oil lamp flickers, the forest beneath the banyan tree is ablaze with flowers on the Sheora trees, half-burnt dry grass. The Khandan birds dance and run about on it, behind the thicket of bushes in the secluded place. On the first day of spring, new sprouts appear in the bushes, the Hingul flowers bloom in the burnt patch, the lime tree's flowers, though many have fallen, still appear white in clusters on the upper branches. Durga seems to be clinging to this familiar landscape, this well-trodden path of the village, with a kind of desperate longing these days. The path of the courtyard, the bamboo grove behind their house, the shaded riverbank— everything remains steeped in the impending sense of separation. Her little golden brother, Apu, whom she can't bear to be without, makes her shiver at the thought of leaving him behind. She doesn't know why, but these days she feels something is about to happen in her life, something that will never happen again. Day and night, amidst play, dust, work, and chores, she often thinks about it... She can't quite understand what it is, or how she knows it's coming, but she feels it, she just feels it, it's coming... coming... Bini immediately ran to fetch the wood, and a little later, brought a bundle of dry banyan branches and said, 'This will have to do, Durga Didi, won't you bring more?'... When Durga said, 'Bini, come here—he'll eat here,' and 'Apu, bring two more bowls of rice,' Bini's face lit up with joy. A little later, Bini brought water. In the middle of the rice, a voice was heard calling from Apu's courtyard. Durga said, 'It sounds like Bini's voice—go and call Apu.' A little later, a black girl of Durga's age came behind Apu and said with a slight smile, and a hint of hesitation, 'What's happening, Durga Didi? What if it happens to me too? What if I have to leave my father, mother, and Apu and never see them again? Never again? Never again? This house, the courtyard, the path to the riverbank?' Durga said, 'Come, Bini, bring the rice and vegetables—what if he doesn't give it? What if he doesn't give it even if you ask?'

Salt had been completely excluded from the list of cooking ingredients, not even retaining a pinch. But in great joy, the three sat down to eat boiled rice with potato curry and half-burnt eggplant fritters. It was Durga's first time cooking, and she was enjoying her own culinary creation with a mixture of surprise and delight! To eat a proper meal, with real rice, sitting amidst this wilderness, in this pile of dry utensils, next to the palm leaves scattered on the palm tree base, seemed almost unbelievable to Apu. It was as if he couldn't believe that their forest feast could include actual rice and eggplant fritters! Then, with great joy, the three sat down to eat, with only rice and eggplant fritters and nothing else. As Apu raised his spoon to his mouth, Durga looked at him and asked eagerly, "How is the eggplant fritter?" Thus began their sweet life together, enriched with countless treasures of joy and countless moments of light and radiance. They were but a small group of travelers on an endless path, stretching far beyond the horizon, and their reception of the path's ups and downs, its flowers and sorrows, was entirely new. Joy! Joy! The joy of expansion, the joy of the path that lies beyond the vast, snow-capped mountain range, a path not yet seen amidst the occasional obstacles in life! The joy of today! Durga poured a little oil into the pan and fried the eggplant, creating a feast of joy from the smallest, insignificant things. A little later, she looked at Apu in amazement and called him, saying, "Look, Apu, it's turning out just like real eggplant fritters! It's just like Mom's cooking!" As they ate, Durga looked at Apu and laughed a happy laugh. The morsel of rice seemed to get stuck in her throat with joy. While eating, Bini nervously asked, "Is there any milk or ghee left?" They used to mix it with boiled potato curry. In the village, when a Brahmin asked for water, people would bring it in a pot; they would even have to strain it. He hesitantly showed Apu's glass and said, "Apu, pour a little water on my palm?" Apu, having tasted the water, said, "Yes, it will be there."

Mother's mother came to collect firewood, and seeing it, she would take it, Didi—very thieving—Apur's heart was pounding. On the back of that heap, there's another small heap, and within that, Apu had hidden a box of beedi sticks. If Didi went and rummaged through it—what a beneficial milk drink, Didi? Some time ago, Nira's brother-in-law and a friend came to Nira's house. Where is their house near Kolkata? Very babu-like, they smoke a lot of beedi. This time, they ate, and then, in the middle of the conversation, they put a box of beedi in Durgi's lap. Jadu said, "It's fine, Didi, but it doesn't seem right—Ashwini—what should I say, Didi? Will you eat rice again that day? Durgi said, "Wait, quickly bring some oil..." "Go on, tell her—no, Didi, you go and take a sip." After the meal, Durgi said, "The pot won't be discarded, but I'll have a picnic again—how about hanging it above that culvert?" "Sorrow will come, but you'll see good times later—still, I don't have the courage." Durgi said, "Come, Bini, won't you take a glass and eat?" Anuda Roy's neighbor, Yajeshwar's wife, Harimati, was saying, "I don't know if it's true or false, but for some time I've been hearing all sorts of things—I don't believe Bapu, the daughter-in-law isn't like that. Again, I heard that Niren secretly gave money, and the daughter-in-law sent the money somewhere, and Niren's handwritten receipt came back and fell into Gokul's hands—all this." "What will happen, Bapu, after hearing all that?" Niren heard and said, "You all can torture someone together, and there's no fault in that?" "You all can think whatever you want, just order Bou-Thakrun once, and I will take her, like my lost mother, and drag her away with this punishment—then you all can do whatever you want." Then there was a lot of commotion for a while—before the sandhya (evening prayers), he called a car from Gayalpara and left with his belongings. Hearing the whole story, Sarbajaya was very surprised. Meanwhile, through her husband, Anuda Roy had requested Niren's father to write a letter regarding this marriage. Nira had invited Nirob to his house twice—he really liked the boy. Harihar had explained to him many times that Niren's father was a big man—would he give his daughter in marriage to their family again?

Sarbajaya but hasn't given up hope; somewhere in her heart, she seems to have found courage—this marriage proposal isn't impossible, it will happen. Harihar, though he doesn't believe it in his heart, has given in to his wife's requests and has indeed sent several messages to Anuda Roy. But now that a great misfortune has befallen him, Durgar's heart is filled with sympathy, and along with it, a strong protest against Khuriramar's disgrace and various comforting words for his sorrow are vaguely tangled in her mind. Unable to express everything, she simply said, "Oh, that friend, that Thakurma! She says it will be alright, that this kind of trouble will pass—there's no one to blame—so what, is he a small man? There's no place to go for two days—so what if I go on the roof of Didi's veranda? The work will be done right here. She consulted with Nader and bought ten pieces of red paper from Harish Yugir's shop in the village for three paise. That day, sitting alone in this dense forest, she secretly lit a cigarette—it didn't taste good, it was bitter, had a strange kind of harshness—after two puffs, she couldn't smoke anymore, but she couldn't bring herself to throw away the remaining part of the cigarette; in an empty cigarette box collected from Nader's brother-in-law, she hid several of those burnt bits in the thicket of broken veranda pillars in that desolate forest! On the day she smoked her first cigarette, when the cigarette was finished, she felt a strange fear in her chest, and then she smelled the smoke on her face. After smoking several puffs of the matured flower, she carefully wiped her face with her hand and examined it several times before re-entering human society that day. I understand that the news of Bamaalsuddha's arrest was always heard from the girls in the neighborhood. Pathar Panchali—7 Pathar Panchali 0 97. A few days later. Bhubon Mukhujar's house, Ranu's sister's wedding, is over, but the relatives haven't all left yet. There are many children as well. Durga has become quite familiar with a little girl, her name is Tuni. Her father has also come. Today, after noon, he has gone to his workplace, leaving his wife and daughter here for a few days. An hour later, while that Thakurma was doing some work in the room, Tuni's mother's voice reached her ears. That Thakurma came to the veranda and said, "What, are you laughing?"

Tunir's mother, excited and busy, was rummaging through the bedding, lifting mattresses, overturning pillows, saying, "I had placed that little gold box of my vermillion right here by the bed a moment ago, and Khoka was crying and making a fuss when he came in from the house - and now I can't find it - where could it have gone?" Everyone searched together for a while, but the box was nowhere to be found. Then the old woman inquired and learned that the children of the house had all gone to eat first, and then Durga, who was among the outsiders, had left through the veranda door. Sej Thakurun's youngest daughter, Teni, whispered, "When we went to eat, I saw Durga going out through the veranda door, and now she's back again." Tunir's mother hadn't said anything yet - everyone was a little surprised to think of blaming a well-bred girl, especially since they had seen Durga around for several days, and she was quite charming and well-dressed - was it even possible that she would steal it? "She probably didn't take it," she said. "Why not?" someone asked. "Take it and give it back, or tell us where it is - it's getting late." "Be quiet!" said Sej Thakurun. "Do you know what she took or didn't take? I know for sure." The shady path in the blazing sun seemed to weigh heavily on her mind. "It's for her brother. She's like that. How many times has it happened? If she's not home for a long time, she thinks of all sorts of imaginary sorrows for her brother." Durga's face had dried up and become so small, and her expression was such that it was as if her soul had stuck to the inside of her mouth. She couldn't understand what was being said indistinctly. Sej Thakurun whispered some advice, and then, in a harsh voice, said to Durga, "Give back the box, double the amount, and tell me where you hid it - tell me now." Sarbajaya, listening with interest, asked in a curious tone, "What did Boudi say, Durga?" ... "Is there something wrong with Niren's words?" Don't cry, Khurir Ma, I'll come to you every day." Durga said in a shy voice, "Why didn't you ask yesterday at the ghat? I know..." Apu once asked, "Did you hear something from Khurir Ma? Master Moshai won't be coming anymore?"

Durga threatened, "Do you know—ya—wearing a dirty, torn piece of cloth, looking like a white, muddy doll with saffron and vermillion on her skin, she was sitting alone in front of the house, playing with eggplant seeds. She wants money to buy things, and I can't give it to her—it pained me deeply. That day, Thakur said, 'Oh, what is that? What are you holding in your hand?' Durga was as if struck—her feet were trembling. She—no, Didi, I left her here. I remember well, right here—on the veranda by the 98/7 path, I grabbed Durga's hand and dragged her to the very middle of the courtyard. I brought her and said, 'Durga, tell me, where did you leave it? ... Tell me, won't you? ... No, you don't know, you fool—you don't know anything—tell me quickly, or I'll break all your teeth into powder. I'll do it right now!' Tell me quickly—tell me now—what was going on in Durga's head? She looked around helplessly, in great distress. With a dry tongue, she managed to say, 'I don't know, aunt, they all left. I too—' While speaking, she looked fearfully at Thakrunu and started moving towards the wall. Perhaps from the last words, some pain touched Sej Thakrunu. He suddenly roared and exclaimed, 'Oh, you little thief, you night-raider, you won't give it? Let's see if you give it or not!' Before he could finish, he pounced on Durga. Falling, he started banging her head hard against the wall. 'Tell me where you left it—tell me—quickly—tell me—' Hearing the commotion, the daughter-in-law of the blacksmith from the neighboring house came to see what was happening. Ranur's mother hadn't been there for so long—after lunch, she was sitting in the blacksmith's house, chatting—she came too. Tunir's mother quickly rushed over, grabbed Sej Thakrunu's hand, and said, 'What are you doing? What is this? Why are you beating my girl like that? Let go—enough, that's enough—stop it!' Sej Thakrunu said, 'You're no good talker! You'll see, you'll see—you've been digesting things from my house—do you understand what you've found? I'll teach you—' Sej Thakrunu said, 'Well, will I listen to you? I've already decided—looking at his face, I understood everything.'"

"Well, enough chatter, just give it to me, give it to me. I won't say anything—just give me my things back," Tunir's mother rushed forward to grab his hand. "He said he'd give it back," a family member said. "Look, he's right there, isn't he? He gave the thief's medicine—it's all settled now. Why? It's a lie—Durga's head was ringing from the blow. He was disoriented, lost in the crowd. He only glanced at it once. Have you never heard of a rich man's daughter being stolen?" the aforementioned family member said. "Isn't this neighborhood our home? Tunir's mother said, 'Quick, someone bring some water in a teapoy's bucket. Look—' Later, everyone together convinced him for a while. He doesn't understand. He leaned against the wall and said, 'I don't know, aunt—telephone—better than the amla tree in the garden—the street vendor at 099.' Someone said, 'It's a street thief.' Tunir cried seeing the injured man. The aforementioned family member said, 'Oh, he's bleeding...' No one noticed the blood dripping from Durga's nose. A bit of his chest cloth was stained with blood. When the water came, Rani's mother splashed it on his face and made him sit down. It was the time for the Baroari Chorkapuja in his village. The village's Baidyanath Majumdar came to collect donations, holding a donation register. Harihar said, 'No, no, this time my one rupee donation has become useless—what state am I in to give one rupee?' Baidyanath said, 'No, no, this time it's Nilamani Hajra's group. No one in this area has ever seen such a group. This time, Mahesh Sekhar's boys' choir from Palpara Bazar will sing, I want to compete with them—you don't know him yet.' 'There's no medicine other than the thief's,' he gave it to him. 'Has the injured man recovered yet? If he does, will I get it back?' Harihar's words seemed to pierce me with a thorn. After that—his head was buzzing, he sat down disoriented. Rani's mother said, 'Why are you bowing your head like that? ... Poor girl...' Rani's mother held him and led him out through the side door into the courtyard. She said, 'It's good you came out of the house today, whatever the reason!'

"Yes, yes—open the tin box properly," Baidyanath acted as if the lives and deaths of the people of Nischindipur depended on the success of this competition. One of them said, "Still, can't you imagine what it would look like?" ... Not a single tear fell from his eyes—it's hard to say if the old man would have let him go so easily, but public opinion began to turn against him... So he was forced to release the accused. Durga walked out of the tin box in a daze, and everyone present, including the women, stared at her. Ranu's mother said, "The tears have dried up from fear. Are there any tears left in his eyes?" "It's like this every year on the day of Nilapuja, the monks break the thorns on a small date palm tree in the afternoon—now Durga." She came and gave the news that this year the thorns on that tree would not be broken, the monks had already decided on another tree by the river. Durga and Apu joined the group with the village boys and went there. Then the thorn-breaking dance began, and everyone went up to the roof. The Nilapuja pandal was surrounded by date palm branches—the Sheorabon and other forests in the Charkatal field had been cleared. There, Bhuban Apu pulled a bamboo and went into the house and said, "A good bamboo, Baba, it will be good for your pen, it was lying in the Dober dharer bamboo basket, I picked it up." Then, with a smile, he raised it a bit and showed it, "It will be good for your pen, Baba, won't it? How good it is, right? There is no more delay in Charkatal." The monks from every house have come out to dance. Durga and Apu gave up food and sleep and followed the group of monks, going from house to house in the village. Housewives give old clothes, give tea—some give a clock—those who can't give anything except two teas—because of this, this group never comes to their house! After ten or twelve days of the monks' dance, Nilapuja arrived on the eve of Charkatal. The Jatra group is coming—hasn't arrived yet, when evening passed, people say it will arrive in the morning car, when the morning passed, they wait in the hope of the afternoon. Apu's bathing and eating have stopped... At night, Apu can't sleep, the curiosity and joy are like the irresistible surge of a flood after a dam has broken!

The bed creaked from side to side! The journey will begin! The journey will begin! The journey will begin! They met the girls from the travelers' houses - Rani, Puti, Tunu - in their house, where there was strict rule, like Durga, where they were not allowed to roam freely wherever they wanted. With great difficulty, they had come up to the roof. A thorn pricked my body. All around was the dark evening, black clouds in the sky, the bamboo grove, the smell of the cremation ground, the ghosts and spirits, Shiva's followers - the little boy's mind was filled with wonder, fear, mystery, and unknown feelings. He said in a voice of terror - How will I go home, Thakuma?! . . . - No, won't I? If you come many nights, you will see. Come on, brother, let's go home - tonight is not good - Hey Apu, come on, Dugaadi. Rani said - Aha, so you understand and will know? Someone will die. He will be tied up and taken to that cremation ground's roof. He will be brought back to life, then he will bring the dead man's head. . . While talking, he will come - he has all the mantras - who again - Shiva's army, there is no time to call their names at midnight - Ram Ram - Ram Ram - Ram Ram - the old woman cackled. - So why are you making such a fuss, father, on this day? . . . Come with me. I will take you through the Nil puja's thali khana, then I will take you forward. Whatever happens - later, laughing, she said - How wonderful, Niluda has become the leader of the ghost party this time? . . . . I came to Dasu Kumar's house - didn't you see Ranu? Tutu said, tonight the Sardar will go to cut the cremation ground - mother has forbidden it, such a big girl should not go anywhere leaving the neighborhood, Durdha quietly left through the back lanes. The old woman said - Have they all seen it, haven't they? . . . What else is there like that smell. . . So, I don't know, I don't know what will happen? . . . Durga said - I know your words, you don't know. Ashwa said - What happened, Thakurma? The chariot came from heaven, the twenty-four Kuti Vanbharsha went with Shiva - the dead of the Satya Yuga and the soil of the Kali Yuga. Shiva, Shiva, call out, brother, strike the wood - at the intersection of the Kumar neighborhood, after noon, after standing with all the boys, in the distance, a bullock cart caught his eye, one, two, three, four, five carts loaded with makeup boxes! Patu counted them one by one with his fingers and said in a happy tone - Apu, let's go behind them, let's go to their house and see, shall we go? The people of the group were going behind the makeup carts, everyone had terracotta pots on their heads, many had shoes in their hands.

Patu, pointing to a bearded man, said, "It seems like a king's attire, or not, Apu? His father says, 'Study, study, sit and study now, you'll hear the sound of the drums when the procession starts.' Then it might be then, or it might be now. An old man, he always stays abroad these days, he doesn't want to bother the boy by coming home for a short time. Apu, with pride and anger, tears welling in his eyes, started again in a choked voice, 'How many days does he have to stay here anyway? But the procession doesn't start in the morning, the news is that it will start in the afternoon.' In the afternoon, Apu goes to his mother and, crying, describes his father's tyranny in an unprecedented manner. Sarbajaya comes and says, "Don't bother the boy, go on. You haven't been home for even a month a year for the past year, and will he become a completely disreputable man for teaching him for one day? Come and tell Rajlakshmi about the decorations and the novelty of the red and blue paper hanging on the bamboo. Apu thinks that in that insignificant, extremely familiar place where he plays twice a day in the attic, an unprecedented, unreal event like the procession of Neelmani Hazar's group will happen today or tomorrow, is this even possible! It's as if he can't believe it. The color of the sky and the air has completely changed - Apu returns home with great enthusiasm and sees his father sitting in the veranda and writing, humming a song. He thinks that his father has also learned about the procession arriving, that's why he is so spirited. Waving his hand enthusiastically, he says, "The decorations are absolutely five-star, father! What a group! - Getting up in the morning, Apu has to sit and study. After a while, he says in a choked voice - I will go to the twelfth grade, father, everyone is going, will I study sitting here now? If the procession starts right now?" Harihar was writing armor on paper to make a Harishchandra's school billi, looking up and saying in a tone of surprise, "What decorations, you fool?" Apu is surprised, his father doesn't know about such a big event! He considers his father to be completely merciful. But today, Apu felt as if some tremendous force from outside had taken him away from his father. His father is sitting alone in the lonely, shaded, bamboo-surrounded house in the afternoon and writing. But he doesn't have the power to keep him seated.

If someone says now, "Koka, come sit down to read," a sudden, terrifying protest seems to arise from all around—"The group will arrive this afternoon." A flash of blood surges from the chest, spiraling up to the head. . . . Apu got leave. He spent the entire afternoon on the twelfth floor. In the evening, he came home to eat before boarding the Yatra bus. His father is sitting on the veranda, writing a letter. On other days, at this time, he has to sit with his father and read a book. Later, the boy gets scolded, and his father arranges all sorts of amusements to keep him happy. He says, "Koka, quickly write a letter to Shillong, hey, you ghostly father! . . ." Apu laughs at all the strange things he hears, quickly writes the letter, and shows it. He says, "Father, if this happens, I will leave." . . . His father says, "Go now, go now, Koka—okay, quickly write a letter to Panchali Diki on the road"—and tells him something else strange. Apu laughs again. While going up to the twelfth floor, Durga calls out to him from behind—"Listen, Apu!" Then, coming closer, she says with a smiling face, "Give me your hand, Diki!" As soon as Apu gives her his hand, Durga places two coins in it, takes his hand in both of hers, clenches it into a fist, and says, "Buy two 'murki' of sweets, or if 'nichu' is on sale, buy 'nichu'." Seven days before this, Apu had quietly asked his sister, "Do you have coins in your doll's box? Can I have one?" Durga had said, "What will you do with a coin?" Apu, looking at his sister's face, smiled slightly and said, "I'll eat 'nichu'—" After finishing, he laughed again shyly. In an explanatory tone, he said, "They tied up the 'macha' in the 'bostomder' garden, sister, they dropped a lot of 'nichu', six for one coin in two baskets—these are so big, just like vermillion, buy 'satu', buy 'sadhon'—" After pausing for a bit, he asked, "Do you have any, sister?" Durga didn't have anything in her doll's box that day; she couldn't give him anything. Seeing Apu walk away with a sad face, she felt very bad that day, so yesterday evening, she asked her father for two coins to show him. How heavy Durga's heart is, unable to hide the joy on her face, with a complexion as white as gold. The Yatra begins. There is no world, no one—only Apu, and the group of Nilamani Hazar's Yatra ahead.

Before evening, the *behala* (drum) played such beautiful tunes, a true *behalia* (drum player). The village boys had never heard anything so good—suddenly, their hearts were filled with a melancholic, sorrowful feeling. It was as if their father was still sitting at home, writing. He should have come to see his daughter, but she couldn't come either. When the royal ministers' group, resplendent in their finery, arrived at the decorated pavilion with its hanging festoons and the glow of lamps, Apu thought, "My father has never seen anything like this!" Everyone from the village had come to the pavilion; there wasn't a single person left from their neighborhood. Where was her father? ... The procession quickly moved forward. He had heard about the boy-troops' procession before—what a difference! What splendor! What faces! ... As Apu was walking, his mother came from the *ghat* (riverbank) and said, "Do one thing, Apu! Go and pick two leaves of *gandhabhedali* (frangipani) from Ranur's garden—Apu's body is unwell, give him some *jhol* (soup)." At his mother's words, he rushed to Ranur's garden—searching for *gandhabhedali* leaves in the tall, dense thicket of weeds in the garden, he happily swayed his head, reciting a rhyme he had learned from his aunt in his childhood—suddenly, someone said from behind, "Hey, little boy, can you see well?" ... Apu didn't know when his father had arrived and was sitting at the pavilion. Turning to his father, he said, "Father, has Didi (elder sister) arrived?" ... "Didn't I tell you? She's in the *chik* (cough)?" "There will be an uproar. Everyone will say—'No, no, this can't be! The procession is sitting down! ...' It's as if some powerful force of joy has made my father completely helpless, innocent, and weak. It's impossible, even to utter the words to go home." How Apu's heart ached for his father. Durga said, "Apu, tell your mother I'll go see too." Apu said, "Mother, why doesn't Didi come with me? She'll sit in the *chik*. Mother said, "Stay here for now; I'll go with those girls from their house—they'll go with me, they'll go now." *Panchali* (a type of folk song) of the road

The nose-ring is lost, there's no happiness in the heart—www. The heart is changing—## Amidst all these events, during the long song of the *juri* (a type of drum) and the *behala* (drum) playing, Apu's father called him and said, "Are you sleeping? ... Will you go home, little one? ... Sleep! Disaster! No, he won't go home." Calling from outside, his father said, "Here, take these two *poysa* (coins), father, buy something to eat, I'm going home."

It was his wish that he would buy and eat a one-paisa betel leaf. Seeing the extreme crowd near the betel leaf shop, he hesitated, and then, to his surprise, he saw the commander, Bichitraketu, buying a betel leaf while in full armor – surrounded by the crowd of the Rath Yatra. More surprising still! ... Prince Ajay came from somewhere and, tapping Bichitraketu on the shoulder with his hand, said, "Don't eat a one-paisa betel leaf, young man." The commander's loyalty to the prince was evident – he shook his head and said, "Alas, I have no money – what did the barber say to me when he applied the paste?" The prince said again, "Don't eat it, young man. Have I ever given you anything?" Bichitraketu walked away without a word. Then where did the king go, where did the queen go! ... In the dense forest, only the royal siblings, Prince Ajay and Princess Indulekha, wander about! There is no one to look at their faces, no one to show them the way in the deserted forest. Indulekha went a little further to pick fruits for her younger brother and never returned. Ajay wanders in the forest looking for his sister – then, suddenly, by the riverbank, he finds Indulekha's dead body – she has died from eating poisonous berries in her hunger. Ajay's mournful song – "Where did you go, my beloved, in this forest wilderness?" – hearing this, Apu had been looking with fascinated eyes for so long – and can no longer bear it, tears welling up and flowing. Apu will be of the same age. Small and slender, with a beautiful singing voice. Apu looks at him with fascination – he has a great desire to talk. Suddenly, emboldened by some impulse, he steps forward – a little shyly, he says, "Will you have a betel leaf?" Ajay is a little surprised, he says, "Will you feed me? Don't bring it." They both think. To think is to make a mistake. Apu is fascinated, overwhelmed! This is the one he has been secretly looking at for so long – this prince, Ajay. Through hundreds of his mother's fairy tale stories, through hundreds of childhood's dreamy, fascinated imaginations, his heart has been looking for him – these eyes, this face, this voice! Exactly what he wants. Ajay asks, "Where is your home, brother? ... Someone has invited me to their house, they feed me very well. Who eats at your house? ...

When the king, dethroned by the minister's secret conspiracy, was wandering in the forest with his wife and son, then

The forest resounded with the sound of sobbing. Then, to hold back the flood of sorrow for a long time, the king, holding the hands of his wife and son, would stop one foot, then advance one foot, not like a king going into exile in the real world unless it was in front of a group of people. The trusted royal general trembled with rage, enough to be a matter of hatred even for a patient with epilepsy. He sat staring with wide, bewildered eyes, stunned and amazed; he had never seen anything like it. What a swordsmanship in the battle between the King of Kalinga and Bichitraketu! ... gone, I think the bushes are destroyed, or else the eyes of some unfortunate spectator are gone! Dawn breaks—bushes are calmed—bushes are calmed! ... but strange battle tactics—everyone escapes—blessed Bichitraketu, how happy Apur's whole body is, he says—brother, someone goes to eat at our house—today I saw him playing the dholak—you go from tomorrow, I will come and take you—whether the dholak player eats at the house where he used to eat—after the two of them wandered around for a while, Ajay says—I am leaving brother, I have a song in the last scene—how does my voice sound to you? Then Durga whispered to her mother—not to let him sing that song of the past—"Where did I leave you, my beloved, in this forest wilderness"—Indulekha's words, with all her compassion, affection, and sweetness, seemed to bring back her elder sister from the past life of some ancient land—yesterday, in Indulekha's manner of speaking, in every step, the elder sister seemed to emerge. When she lovingly embraced her younger brother in the deep forest, she went to gather fruits to feed him and got lost in a deserted forest—that one incident of the wild fruits of that one day kept coming to Apur's mind. As the village girls were going on the way to the ghat, talking, Apur felt that some were slow, some were the Queen of Kalinga, some were Rajputra Ajay's mother, Basubati. In her words to her sister, in the gestures of her hands and feet, the princess Indulekha seemed like a mirror!

The Indulekha that he had arranged yesterday, Mandu was not at all pleased with it, but in his mind, he had created an image of the princess Indulekha, and that image, with its complexion like his mother's, large, dark eyes, beautiful face, and beautiful hair, was what he carried with him. Durga asked, "How was the journey, Apu...? I've never seen anything like it. What kind of music did you imagine when the princess died...? Apu's nights are filled with the sound of the *behala* (drum) in his sleep. In the morning, he wakes up a little late—he sleeps soundly at night, not with the satisfaction of sleep, and the sharp light of the sun feels like needles in his eyes. His eyes burn when he cries. But in his ears, a *behala-dhol-mandirar* (drum circle) ensemble still seems to be playing, as if he is sitting at the *yatra* (theatrical performance) even then. When the *yatra* ends at night, Apu comes home. On the way, he talks to everyone he meets, and it feels to him like the *yatra* is still going on. At home, his mother asks, "Oh Apu, how was the *yatra*?..." Apu feels like the princess Indulekha is calling out in the deep silence of the forest. What kind of sorrow has possessed her? With great joy, she says, "From tomorrow, the Ajay who dressed up as the mother will come to eat at our house." Apu takes him along to the riverbank. There, Ajay says, "Brother, your voice is sweet—why don't you sing a song...?" Apu really wants to sing to him and gain courage, but he is very afraid—what if he sings in front of this boy from the *yatra* troupe? Under the large *shimul* tree by the river, they sit down some distance away from the bamboo groves, following the path. Apu overcomes his shyness with great difficulty and sings a song:

"Take the weight off your feet, O Ananta, and sing the song of the *panchali* (queen) of the *ray* (king), which he heard from his father."

Ajay is astonished and says, "Brother, do you have such a voice?" So, he sings, leaving Ajay's voice behind—

Apur is eager to join the troupe. It's surprising that he doesn't know that working in a traveling theater group is the ultimate purpose of human life. He secretly tells Ajay, "Well, brother, if I join the group now, will you teach me everything?" Ajay says, "Now, this friend, is this boy's party like this? And if there's no one at home to do well, how many days has Apu been asking his sister, 'Yes, sister, do I have a voice? Will there be singing?'... His sister has been reassuring him all along. But no matter how reassuring his sister's words are, today, hearing the praise from a renowned singer of a famous traveling theater group, Apu couldn't even think of a reply in joy. 'Sing another one...' Encouraged, Apu sings another one—'Sitting by the riverbank, longing for food, my heart is submerged in the river's edge.' His sister, having learned from somewhere, starts singing along, the melody pleases Apu very much, he learned it from her—when there's no one at home, they both sing it together from time to time. A long time passed. The boat is moving along the river with a 'splash, splash' sound, someone is searching along the water's edge on the riverbank. Ajay asks, "What are you searching for, brother?" Apu says, "Frogs are searching, they'll catch hidden fish—then he said, 'Well, brother, why don't you stay with us?... Wherever you go, you'll stay?... Such eyes, such a sweet voice!' Besides, that prince Ajay is with Apur! Having wandered in the forest and suddenly met the helpless, disheveled son of the beautiful king, he was stunned—he had found a lifelong friend! And how could he let him go? When the song ended, Ajay was overjoyed with praise. He said, "If you have such a voice, whichever group you join, they'll make you sing and give you a lot of money, I tell you! Besides, if you learn more—teach me that song of yours..." Then the two joined their voices and sang together. "Not with me in the forest, I bought a 'deshli' with my own money, kept it under the pillow, and sleep, take out the 'deshli' to smoke, and don't give it away. I say, I'm afraid at night, give me the 'deshli'." "In the darkness, my heart is trembling, that's why that day I wanted to kill such a wretched thing!"

The landlord, pleased with the dancing, didn't know what to say— his delicate boy-ish figure disappeared into the shadows of the veranda, hidden behind the overgrown bushes. Suddenly, Sarbajaya felt a pang of affection for the young man, a grown boy, ah, at this age, managing his own livelihood. If only my Apur were like that— Mago! ... Five days later, when the traveling troupe finished their performance, they prepared to leave. Just like Ajay, the landlord's son, he would come whenever he could. In these few days, he had become like another Apur to Sarbajaya. Hearing that the young boy, about Apur's age, had no one in the world, Sarbajaya had taken great care of him for these few days, just like her own Apur. Durga had even shown him to her brother— she had taught him to sing, told him so many stories, told him about her aunt, the three of them together had drawn big houses in the courtyard and played Ganga-Yamuna, and forced him to eat more at mealtimes. In a traveling troupe, who knows where one sleeps, where one eats, who knows what one eats; ah, the affection of home and family, a feeling he had never experienced in his life, he had tasted it unexpectedly today, and like a greedy person, he didn't want to leave at all. Then everyone walked him a little way in front of their house. While leaving, he repeatedly asked that he be given a letter when the didi got married. But months and years passed, and nothing happened. No horse-riding scholar with a turban arrived at midnight with an appointment letter for the position of head priest, nor did any giant from an Arabian novel fly a jeweled palace from the sky and place it in their broken house. Rather, the dilapidated door of that house became more dilapidated day by day, the hinges seemed to be hanging by a thread; even if it had been there before, it wouldn't be there now, yet he hadn't given up hope altogether. Harihar, too, every time he came from abroad, would say something hopeful, as if everything was alright, shikhan—www. While leaving, he suddenly opened his small pouch and took out five rupees earned with great difficulty and tried to give it to Sarbajaya.

With a hint of embarrassment, she said, "With this five rupees, I could at least get a decent piece of cloth for Didi's wedding." Sarbajaya replied, "No, no, don't mention it. You don't need to give money. You have so much to do, managing the household after the wedding..."

Even in the twentieth chapter, he wouldn't relent. It took a lot of persuasion to finally dissuade him. Sarbajaya frequently nags her husband about her daughter's wedding. She has written several letters to her husband, Narendra, through his father, Rajeshwar Babu. That hope still lingers. Harihar says, "Why are you worried? These are matters of the rich. Will Rajeshwar Kaka ask us again?" Still, Sarbajaya doesn't give up; she says, "Write one more letter, just write it, don't show it – Neeren has already agreed." Months pass, no particular reply comes, and she starts nagging her husband to write letters again.

Durga brings a small earthen pot from somewhere and sits in the kitchen, hugging it. Her mother says, "What's wrong with you? Why aren't you eating? You had a fever yesterday evening too, didn't you?" Durga says, "Oh, that fever – I'm fine now. I'm a little cold, that's all. Give me two helpings of rice with this little pot." Her mother says, "Oh, you've grown so big eating when you're sick. If you feel better today, I'll give it to you the day after." On one side of the neighborhood, there are two or three small, dilapidated wooden houses. A contented, milk-filled cow is tied up, a mischievous calf roams free, and a heap of paddy lies about. The fresh, green fragrance of the pea fields along the edge of the field rises into the open air. Birds call – blue jays, mynas, blackbirds. Apu gets up early in the morning and sits on the porch, eating warm muri with a bowl of frothy, dark buffalo milk from a large earthen pot. Durga doesn't suffer from malaria. Everyone knows, everyone cares, and they come to wash the dust from her feet. No one looks down on her for being poor. After much coaxing and finally being unable to resist, Durga takes the earthen pot and puts it down. She sits quietly for a while, thinking to herself, "I feel very well today, the fever won't come back. I'll eat two rotis and some potato curry." A little later, she yawns, and she knows it's a sign of the fever coming on. Still, she tries to reassure herself, "Let me yawn, I yawn all the time, the fever won't come back." Gradually, she feels cold and wants to sit in the sun.

He avoids the sun and tells himself that feeling cold is a normal physical thing, what does it have to do with a fever? Life is very sweet, but only because so much of this sweetness is made of dreams and imagination! Even if the dreams are false, the imagination is devoid of reality; no matter, they always have significance behind them; they are the greatest wealth of life, let them come, let them have an eternal place in life; trivial significance, trivial gain. Why hasn't it happened for so long? Why so late? Since those childhood days of wandering in the courtyard and veranda, the charm of drawing alphabet with shoes has stuck in his mind, along with the mantra of Lakshmi's footprints drawn in the courtyard to bring prosperity to his in-laws' household. Who wanted such dilapidated old houses and bamboo groves? Harihar has been gone from home for almost two or three months. He hasn't sent the account books for expenses for a long time. Durga has been suffering from an illness for a while, she gets well for a few days, then suddenly it comes back. But no cure works. He gets a fever as soon as he is in the sun, he hides and sits in the sun, then his mother finds him. His mind whimpers, he thinks - it's happening because of thinking about fever, it's not really a fever - this time when Harihar goes abroad, he has said that he will definitely make some arrangements to move from here and live elsewhere... just dreaming, there is no day, no night, everything is just dreaming. He feels like something real will happen after so long. Someone seems to be saying in his mind, "Delay, or return." But will it happen? Whatever it is, he listens to all those things, but he does nothing. Because, who is he? 108 | The Path of the Peepal Tree

One night, during the heavy monsoon, he and Apu were collecting betel leaves in the garden behind the house in the late night, suddenly a thorn pricked Durga's foot. In pain, he stepped back and where he placed his left foot, another thorn pricked his left foot! In the morning, it was seen that someone had planted rows of bells on the path of the peepal tree, so that no one would collect betel leaves at night. The old Muslim man was playing the box and singing, "See the Taj Mahal, see the fast, see the elephants and tigers fight!"

As each person finished their turn, she would look away, avoiding eye contact, but Durga would eagerly ask, "What did you see in it? All real? Where did that old Bengali Muslim come from with a big, colorful, glass-covered tin box to show us a game? He showed the game in Jiban Chowdhury's courtyard in the neighborhood. Durga was standing right next to me. I didn't have any money. And everyone would put a coin in and look through a peephole at the box, seeing everything. These days, Baba is not at home, and I can't find Apu anywhere. I'm about to get fired from the bookstore. That doll that goes out in the morning with a basket, and then comes back completely exhausted at noon to eat. Her mother scolds her—'You've ruined the boy—your studies are completely ruined!' I'll tell you everything when I come home, see now—Durga pushed back her flying hair and looked. She couldn't describe the conversation of the next ten minutes. How can real people be seen in pictures? How many gentlemen, ladies, houses, wars, all that she could tell! What things she had seen.

Later, she sat down and wrote by hand in the sunlight. When it dried, she—with the wet ink making a 'chok chok' sound—looked at it with great joy, thinking—'I'll give a little more ink from tomorrow, see what a 'chok chok' it makes!' She secretly took a large piece of paper from under her betel leaf and dipped it in the ink. Later, while writing and drying it, she became absent-minded, fearing the fever would pass. She says to Apu, "Come, sit a little closer to me, let's talk." Durga, with the threat of fever, couldn't sit anymore, and went inside to lie down wrapped in a quilt. She really wanted to show Apu, Durga had searched so many times, and that game never came again. Apu sat fearfully at the desk. The books were scattered all around. She says to her mother, "Give me some paper, Ma, I have ink for the pen." Durga felt a little shy, and said, "No," but with curiosity and eagerness, it ticked in her chest. Durga came and stood near the box with bright eyes, still not daring to put her face in the peephole. The man said, "Look through this tube, see?" And one more amazing thing. Everyone saw it one by one.

Durga was walking along, the old Muslim said, "Hey, Khuki, won't you look? . . . Durga shook her head, 'No— I don't have any money.' The man said, 'Come here, Khuki, just see—it won't cost you any money.' The man said, 'Come here, what's the harm? . . . Come, see—oh, she can't express how wonderful it is. . . . She's a street vendor everywhere.' Apu sits and writes plays in a notebook. He's filled almost the entire notebook with writing, the king leaves the kingdom due to the minister's betrayal and goes to the forest, the princes Nilambar and the princess Amba are captured by bandits in the forest, there's a fierce battle, later the princess's dead body is found on the riverbank. In the play, a complex character named Satu is created, and even without any particularly serious flaws being described shortly after his creation, he is sentenced to death. In the end of the play, the princess Amba's reincarnation as Narada's wife or her marriage to the loyal commander Jibanketu— they say that except for the names, there's no difference, or it's exactly the same as the play seen in the past Vaishakh month's performance, they forget that if the dream of the distant forest land, visible like a blue cloud, resounding with peacock cries, on the dimly lit bed in the solitary bedroom on some silent, moonlit night in the past inspired Kalidasa in his description of the free cloud's journey, then what's the big deal? . . . He has been unknowingly reciting the praise of that forgotten auspicious evening for thousands of years. In the office, there's a book -- the book's name is Charitamala, written by Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. The whole book, his father has been collecting books for his son from various places, he doesn't remember where he got this one from, Apu reads it occasionally. He wants to be like the people in the stories in that book! If he is sent to sell potatoes in the market, the farmer's son, Ranko, sits by the fence and practices arithmetic, draws figures with a stick on a piece of skin due to lack of paper, the shepherd, weakly wandering around with the flock of sheep, allows the flock to roam freely and sits under a tree, engrossed in reading maps-- he wants to be like that. What is 'arithmetic'? He wants to study arithmetic like Ranko. He doesn't want to write by hand, he doesn't like borrowing and lending pages at all.

In such secluded groves, in the shade of the forest, sitting by the edge of the pond, he would read "geography" (what is this thing?), read large books, and become a scholar. But where would he find all those things? Where would he find 'geography', or 'algebra', or Latin grammar? -- Here there is only the sound of the mortar and pestle, and the third bell. It has been raining for days. In the evening, a gathering is held in the Chandimandap of Annada Ray. That day, the false story of the Nilkuthi began, and how a five-mana heavy magnetic stone is placed on the head of a temple in Puri, whose attraction causes nearby seafaring ships to often go off course and crash into the submerged cliffs by the shore, breaking apart—like stories from Arabian novels, all sorts of things seemed to glow with curiosity to see. It seems like—if only it were a little more! One day, he gets scolded. His mother says, there's no need for the boy to study. Only the sound of the mortar and pestle is needed—just keep grinding the spices—grinding the spices, the scolded one says a little unhappily, grinding the spices makes ink, you know? . . . I understand that—why would grinding the spices make ink? These boys of the state don't study at all—it's only the best spices that are needed in the shop! Yew—fire can only be lit with fire, who lights a lamp in a pile of ashes? . . . What will happen if the mother sits down, what he wants to study isn't here at all. No one in the audience felt like getting up, no one felt like going home, leaving such strange stories. The flow of stories quickly reached astrology from geography. Dinu Chowdhury was saying—there is no other book like the Brihat Samhita! You go, just give your birth chart, your father's name, which coast you were born on, your past and future—it will all be told—whether all the various planetary positions and zodiac signs match or not—it's all given there? Mother, even your past life—it has rained properly. Apu waits in the Chandimandap of Thakur Ray, expecting a feast, listening to his mother. From the room of the holy man, a flock of wet pigeons quickly flies and lands on the cornice of the western room of the Ray, looking at them. He is very afraid of the call of the sky.

When the lightning flashes, he thinks to himself—how the gods have made the clouds look like that, this time they'll surely call—then he closes his eyes and puts his fingers in his ears. Within a day or two, a concentrated downpour arrives. A howling eastern wind, the Khanadoba is making a commotion—water everywhere on the paths and ghats, a continuous drizzle day and night, a storm rages in the bamboo groves—the tops of the bamboo bend and touch the ground—the sky has no opening—it darkens more and more from time to time—flocks of black clouds howl and move from east to west—it seems as if a great battle between gods and demons has begun in some distant part of the sky, under the command of some cunning general, water, land, and sky merge and become one, and a huge army of giant soldiers, wave after wave, invisible charioteers, advances with the force of the storm—flames of a blazing, ultimate divine fire are hurled, and in the blink of an eye, a huge black cloud tears and scatters in all directions and disappears at the ghats in this fragmented, different time—he meets his wife. Sarvajaya pulls out a bronze bracelet from inside her saree and says, "Look at this thing, it's very good—solid brass, nothing else, pure brass. You said so, that's why I'm saying, take that thing, it's my wedding gift—this thing is irreplaceable—Harihar sent a total of five rupees, after that, there's been no letter, no money. It's been a long time—every morning, Sarvajaya thinks today the expenses will arrive. She tells her son, "You, while playing, go and sit near the post office, when the peon comes, immediately ask—everyone was listening eagerly, but Ramamoy suddenly looked outside and said—no, let's go, it can't be delayed—look, look at the situation? If there isn't a big jolt or something, it's bad, let's go—says Opu—oh, do you mean I should sit here? Yesterday, the letter from Puti came, it came with our newspaper—asking, which way did Puti come? What did he do with our newspaper yesterday? What was I doing? After much difficulty, he disappears—his wife hides the bracelet inside a corner of her saree. She repeatedly requests that no one should know—there is no break in the rain. It stops for a moment, then suddenly comes down heavily, the smoke of the rain spreads in all directions—smoke, smoke.

Returning home, Apu sees his mother and sister busily preparing a meal with the greens they've gathered all afternoon in the rain. Durga laughs and says, "Oh! You're so lucky to be sitting there comfortably! ... Just look at the water they've brought from the well – only this much for all of them! Where are you going?" Apu asks, "Where is Ma?" Durga replies, "I'll tell you. She's by the roadside."

Thinking to himself, "It's seven o'clock, not five o'clock. This is a boy, not a girl. How foolish of me to come! I can't even keep his mouth fed – no ghee, no luchi, no sandesh – just two plates of rice! ... And then I think about this dilapidated house, this struggling life – if Apu becomes a man, this sorrow will be gone. May God make him a man soon." Apu immediately runs out into the rain, and with great difficulty, his mother stops him. Durga says, "If your fever gets better, tomorrow morning, Apu, you and I will go to the bamboo grove and catch fish." Later, she is surprised to think, "Fish in the bamboo grove! How did they get there? Oh well! Ma must have found a good place. If I look, I might find even more – I didn't see what kind of fish swims there – I'll see tomorrow morning – the fever will be gone by then." Meanwhile, the siblings engage in a heated argument. Apu moves closer to his mother, shivering from the cold. His mother laughs and says, "What is it? Are you afraid of the dark Shamlanka button lying in the dirt? ... It's making the earth and the sky dark with the lineage of bloodshed and Krishna's dark shadow." Durga throws off her blanket and gets up, surprised. She says, "Ma, did you see the fish? Yes, Ma, what kind of fish do you think swims there? Are there more?" Apu says, "Far away, Ma, that's where you went, isn't it? You left me and went to another country." She laughs at her sister's ignorance. Day and night, the sound of the river's rising water fills the house – it has overflowed into so many rooms and spaces! ... The river and its tributaries have overflowed, flooding the cows and calves under the trees, the bamboo grove, and the veranda of the house, standing deep and soaked. There's no sound of birds anywhere! Four or five days have passed in the same way – only the sound of the storm and the relentless downpour! Apu gets up and quickly wipes his wet mother, saying, "The water has come to our bamboo grove, sister, let's see." Durga was lying wrapped in her blanket – without getting up, she says, "How much water has come, you say? ... Apu says, "If your fever gets better, we'll see tomorrow morning."

Later, she asks, "Where is Ma?" ... There's not a single grain in the house—only two handfuls of stale rice left. Apu panics, "It won't do, Ma, I'm so hungry I can't bear it—I'll eat two helpings of rice." Then, she sits down and talks about how, when she first came to live in Nischindipur, the river's water rose so much during this relentless monsoon that Ghat's wife said... By then, Ma has left for Deshmahal. Even if the little boy and girl on the road sleep, Sarvajaya can't sleep. It's dark at night—this heavy rain... Her heart trembles—she feels like something will happen... something will happen. It's like something is stirring in her chest. She wonders, "What could have happened to that person?" No letter comes—where is the money? Hasn't this ever happened before? ... Is her body alright? Ma, Siddheswari, please send five annas for food and bring good news, Ma. The next morning, the rain stopped slightly. Sarvajaya went outside and saw the small pond in the bamboo grove filled with water. Where was Nibaran's mother going, wet, on the path to Ghat? Sarvajaya called out to her. Nibaran's mother replied shyly, "Didn't I tell you once about the Bindabuni sari for your son? Where is it, Nibi?" Sarvajaya lit a lamp and got up. The sound of terrible rain was coming from outside. Water was falling everywhere in the house through the broken roof. She moved the bed and laid it down. Durga was lying face down in the dark—her mother touched her body and felt the quilt was wet and making a 'sap-sap' sound. Dakia said, "Durga—Durga, can you hear me? ... Get up a little?" She hadn't moved the bed—"Durga—quickly, you'll get completely wet!" Since late afternoon, the terrible rain has started again. The storm seems to be intensifying along with the rain—a dark, deserted, waterlogged, howling eastern wind, a single, dark, Bhadra evening in the clouds! Again, those dark, cotton-like clouds are flying... The sound of the rain is deafening—through the door and windows, the cold wind gusts along with the rain's 'shhh-shhh' sound—behind the torn, tattered clothes and broken shutters, what can stand against the storm's terrible onslaught? Sarvajaya said, "You come—let me see right now..."

A little old, but someone still sings. He hasn't given up—smoke is still rising. Later, Thamiya said, "Thamiya said, 'Don't you cook rice these days? ...' Sarbajaya said, 'Don't do that one thing—so, I'll go and eat half-cooked rice today? A little shy, she came closer and said in a pleading tone, 'I can't find anyone to bring rice from the market for the rain—someone might agree if you take the money and rush. I'm in great trouble, Ma. Siddha Durga can't eat anymore. She's been ill for a while. There's no medicine, no doctor, no vaidya (traditional healer). She says, "Bring me a one-paisa biscuit, Ma, it tastes good with salt." Sabu doesn't agree, so her mother, who forbids biscuits, said, "What paddy will grow in this storm?"

In this word, the universal messenger seems to be retreating, gathering words - 'su u u' - and in the last part, the agitation and churning of the air in the vast expanse of the earth's atmosphere creates a huge storm in the air, with all its demonic power pushing against the dilapidated room of Sarbajaya - 'ee ee shhh...!' The room sways and rises... and can't withstand it! There's no impatience, no chaos, no delusion or confusion within it - it's like the firm, habitual, systematic performance of duty! ... It has taken upon itself the task of grinding the world to dust and blowing it away within a specific time. For ages, this mighty messenger of destruction has been destroying such smiling creations and scattering them like stars in the darkness of the infinite sky. This is its usual task... Impatience and madness don't suit it... It can't sit still anymore. For a few days, it has been passing the time by cooking and eating wild greens—it has been feeding its children whatever little food it has left after fasting itself. Weak from lack of food and with a drowsy mind, it barely woke up at dawn. The storm has stopped, but the rain is still falling lightly. The wife of Nilmani Mukhya, the head of the village, had come to see the condition of the buffalo in the shed. In such fear, Sarbajaya closed the door... Well, what if something enters the house now? Are humans any different from other animals? There's dense bamboo forest and jungle all around, no human settlements—

Alas! The house is floating in the water... She reached out and touched the sleeping buffalo's body, which was getting soaked in the water... What will it do? How many more nights are there?

He banged the bed and searched for the kerosene lamp. "Opu, wake up! It's raining!" Opu, with sleepy eyes, mumbled something incomprehensible. He called again, "Opu? Can't you hear me, Opu? Get up!" He told Durga, "Turn around and sleep, you fool." "It's raining heavily—move over a little." The sound of the storm grew louder, and the rain intensified. "Is that a gust of wind outside? Oh no! Once, a huge gust scared me so much that I sat up, trying to understand the storm's path. The rain drenched my clothes and hair—hu-hu. The sound of the wind drowned out the rain's patter. I can't see anything outside—everything is one in the dark, in the clouds, in the sky, in the wind, in the trees. I can't hear anything but the storm and the rain. Opu sat up, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and looked around—then lay back down. A strange sound—Sarvajaya quickly opened the door and peeked out. The bamboo grove looked bare, and the kitchen wall had collapsed! ... His heart pounded. "Is it the old room? Who's there? Who's calling?" He thought to himself, "Oh God, please get me through tonight. Oh God, look at their faces."

Later, he called, "Durga, Durga?" Durga, with her terrifying, oppressive mood, didn't respond. Nilamani said, "Oh, the condition of the door is terrible. Water came in and flowed all night. ... Is that why Boudi is ashamed? Why wouldn't they have fixed it when we were there? Harita doesn't even have common sense in this life. How could they not arrange to repair the door in this condition? They just let it be. Time passed like this—hearing the door rattling from the wind's blows, he opened it and, in a tone of surprise, said, "New Boudi!" ... Sarvajaya busily said, "Why don't you call Bটঠাকুর once?"

Once, Shiggi invited us to his house and asked how Dugga was doing.

Then, Sharat was called again—he said, the final stage of malaria is like this: after a very high fever, just as there is a pause, and then the heart gives way—exactly like that, it happened that day in the drawing-room. The blue layers of the sky were pierced, and occasionally, the hand of the infinite reached through. Children ran out of the earth's embrace, plunging into the infinite blue, losing themselves. On a pathless path, far from the familiar and the routine, in the restless, agitated time of Durga's soul, that greatest unknown call of life arrived. For a moment, neither of them spoke. After a long time, the sunrise brought immense joy to Apu. He kept looking at the sunlit treetop outside the window. After a while, Durga said, "Listen, Apu—listen to something." When Ma went to do housework, Apu sat with his sister. Durga looked at her and said, "What time is it?" Apu said, "There's still a lot of time." "The sun has risen today, look, Didi? The sun is still on the top of our mango tree—it's been a full day and night. I don't remember when the storm and rain happened." All around was the magnificent autumn sun. Now, Harihar Ray left the house and first went to Goyari Krishnanagar. He didn't know anyone there. It was a city, a marketplace, and there must be some way to find this boy, so he went there. After staying in Goyari for a few days, he discovered that in the city, the task of teaching Sanskrit, either daily or monthly, often fell to the most beautiful girls in the lawyer's or zamindar's house. One day, he asked Dugga—"Oh, make some tea, will you?" "Oh, make good tea, will you?" Dugga—Neelamani Mukherjee entered the room and said, "What happened? Clear the table—ah, why are you all standing with the air shut off? I'll show you now—when you're done, we'll all go to the Ganges by train, like a tiger." At ten in the morning, Neelamani Mukherjee was applying oil, intending to bathe in the river later that day. Her wife's excited voice reached his ears—"Oh, come on, just once."

Meanwhile, from the direction of Apu's house, a cry was heard—Harihar hadn't received a letter from home. Everyone rushed to see what the matter was. Only Durga didn't.

A cloud of sorrow hung heavy in the sky. The beggar on the roadside hadn't eaten for fifteen days. That day, sitting on a wooden stool, Shyama was singing. The owner of the stool offered him a single coin. From that coin, he broke a few paisa and bought puffed rice and yogurt from the market. He swallowed the food without savoring it, barely sustaining himself, and left home. It had been almost two months since he could send any money back home. How they were managing, he couldn't imagine. Apu had repeatedly asked him to buy a Padma Purana on his way back home. The boy loved to read books. Sometimes, Harihar could understand how his son would sneak books out of his father's box-room and read them. Inside the box, there was a mess of papers. The boy didn't know where his father kept any particular book in the box. He would rummage through it, making a futile attempt to steal one. Harihar would understand the boy's antics as soon as he opened the box at home. He was in great distress. An unfamiliar place, no one to help him with a single paisa. He left the hotel in the market where he had lost all his money. He heard from someone that a local Hari Sabha was providing free accommodation and food to a poor Brahmin traveler. He managed to find a place to stay in a corner of a room in the Hari Sabha by pleading poverty, but there were great difficulties. Many idle loafers would gather there at night, almost spending the entire night in revelry. Even in the deep of night, one could hear—

One day, he started noticing women who didn't seem like typical pilgrims visiting the temple. Before returning home, Harihar would bring a bottle of Padma Purana from the library to read in the evenings. Apu would occupy the reading room and read every day. He particularly enjoyed reading about Shiva going fishing in the Kuchuni River. Harihar would say, "Give me the reading room, father, those who want books, let them take them! Eventually, I'll have to buy him a Padma Purana anyway." He had repeatedly asked him to bring a book when he came, "But, father, this time, definitely."

Durga doesn't have a high opinion; she has already said that she will wear a green *hawaai* cloth and some good-looking *alta* to go to the *puja*. But all that is a distant concern; the immediate problem is how to manage the household! After evening, she took refuge in the familiar wooden *gola* (round platform). She couldn't sleep well—lying on the bed, she tossed and turned, thinking about how to manage the household. With great difficulty, she spent the day visiting the homes of big lawyers and wealthy landlords in the city. After wandering around all day, she returned late at night to find that someone unknown had taken her bed from its usual place. Harihar spent a few days sleeping on the veranda outside. Often experiencing this, he had a slight argument with the *ganja* (marijuana) smoking community. The next morning, they went to Harihar's secretary, but only he knows what they asked for—the secretary sent Harihar home and told him that they don't allow anyone to stay at their *horisabha* (community center) for more than three days, and that he should find some other accommodation. He left, hoping to find a place. Fifteen days passed, and he spent all his savings on travel expenses, but he couldn't find any advantage. The very next evening, Harihar left the *horisabha* house with his belongings. He placed the doll at a secluded spot by the Khodai River and washed his hands and face in the river water. Wandering around in the morning, he stood aimlessly in one place. Across the street was a red-brick house with an iron gate. After a long time, he felt that if he went to this house and expressed his sorrow, there might be a way to solve his problem. Like a doll made of clay, he entered the gate. A well-decorated drawing-room, flower pots arranged in layers on marble steps, stone statues, palms, and at the entrance...

Despite extensive searching, Apur couldn't find the 'Padma Purana,' finally purchasing an illustrated 'Chandi-Mahatmya or the Tale of Kalkeतु' for six annas. The housekeeper offered a couple of trivial items as 'souvenirs'—a wooden fan and a balloon—and Harihar bought those too. The elderly gentleman, in a hurry to leave, picked up the cushion cover, pulled out something, and extended it towards Harihar, saying, "Here, take it, there won't be any other opportunity—take it." Harihar didn't object to receiving it, no matter what denomination the coin was; he had accepted such offerings in many places. However, he politely replied, "No, sir, you keep it. I only take from those I study scriptures with—well, it's alright—it seems like a good omen." One day, a job opportunity arose for the wooden globe belonging to Rakshit Mahashay. In a village near Krishnanagar, a wealthy merchant was looking for a Brahmin to perform daily rituals for the family deity. Harihar immediately went there upon being contacted by Rakshit Mahashay. The head of the household liked him and provided him with a room to stay. There was no shortage of affection or hospitality. The scent of the hot sun in the sky and the blue, cloudless expanse above brought a sudden joy when he looked up. The lush green foliage of the monsoon season added a delightful rhythm to the traveler's footsteps. The fields of marigolds on either side of the railway line seemed to rush past the speeding train, and the only thought was of home. After a few days of work, the rituals arrived. At the time of leaving for home, the head of the household gave him ten rupees as a gift and paid for the carriage fare. Upon arriving at Rakshit Mahashay's place to say goodbye, he received another five rupees as a gift. The elderly gentleman, without listening carefully, said in a way that suggested his time was too valuable to waste on such matters and that he should look elsewhere, "No, such things are not convenient here now, look elsewhere." He got off at the country station and walked until he reached the village in the afternoon. He didn't meet anyone significant on the way, and even if he did, he walked quickly, his mind agitated, without paying much attention to anyone, heading straight for home.

As he entered the door, he thought to himself—oh, look at the courtyard, the bamboo—it's bent and almost touching the fence. Bhubon Kakaharihar said in a sad voice—"Sir, I've just arrived in this new city, I have nothing at all—it's a big trouble, I've been struggling for days." Harihar politely said—"Sir, I am a Brahmin—educated in Sanskrit, I recite the Chandi Path—besides, I also know the Bhagavat and the Gita." Path's Panchali Durga came smiling and asked—"What's in it, sir?" Immediately, Harihar quickly opened the box and showed them the girl's clothes and the altar plate, and the boy's illustrated 'Chandi Mahatmya or the Tale of Kalkeतुr' and the tin train. He entered the room and said, quite a mango orchard—"I brought balloons this time." Later, with a slightly disappointed and tired look, he looked around and said, "Hey—Opu Duggah, I think they all left." Wearing new clothes, Harihar went to the invitation with his son. A messy head—Ganguli's daughter Sunayani was standing in the puja hall with five or six other girls, telling stories and laughing. Opu kept looking at them. Just then, someone was shouting—"Isn't there a big Samianata to bring yet?"—"Look at your work, now the fun will start." "Will the Brahmin sit down to eat at five o'clock?" Sarvajaya couldn't suppress it anymore. She shouted excitedly—"Hey Duggah, is there still a mother who has cheated us and left? Where has she been all this time?" Harihar smiled and said—"Is the house alright? Where have they all gone? The house is gone, I suppose?" Sarvajaya calmly took the heavy box from her husband's hand and said, "Come—come inside." Harihar noticed his wife's unprecedented calmness, but it didn't make any difference to him—his imagination was then flowing in another direction with tremendous speed—"Now the children will come running—it won't be cut off—it's difficult, well—later he entered the courtyard and called in his usual eager tone—"Oma Duggah—Opu—Ganguli's puja has been going on for a long time. Even the poorest don't go without eating for these few days in the village."

All the forest arrangements, the potter arrives at the appointed time to mold the images, paint the portraits, decorate with festoons, and the women of the village bring baskets full of lotus flowers from the banks of the Baras-Madhukhali river. Sunil's mother, upon learning of the ten thousand rupees from the company paper in Nagad, her heart filled with reverence for Jay, tried her best to be affectionate, but ultimately, despite being foolish, Sarbajaya realized that Sunil's mother was not willing to give him that much affection. Her husband had always held a high position, and she and her children were accustomed to a different way of life. From the very beginning, she maintained a distance with the poor relatives, Harihar, that Sarbajaya was forced to keep her at arm's length. In speech, behavior, work, and everything, she made it clear that Sarbajaya was in no way worthy of mixing with them on equal terms. In their conversation, attire, and demeanor, it was constantly evident that they were a family of means. The children were always well-dressed, their clothes never got dirty, their hair was always combed, Atasi wore a necklace, gold bangles on her hands, gold earrings, and no one left the house in the morning without having tea and food, and they had a Western servant who did all the housework—overall, there were many differences between them and the poor family of Sarbajaya in terms of their lifestyle. During the winter, Nilamani Roy's widow had come to stay at Bhuban Mukherjee's house, having been driven out of their own home. Harihar had shown considerable interest in bringing his sister-in-law to his house, but Nilamani Roy's wife did not agree. She currently lives here with her daughter Atasi and young son Sunil. The elder son, Suresh, is studying in a school in Calcutta and will not be able to come here until the summer vacation. Atasi is about fourteen years old, and Sunil is eight. Sunil is not very good-looking, but Atasi is quite beautiful, although not exceptionally so. However, they have spent a lot of time in Lahore, where Nilamani Roy worked in the Commissioner's office, and they were raised and pampered there, so they possess a pure, Western health.

Sunil's mother does not allow her son to associate with any of the village boys, nor even with Apu. She fears that her children will be corrupted by the company of these uneducated, uncivilized boys from the neighborhood. She has not come to live in this village; she has only come to supervise their property during the survey. Bhuban Mukherjee has given them some land, and for that reason, has provided them with two rooms in the western wing of the house, and they have separate cooking and dining arrangements. Sunil's mother sees no difference in dealing with Bhuban Mukherjee; because Bhuban Mukherjee has money, but she does not consider Sarbajaya as quite human. During the Dol festival, Suresh, the elder son of Nilamani Roy, came from Calcutta and stayed at his uncle's house for almost ten days. Suresh is of the same age as Apu, studying in the fifth grade of an English school. He is not very handsome to look at, but has a bright, dark complexion. His body is quite strong and healthy due to regular exercise. Although only one year older than Apu, he looks like a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy in build and structure. Suresh also does not associate much with the boys of this neighborhood. On the other side, Ramnath Ganguly's son from Ganguly's house is his classmate. Ganguly's house celebrates Ram Navami Dol very grandly, and he has come to his uncle's house on that occasion. Suresh spends most of his time there, and he probably does not consider any of the other boys in the village worthy of associating with. The old man who used to lie in the thicket of bushes next to the house, as far as he could remember, is one of them. Apu has a strange attraction towards these people. He does not know much about Suresh, who studies in Calcutta - he only knows that there are few books in his tin box. There is a Nitikalp (a book on daily rituals), an old Natural Geography, a Shubhankari (a book on auspicious signs), a torn and tattered Veerangana Kavya (a collection of heroic poems), and his mother's Mahabharata. He has read those books many times - even though he has read them many times, he reads them again. His father often brings books from here and there after searching, and has an insatiable thirst, like a patient with a disease, to educate his son, to make him a scholar, to make him a gentleman.

However, he has no money, a severe lack of companionship to keep the boy in a distant boarding school, and he himself is not very educated. Yet, as long as he is at home, he sits the boy down and makes him read various things, tells him stories, and with the help of a well-wisher, he revives the forgotten childhood knowledge of mathematics and then teaches it to the boy. Whatever he thinks will benefit the boy's knowledge, he either lets him read it or reads it aloud to him. He has been a subscriber to 'Bongobashi' for a long time, an old subscriber. He carefully bundled and stored them away, thinking that his son would read them when he grew up. Now they are coming in handy. Unable to pay, he doesn't receive new newspapers, and the paper sellers have stopped delivering them. How crazy the boy is about this 'Bongobashi' newspaper! On Saturday mornings, after playing, he sits waiting for the postman near the postbox in Bhuvan Mukherjee's Chandimandap. Harihar knows this very well, and it pained him deeply not to be able to fulfill his son's dearest wish. His mother has a different expectation for his son's future. Sarvajaya is a village girl. She doesn't have high hopes that her son will become a gentleman by studying in school. In her social circle, no one has ever set foot in a school. Her biggest hope is that her son will visit all the student homes in the neighborhood and maintain them for some time. Sarvajaya has another hope. The village priest, Dinu Bhattacharya, is old. There are no suitable boys either. The queen's mother, Gokul's wife, Ganguli's daughter-in-law, and all have expressed that they will entrust their work to this boy after him, and that this innocent, simple, and handsome boy will be their companion in the village's Mansa and Lakshmi pujas in the absence of Dinu Bhattacharya's son, Bhomble. Everyone loves Opu. Sarvajaya has heard this desire expressed by neighbors on the ghats and in the streets many times, and she has been waiting for a long time to talk about this.

But Suresh didn't quite blend in with him. Moreover, Suresh's manner of walking and talking was such that he seemed to be showing off at every step, as if he was far superior to the village boys. Even though they were the same age, the simple Apu was intimidated and didn't get too close. Apu, however, had learned many stories from reading old 'Bongobashi'. He told Patu about the volcanic eruption on the island of Martinique, the story of the gold-making magician, and many more things. But school education meant nothing to him. At most, he knew some arithmetic; he had never even heard of history, grammar, or geometry—let alone the English language, which was a race against time. Apu hadn't gone to any school yet. When Suresh asked him about his studies, he replied, "I study at home with my father." On the day of the Dol festival, while sitting on the water lilies in the pond of the Ganguli's courtyard, Suresh would question the village boys in the manner of a victorious dialectical scholar. He asked Apu, "Tell me, do you know what the Bowbari of India is? Do you know geography?" Apu couldn't answer. Suresh then asked, "Is arithmetic difficult for you? Can you do decimal fractions?" Path-er Panchali

Bhuban Mukherjee came out of his house and told the victorious boy, "Listen to one thing—go and tell your elder sister that I have no shoes—will she buy me a pair?" He couldn't think of any other satisfactory explanation. Rani left him standing there and went to get him some fruits and sweets, which she handed to him. Smiling, she said, "Uncle, take it, I'll bring it from Khurir Ma tomorrow." Rani said in a tone of pride, "Yes, come! Please come! I think about you so much. Do you think of me, of us?" A sense of complete dependence came over Apu from Rani's smile. Ramudi looks so beautiful these days; he hasn't seen anyone as beautiful as Ranudi. Atasi is always well-dressed, of course, but she doesn't compare to Ranudi in looks. Besides, Apu knows that no one in this village has a heart like Ranudi's. If he loves anyone after his sister, it's Ranudi. And doesn't he know that Ranudi is drawn to him? "Tell them, the elders, if they want to, they might give a nice pair of shoes now—you see what shoes Suresh has on?"

Those red shoes on your feet look quite stylish—no doubt! Shouldn't your parents do something about it?" Why not come, Madhuni, why me? As I said, so it is. Sarvajaya said angrily, "How can you? All your wisdom is in your head—

The eyes flutter open, the pulse quickens; the long shadows of the bamboo grove by the pond's edge have already stretched and fallen across the pond's surface like a green veil, but she doesn't even notice how the day has slipped away in some direction. The queen's father, Bhuban Mukhujye, lives abroad, and his return is delayed, yet she has a great desire for these books. Driven by the desire to read them, she has been sneaking into Satu's western room for days. She has read a little here and there. But Satu himself never reads, and he doesn't let her read either. At the most critical moment for the hero, he snatches the book from her hand, saying, "Give it up, Apu, these are small children's books, they'll tear. Give them up." At first, Satu refuses, but finally says, "Alright, I'll let you read, if you do one thing. Fish are being stolen every day from our field pond—Jethamshay told me to sit and guard it at noon—I don't like being there alone, if you go in my place, I'll let you read." The queen protested, "Really? And will that boy sit in the middle of that forest and guard the fish? You old boy, you can't do it, and will he go? Go, you don't have to give me the book, I'll ask my father." She hesitated for a moment while eating, and then said, "Ranudi, Satu doesn't let me read the books that are in this western room's cupboard. Will he give me one to read? I'll read it all the way through." As she finishes each chapter, Apu's eyes become blurry—it's as if something is caught in her throat. Looking up at the sky, she ponders for a few minutes, in joy and amazement, "I don't know which book it is, wait, I'm seeing—horse-mounted armor." Path's Panchali.

In the royal palace's marble halls, in the colorful chambers of Delhi and Agra, in the Shishmahal, he spends his whole day with the beautiful women adorned with ornaments. What a world—where there is only moonlight, swordsmanship, the friendship of beautiful faces, and long hours of revelry on horseback through the valleys and cornfields, crossing the small... In her excitement, it's as if fire is bursting from her ears, and with bated breath, she turns to the next chapter. Evening falls, shadows lengthen in all directions, and on her head, the bamboo grove begins to resound with the calls of many birds. She continues to read, her eyes fixed on the page, as long as she can see the letters.

Pratap Singh did what was possible for a hero, what was possible for a Rajput, what was possible for a man. The story of his valor is written on the stone plaque at the foot of the hill at Haldighati. It is written in the blood of twelve thousand Rajputs of Dewar's battlefield in undying glory. Chittor was not saved! Rana Amar Singh accepted the emperor's honor. Where did Pratap Singh, the all-loss-bearing father, who had fought for twenty-five years in the forests and mountains with a band of Bhils, show his grief-stricken heart from? ... But the fool has no idea about the direction from which his good fortune comes, let alone about his mother. Nowadays he has found two books, 'Maharashtra Jivan-Prabhat' and 'Rajput Jivan-Sandhya'... Wi-Fi, after the magical scene of a silent afternoon in the garden, the scene changes - sitting by the river, listening to the groans of the wounded Naren, Shivaji, seeing himself trying to find a place among the five thousand mansabdars in Aurangzeb's court, is furious and thinks - Shivaji, five-thousand? Go to Pune once, how many five-thousand mansabdars are there in Shivaji's army, you fool, even after so many days, the ancient warriors sit by the fire in the winter nights and tell their grandchildren about the strange valor of Haldighati... He has never read such books! Where do Sita's exile and Dubala's story fit in? When he comes home, his mother scolds him - even you, such a fool? Go and sit on the next chair and read a book in that lonely garden? Well, the fool has found you. The pond, the Wi-Fi, the garden, the bamboo garden - all become blurred in the burning tears of his eyes. That day at noon, his father showed him a paper package with a smile, saying, "Go." Apu quickly took the paper package from his father's hand and opened it. Ha - it's a newspaper. That big word 'Bangabasi' written on it, that new paper smell, that print - for which, a year and a half ago, he used to sit and wait every Saturday like a pilgrim near the postman at the dak bari of Chandimandap with eager anticipation! A newspaper; a newspaper! What new news doesn't it bring? What unknown things are written in its big pages? Finally, Apu brought the desk lamp to the veranda and sat down in the light of the wood fire.

Universally—when Apu grows up a little more, I'll find a good match for him and get him married. A new concrete house will be built on this plot of land. Let's take the year off, and if the Gangulibari puja is held—then the next day, Rani gave Apu a small bound notebook, saying, "Write me a story in this—something quite nice. Will you? You said you could write well! Write it, I'll show it to Atasi." ... that day, Ramkobach had received three rupees from the mother-in-law of Behari Ghosh for writing a letter, and secretly, Harihar sent two rupees for the price of the newspaper to his wife, and if the wife found out, the two rupees could not be saved from the clutches of other needs. —Didn't I come to your house that day at noon? You were there, sitting and talking with Khurima for a while. Why didn't Khurima tell you? So I saw what you had written in your red notebook in your bookcase—my name is there, and Debi Singh, isn't it? Still, a sadness remains in his mind that last year, the paper suddenly closed down, and he couldn't read the ending of the story of the Japanese spider demon, nor did he know what happened to her after she went to the royal court. ... Four or five days later, he returned the notebook to Rani, and Rani, with interest, opened the notebook and said, "You've written something?" Apu quickly sat up on the bed; in a tone of excitement, he asked, "The newspaper?" "No, father?" Harihar thinks—compared to the joyful smile that has appeared on the boy's face in exchange for two rupees, no mortgage of liberation is at all greater. Apu said with a smiling face, "Look, open it? Hey, what do you say, Didi?" Apu lay down for a while and said, "Look, father, a letter from a 'traveler to the West' has appeared, it's just come out. Our newspaper has arrived so quickly—no, father?" Apu named Nakshatra said, "That's a story." Rani, seeing this, said with joy, "Oh, you've written a lot! Call Atasi and show her." "What story! You have to read it to me." Apu said in a serious tone, "In which notebook? How do you—" One day, Rani said, "What do you write in your notebook?" Apu sits up at night and writes in the notebook. He says to his mother, "Give me another drop of oil, mother. I'll keep this much written today."

His mother says, "Don't read at night anymore—there's only enough oil for two more meals, what will you cook tomorrow? I'm cooking now, sit down and read in this light," Apu argues. The mother scolds, "Hey, you won't have time to even look at your hair all day if you keep reading at night. What will you do in the morning? I won't give you any oil." His father isn't at home. In the morning, he got up and went to the neighboring village for the 'Adhyashraddha' (a ritual meal for ancestors) invitation with everyone else from their village. Sunil also went with him. The Brahmin group from the neighboring village, five or six 'krosh' (a Bengali unit of distance) away, walked and arrived. Each person came with five or six children; starting to arrange everyone in a convenient place began to create a commotion. After serving four 'luchi' (deep-fried bread) to everyone's plates, the servers came to serve the 'bhajan bhaja' (fried vegetables) and saw that no one had any 'luchi' on their plates; everyone had taken the 'luchi' and placed them on the adjacent mat or cloth! ... The little children, not understanding much, were tearing the 'luchi' from the plates—his father, Bishweshwar Bhattacharya, slapped his hand on the boy's plate, took the 'luchi' from the boy's plate, and placed it on the adjacent cloth, saying, "Don't keep them there! I'll give them again later, eat now." After that, there was a tremendous uproar for a while—"There's a mountain of 'luchi' in this row," "The pumpkin is right in my plate," "Oh, look how hot it is," "Sir, check with your hand, it's just raw dough." ... A fierce dispute arose between the Brahmins and the officials regarding the amount of the mat! Someone started shouting, "So, they shouldn't have invited the 'bhadralok' (respectable people) there. These five or six 'gonda' (a Bengali term of endearment) 'luchi' are just a handful on this small mat—it's been bound since the time of Ballal Sen." "Here's your mat, Kandappo Majumdar," the official, holding it in his hand and feet, pleased Kandorpo Majumdar. Apu now said in a slightly unskilled tone that the story wasn't finished yet, he would write the ending now. Even though he started the story in the style of 'Sachitrayubane-Jogini' (a popular Bengali magazine), he couldn't decide how the ending would be; however, he had a notebook for a long time, and especially after 'Ranudi', he became doubtful about his poetic talent, and fearing this, he returned it unfinished. Apu also brought out a small mat. Sarbajaya quickly came out and said with a smile, "Oh, look at how much you've brought—let me see and open it."

"Luchi, panta, and gaja! Cover them up, I'll eat them in the morning." A little while later, Apu went to Sunil's house. He heard Sunil's mother saying to Sunil as soon as he stepped onto their veranda - "Why did you bring all that stuff home? Who told you to bring it?" Sunil, seeing everyone, also defended himself, saying, "Why, Ma, everyone took some - even Apu brought some." Rani said, "No, brother, I know he wrote it. He writes like that. He was reading it to me from his notebook, writing about a special pilgrimage..." Later, she said to Apu, "You didn't sign your name, did you? Sign your name." Sarbajaya said, "Yes, you know what? My mother will eat it? - You're a fool!" Apu shook his head and shoulders, saying, "Yes, that's why I'm saying it. I said it so they would think I would eat it." Apu said, "But you will have to eat it too - I bought two portions of panta for you." In a protesting tone, Apu said, "Hey, just because you read books? I create stories - ask Patu, how many stories I make up sitting by the river in the afternoons, do I? Always picking up dust with the dust. Sunil's mother said, "Why doesn't Apu bring any - he's the son of the barber in Phalare!" And then, seeing Atasi, she said, "Apu didn't write anything else - yes! All this is from reading books." Sitting under the shade of the chhatim tree, hiding his face, his mind would fill with joy as he looked around. Whether there were fish or not, whenever the thick evening shadows filled the edges of the fields with the fragrance of ripe dates in the date groves, and the soft breeze carried the sounds of gossip, the calls of papayas, and the golden light of the setting sun spread its saffron and vermillion colors on the branches and fell behind the ancient banyan tree in that desolate field by the river, and the groups of riverine birds returned home making a racket, his mind would become ecstatic, his eyes filled with joy as he looked around; it seemed as if even without catching any fish, he would come and sit here every day, right under this big chhatim tree." Apu, frightened, did not enter Sunil's house again. Returning home, he thought - his mother was so happy to find it, why did Jethimma get so angry just for seeing it? Are the news clippings so valuable that they have to be thrown away? Is his mother a Hingali? Is he the son of the barber in Phalare? Or, has Jethimma eaten too much panta and gaja, that she can't eat anything else? And has she herself been eating these things for the past few days?

What seems unfair to Sunil doesn't often seem unfair to Sharad. Sharad's resolve is as unwavering as a steady flame in still water, a rod after rod of punishment. He doesn't have the patience to sit still for long; he flits from here to there, searches for bird nests in the bushes, and returns, perhaps noticing the rod is gradually diminishing! He picks it up and says, "Far! There's a school of hilsa fish, nothing will happen here..." Then, picking it up from there, he goes a little further and throws it down next to a Sheol tree. The deep black water makes it seem as if a large rohu fish has just jumped in! The confusion doesn't last long; Sharad's rod reaches a state of inevitable resolution. He doesn't have much education; he goes on doing all these things. Eating fruits, tying roofs, going to the discipleship with his father, fishing. He is also aware of the boy who was beaten up in the Patu-jelly game – the one who was beaten that time – and all about it. Nowadays, he has grown taller, his head has grown longer, and he always roams around with Apur. He only comes from there to here with Apur.

He still hasn't forgotten that Apur was beaten by the boys of the jail to save him. He will grow up performing Thakur Puja and tying roofs – that's their way. His mother is also a bit of a scold. That's why I didn't want to bring you to this village. He's getting so much bad company! Anyway, call Apur – either that or throw him away. I've invited him – play.

Fishing is Apur's greatest passion. There are plenty of fish caught near the mouth of the Kancha Kata canal at the edge of Ichhamati, below the Sonadanga field. Often he goes there and sits under a large banyan tree on the riverbank to catch fish. He likes the place very much; it's completely secluded. On both sides of the river, so many trees and plants are reflected in the river water, dense green thickets on the other side, occasionally swaying kadam and shimul trees, bushes covered with purple banakolmi flowers, and in the distance, the bamboo forest of Madhabpur village. Amidst the bird calls, in the cool, quiet shade of the forest, amidst the greenery, he sits down, opens a book, and reads. He has borrowed a lower-class picture book and its meaning book from Suresh.

He doesn't understand English, he only understands the Bengali stories in the picture books, and in the English bookstore, he just looks at the pictures. One day, he brings back a few books from a faraway country. He knows that across the Mediterranean, as shown on Suresh Dada's English map, lies the country of France. He knows that a long time ago, foreign soldiers had occupied France, the country was in danger, the king was powerless, there was chaos and looting everywhere. In those days of national humiliation, a poor farmer's daughter from a small village in the province of Lorraine goes to graze her father's sheep. Leaving the flock of sheep behind, she sits on the grass in the secluded countryside, looking up at the blue sky with her two blue eyes, thinking about the misfortune of the country in solitude. Day after day, while thinking like this, a pure and innocent thought arises in her mind: who is she?

Then, how the invincible French army drove the enemy out of the country, how the thoughtful girl herself took up arms and restored the king to the throne, and then how the ignorant people burned her alive with vile slander – he has read all these things today. Stories of all kinds of greatness have stirred his mind since childhood, and there are many such stories in this bookstore. Stories of a traveler who loses his way in a snowstorm in the free plains and dies in the cold, wandering in circles; how Christopher Columbus discovered America after crossing the unknown ocean – stories like these. He can almost recognize the two English boys and girls who were in danger while collecting eggs from a seagull's nest on the cliffs of the seashore; that brave girl, Praskovya Lapulova, who set out alone from the distant Siberia in the hope of getting her exiled father's exile revoked – he feels as if he knows them. In this quiet evening, by this calm river, his mind is filled with wonderful thoughts while thinking about the story. – He doesn't think much about the girl's war, the victory, or all the other things. But the picture that repeatedly comes to his mind is only the thoughtful girl in the secluded countryside with her wandering flock of sheep, the dark green grass below, and the open blue sky above her head.

On one side, there's the milk-suckling foreign enemy, cruelty, the arrogance of conquest, a stream of blood; on the other, a simple, divinely beautiful blue-eyed village girl. The picture captivates his growing boyish mind. Driven by desire, he can't leave the place—he breaks off branches and makes a bed to sit on. Sir Philip Sydney's short story fills his eyes with tears. He goes and asks Suresh, "Suresh-da, do you know this story? Why don't you tell it?" Months later, one day, while fishing, a large surmai fish leaps up and splashes his face. Time passes, and again, on the riverbank, this extraordinary silence. In the tall grass on the far bank, amidst the distant green rustling of reeds, kadam and simul trees, he relives the sweet moments of his childhood. Stunned, he exclaims, "What, Suresh-da? Jutken! Where is he?" Suresh replies, "Oh, the story of the battle of Plassey comes to mind. How far away—Martinique Island, surrounded by blue sea. Sugarcane fields all around, blue sky above—so far away—only blue sky and blue sea! Only blue and blue? What else could there be? It's indescribable." He remembers the beautiful story he read in a letter from an English traveler. Suresh can't say much more.

From how many countries they have come, how many big rivers and canals they have crossed, braving the surging tides and saltwater storms of the great rivers—they sit by the helmsman and listen to stories of all those lands, as Apur desires. All he wants is to sail from river to river, sea to sea, and nothing else. That desire has grown strong in his mind after reading about sailors from different countries in Suresh's books! Patu approaches the boat and pleads—"O helmsman, what's the price of this ride? ... Where is this boat of yours from, O helmsman? ... Jhalakathi? How far is it from here? Apur starts singing softly. Patu pulls up a bamboo stool to the boat's edge and sits quietly, listening intently; there's no need to row, the current carries them on its own, turning the oars towards the great bend of the La-Bhanga. When Apur finishes singing, Patu starts another song. Apur now rows. The bend of Nai-La-Bhanga was visible, not too far away. Suddenly, Patu points to the northeast and says, "O Apur-da, look at the kind of clouds gathering! If a storm comes now—should we turn the boat back? He rolls up his net and prepares to go home. Along the banks of the river, the leaning babula and peepal trees shower the soft black water with flowers. In the middle of the golden fields, behind the stout banyan tree, a huge, blood-red sun is setting—as if some divine child, after playing with a handful of frothy gold from the burning ocean, has thrown it into the sky, and now it is setting in the western horizon, the end of the earth. Someone behind him squinted to see. Patu, forcing his eyes wide open, laughed heartily and came forward, saying, "I searched everywhere for you, Apur-da; then I thought you were exactly like a fisherman, so I came. Didn't you catch any fish? ... Not even one? Come, let's take a boat and go back and forth?" Apur said, "No, not that. I've learned a very good song from my father. I'll sing that, and—go a little further, but brother, all those people are over there by the shore—here, not here." "You are very shy, Apur-da. How far away are the people, and how far is it to sing your song, consider that?" Patu said, "Don't you sing a song, Apur-da?"

That song, Apu-da said, "Let's go for a boat ride on the Tetulitala ghat, let's go." The two of them took a small boat from the Tetulitala ghat, gave it a push, and sat on the boat. The cold, damp smell of the river water rose, water lilies bloomed amidst the lotus stems, farmers were working in the paddy fields along the banks, some were cutting grass and tying bundles, flocks of kingfishers were making noise in the dense thickets along the riverbank, and colorful clouds loomed in the eastern sky at sunset. He would go to all those places, see all those things, go to England, go to Japan, engage in trade, become a big merchant, travel constantly, land and sea, face great dangers; if his ship sank in the midst of the China Sea in a terrible storm like the Kalbaishakhi storm of today, he would eat snails and shells on the seashore, like those skilled sailors, and then swim ashore in the open sea! Beyond the bamboo groves of Madhabpur village, where the clouds of the setting sun had loomed a while ago, lay those blue oceans, unknown lands, coconut groves, volcanoes, snowy deserts, jail cells, prisons, whips, darlings, jute mills, and those beautiful English boys and girls who collect bird eggs, the golden magician Botgar, the blue-eyed village girl Joan with her thoughtful gaze in the desolate wilderness, and so much more! His tin box of books, the books from Ranu-didi's house, the books he borrowed from Suresh-dada, the old 'Bongobashi' newspapers, all those countries spoke to him; it was as if someone there was waiting for him. He would also receive a call from there one day—he would also go, but Apu didn't listen to Puru, he didn't have ears for it—nor a mind. He sat huddled in the boat, staring intently at the river and the sky. The dark, swirling waters of the river, flocks of flying ducks, piles of swirling clouds, the stacks of sugarcane in the fields of the southern midlands, the floating lotus stems in the current, all seemed to fade away! He imagined himself as that traveler from the 'Bongobashi' newspaper!

His ship had left Calcutta; leaving Sagar Island behind in the mouth of the Bay of Bengal, passing many unknown islets in the middle of the sea, with the beautiful coconut groves of the Ceylon coast visible, and the blue hills of a strange land in the distance bathed in the red light of the setting sun, it was moving through the ever-changing new scenes of a new country! —moving! —as he said "moving," dark clouds rose from the fields of Madhabpur, filling the entire sky, their dark shadows darkening the river water. Patu stood looking up at the sky with eager eyes. A faint hum arose in the distance, along with the indistinct din of many birds. The damp wind blew, carrying the scent of wet earth. Seeds from the bird-filled fields began to fly from the fields, and the trees swayed, bent, and broke as a terrible cyclone storm rose. Just like the dark, deep, turbulent waters of Ichhamati, was that unseen ocean; and just like this green forest thicket, was that island in the Arabian Sea. There, under the trees on such an evening, a beautiful Arabian girl would sit and drink a glass of water from the hand of that Englishman, just as that traveler had done in the port. Looking towards the bow of the steamer, he could clearly see the flock of flying seabirds following the ship, as described in the newspaper! ... The river water turned dark, the branches of the small bamboo groves and large palm trees on the bank began to break, and flocks of white cranes flew in long rows under the black sky! Apu's heart swelled with excitement, and in his enthusiasm, he looked around, watching the storm, tearing off Patu's shirt and holding it up like a sail in the face of the wind. The wind swelled there, pushing it. Apu said, "Come on, storm, it's in the storm that the boat sings well, let's go further." Patu said, "The wind is blowing very hard, Apu-da, the boat won't go any further. But what if it capsizes??"

It's fortunate that Sunil wasn't brought along.

And after a few more days, during the neighborhood Thakur Puja, someone who will have to manage the household, someone who will have to endure their mother's nagging for oil to burn at night, someone who hasn't even seen the inside of a school until late in life, someone who doesn't know what good clothes or good things are—who will invite that poor, unknown, and resource-less village boy to participate in the festivities? In Ganganandpur, the Siddheshwari Thakur's house was where everyone worshiped. Who goes to worship three *krosh* away? That's why the custom hasn't been fulfilled yet. This time, before leaving this place, one must perform the puja, but no one could be found. Apu said that she would perform the puja and that her aunt lives in that village, and she has never even met her, so she would just go and see. Her mother said, "Where, you fool, will you go alone? It's almost four *krosh* from here." All these questions might have awakened the chariot of his young imagination—the allure of the unknown, the path of hope in life—it could have conquered all fear and doubt; but all these things don't occur to him. He only thinks that everything will be alright when he grows up, that all opportunities and conveniences will be found along the way as he progresses. . . He just has to wait to grow up! When he grows up, he will get opportunities, invitations will come from all directions, and he will embark on the conquest of knowing the world and meeting people. Immersed in colorful future dreams, he passes the rest of his journey. It's not raining anymore; the storm has swept away the dark clouds, clearing the sky. At the *tentul-tala* ghat, his reverie is broken by the crowd; before mooring the boat, he walks towards home, lost in the joy of the bamboo grove. He has also learned to dream like his mother and sister. The high, earthen road cuts through the heart of the Sonadanga field. On both sides of the path, within the field, there is only a forest of *akash* flowers; the long, white stalks, bowing under the weight of the flowers, have fallen onto the tall grass. There is no one on the path, it's only a little past noon, and the shadows of the trees are getting shorter. Apu's bare feet were pressing into the soft *bhel* soil—it felt quite comfortable. Apu started arguing with his mother by the side of the road—"Do you think I will stay sitting in this house all day? Can't I go somewhere? Don't I have eyes, ears, and feet?"

The sun was setting, but the feast of the demons was just beginning. He would leave alone. Was that Gajendrapur's brave man?

How many flowers had bloomed in the thicket! The tips of the newly bloomed flowers on the Sainballa trees were turning towards the sun. On these small bushes, red fruits, like wild figs, were ripening in abundance, making a rustling sound. A scorching, earthy fragrance was emanating from the soil. He would occasionally crouch down, search through the thicket, and pick the berries, filling the two pockets of his red sateen jacket. And he kept thinking to himself, "He's grown up now, not a child anymore. Would his mother have left him alone anywhere if he were still a child?" Now, he had to keep moving, keep moving forward. Besides, how far would they go on this day in Ashwin? Where would they reach by evening? He reached Gangaganpur, heading towards Kashi. As soon as he entered the village, a sense of shame overwhelmed him so much that he couldn't look anywhere. Exhausted, he focused on the path ahead and started walking somehow. He felt like everyone was staring at him. It was as if everyone knew he was coming today; perhaps they had caught a fish in the Manasatanga pond. He stood for a moment and watched. In the middle of the village, a beggar was playing the ektara and singing for alms – he knew that song. He had heard it many times: "Entering Harishpur, by the roadside, there's a small thatched schoolhouse, the children are learning to read in unison." He stood and listened. The teacher was not very old, much younger than the cheerful teacher of their village. It was as if the moon had risen in the daytime, making it night. The old Buddhist priest sings the song very well. The aunt from the house on Panchali Tala also kept looking at him. His aunt probably didn't know beforehand how beautiful her nephew looked or that he was so young. So, a neighbor came from the next house and asked about his identity. He replied with a little pride, "My nephew, from Nishchindipur, my cousin's son; very close to us, but we don't visit often." Then, she looked at him again with pride in her eyes.

The thought was this—look at my nephew's royal appearance, now understand what a girl I am! . . . The next morning, getting up, Apu wandered around on the way to the neighborhood. All around was dense forest, empty land—almost no tall grass, such a forest. This one house, again surrounded by forest—going out through the thorny path, again a house in the distance. Often the path goes over people's courtyards. He saw two or four people of his age playing, but everyone kept staring at him in such a way that, far from trying to interact with them, he couldn't even look at their faces. But the girl immediately ran over, grabbed his hand, and lovingly pulled him up the steps. She asked how his parents were. She stroked his cheek and said so many loving things. Although she had never seen her aunt, she expressed great sorrow, calling her "Didi" (elder sister). She took off his body's clothes with her own hands, washed his face and hands, dried him with a dry towel, and quickly brought him a glass of sugarcane juice. She wasn't what he had thought his aunt would be; a little older, a bit older than his uncle's sister. In the evening, Kunj Chakraborty came to the house. His face was pockmarked and scarred, his age was impossible to tell. He felt as ashamed of his uncle as he had been of his aunt, and he was also afraid of his uncle. He looked just like the joyful teacher he had studied with as a child. It felt like this man could say at any moment, "Hey, big boy, what are you doing?" . . . There was danger even while returning to his aunt's house. On such mornings, his mother would give him fried rice cakes, puffed rice, muri, or leftover rice. What would they give him here? Last night, at dinner, she had bought sandesh with milk. If he returned now, they might think the boy was very gluttonous; he returned home so early out of greed for food! They always say—"There he goes, look, look . . . " Even that he was carrying coconuts tied inside his shirt pocket seemed like everyone knew. He couldn't even ask anyone about Kunj Chakraborty's house in Khandi. He couldn't even ask anyone which direction the Chakraborty house was.

Finally, finding an old woman alone, he asked her to show him the house. The house was surrounded by a fence. Entering the courtyard, he found no one. He coughed a couple of times, wondering if anyone could hear him. He stood in the scorching heat of the month of Chaitra in the outer courtyard. There was no address, but a little later, an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old dark-complexioned girl came out to sweep the veranda and saw a stranger, a handsome boy, standing shyly near the door with a doll in his hand. The girl said in surprise, "Who are you, brother? Where have you come from?" ... Like a naive child, he rushed forward and said with great effort, "This is my house—in Nishchindipur, mine—my name is Apu." He thought it would have been better if he hadn't come! Perhaps his aunt would be annoyed by his unexpected arrival, or maybe she would think another calamity had befallen him! ... Besides, who knew that talking to a stranger in an unfamiliar place would be such a difficult task? His forehead broke out in sweat. He was sitting after finishing his bath in the pond, when he saw Gulki peeking once or twice from behind the French window and then hiding her face. To make eye contact with her, Gulki smiled faintly. Apu stood up and said, "Stop, I'll catch you in a run!" and he ran towards the French window. Gulki, without looking back, ran straight towards the pond. But how could she escape from Apu? Seeing her helplessly standing, Apu grabbed her tangled hair and said, "You were running fast, weren't you? Can you run with me, Gulki?" ... Gulki's first fear was that he would kill her! But when Apu let go of her hair and laughed, she understood it was just a game. She laughed again in the same way. Apu felt very kind. There was such a hint in her smile that Apu felt she wanted to play with him; but not knowing how to express it, she expressed her desire by peeking, smiling faintly, and running away. She didn't know any other way. She was just like his sister!

At this age, Didi was just like this—so mischievous, so sly—she would wander around with her shawl tied around her neck, no one understanding her, no one seeing her, such a little rascal—such a foolish little girl. A six or seven-year-old girl entered the house with a copper pot in her hand and called out from the courtyard, "Hey Jethima, will you give me some?" ... Apu's aunt replied from inside the room, "Who is it, Gulki? No, I'm cooking then, come and take it..." ... Gulki stood by the doorstep, holding the pot. Her hair was messy, like a boy's, short. She wore dirty clothes, had no oil in her hair, and was dark-skinned. She looked at Apu, smiled faintly once, as if understanding something, and left with the pot. No, Nibaran Mukherjee's wife—she lives in the house next door, that distant relative of Jethi—lives there. The next day, a boy from the neighborhood came and asked about her, and together they wandered around all the neighborhoods of the village. On the way back home, he saw that the orphaned girl, Gulki, was sitting alone on the side of the road, eating something. Seeing her, he quickly went to gather his shawl—his shawl was full of half-ripe Bakul fruits. Apu had already introduced himself to the aunt; Nibaran Mukherjee's wife didn't treat people well, she wasn't a good person. The aunt used to say, "Jethi is not Ranachandi, she doesn't even feed us for days, her house is fed by others. Her own children are seven times blessed—they are not in their company, so why would she care again?" Seeing Gulki, Apu didn't feel any shame at all—such a little thing, an orphan! He really wanted to play with her. He went up to her and said, "What are you hiding in your shawl, Gulki?" ... Gulki suddenly bundled up her shawl, smiled faintly, and ran away. Seeing her antics, Apu laughed. While running, some of the Bakul fruits from Gulki's shawl had fallen on the ground, and he picked them up, saying, "They fell, they all fell, take your Bakul, Gulki, I won't say anything, Gulki!" ... By then, Gulki had disappeared. Is it good to eat food every day? ... What will she do now? No, she won't go home. She'll wander around for a while and then go home just before the time for eating rice. How can she stand around in unfamiliar places for so long? Apu thought—no one plays with her, I'll play with her a little, yes.

Orphaned "Poor girl, grow up in your mind!" - Saying this, she let go of Gulkie's fist and took her hand. Apu asked, "Whose aunt is the girl?" She reached home on foot. The aunt on the street said, "Who is Gulkie? Their house isn't here - their parents are nowhere to be found." Nibaran's wife, the aunt from the next house, the distant relative's elder sister - she lives there. In the afternoon, her aunt called her. After Apu finished eating, her aunt asked, "Will Gulkie eat rice, Apu?" There was a mountain of lentils in Apu's bowl - she was giving him lentils. Apu thought, "Oh, if she knew, I would have kept a *dukhana* fish for her." Without hesitation, Gulkie sat down to eat shamelessly. She took a lot of rice, soaked it in lentils, ate a lot, and then sat for a long time without being able to eat the remaining rice, pushing it to the side of the plate. Still, she didn't get up. Apu's aunt laughed and said, "You don't need to eat more, Gulkie - look at how much rice you've taken - just a little bit more and you'd have to carry it on your back. You only have eyes - hunger - she said, look at the elder sister's behavior - it's been so long - such a young girl - and she didn't even call you to eat rice? It's done now, but at least she should have been a little considerate..." On Saturday, Apu went to worship at the Sidheswari temple. The priest had a very long white beard falling on his chest, quite a sight. His widowed daughter helps her father - arranges the worship, helps her father a lot. The girl said, "Why only four *poyas* for the offering, uncle? That won't be enough, it will take two *anas* for the *bar* worship." Apu said, "That's all the money my mother gave me, I don't have any more." The girl picked out a few bananas and betel nuts, wrapped them in a leaf, gave it to him, and said, "Here is the offering for the gods, I also gave betel leaves and vermillion, give it to the girls in your house." Apu thought, "These people are good, if I had money, I would have given them two more *poyas*." Letting go of the fist, taking her hand, Gulkie didn't stop and ran away again. Apu shouted, "Okay, okay, I'll see where you go - I'll definitely catch you, you'll see." "Okay, you'll see, you'll see," she said, and took a deep breath and ran - *chhu-u-u-u*. Gulkie looked back and saw Apu running after her, and tried her best to run as fast as her small strength could - but Apu ran a little further and caught her.

"You've learned to run fast, haven't you, Khuki? So, can you keep up with me? Let's play hide-and-seek—you'll be the thief, stealing those jackfruit leaves and running away, understand? And I'll be the watchman, catching you. Sitting on the veranda of his aunt's house in the moonlight, he was telling his aunt stories of the puja, when suddenly, from the neighboring Gulki's house, a piercing scream from Gulki's thin voice was heard—'Oh, elder brother, don't kill me! Oh, father—oh, elder brother, he's cutting my back and making me bleed—don't kill me, elder brother!' Immediately, a harsh voice was heard—'Whore—good-for-nothing—did you go to the Choudhurys' house for a feast without inviting me? If you don't get beaten today, you'll never learn—where's your shame? Doesn't your family allow you to eat? ... Today—Gulki's face was no longer smiling. Perhaps he had been wanting to be alone with this beautiful girl for so long. Nodding his head in reassurance, he said—'You'll take it?' Apu thought that he had learned all this talk from living in the farmer's village—that's how the children of the milkman and the Sadgopers spoke in their village. He said—'Let's play, Khuki? Come, by the pond.' 'No, do one thing, Khuki, I'll catch you—and you run; that jackfruit tree is old.' 'Come—' Apu's heart was restless. His throat choked with tears, no words came out. Apu's aunt said—'Look, he's being stubborn, making me repeat things? Once you tell the truth, there's no point in talking to a person anymore—then you're bad.' The next evening, after finishing his meal, Apu started towards the milkman's neighborhood a little before dusk. The previous day, suddenly, looking ahead on the path, Apu saw lights shining through the trees at the end of the field—how strange, it seemed to him, how far they would have gone on such a day in the coming month! Later, he said to Gulki—'Come on, Khuki, you go—you've come a long way—you might cry again at your house—go on, Khuki—we'll meet again, right? Maybe I won't come again, we'll go to Kashi in Boshakh month, and live there.' Gulki laughed faintly once more. The village elders came and tried to persuade Harihar to stop."

In Nischindipur, milk and fish are so cheap, or rather, living here is so inexpensive, that Rajkrishna Bhattacharya's wife, on the occasion of Sabitribrata, invited me and after a long conversation, said, "Bapu, well, where would I go to live? Besides, there's no point in living in mud and filth in one place. I understand myself—my mind becomes small, my heart closes. I see, I have a desire to go to Chandranath once if God wills—just a little further to meet Gulki at the intersection of the path to Bamunpara. He is returning home after playing in the evening." Apu said, "I'm going home, hey Khuki, where were you all day? Didn't you come to play?" Later, seeing Gulki laughing in disbelief, he said, "Really, really, look, I went to Purtali, Kartik Gowala's house to take a car—won't you come a little further with me?" It was a full moon or Chaturdashi, I don't remember exactly. He never came again, but that first childhood memory of going abroad remained in his mind for a long time—a full moon rising in the distance through the gaps in the trees on the straight field path. (Or was it the Chaturdashi moon, he couldn't quite remember). A little girl with short, disheveled hair, an orphan, naive, and innocent, had come to see him off. In the first of Baishakh, Harihar had made all the arrangements to take a bus from Nischindipur. He sold the things that wouldn't be needed and settled various debts. There were many large teakwood trunks, chests, and boxes in the storeroom of that time, and until the news spread to the neighboring villages, buyers came and bought them at low prices. His maternal uncle had arranged for a tobacco-laden cart to go from this village to Nawabganj, and he would drop him off on the way to Nischindipur in the morning if he left in the evening. Gulki walked a long way behind. After leaving Bamunpara, there was some open field, and then Gowalapara. Gulki came to the edge of the field. Pointing to Apu's red satin shirt, he asked, "How much for this beautiful shirt of yours?" Apu said with a smile, "Two rupees—will you take it?" Gulki laughed lightly.

So, if you...

"Give it now, right now..." Hearing Rani's words, Opur came to their house. Opur said, "Hey Opur, are you really leaving this village? Really? Still, Rani doesn't believe it. Finally, after hearing everything from Sarbajaya's mouth, Rani was stunned. She called Opur to the courtyard and said, "When will you go?" Ashwa said, "Gauri Radhuni, Jitendra Karam Matke." Patu also didn't know the news; hearing everything from Opur's mouth, his heart sank. He said at the bathing ghat, "After so much trouble I took to remove the weeds and grow flowers in the water for you, will you ever catch fish in it?" Opur said, "What can I do? I didn't even say I was leaving, did I? My father's heart is set on living there, can't we stay here? I'll give you my notebook, Ramudi, maybe we'll meet again—this time during the Dol festival, Charak Puja, and community feast." A short time later came Ram Navami's Dol, Charak Puja, and community feast. Every year, this time fills Opur's heart with extraordinary, indescribable joy. He and his sister would abandon sleep during this time. Of course, this time too, there was no fault on Opur's part. Amidst the fair's commotion, someone was playing a wonderful flute. He liked the new tune very much—searching, he went outside and found Haran Mal of Malpar, who had brought a bundle of bamboo flutes to sell and was playing one as an advertisement. Opur asked, "How much for one?" Haran Mal knew him very well. How many times had they extinguished the kitchen fire with water from their eyes? Rani quickly left the house. Opur couldn't understand why Ranudi was so angry! Was he leaving the country of his own free will? Rani said, "You didn't even finish the story in my notebook, didn't even sign your name on it, you're a good boy, aren't you, Opur?" Rani's eyes filled with tears, she said, "You say Nischindipur is a good village, there are no rivers, no fields like here—how can you leave that village?" "The Wednesday after next—will you come again, or never?" The Path of the Road ☐ 137www. Do you remember once, many nights ago, you woke up for a while? In the distance, on the river, in the dark night, the sound of the fishing boats' nets hitting the water was echoing. At that time, you heard as if from very far away, someone was walking along the path of the Kuthi field, singing loudly in the middle of the night.

Few people walk on the path through the courtyard at night, yet in a half-dream state, for many nights, I've heard the broken rhythm of a familiar tune, like the hum of bees, carried on the night breeze from far away—but what I heard that night was entirely new. I couldn't grasp the melody—it was as if the beautiful-voiced Surlakshmi, lost somewhere in the middle of sleep, had vanished. I never found her again. But will Apu ever forget it? Seeing the children of farmers from various villages, dressed in colorful clothes, some in new saris, returning home in rows after the harvest. The boys are playing their flutes. People had come from four or five *krosh* away to see the community fair. Everyone had something in their hands—pigeons, wooden dolls, colorful paper fans, painted pots, bamboo shoots. Chini Bose had opened a shop selling purple flowers at the Vaishnav fair, and from his shop, Apu bought some oil-fried snacks with two *poyas* and walked towards home. On the way back, she wondered if they would have such a community fair where they were going. Maybe she wouldn't see a harvest festival again! She thought—if there's no harvest festival there, she would tell her father, "I want to see the fair, Father, let me go to Nischindipur," or maybe she would go to the Khuris' house for two days? She loves their house, the bamboo grove, the mango orchard with guava and jackfruit trees, the riverbank, the place where she plays *charui* with her sister—how she loves all of it! And that tall coconut tree, will it be there where they are going? As far as she knows, she has only seen this coconut tree here, and how beautiful the leaves look on a moonlit night! Sitting on the veranda on a beautiful moonlit night, gazing at the moonlit coconut branch, how many nights has she played ten or twenty games with her sister! How wonderful their Nischindipur seemed! Are there coconut trees like the one by the kitchen veranda, on the edge of the forest, where they are going? Will she be able to catch fish, pick mangoes, row a boat, play *reel-reel*, will there be a ghat like Syed's ghat in Kadamtala? They were so good, why did they leave all this behind? In the evening, her mother used to fry hot *parathas* for her on the veranda of the kitchen.

The coconut tree leaves in Nilamani Jetha's courtyard glistened in the moonlight— Seeing this, Apu's heart filled with sorrow. The excitement he had for going to a new country these past days had, as the departure day drew closer, turned into a mournful tune in his heart, heavy with the pain of impending separation. It was over. He asked—did you hear that Khoka has left the village? Where are you going—Hanga? Apu bought a thin bamboo flute for a paddy and a half. He asked—where are you putting your fingers on the holes, Haran Kaka? Show me once, please? The next morning, the packing of belongings began. He had to leave by noon the day after tomorrow. His mother had gone to Sabitribrata's invitation, Harihar was fast asleep in the next room after lunch, and Apu was unsure what to take from his room. An incident occurred at noon. The 138/7 road—again, the road along the edge of that fairground! Open pots and pans, the remnants of the feast, were scattered all over the field, a sign of the fair. Some were cooking and eating on one side of the field, black earthen pots were lying on one side, and new, soot-blackened pots were on the other. Harihar sat silently, as if he was somehow restrained. Was the work well done? After so many days of ancestral rituals, all the pomp and ceremony in that neighboring barren courtyard had come to an end, the earthen lamps that flickered, had been extinguished forever from this evening. What would his father, Ramchand Tarkabagish, think, seeing this from heaven? Apu looked towards the last house in the village, Aturi Burir's two-storied mansion, until it disappeared from sight. Then, the car passed by a large date palm grove and reached the road leading to Ashadha, the starting point for the monsoon. As the village ended—everyone felt that all the poverty, all the degradation, all the humiliation was left behind—now only a new home, a new life, a new prosperity lay ahead! ... A little after noon, Hiru Garu's bullock cart started. There were a few clouds in the sky in the morning, but before ten o'clock, they had disappeared, and the full, abundant Vaishakhi afternoon sun was raining fire on the roads and fields.

Behind the cart

It had come a long way behind, saying—"Hey, Apu, this time there's a good group of travelers."

The wind had died down, and you could hear it now—he stood for a moment, then slowly went and stood near the window-door—so far away

The bamboo grove seemed to shimmer in the midday sun, and that conch shell was calling from the top of some tree, calling out the sorrowful noon of that defeated, unfortunate prince of ancient times hidden in the twin lakes! After standing for a moment, he threw the iron rod in his hand deep into the bamboo grove. Just like his sister would call the stray dog, who would come panting through the thick forest undergrowth, it had rolled and fallen somewhere in the thicket of dry bamboo and leaves piled up next to it. He looked around. On the high mound, while moving an earthen pot, something had fallen from inside it and landed on the ground. He picked it up from the ground, looked around, and was surprised. Even though it was covered in dust and cobwebs, he had no doubt about what the object was. Gradually, the sun rose—by then the cart had entered the golden fields. Harihar pointed to a large banyan tree in the middle of the field and said, "Look, that's the banyan tree on the bank of Thakurji Pond." Sarvajaya quickly put his face out and looked. A little further down the road, the huge banyan tree was leaning over the edge of a barren piece of land. He had heard the story of that old Brahmin and his young son so many times. He had never told anyone, not even his mother, about his father-in-law's gold box fifty years ago—he never had. He said to himself—"No one will know anything that happened there, who will go there now? No one is home at noon," he stood for a long time holding the box, lost in thought, in the silence of the bamboo grove filled with the hot sun of the month of Baishakh, the rustling sound of the bamboo came to his ears like a message from far away. He said to himself—"Sister, the unfortunate one, stole it and hid it in that pot

Everywhere there are thickets of shefali, simul, and bakul trees, dates hang from the date palms, clusters of sonali flowers sway, all around there are the sounds of bou birds and papia."

The deep blue sky, like the color of Tisir flowers, stretched over the distant fields, vanishing from sight.

At this young age, his mind had already painted a magical picture of Bengal's fields, rivers, and the serene beauty of its forests under the moonlight, which would later become the most inspiring elements in his artistic life. His ancestors had brutally murdered the innocent Brahmin and his naive son at that very banyan tree on such an evening, burying them in the adjacent barren land, which was once a sacred pond. Perhaps the boy's mother waited for months, even years, in vain for her son's return, never to see him again. Suddenly, the eyes of the old woman burned and blurred, and something seemed to catch in her throat. It was nearly ten o'clock at night when the car arrived at the station. Apu had been sitting there for a long time, hoping for the car's arrival. As soon as the car stopped, he jumped up and ran to the station platform. The 8:30 train had long since left, and upon inquiring with his father, he learned there were no more trains that night. This happened because of the two buffaloes in the blue cart; otherwise, he might have seen the train. On the platform, a pile of tobacco sacks was arranged—two railway workers, looking like iron boxes but very tall, were compressing tobacco into bundles with long poles. Pointing to a distant village shimmering in the moonlight, Jyotsna said, "That's Hol Dhanche-Palash trees, and next to it, crawling up, is the Banbibi's shrine, where a huge fair takes place in the month of Shravan; you won't find such cheap pumpkins anywhere else." The entire luggage was loaded onto the 140-mile cart with great effort. The wooden benches were arranged facing each other. The floor of the cart felt like cement. It was as if a room had been set up; the windows and doors were exactly like those in a house! Apu couldn't believe that this heavy cart, which had arrived and stopped, would ever move again. Who knows, maybe it wouldn't move at all; maybe they would say right now, "Hey, all of you, get off, our cart won't move today!" On this side of the wire fence, a man with a foolish, owl-like face was standing, waiting for the train to depart. Apu thought the man looked like a candidate for charity!

How will he survive today if the car doesn't start? The car mechanic, Heiru, is standing outside the gate, looking at the car. The car started. Strange, wonderful dizziness! In the blink of an eye, the middle paragraph station, people with tobacco sticks, the car mechanic standing there, everyone is left behind, and the car reaches the open fields of Uluakha. The trees are rushing past, cutting along the sides of the windows on both sides – what speed! This is called a train! Wow, it's like my head is spinning! The thickets, the huts of Uluakha, the small houses of the farmers, all are blending together! There's a continuous grinding noise under the car – looking ahead, the sound of the engine is returning, and near the station pond, there are arrangements for cooking. Another car was already standing there. Among the passengers, there was a young man and a girl of eighteen or nineteen years old. Apu heard that the girl was going to her father's house with her brother, from the Biswas family in Habipur. She was very sad because of her mother. Her mother was washing the rice and lentils for the porridge, and the girl was peeling potatoes. The cooking will be together. It's ticking. On the other hand, on a high post by the railway line, there are two red lights, and on the other side, there are two more red lights just like that. In the station room, a kerosene lamp is burning on a table on a stool. There are piles of tied-up papers. Apu stood near the door for a while and saw the station master tapping something like a small wooden mallet, making a 'khak khak' sound. Where the row of trees on the road built during Ashad-Durgapur gradually disappears into the distance under the sky, on that side, where the road of their village, bending, rises into the Sonadanga field, at that very bend of the road, at the old banyan tree at the edge of the village, his sister is standing with a pale face, looking at their train! . . . . . . The train arrived at half past seven in the morning. Apu was leaning against the platform for a long time, looking at the train, and his father said, "Son, don't lean like that, come here." A porter was also pushing the people away. The day he and his sister ran breathlessly to see the railway track after searching for the calf in the fields and water! That day and today?

His mind didn't waver from the platform as he walked. But his father came calling. "It's the telegraph call, like Kharmar Bouler," his father said. "Ushan! Ushan! Not too late, tomorrow morning he'll not only see the train but also ride it! ... The little sister from Haripur was standing with curiosity, looking towards the approaching train. Madhav Sharma, Sri Ram Chandra, Digbali, and Digambari are all going together! ... What a big train! What a terrible noise! Is that the engine in front? Oh, what an event, that day long ago on the way to Panchali ☐ 141www. No one brought him, everyone has left, even though his sister died, in the playground, in the bamboo grove, in the mango orchard, he found his sister so close, the invisible touch of his sister's affection was in the broken corner of the Nishchindipur mansion - but now, truly, he is forever separated from his sister! ... After noon, he had to change trains at Ranaghat station. Despite having coal dust in his eyes, he kept his face pressed against the train window, looking outside all day. What are those things called at the station? Signals? Why are they going up and down? Where the train stops, it's a high brick wall, just like Roak. They call it a platform? On the wooden boards, the names of all the stations are written in large letters in English and Bengali - Kurulagachhi, Gobindapur, Banpur. At the time of departure, the bell rings - dong dong dong dong - four times - Apu counted, a large iron wheel with handles on its circumference, when it turns, the signal falls - Apu noticed at Kurulagachhi station. Suddenly, Apu's mind was filled with a strange feeling. It's not sadness, not grief, not separation, he doesn't know what it is. So much came to his mind in a moment... ... Eager Dine... ... the river ghat... ... their mansion... ... the path under the veranda... ... Ranudi... ... 'How late, how much noon... how many days, how many playful moments... ... Patu... ... his sister's face... ... his sister's countless unfulfilled desires... ... It seems to him that no one loves his sister anymore, not his mother, no one! No one is sad to leave her behind. The distant signal of Majhapara station, while watching, became indistinct and eventually merged in the distance.

Sarbajaya had now boarded the train twice. And once, in those days—when he had come to the country to start a new life after leaving his new home in Kashi—he had gone to see the young Thakur in Aranghata in the month of Jyeshtha. Was that just yesterday? With joy, even before reaching the station, the words of surprise in his heart seemed to manifest in his eyes, as if he wanted to say again and again—"I didn't want to, Didi, I didn't forget you, even intentionally I didn't come—They are taking me away." Oh, if she had also come up, he would have shown her the train. In his later life, he had become very familiar with the blue ocean and the waves. But whenever he stood on the deck of the ship sailing across the sea, his whole body would tremble. Every moment, the new magic of the blue sky would be reflected in the eyes of the sea, or perhaps the blue mountain range surrounded by grape vines would fade away on the horizon of the sea, becoming faint in the distance. The faint, misty land visible in the distance would create a great, sweet melody in his imaginative mind, like the gift of a talented musician—it was at such times, in such moments, that he would remember a girl from a poor village, lying on a sickbed in a dark room in an old house on a rainy night, amidst the relentless sound of rain. Didi is still looking at him with one eye—truly, he hasn't forgotten. His heart swayed with joy and the mystery of the unknown. He had never felt such a state of mind before. Whether in comfort or hardship, he had never experienced such a free and joyful life, such a dynamic scene, such a close encounter with the unknown. The life that had built walls around him, keeping him confined, was now moving, moving forward—looking at the setting sun in the western sky, it had crossed rivers and countries. He was feeling this reality with all his heart today! Just a year ago, how many nights had he spent lying in his room in Nishchindipur, thinking that if he had the opportunity, he would go to Kaliganj for a bath in the Ganges, and then it seemed like something beyond the realm of possibility and certainty—And today?

Just before the train arrived at Bandel station, a large vehicle, with a loud honk, sped past on the main line ahead. Apu stared in amazement. What a noise! —Ugh! They got off the train at Bandel station. All around, engines roared, large freight trains rattled the station, passing every five minutes without stopping. A cacophony of sounds—here, the rhythmic clanging of an engine's pistons; there, another passenger train departing, the guard waving a green signal—so many signals blinking on the line to the east and west of the station in the evening—red and green lights glowing—trains, engines, vehicles, people! — While changing trains at Naihati station to cross the massive Ganges bridge, Sarbajaya gazed at the sunset. A cool breeze was blowing from above, boats on the Ganges, so many beautiful houses and gardens on the banks, scenes she had never seen in her life. Pointing to a steamer, she showed it to the boy and said, "See, Apu, a smoke ship?" Then, touching her forehead and thinking to herself, she said, "Mother Ganga, I am passing over you, do not take offense, mother, I will worship you in Kashi with flowers and bilva leaves, take care of Apu, may he find shelter wherever he goes." At the station, she watched the people boarding and alighting—such faces, such clothes and jewelry. Seeing a vendor selling good muri at Jagannathpur station, she said to the boy, "Apu, will you eat muri? You love it, I'll get some for you?" At the station, a bird was perched on a telegraph wire, swaying. Pointing and showing it with her finger, she said to Apu, "Look, mother, a myna has escaped from someone's cage." As night fell, their Kashi-bound train arrived at the platform with a shrill whistle. A vast station, a huge crowd—Sarbajaya felt lost. Hurriedly, with unaccustomed clumsy steps, she followed her husband and, reaching a compartment door, Harihar, with great difficulty, pushed through the impenetrable crowd and, with the help of porters, lifted and placed his disoriented wife and lost son on the car's bench.

The train is racing with the speed of a storm—fields, soil, and trees are all merging into one blur—like a night train, everyone is crammed into a single compartment. Harihar hasn't given her to the sleeping berth. The crowd in the compartment is less than before—each person is lying stretched out on a bench, sleeping. A bald man is snoring on the upper bunk. Apu has gotten up and is leaning out the window, staring intently. The coal dust from the railway track is harmless, but even if he closes his eyes and looks away, he can't stop looking at the window. He sits like this almost all night. His parents are asleep—what all he has seen! How many stations the train hasn't stopped at, the lights and people whizzing past like a blur—he had dozed off a little at night, and when he suddenly woke up, he saw that in the moonlight, the railway station was speeding across a small bend of some river, a very high black mound in front, lots of trees on the mound, the moonlight glinting on the river water, white clouds in the sky—then several more such large mounds, and more of the same kind of trees. Then a big station, people, lights—a train was coming and stopping on the parallel track! A man was arguing with a paniwalah! There was a big clock at the station—he had learned to look at the clock from his master, Mr. Niren Babu, and looking and listening to it, he saw it was three twenty-two in the morning. Then the train started again—more trees, more of those high mounds—often those kinds of mounds on both sides of the railway track. Everyone in the train was sleeping, if they weren't seeing anything, why would the train be moving! He asks someone what those mounds are. Once or twice he sticks his head out the window and tries to make out the ground, how fast the train is going—the wind blows his hair and it falls on his face, he can't see the ground, it's as if someone is drawing some straight lines on the ground and moving forward—wow! How fast the train is going! Out of curiosity and excitement, he once or twice sticks his head out of the window on this side and that side. Then how many more stations passed. What huge bridges!

The train is moving, moving, it seems the bridge will never end—so many signals, so many telegraph poles, like a single iron pillar stuck in the middle of a station room—through which a railway official is shouting something—private number? . . . Yes, alright—sixty-nine—sixty-nine—yes? . . . Unhmm. . . . Not on the back of the roof—yes—yes. Apu had been thinking about one thing for a long time. Today, he has been seeing telegraph wires and poles all the way—he has never seen so many in his life before, except for that one time. If he gets a chance to play with the rails this time, he will plant those kinds of poles. What a mistake he made before! Wherever he is going, there is activity in the forest, isn't there? He had dozed off again in the morning, and his sleepiness vanished as soon as the train arrived with a clatter at a huge station—there are names written on the stone slabs of the platform—Patna City. Occasionally, looking at the rapidly fading, indistinct, moonlit fields in the east, he felt like they had come a long way! Through which country's high and low fields have they been traveling? Harihar woke up and told his son—don't stare like that out the window, you'll get coal dust in your eyes—he asked his father in surprise—why are you saying that through the window? Why are you saying such things? It was very late then, and Harihar said—we will reach Kashi now, look to the left, you will see Kashi as soon as the train crosses the Ganges bridge—fifteen days have passed. One day, in the middle of the bamboo grove lane, in the middle of the middle path of the 144/7 road, he had gone with the wife of a Punjabi gentleman to see the Vishwanath aarti at night—he cannot express what happened. The temple was darkened by the smoke of incense and smoke—seven or eight priests started chanting together—what a crowd, what pomp, how many big house daughters had come to see, their attire was something else! A queen had come from somewhere—with four or five maids. Wearing an expensive Banarasi saree, the golden bordered end was burning like fire in the light of the five lamps of the aarti—what sharp, piercing eyes—what eyebrows, what a face—he had never seen a real queen before—he had only heard about them in stories—yes, she has a queenly beauty!

He doesn't know how long he has been staring at him, or how long he has been watching the Thakur's aarti. He sees a servant leading a small boy, tied with a rope around his waist, and thinks to himself – his name is Paltu, he doesn't know how to speak well, he's very restless, that's why the family members have this jail-like arrangement. Apu laughs. He had requested the servant, but he is too afraid to untie the rope. The prisoner is very small and simple-minded – he doesn't even know that this kind of treatment is protestable. Why would he be alone in the courtyard all day anyway? It's a city market area, what if he gets lost on the streets? ... He shakes his head twice, patiently explaining to his mother that her worries are completely baseless. Besides the Thakur's temple, there are only a few bungalows, aren't there? ... On the invitation to the Durga Puja at the Ganguly house in Nishchindipur, he had gone to the Ganguly's Natmandir, their two-story house, and the paved courtyard and had felt a great deal of envy – he remembers once telling Durga – "Have you seen the Lakshmi in the big people's houses?" – now he sees so many houses on both sides of the street. The Ganguly house – in these five or six days, Sarvjya has taken him around to see all the nearby places. He never imagined such a scene in his dreams – such temples! Such Thakur-debata! So many houses! The Aranghat's twin teenage temples were known to him as the ultimate example of architectural excellence – but the Vishwanath temple? The Annapurna temple? The red sandstone temples on the Dashashwamedh Ghat? He has never seen so many cars together. And so many types of cars! He has seen horse-drawn carriages in Ranaghat and Naihati on the day of arrival, but he has never seen so many types of cars before. There are so many two-wheeled cars! ... He would like to stand by the roadside and watch all this – but he cannot because of the Punjabi woman who is with him. Apu is completely stunned. He could never have imagined such a spectacle. Their house is not far from the Dashashwamedh Ghat, and every afternoon he goes for a walk there, and it's as if a fair is going on every day.

Here's the translation:

Songs are being sung here, stories told there, and someone is reading the Ramayana over there. There's a crowd of people, laughter, and festivities. Apu just wanders around, observing everything, and comes home in the evening to narrate the tales with great enthusiasm. Not only is the old Halwai, Ramgopal Sah, of Vishweshwar Gali still alive, but also living on the upper floor is a Punjabi family, on the middle floor resides a Bengali businessman, and his shop and warehouse occupy the outer rooms, with his kitchen and bedroom in the adjacent rooms. Harihar resides on the first floor. He can't find any of the familiar faces from before. In the lanes of Vishweshwar, it's the "Five Lanes of Ten Lanes" (Pathar Panchali).

For several days, Harihar's constant talking had become quite tiresome. One day, he arranged a grand feast at Naradghat's Kashibari and invited everyone. Sarvajaya, with a smiling face, asked, "Is it the Bar Puja today?" Seeing him coming home, she exclaimed, "Oh! Come in!" As he left, she called out to her son, "Hey, come here, Apu—look at this coconut foam—do you like it? I've seen so many mangoes, bananas, and big mangoes, come and eat them—sit down here—Harihar has also come to Kashi." He arranged for daily recitations of the Puranas in several temples, walking around a few places. Besides that, one day Sarvajaya told her husband, "Why don't you sit at Dashashwamedh Ghat every evening with the scriptures?" "So many worried people bring money, and you just sit there giving advice," she said. Urged by his wife, Harihar took the scriptures of the Kashikhand and sat at Dashashwamedh Ghat in the evening. Reciting the Puranas was not a new business for him; he had done this on many auspicious occasions in his guru's ashram back home. He opened the scripture and began to sing the hymns in a melodious voice. He recited a little and said, "I thought of writing a description of the forest after seeing that storyteller's scripture—what will I get for it?" At night, he told his wife, "Did you hear? There's a poet singing in the market square, did you hear? I sat and listened, did you... all the verses... nothing, no, I'll sit and arrange my household well—anyway, I'll sit under the Shashti's temple—tomorrow, I'll tell the new story, tomorrow is Ekadashi, the day is good—where are you sitting and talking? Tell me? One day you'll have to listen—Vanshiyang Vanshiyang Vanshiyang Vanshiyang. It's not bad... Krishnadas Roy... Mitavyayitavyam Bachone Nanyam Laghung."

It's been a while since I spent my days on the boat fishing in Nischindipur, but here, I feel ashamed to say anything to my peers. It's at this Dashashwamedh Ghat that I made so many secret plans twenty-two years ago—then, gradually, I forgot them all—when did the pursuit of new notebooks gradually hide them, seeking a neglected, secret shelter from the light of day—like a mirage at midday, the web of youth's dreams merged with the horizon. The light of the storm lamp—he can see it in the grand gatherings of the dolana, his chhora, songs, Shyama-sangeet, and verses are being sung night after night in village after village, in country after country.

From far and wide, people sit with bundles of food, their faces drawn, having traveled long distances to break the riverbank. The head of the group has come to his house to collect the Sadhiya (feast) and has left. One evening, Apu went to the Dashashwamedh Ghat to bathe and heard his father reciting the Puranas. As he listened intently to the story of the sage Bharat, the son of Harir, and the sorrowful separation and eventual death of the young Harir, killed by a curse, tears welled up in his eyes while sitting on the steps of the Shashti temple. Meanwhile, when the King of Sindhu and Sauvira, Rahugana, unaware of his true form, appointed the sage Bharat as his charioteer, his heart pounded with curiosity and anticipation, sensing that something significant was about to happen; it surely would. He greatly appreciated the blessing in the final notes of the storyteller's voice. Besides, all the boys he had become acquainted with at the Dashashwamedh Ghat were from affluent families. Pultu's grandfather had once mentioned in passing that his father had to travel abroad extensively. Apu had asked, "Why, do you have so many tutors?" Looking back at his lost youth, a lump forms in his throat, and so many memories flood his mind—those days of life can never be relived. He would adopt a new style of life—these boys all sing songs from the time of Mandhata—he was telling Raju just yesterday—"Wow! Wonderful!"—he is always present—when you were talking about Bharat's mother dying yesterday, I was sitting behind you—on the steps of the Shashti temple—Apu, even before he could answer, he said—"Does your father do contracting?" Besides, he has a small zamindari in Kashi—though nowadays, who stays with land these days? Taking paper and pen to his father at home, he says—"Write it down for me, Father, that—"

After finishing his conversation in the evening, Harihar was resting on the steps of the ghat when the storyteller, after washing his hands and face in the water, came down. Seeing Harihar, he said, "Oh, you're here too! Did you see the commotion? It's a full moon day, and I'm saying, today is a good day. You know, in this Kashi, if you go around begging for alms, people would give you a quarter or half a seer of rice later on. But nowadays, people don't even get wet with alms-giving, not even a single grain of rice. And here, it's already five o'clock, and I still have two more unfulfilled requests! Where is the master's teaching? Apu just shakes his head and says, 'Hmm.' He didn't come to his father that day. His father was sitting and talking on the ghat, and his friends found out later! He went and told the story to other friends of Paltu, not to his father. They have a house in Kashi, they've come to Kashi to change the air. They have a very big house in the country, their father is a contractor, and besides, they have landownership in the country. In the end, he says, 'But what if you have landownership? Who stays with installments?' Is the master's place nearby? ... Can you offer some tea? ... I've been thinking of having some tea for a few days—look, I'm carrying tea wrapped in my shawl, or maybe I can get some hot water at a sweet shop. ... My throat is parched, a cup of strong tea would help. ... I haven't had tea in ages. He heated water in a pot and made tea. Apu brought the tea in a copper glass and some food in a plate to the storyteller. The storyteller was very happy to see the food—he hadn't expected it. His friends are not much older than him, so perhaps that's why there is no inconsistency between the stories he narrates and his attire, especially considering his beautiful face. But Apu hides one thing. On the days when his friends are there, he doesn't go to his father. On the day he went through his father's place, his father saw him and called out—'Hey, son, hey son! Is that you, son!' 'Wow, quite a son you have?' 'Very handsome-looking—wow—come, come, father; may there be well-being. ... You've made strong tea, haven't you, master? ... Let's see—yes, yes, come, my place is nearby—let's go, shall we?' Harihar came home with the storyteller. 'The education was in this Kashi a long time ago. But I was in the country for so long—this time I've come and settled here. ... Near Satakashi—do you know the cold one called Badure?'

The sharpness of the winter wind is quite something—whoo-oo-oo-oo. I hear it every day. His friend said—why do you keep him?—what do you like about him? Harihar said—do you have a son in this country of yours, sir? Where is his home? If he doesn't have a home, how can he have a son? ... Ten bighas...

Apu doesn't stay at home at all, like a young, sunlit sapling, his face is only turned towards the light. In the open fields of Nischindipur, in the river's light and breeze, he thrives, but in the darkness of this closed room, his life suffocates, he can't even stay there for a moment. —Nothing, sir, I go around the garden during the month of Falgun—there's a garden, I sell the produce—do we buy from the grocer again? ... The land was ten bighas, so I mortgaged it and raised capital—I even got married, sir. I stayed in the house for ten years—do you know? In the evening, while cutting pumpkins from the roof of the kitchen—there was a snake there, a snake meant for me—he handed it to me. I'm not home that day—who showed him the grave, who did it?—I'm crossing the Patuli ghat—Mahesh Sadhu from the village is coming from above, he calls me—hurry home, sir—your house is in great danger—what danger, he doesn't say. I reach home and see that my wife has died in the night!—That's the thing, sir. ... The land is gone—on this side too. Since then, I say, there will be no more of this in the country—where will I get three or four hundred rupees to get married again? ... I go to Bishwanath's place. ... There won't be any hardship. ... It's been eight years now—there's a step-brother—there's a little bit of land and property, he's occupying it—he says you have no share—well, father, if there's no father, then what? In the midst of all the chaos, I never go there—he'll take possession. I get up, sir—you must have had some tea here—where is your son? ... A good son, a special son—at the edge of Kathak's garden, while unpacking some goods, he said—you had a great experience with your son, sir. That day, near the ghat, I sat him down and talked to him for a long time. He loves to eat curry, so I gave him these two big curries from the sea that day, which were for the Brahmins' feast. I thought I'd give them to him—keep them, you'll give them to him when he comes. Seeing Kashi, he's a little disappointed. What's the point of having big houses, there's no forest at all here.

Harihar said, "Where to go for a stroll? It seems like the Dashashwamedh Ghat is the place."

"Beriache," Kathakthakur said, throwing away the worn-out shoes with the soles beaten thin, near the door as he left, saying, "I'll wear them tomorrow for alms rounds—let's see."

"Well," Harihar said, "one evening, Kathakthakur came to my house. After some talk, he said, 'Hey, have you enrolled your son in school? Pathar Panchali.'"

"At the end of the month of Agrahayan, Apu convinced his father that he would enroll in school. He said, 'Everyone goes to school, Father, and so will I—it's just a little further down the street, past the bend, for a good school.' Chapter Twenty-One."

Harihar enrolled the boy in school. Although it was a scholarship school, they still taught English. It had been about four or five years since he left Prasanna Gurumashay's school—this was his re-enrollment in another school. Harihar read and saw that a man named Ramgopal Chakraborty of Kashi had donated ten bighas of land in his village to Kathakthakur with a deed. The witnesses were so-and-so, the place was Dashashwamedh Ghat, and the date was so-and-so. Kathakthakur said, "Do you know the story? In our country, Ramgopal Chakraborty of Kumure village was a great scholar. About a year before he died, he told me, 'Ramdhan, you have nothing, I am thinking of donating ten bighas of land to you—will you take it?' I thought, 'He is a good Brahmin, why would he want to give it? What fault could there be?' Then he gave me the land verbally. He gave it—'What will I do with so much land? I will stay in Kashi, I will not stay at home in the country, what will happen to the land?' Then Chakraborty Mashay died. The land donation remained verbal. After so long, I am thinking of going to the country—if not for my children, then what is the point of being human? What should I tell you, I have earned seven hundred rupees—earned them by sweating—Mashay—and with twelve hundred rupees, one can get a Shrutiya girl—so if that happens, then the land will be needed, won't it? I thought, a verbal donation, will his sons accept it? Thinking this, I have been sitting and writing this document—writing it myself, Mashay, that's all—the two witnesses, everything is written—if the written paper is accepted. I will go and say, 'Look, your father donated this land.'"

"On the night of Madhi-Purnima, Sarvjaya was surprised to see a crowd of bathers on the way from the ghat."

Amidst the chants of "Jai Bishwanathji ki Jai," "Bolo Bom," "Bolo Bom," men and women, divided into groups, disregarded the biting cold of the Magh month and proceeded to the baths. A little later, Sarvajaya also went to bathe with the Punjabi women – the Ganges' ghats, steps, temples, and paths all decorated and filled with men and women celebrating. Entering the water was a difficult feat. A red flag was flying at the Jyestha's temple. While rising from the water, Kathakthakur said, "Good thing, sir, I will take your son with me on Tuesday, the day of Maghi Purnima, to the Teota Raja's Thakur's house, right next to the Man Mandir. It's been years since they've held a Brahmin feast, you know." He said with a bit of pride, "Give me an invitation card, sir, they feed quite well, it's wonderful. I will definitely bring him that day." In the middle of the Magh month, Kathakthakur arrived at Harihar's house one day with a piece of sandpaper. Showing him the sandpaper, he said, "Look, sir, if I write like this, will it be alright?" Before evening, Kathakthakur came to take Apu. Sarvajaya said, "Send him off, no one is there. Apu has a bit of a cough. Take him to Dashashwamedh Ghat, sit him nearby, and have a chat. He bought a pigeon and fed it to him one day – send him off, he's a good man – there aren't many furnishings. Just a narrow cot, a small tin roof, a rope-hung lamp, and a pair of Khadra. A large Padmabeej mala is hung on the wall." Apu first went to Kathakthakur's house with him. It was a thatched house, with calculations written on the mud walls with charcoal. For example:

Kathakthakur asked, "Will you have a lemon?" Apu shook his head and said, "Oh, yours?" He felt no shame or hesitation with Kathakthakur for some reason. Crossing several narrow lanes, Kathakthakur stopped in front of the door of a dark house. Stooping down, he painstakingly entered the house with Apu. Apu felt that no one was home, everything was silent. Kathakthakur coughed a couple of times, and someone woke up from a room, asking something in a loud voice in Hindi, which Apu couldn't understand. Even after Kathakthakur introduced him, it seemed that the man didn't recognize him or hadn't expected their arrival. Later, the man seemed to ask someone something with a bit of annoyance.

But it got so late that Apu thought they might say you weren't invited, go away. Anyway, in the darkness, after standing for fifteen minutes, the man came back and made them sit in a dimly lit corner of the veranda, scattering some dry sal leaves. He brought water in a thick brass pot. Kathakthakur sat down on the seat as if in fear. Didn't he know it was the King's house? Eagerly, Apu sat there, scattering leaves for almost another twenty minutes—no one was seen. Just as Apu's doubts about getting to eat the invitation were resurfacing, the unexpected happened, the arrival of the feast. Thick, eight-paisa pooris and tasteless, odorless beggun fritters—finally, very large laddus. Apu tried to bite the laddu, but couldn't sink his teeth into it, it was so hard. Kathakthakur looked on and eagerly ate the thick puri ten or twelve times. Occasionally, he would look at Apu and say, "Eat your fill, don't be shy, eat well—are these laddus good? My teeth are still very strong, I can chew them well." Soon after this, Kathakthakur left for the country. At the Rajghat station, Kathakthakur's helpless Harihar accompanied Apu and helped him into the carriage. Harihar thought that this man had gone to the country to start a new life at an age at least eight years older than what he himself had been when he went to the country twenty-two years ago. So, how old must he be now? How could he have no time to work? Even if one lived a hundred years together, someone might remain outside my heart unless some special event opened the lock of my heart. Apu, though a boy, understood the disrespect, the insult of today's invitation. Yet, this greed and joy of eating pierced his innermost heart. He thought Kathakthakur was very poor. He thought, Kathakthakur never gets to eat anything, ah, that's why he's eating these laddus so greedily—he'll invite him home to his mother's house one day. Kathakthakur had collected various small earthen and stone items for the journey to the country—dolls, toys, Shivling malas, wooden crows. He showed them to Apu and said, "Things from Kashi, everyone says, have you ever seen such things!"

So, I'll take it—compassion is the most valuable spice of love, its bundle grows larger. His childhood...

This foreigner, barely known for two days, sat with the Bengali storyteller, his aunt, and Gulki, all together in one boat, in the eager posture of wanting to eat a perfectly round sweet. He wouldn't stop. He asked, without removing the lemon peel, "Kaale borshatu parjanyam?"

Do you know? The storyteller said in a singsong voice, but it seemed to Apu that it would have sounded better if he had heard it from his father, the storyteller's voice was too thick. —"Kaale borshatu parjanyam? I know very well, I say it every day, listen one day—Gari chharilen Ashwath Ghosha jon asil. Baniker prane somoye somoye boyoshko loker upor—now tell me, not even once? Path er panchali"

www. Apu didn't go to the shop, he would sit on the roof in front of Nandababu's house and read books. It had been a month or so since Apu and Nandababu had become very close. He couldn't quite figure out Nandababu's age, but he seemed younger than his father. In Nandababu's upstairs room, he had discovered many books—when Nandababu was at home, he would take a book and sit on the roof and read. But he was afraid that Nandababu would come out and snatch the book away from him to read, because something like that had happened once. Sitting in the sun in a corner of the roof, Apu was reading a book, when Nandababu came out after searching inside the room and saw him and scolded him, saying— "Oh, put it down, all those books you read sitting there, you don't know where to put things, you can't find them when you need them—go on, put the book down, go—"

Even after evening, he would go to Nandababu's room to read. But after evening, Nandababu would take a bottle from the cupboard and take a red medicine. At that time, one day when he went to read in the room, he scolded him heavily. The stairs to Nandababu's room were on the other side—And one night, suddenly going upstairs, he saw a woman sitting inside the room. Seeing her, Nandababu said— "Now go, Apu, she is my sister-in-law—she has come to visit, she will leave now." On his way back, he heard Nandababu saying— "He is our tenant's son—he doesn't understand anything."

Towards the end of the month of Magh, one day Harihar suddenly entered the house and sat down by the courtyard.

What was Sarvajaya doing? She finished her work and quickly got up and said, "What happened? Why are you sitting like that?" She looked at her husband's face, but the words stayed in her mouth. Harihar's eyes were red like fire, and his right hand seemed to be trembling. Sarvajaya took his hand and brought him to the veranda, and in a deep, choked voice, he said, "Where did Khoka go? Khoka? He often goes upstairs to bring water for your mother. Nandababu sometimes says, 'Your mother told me something, didn't she?'—When Apu comes home, he tells his mother, 'Nandababu is a good man, he asks about you every day.' Sarvajaya felt his body burning with fever. She took Santorpan by the hand, took him inside, and put him on the bed, saying, 'Apu, he took him away, that Nandababu upstairs, maybe he took him to his shop at Godhuliya More.' Nandababu, in the evening, shaves himself, wears good clothes, and applies perfume every day. One day, he sprinkled some perfume on Apu's body, quite a strong smell. He doesn't touch anything else in the house, so why argue with him? He keeps the book with him out of fear of that perfume. Nandababu often asks him about his mother, saying, 'Did your mother tell you to bring water? My servant doesn't know how to prepare it.' Harihar's fever has lessened a bit. Apu has come home from school and put his books down. Hearing the sound of footsteps, Harihar said, 'Khoka, come, sit down for a moment, father.'—True affection from a husband is rare, and therefore very precious. 'What about me? Why ask about me? Go, you lazy boy, why are you wandering around upstairs? What do you do sitting up there all afternoon?' Apu sat down and started talking about school. He said with a smile and in a low voice, 'These past two months—tell your mother I'm asking her—he's a good man.' The expression of disappointment on the face of the five-year-old boy pierced Harihar's heart. After a while, he said, 'Look, tell me, where did your mother go?' He took out a bunch of keys from under the pillow and said, 'Quietly open that wooden box, the one that has my ivory comb bundle in it, will you?' ... 'Look in the corner, there's some money.' After that, Harihar opened the box and looked at his son with loving eyes.

Senseless, senseless, utterly senseless! ... His beautiful, fair forehead like his mother's, his eyes like his mother's eyes. When Harihar first brought his wife home in the bloom of youth, the newlywed's unchanging smile remained on the unblemished face of our eleven-year-old Apur, a face still innocent and new. Sarvajaya refuses to be called by her name. Her husband, lying ill, doesn't need the expense of printed paper for this.

Harihar, trying to reason with her, offers to give her the money, saying, "Go on, have the boy's writing printed. It will be good to have it done properly. The Bhagavata recitation at the Thakur-bari is still there – I'll get ten rupees from that. Go to school, my son. Everyone at school loves you, you always sit first in class. They'll print a paper in our class once a month. I'll show you, son – look, Harihar's heart aches with affection and pain. Apur takes out a paper and says, "I've written something – the printing press said they'll print it, in my name – but they said they'll only print it for those who donate two rupees." "Two rupees, son?" Harihar eagerly takes the paper from his son's hand and starts reading. He doesn't know what his son has written. It's a beautifully crafted story of a prince and a deer. Harihar, pleased, leans back on his pillow and says, "You wrote this, son?" Two days later, Apur comes to his father with a pouted, red lip, his face full of disappointment, and says, "It's no good, father. The printing press people asked for more money, so they told me at school today that they need four rupees each." Apur, like a first spring blossom, his face radiant with the new light of dawn, his pair of dark blue eyes holding the endless dreams of his past youthful days, the murmuring of the new saplings of the blue hills, the distant sound of music from the ocean... For no reason, a tidal wave of affection surges in Harihar's chest, filling his eyes with tears. "How much more have you written, son? Ghost stories, princesses – you used to write in Ranudir's notebook at home, didn't you?" Apur quietly shows his father and says, "I have four rupees, father!"

—Harihar's Time

Harihar had kept some money hidden in his box for emergencies, without his wife's knowledge. That's why he could say without any hesitation, "Take it, give it to Khoka, but don't tell your mother." Sarbajaya, fearing Nandababu, told her son, "Tell Nandababu to come and see for himself." Apu, in a fit of joy, said, "I'll show you the stamp, Baba, it's stamped in my name." He said, "It will be released next Monday." From Saturday morning, Harihar's illness worsened again. Seeing him, Nandababu said, "We'll have to call a doctor, Apu, tell your mother." In the afternoon, Nandababu himself brought a doctor. The doctor examined him and said, "It's bronchopneumonia, caught a cold; he needs good nursing." —

Nandababu himself brought the betel leaves. Placing them in front of Sammiya, he said, "Life is over, Sammiya, with the betel leaves in the hands of the servants." Seeing the disheveled and disarrayed state of Boutha, Sammiya didn't find any fault in it. Rather, he felt a little pity for this homesick, affection-deprived man. But as intimacy grew, the boundaries of propriety began to blur. Nowadays, Nandababu would bring the betel leaves and say, "Here, Boutha, take them! Sammiya will take them from my hands – that's what he seems to want." "Apu is crazy – most of the time he's not even found at home." And Harihar would be lying in a state of unconsciousness in the room, and Nandababu would come home to see the patient! ... He wouldn't leave the room without spending at least half an hour in idle chatter. He would say, "Don't worry, Boutha, I'm here upstairs. Apu is not always there. Go up and wait on that staircase! In times of crisis, there's no time to be so choosy. ... Give me some lime, will you? Don't you have any? ... Aha, just put it on the tip of your finger and give it to me quickly." Apu had brought medicine from the doctor's dispensary at Dashashwamedh Ghat a few days ago. It didn't seem to have any effect. Harihar was becoming weaker day by day. Meanwhile, the money that was there was spent on visits and travel. The doctor said that if he didn't at least take one good meal and other fruits, the patient would become weak. A foreign fruit worth three and a half rupees was also arranged. It was a foreign land. There wasn't a single person who would give courage after seeing it once. Sammiya saw darkness all around. One morning, Sammiya said to the boy, "Hey, do you know the owner of that white house next door?" The boy became restless at the mention of Harihar's name. Looking around nervously, he said in a low voice, "Khoka! Khoka!" ... Sammiya said, "Come, sit a little closer, you foolish boy." ... He seemed to have gone out to that ghat. When the boy came home, he said, "You can't sit there, sit a little closer!" ... The boy, muttering "Khoka, Khoka," seemed to have no sleep because of Khoka – he didn't seem to have the time to pat him on the head or body, did he? Would the boy even give him a bell himself? "Have you ever sat on the veranda and come here? You know, in Kashi, you have to eat at the veranda, don't you!" "Didn't you eat and come today? ... Why don't you come and see?" ... "Khoka, you bring a betel leaf to my clinic, I'll give you medicine." "Why do you have to go to the veranda in Kashi?"

Midnight

Sarvajaya had been awake all night, serving tea, and the sound of footsteps startled her. She saw Nandababu right in front of her, and she was so startled that she pulled the edge of her shawl up to her face. Nandababu said, "Is the tea ready, Bouthakrun?" Sarvajaya silently arranged the cups of prepared tea on a tray and pushed it towards him. Nandababu picked up a cup, put it to his mouth, and said, "There's very little lime in your tea, Bouthakrun. Let me see—" and reached for the tea pot near Sarvajaya's lap. No one was in the house; Apu had gone out somewhere. Harihaya was sleeping in the next room, under the influence of medicine. It was a quiet afternoon. Suddenly, Sarvajaya felt as if Nandababu, not wanting to take the lime, was trying to get too close to her unnecessarily. With a faint scream, she got up in a flash and stood outside the room! A current like electricity ran from her feet to her head. Pointing to the stairs, she said in a loud voice, "Go upstairs now! Never come down again! If you come down, I'll kill myself by banging my head! Why do you come? Be careful, don't come again!" The Punjabi woman upstairs had taken Sarvajaya up to her room half a year ago when she came to Kashi, but Sarvajaya couldn't speak or understand Hindi well, so they hadn't really connected. Today, she went to her and cried, telling her about Nandababu's unprecedented behavior. The Punjabi woman's name was Suryakumari, and both husband and wife were residents of the Rawalsar district of Punjab; the husband worked as an overseer on the railway. Although the girl was not very old, she looked young, fair, well-built, and quite tall. After listening to everything, she said, "Don't be afraid, you stay fearlessly, and if you see any mischievous behavior again, tell me, and I will have my husband cut off his nose and cool him down." ... "It's a virtue to play—today, take him to Dashashwamedh Ghat and feed him from the roof—understand?" It was twelve o'clock. Apu returned home after eating at the Satra. His mother was sitting on the veranda of the kitchen, eating something from a plate. At first, he tried to hide it, but Apu had come very close—thinking that hiding it would arouse suspicion, he tried to say it in a light tone, "You ate? How was the food, hey?" Sarvajaya was completely stunned.

Foreign land, this patient is helpless, penniless, with no familiar face, his son is eleven years old, fat—yet simple-minded, utterly foolish. And now all this commotion. —Not well— just a pumpkin ash pot—sitting and eating are dirty, ragged people— I'm leaving, I don't need charity—okay, mother? What's your problem? Didn't you cook? Didn't cook at night either. His mother said, "Shall I eat soaked pumpkin seeds? It would be good now—it's not cooked now, it's heavy, it's not like eating so much rice—can I eat after eating that?" —Today is my Kuluichandi— these two soaked pumpkin seeds taste good— I love them—shall I eat them twice? What will the landlord get then? It's very late, the dim light of the setting sun is only glistening at the front of the stone temples. All day, Apu felt lost in his father's familiar voice, as if he were reciting in front of eager listeners—from the four directions, Sarvajaya was surrounded by a well. Through it, no path is visible, no companion is recognizable, no one knows where they are. It seems doubtful that this well, even if the sun rises tomorrow, will be crossed, behind it are the pale grey, early clouds of the day-long untimely fog. On the day of the disaster, the Punjabi overseer, Jaliam Singh, and his wife did a lot of good. Jaliam Singh, after finishing his office work, started wandering around Bangalitola for the respected man. Upon receiving the news, several servants of the Ramakrishna Mission also arrived. On a mid-monsoon, drizzly day, it seems as if the sunny days of the earth are a dream, not reality. These clouds, these bad days, will remain eternal companions on the path of the infinite future—like the illusion of the horizon, the days of Chaitra and Baishakh that have passed in the past—will they ever return? Apu got up and listened to that sound of his father's voice, which had increased. Shortly after the sunrise, Harihar died at four in the morning.

The father whom everyone had brought to be cremated today at the cremation grounds of Mornikarna, a defeated man in the battle of life and disease, a mere dream—Apu doesn't recognize him, doesn't know him—her lifelong dependent, familiar, the smiling father she knew so well, the one who used to sing blessings in a simple, melodious voice like a sad ancestor, sitting somewhere every day—her sleep was broken last night by her mother's push. "Apu, Apu, get up, quickly go upstairs and call the Hindustani maid down—"

Finally, the gentleman agreed to send them there through the mission's contact. Sarvjaya reached the shore of the restless sea. Two days later, the gentleman sent word that they should prepare to leave the house entirely, as the wealthy householders' representative had come to grow up in Kashi, and they would take him back with them on their return. Some time passed somehow. In this one month, Sarvjaya has thought of many ways, but none seem appropriate. It's not that she hasn't thought of returning home a couple of times, but whenever the thought comes to mind, she suppresses it. Firstly, she is responsible for many things, for some money that has been spent, for some things that have been bought and sold. Secondly, before leaving from there, she has painted pictures of their future happiness so vividly before the eyes of the maids and servants. Before leaving the soil of Nishchindipur, no one in this foolish country understood the value of her husband, but wherever she is going, Sarvjaya has explained in so many ways to them that everyone will embrace her there, that there will be no delay of even a year in restoring her position! It hasn't even been a full year since the month of Chaitra. In this situation, with such helpless poverty, and on top of that, having to stand before everyone there as a widow, she would shrink with shame and want to disappear into the ground. Whatever happens, happens here, she will raise her son by begging along the roads to Kashi, who will see her here? As the crowd and noise subsided a little, the mistress of the house came to Sarvjaya. Very stout, once quite beautiful, one could tell, over fifty years old.

As soon as he bowed to Gini, he said, "Stay, stay, come, come—aha, does this little boy understand at this age? A special boy—what's his name? There's a discussion going on about whether Sarvjaya will cook." He believed that Sarvjaya could cook very well. He said, "Let the responsibility of preparing vegetarian dishes fall on him." He asked one of the cooks, "Does the household understand in Kashit?" "No?" "Well, I understand—from tomorrow, Sarvjaya will be employed in the cooking work according to the agreement." The cook is not alone; there are four or five of them. There are three or four kitchens. A vegetable kitchen, a milk kitchen, a bread kitchen, and a separate kitchen for the outside people to cook. There are no maids. The kitchen is inside the inner quarters but separate. It's like the domain of the maids and cooks. The women of the house give them work and explain it. There isn't usually a big presence in the kitchen unless there's a special reason. Sarvjaya felt very shy and uncomfortable in front of the curious eyes of the family members. When the maid took her to a specific room on Gini's orders, she was overwhelmed with shyness. It was a huge, bright yellow house, a very big house like the big houses in Kashit. Sarvjaya entered the house hesitantly with the boy, following everyone. As soon as they entered the inner quarters, a wave of greetings arose—not for her, but for the group that had just returned from Kashit. The street vendor...

I forget—Mokshadar's lips curled into a mocking smile, and Sarvjaya was overwhelmed with shyness that day, but within a day or two, she realized that none of the dishes from her village would be eaten there. She heard for the first time that so much sugar has to be added to the gravy or that there is a dish called Bandhakpi fritters. The mistress took good care of Sarvjaya for a month or two, giving her light work and inquiring about her well-being. Gradually, she had to become equal to the other five. After working until two o'clock, she would become very tired for the first time; she had never been in the habit of being in the fire continuously like this, and she didn't have much appetite at that late hour. The other cooks would hide fish curry for themselves, eat some, and take some somewhere outside.

She sat by the window once and, seeing the vast enterprise of the kitchen, Sarbajaya was utterly astonished. She had never even dreamed of such a large-scale operation. Stunned, she wondered to herself, "Three ser of oil consumed in two bells? The oil and ghee of a daily sacrifice!"... She couldn't comprehend it, coming from a small, impoverished household in a village. Meanwhile, seeing her carrying the rice, she herself went to take it down, and knocked over the heavy pot, spilling the hot foam on her feet. The mistress immediately transferred her to the bread room that very day, instructing her not to do any work until her feet healed. There's another large room on the second-floor veranda – it's mostly closed, occasionally opened by the servants for ventilation. Apu was intensely curious to know what was inside. One day, seeing the door open, she entered. What large paintings! Stone statues! Large, ornate chairs – mirrors – she wandered around, looking at everything, when Chhotu, the servant, saw her inside the room and stopped her, saying, "Who are you?... Who told you to enter here?" One day, while taking down the large pot of thin rice porridge, Mokshada called out to Bamni, "Oh, auntie, will you hold the pot for a moment? Perhaps she will eat it today, but she always sends it back to the kitchen without tasting it." After all the servants and laborers had eaten, Sarbajaya would come to her room around two-thirty and rest for a while. Apu would sometimes come to the room during this time, as it was the only time of day she could talk freely with her mother. Her mother would call her once during the day. Since coming to this house, Apu felt as if she had drifted far away. She had to stay away from her mother and the other women and children all day. She would fall asleep to finish her night's work, and there was no time for talking. Her heart longed for this afternoon. Apu lied. No one called her. As soon as she heard the sound of the gramophone playing upstairs in the drawing-room, she would hesitate for a moment and then, fearfully, go upstairs and stand quietly by the drawing-room door, listening to the music. Every moment she feared they would tell her to go back downstairs.

When the song ended, as he was going downstairs, he thought - someone will surely say something, won't they? Why would they say anything? I'm going inside the Babus' house, not standing outside listening to the music, am I? They're very good - he didn't even interact with the boys in this house. They didn't even give him a chance. That day, Ramen, Tebu, Samir, Santu - they were playing some kind of game in front of a table, like a small carom board, rolling black marbles - he was standing a little away and watching the game - it was much better than the eggplant game. In early Baishakh, the house became lively for the wedding of the elder brother's daughter. Relatives started arriving from Gaya, Munger, Allahabad, Kolkata, Kashi, and other places. Everyone was the daughter of a wealthy man, or the wife of a wealthy man, each with their own maids. They occupied the lower floor veranda at night. The whole night was chaos. In the morning, Sarbajaya called out to the maid and said - Oh, Apur's mother, do one thing, let you handle the kitchen work for the next couple of days, relatives are coming from various places, you and little Mokshada, arrange everything and put it in the pantry. Seeing the sweets, she said - Hey, leave it, don't say anything - her mother is here - she'll see - Apu smiled and said - the sitting room upstairs! There's a gramophone playing in the room - I was listening - from the veranda - Sarbajaya was happy. When the aunt left, Apu sat close to his mother. His mother lovingly stroked his cheek and said - Where are you staying? Tell me at noon? . . . . . . . . . . There was a sound of footsteps at the door. Sarbajaya said - Who is it, Apu! Come in - pushing the door, Bamni Aunty entered the room. Sarbajaya said - Come, Aunty, sit down. Apu came along immediately. Bamni Aunty is related to the Babus. So, she was respectfully seated. Bamni Aunty's face was very serious. After a moment of silence, she said - You saw it, didn't you, what happened today with the elder daughter-in-law? What fault of hers . . . . . . . . . You were in the pantry all the time, weren't you? You brought the fish and ghee and kept them in the cupboard, I thought you were being disrespectful - what kind of insult is that, to see once? If the cook had told you about the Polwar fish, wouldn't you have sent it? Is Sadhu any less of a troublemaker, is he? . . . . . . . . . Is she the daughter of the maid?

The soil doesn't shift, it goes up and makes seven 'ka's on top—wasn't that the stable Thakur too? Tell me, Diki? —Hmm, didn't your Babu's sons have a good time? . . . . . . He calls you to sit? . . . . . . . . Path-er Panchali (The Little Panchali)

These past few days, Apur has been fixated on one thing, he doesn't even know about today's theatre business. With interest and curiosity, he had arrived early to secure a good spot and sat there from the evening before. The outer courtyard is filled with invited guests. The entire courtyard is covered with *shataranji* leaves, in one corner, a high platform wrapped in wide red baize cloth, a blue satin canopy hung with jingling *jharis*, cushions on either side, garlands of large bell flowers hanging from the canopy's corners. Chairs and sofas are arranged around for the wedding guests. Sprays of foreign scent and rose water are frequently being sprinkled. Sarbajaya Bamni Mashi is thinking about serving food—so much good and bad, so much trouble, is there anything for the little boy? Aha, the little rascal is hiding in the corner of the kitchen, eating two servings of rice, not giving him a plate of good-looking fish, not even a little *tarakari*, not even a handful of milk and *takhkhuni*, that good-for-nothing will put everything from the Babus' feast on his son's plate—Apur hasn't noticed all this special treatment, he has fallen asleep. He only went inside the house once, and then there was the *stree-achar* (women's gossip), it was very late at night! He couldn't find his mother anywhere, in the crowd of the gathering, who knows where she is busy with what. There isn't even a little space empty in the courtyard, crowded with girls wearing expensive Benarasi sarees. Chhotobabu's daughter, Aruna, is calling someone to bring the big organ from the outer sitting room inside the house. From morning till evening, Sarbajaya can't even count how many ideas have come to the girls' minds. There isn't even space to put the sweets, fifteen or sixteen small silver *chandan* bowls are piled up. The mangoes haven't even ripened yet, but a big heap of them has already been consumed. Apur, looking back, said in a despairing tone, "I'm sitting here in suspense, where will I go with all this crowd behind me? . . . . . . . .

As he finished speaking, Girish Sarkar, without waiting, grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously, saying, "You haven't done anything wrong, Jyatha. These young boys, they don't know anything. Just leave him there, in front of the house – the Babus will handle it. He's brought the cook's ladle right up to his face! Where will he go if you send him away?" said Fazil Jyatha.

"Wherever he goes from here, just leave him near that pillar – wherever you see him, send him to Sadukhir's care. Or just leave him there; Bamni Masi will bring him some refreshments – it's a very busy wedding day. The groom's party arrived in the morning in a car and went to another house in the city. The groom arrived with a grand procession in the evening." The five-alley road was crowded, and Panchali came out of the house looking bewildered, not knowing which way to go. Suddenly, she felt like everyone at the wedding was looking at her, all of them curiously staring at her! At first, she thought of running and hiding somewhere behind one of the wedding guests. Then she went and stood behind a pillar. Her body was trembling with fear, shame, and embarrassment, and a sudden, inexplicable shiver ran through her. After regaining her composure a little, she peeked out from behind the pillar and saw... but there were servants and maids everywhere, the women were behind the curtains on the upper veranda, and the cooks and maids were standing on the lower veranda – they had all seen everything, what must they be thinking! She didn't know what she had done! She tried to reason with herself that perhaps no one recognized her! Who would recognize her? So many outsiders had come – who would know her? Then the theater started. She couldn't focus on anything. The crowd in front of her, the stuffy air, the glare of the lights, the hustle and bustle of the servants – she couldn't pay attention to anything. A servant was offering betel leaves on a silver tray to the invited guests – seeing that, her body seemed to react strangely. She looked at the enclosed veranda upstairs and thought, "Isn't my mother there? What if my mother finds out!" But Apur's fear was completely unfounded; his mother wasn't in that area at the time, and he never even heard about these things.

For the first time in Sarvjya's life, who lived in utter dependence in the house of others, there was a sense of being like a thief. Whether in happiness or sorrow, she had been a solitary housewife in a single room. The queen of a poor household - there, her commands were no less effective than those of the mistress of this large house, the daughters-in-law. It was as if she was always on edge, always attentive, and always walking with her eyes on someone's face, lest a drop of water spill from the cup! - such small, insignificant things! ... This had become unbearable to her. Her blood would rise to her face in bed - but here, there was no value in bed. She would sleep soundly - no one would call her. When they did call, they would throw it away with pride and disdain - as if to say, "Your bed's worth is paid for." - Look, manager-babu, these young men are sitting here, right in front - they've come from Chandannagar, there's no place to sit - I'm telling them to get up, but then, to avoid an argument face-to-face, a couple of officers said - what happened, what happened Girish - what's the fuss? Who is it? This was gradually becoming unbearable to her. But what could she do? ... How could she go outside? Who would give her shelter? Where would she stand? ... The magician said - give her two slaps - you'll have to kneel and take her. This light, the fair of beautiful women all around, the soft, captivating fragrance of expensive perfumes, the melody like the twang of a veena and the waves of laughter - she felt a kind of intoxication. What if this went on all day? ... Wrapped in a carpet of blue flowers. Gas lights all over the veranda and stairs, a large gas lamp burning at the entrance of the second-floor veranda. The two daughters-in-law and the maids were receiving everyone and sending them upstairs. The invited women, some smiling faintly, some with waves of laughter, some slow, some quick, some with beautiful, unique movements, were climbing the stairs. The white, well-formed, slender arms of Sujata, peeking out from the cut of an expensive China silk blouse the color of Kanchan phool, surrounded the invited guests from behind in a loving manner, placing her face on the right shoulder of the one in front, and started climbing upstairs together. As they walked, they talked - Mother was saying that the Boudi of Bakulbagan would be going to the front month in Kolkata - Mother went on Wednesday - is that right?

On the other hand, Apu noticed another group of newcomers - suddenly turning, Apu saw that the Mej Bou-Rani was calling him - he was initially astonished, as if he couldn't believe it. Then, he wondered if he should go up or run away, fearing the shame of the state - at that very moment, the Mej Bou-Rani herself came down - approaching him, she said - "Where have you come from, child? ... ... For a long time, the Mej Bou-Rani had been watching an unfamiliar boy standing at the corner of the staircase. She didn't know everyone - her father was a very important man, and he often stayed at his father's house. Descending two steps, she called out softly - "Child, come up. Why are you standing? Where have you come from, child? ... ... Apu had been watching from the lower veranda for a long time, leaning against a pillar. He had never seen such a scene in his life; that day, due to falling asleep during the wedding night, he hadn't noticed much. He liked Sujata, the daughter of this house, the most. He had been descending the carpet-covered, marble staircase once or twice, looking at the guests and smiling. "It's quite late, isn't it? It's only eight o'clock at night? Didn't the Baugarden Bou come?" The beautiful hostess smiled and replied, "The car has been ready since six o'clock - it's not so easy to leave, brother, not everything is prepared yet... you know everything." As Mani-di ascended, he saw the Mej Bou-Rani and stopped on the stairs - "How is Mej Bou's health these days? Come, come, let's go..." "They all came from Etah yesterday, so they stayed up late..." With great difficulty and effort, Apu managed to get his face out - "I - I am from my mother's house - I live here with her." Immediately, he felt extremely afraid that he was standing there - the cook's son?

The Mej Bou-Rani's daughter, Lila, recited a funny poem with a shake of her neck, making everyone laugh. A very beautiful girl, as beautiful as her mother. And so sweet - Apu wondered at that moment why his mother hadn't come up once to see? Where did his mother stay, perhaps in the kitchen, maybe she was working - where else would he find his mother? "Does your mother live here? ... ... Tell me... What does she do? How many days have you been here?"

Apu introduced himself in broken, stammering words. It seemed as if the young mistress, Mej Bou-Rani, had just heard them. She said, "Oh, you've come from Kashi, I see? What's your name?" Looking into her beautiful, innocent eyes, he felt a kind of compassion. He said, "Come, stand upstairs—why here? Come upstairs—there was a certain Thakur who came from somewhere... went to fry luchis... sitting in the courtyard of the government house, frying luchis... I saw it from outside, through the window... taking it secretly... on a plate... the cook scolded him... Ramnohor Singh is giving him a thrashing... without holding back his hair—hearing this, he might call someone now and say, 'Throw him out of here with a shove.'" ...While the girls were chatting, a sudden commotion arose downstairs. Girish Sarkar's voice was very loud. Sadhu Jhi laughed and went upstairs, saying, "Pordani! ... Look at the commotion... ha ha," she said, laughing. ... Sarbajaya apologetically asked, "What happened, Madam? ... Oh, my god, what happened?" Path-er Panchali.

Especially, she had never imagined a girl as beautiful as Mej Bou-Rani. Leela is also as beautiful as her mother—when Leela was reciting a poem of laughter in the girls' gathering that day, Apu was staring at her face, not listening to the poem at all. A few days later, Apu was going through the veranda when Mej Bou-Rani's daughter, Leela, was coming down the stairs. Seeing her, he said, "Stop, don't you? What's your name?—isn't it Apu?" Apu said, "They call me Apu—my real name is Shri Apurba Kumar Roy." ... Sarbajaya doesn't know if people's inner pain reaches beyond death, yet today she repeatedly apologized in her mind, wanting to atone for the sins of her immature age. But Sarbajaya didn't have her mind on that. She just remembered it now. Someone with a similar appearance and similar age—her old Thakur Jhi Indir Thakrun, wearing that torn cloth, eating broken rice in a broken stone bowl, so much humiliation for a small sweet fruit, no one reaches, no one listens, being sent away from that house at noon, dying on the road that day.

Masima came into the room quietly and whispered, "Money, Bapu, have you seen the love of money? His own grand landownership, he's donated a substantial amount for some college – it's all about money, and I'm here too... They are your people..." She stood at the foot of the staircase leading up to Gerajji's room, looking up. Sarbajaya saw an old man, about sixty-five or seventy years old, coming down the stairs, accompanied by his wife, two daughters-in-law, and the daughters of this house, Aruna and Sujata! All the maids and servants stood in a line on the veranda at the bottom of the stairs, peeking over their shoulders to look. Sarbajaya quietly asked Kshemi, "Who is this, Kshemi?" Kshemi whispered something, but Sarbajaya couldn't hear it clearly. But she felt like she had seen someone with this appearance before. The maid asked someone to go and see if his palanquin had arrived at the gate. The old man had come with two or three maids, who were following behind him. There were many polite greetings and exchanges of courtesies, and much respectful laughter. Suddenly, the maids and servants of the house bowed to the ground and remained motionless for a while, as if merged with the earth. Sarbajaya thought to herself, "These are such important people, and they are showing so much respect, then I am nothing..." The old man's huge, sixteen-bearer palanquin was at the gate all this time. The old man got into the palanquin. His attendants stood in front of and behind the palanquin. After bidding him farewell, the wife and the other women went upstairs. Kshemi said, "He won't kill! He'll just crush you with a glance... There's no need to kill now... He'll turn you over to the police, a jackal's den in a tiger's lair." She kept her words to herself. Sarbajaya did not obey the order.

Chapter Fourteen. Bapu's Son...

Leela opened a leathered ATSY case and said, "Look, this is my photograph, Master Moshai bought it for me, he'll give me more if I share it, do you know how to develop a photograph?" Leela laughed and got up and said, "You can tell such funny things, can't you?" Then, putting her hand under Apu's lip, she said, "What's this? A mole? It looks quite nice on your face, the mole suits you quite well, how old are you? Thirteen? I'm eleven—two years younger than you." Leela laughed and rolled around, and what else. She said, "You know such funny things, you can laugh so much!" ... Apu almost couldn't believe it. The whole incident still seemed unreal, impossible. Leela, the daughter of the Maji's wife, Leela, was calling him and talking to him. His whole body started to feel joyful. Leela said, "Come, let's go and sit in my room, it's time for Master Moshai to arrive." Apu asked, "Shall I go?" Leela laughed and said, "Yes, come, I'm telling you, are you very shy?" Apu, "Haven't you seen my room? In the corner of that western veranda?" ... Apu's heart was filled with joy at the praise in Leela's words. He said enthusiastically, "Shall I tell you something else? I know more—" Then, looking towards the window for a moment and thinking a little, he shook his head again and started—"At the end of the story, he asks." He shook his head in a questioning manner. He said, "The spread of Dasu Ray's Panchali, I have the book—" Ashwa said, "Don't you know the difference?" "Kazi Sheikh. My father died there, you know—where did you all come from?" "I know—there are various books, I'm writing from them—you know? I know. Path-er Panchali has also basically shown the difference in 0165. The one who cuts the big man's useless stick, the Ashwatthama tree grows even more." ... "What's the use of giving a few small and big pieces of advice?" "Big sister?" Leela said, "How long have you been coming to our house? Didn't you see it when you came before?" "When we came, after hearing this—Munir has no other hope, the thoughts of a blacksmith are smoke and ashes. The thoughts of a rich man are wealth and ninety-nine years of pressure, the thoughts of a yogi are Jagannath, the thoughts of a fakir are Mecca." Apu said, "You recited a funny rhyme that day, it really liked me—do you know poetry?" Leela's voice was so sweet, he had never heard such a voice from any girl.

Apu shook his head and said, "Apu studied at that school in Kashi for a few days, and that's it. He said, 'I studied in Kashi, I don't study anymore'—he felt shy to say the last part, as if he was being very brave by not studying. There are many pictures in the book." Apu said, "Will the book allow me to read it once?" Apu felt embarrassed to take Leela to their room. There were no furniture, just torn cushions and bedding hanging on the wall in the veranda. Still, Leela went. Apu opened his tin box and showed her a book with a smiling face, saying proudly, "This is mine, look, it's printed in capital letters, my name is there." Then he showed her two or three more photos. He took some books out of the cupboard and said, "Master Saheb bought them for me. Which school do you go to?" It was the school magazine from Kashi. "You can't see Harihar's story printed, it came out three days after his death." Leela started reading, and Apu sat beside her, following the lines she was reading with a joyful face, reading them to himself in his mind. After finishing, Leela looked at Apu's face with admiring eyes and said, "Isn't it? I have many more picture books, three years' worth of bound flowers, in my mother's cupboard, I'll bring them, you can read them." The whole thing seemed completely unreal to Apu. He said, "But what if someone asks you?" Leela said, "To give you a fountain pen?" "No one will ask, I'll tell my mother I gave it to Apu—will I take another one from my father? Will you look at my father's photos? ... The calendar hanging next to that—Leela couldn't understand the meaning of all these scattered words. But she smiled and got ready to write. She said, "Stand, I'll write your name." Leela felt a little sad. She said, "Isn't it? ... I'll take another one from my father, no, you take this, look at your hand? Wow! ... You won't be able to return it." Apu started talking again. After a while, he said in surprise, "I didn't bring the pen, how will you write?" Leela quickly took the pen from his hand and said, "Let me see?" Leela said, "This is a fountain pen, it doesn't need ink, it's filled inside—don't you know?" Leela put the pen in Apu's hand.

Apu turned over and over, looking, and said, "It's quite nice." Nilay, with a thick voice, said, "Come on, let's go to your house." Leela handed the pen to Apu and said with a smiling face, "I'm giving it to you completely."

Apu looked at Leela in surprise. Then, with a shy face, said, "I won't take it."

Leela said, "Why not?" Apu said, "I have a pen too, shall I bring it?" Nilay, taking the pen out of the case, said, "What are you saying? To maintain the worries of a householder, four paws of teasing, the worries of a child are always there, the worries of an animal are about food. It's not like that, it's full of ink, you have to fill it—look, I'll show you."

"Oh, nice! Let me see once—166. Why is Pathar Panchali so warm?" "No, he was sleeping in his room the afternoon before. Woken up by someone's push, he opened his eyes and saw Leela smiling next to the bed. He was sleeping on the table with a mat, Leela was sitting with her knees bent, having pushed him awake, and was still looking at him with playful eyes. With a smiling face, she said, "Oh, so sleepy in the afternoon? I called you from there, came and saw you were very sleepy." "Is this the place to be ashamed or what? That's why we have our heads—"

"Doesn't that little Minu in the stable clean the horse's places, or wash them?" "Uh-hu, what smell is coming—look—Oh Didi, hurry—" At that time, Chhoto Mokshoda came near the door, stretched his head into the room and said, "Oma, Didi, are you sitting here? My Pordani!" "Over there, Masterbabu is sitting and getting upset, I searched all the rooms up and down—who knows you're in this abandoned room—" Leela gave Apu's school notebook to Apu and said, "I read it to Ma last night, Ma herself read it." Apu's whole body was filled with joy. He felt extremely shy and embarrassed. "Meyba's queen has read your writing." Leela said, "No, no, I won't read today, whatever you say, why are you telling her here to chatter? Whatever you tell your mother—" Leela didn't listen. She took the notebook in her hand and said, "There's writing about Nischindipur, where is Nischindipur?" "Nischindipur is our village—that's where our real house is—we've only been in Kashi for about a year." Chhoto Mokshoda went away making a 'khar khar' sound. Apu said, "Your mother won't say anything?" "Why did you tell her like that?" Apu rubbed his eyes with his little finger and quickly sat up. "Come to read in the morning, won't you?"

I searched the entire reading room, but there was no one around—Apu pressed his lips together and shook his head with a mischievous smile. He didn't realize how exquisitely beautiful his face looked in this posture. Leela said, "Come to my reading room, I've brought 'Sakha-Sathi' bound for you." Apu glanced at the cupboard. His good clothes were still damp, and he couldn't go out wearing what he had on. He said, "I won't go now." On Saturday, Leela insisted, "It's all set, I'll take you there myself, I'll show you."

Then, for a long time, the two of them looked at the books Leela had brought. They sat side by side, knees drawn up, leaning over the books, engrossed in reading. Leela, as usual, said, "I am your enemy, but you are not my enemy." In the middle of Jyeshtha month, Sarvajaya, after much thought, somehow arranged for Apu's Upanayana ceremony. The next day, the corner of the Thakur-dalan was cleared with great fear. Bamni Masi helped with the rice offering, and a couple of cooks invited the Barun Thakur. Among the distinguished guests outside were Biru Gomasta and Dinu Khatanji. A few days after the Upanayana ceremony, Apu was sitting in his room, reading the 'Mukul' that Leela had given him. Someone entered the room through the open door. Apu couldn't believe his eyes, and then he exclaimed, "What is this, Leela?" Leela laughed and sat down on the table. She said, "What's the matter? I've been admitted to school, Father enrolled me. Father's health is bad, so we'll be staying in our Kolkata house now. I just have a few days off, so I came with Ma—again on Wednesday I'll leave." Leela stood there with a mischievous and laughing gaze. Apu said, "Wow, you're great." "I'll leave on Monday from Kolkata, how many Mondays have passed—there's no sign of your return." The silky, soft hair seemed to caress Apu's bare skin, making it tingle. Suddenly, Leela looked up from the book and said, "Do you know how to sing?" Apu squinted his eyes and said, "Lakshmi's son? Very good, isn't it?" She again—Apu took a little milk in one gulp, lowered his face, and quickly wiped the milk stain from his upper lip with the edge of his shawl, laughing. "Little by little, why didn't I hear about the wedding? Path-er Panchali—you know?"

Leela sipped the last of the milk from her glass and then burst into laughter. "My wish—just wait a moment," she said, "You know how to draw water, you know how to make tea, so why don't you draw some water for me today?" A smile spread across Apu's face. "Won't you all be staying anymore?" Leela held the milk glass to Apu's mouth and shook her head, "And there's no need for shame—you know I'm blind, don't you?" "Baba, I'll come again when I'm well," Apu shook his head. "Such sweet milk, isn't it?" "You're so happy about everything—why is that? Drink our buffalo's milk—it's just like cream, Laxmi's son—" Little Mokshoda peeked into the room, "Hey, it's Didi here." I thought so, she's not upstairs, she's not in the study, but just—come on, drink this milk," she insisted, frantically searching with her hands. "No," Apu said in a shy voice. "Why not? Is there more for later?" She left. More picture books were being looked at. In a break, Leela picked up the milk glass and said, "You drink half of it—" "Chapter Twenty-Five—" "But sing a song," she said. "No one can count—do you know how much money there is? Units, tens, hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, fifty million pounds of gold and silver... How many rupees in a pound? Thirteen, do the math? Then she quickly drew a picture on some paper and showed it, "Look at all this money!" She had drawn the picture once before. "When I grow up, I'll go and see—exactly count it all—see, no one has found it yet," she said. Apu closed his eyes and immediately felt the touch of something heavy in his hand. When he opened his eyes, Leela was laughing. A cardboard box was on her lap. She opened the box and showed native dhoti-cloth, a red silk punjabi. "Ma gave it to me—how do you like it? For your father—" Leela looked at Apu's face and said, "Your face has changed in a month? You look bigger, see new bangles on your wrist?" "Then why didn't you get your ears pierced? My little cousin cried when he got his—" Apu read out.

At some point at the bottom of the sea, a Spanish treasure ship laden with riches sank two or three hundred years ago. To this day, despite much searching, no one has been able to locate it. He was overjoyed to read this story. He had never even seen a dhoti-chadar, especially the kind worn by the people of Punjab, before setting foot in this house. Leela said, "Wait, I know a mantra, let me try it." Then, she tapped her forehead with her index fingers in such a way that Apu laughed and said, "Wow, that's quite a trick." Although Leela was young, she was very intelligent. Thinking, she said, "Where will they find a ship like that? I want a separate ship, just like theirs." Then she took Apu to her room. Showing him a sketchbook, she said, "Look at how beautifully I've drawn it, what a drawing it is!" She had read the story and thought it was good that no one could find it. If everyone found it, what would be left for her? What would she get when she grew up? It's better if it remains hidden until she goes... Leela seemed to believe it somewhat. She didn't argue any further. Then, with a smile, she said, "You understand, don't you?" Suddenly, she showed him a piece of 'Mukul' and said, "Read this story." Apu said a little later, "I will go, it will be very exciting. It will become like that, won't it? I will buy it. Won't I have money when I grow up?" A little later, he asked, "Have you been to Kolkata?" Leela asked, "What did you see? Isn't Pathar Panchali 169 there?" Ashwa said, "Why? I haven't seen it - bigger than Kashi?" Apu shook his head and said, "I've never seen it - is it a very big city? - bigger than this?" Leela laughed and said, "Oh, really - " Neela said suspiciously, "You will go? Where is it? How will you find it?" "Look, it's written here, 'near the seafloor of Port sea' - I will find it." ... There is very little grass on the way, not much vegetation, just a few trees here and there. A surkhi road, a paved drain, garbage and dirty water in the space between two houses, torn clothes, paper. One day, he went to their house with a classmate. A one-story bungalow. Household tenants live in rooms on all four sides of the surrounding courtyard. Old cotton curtains on the doors. The floor of the room is not much higher than the courtyard, so the humidity doesn't subside.

Inside the house There's no light or air. The courtyard is filled with filth, all the household members have lit coal stoves, and that sweet smell. Everything together makes Apu extremely uncomfortable; it's as if his mind shrinks. He can't stay there for long, even if they ask him to sit. He feels much more at ease on the main road. One day, Apu went to the office and saw an old accountant sitting in a room like an iron cage in the darkness. Piles of ledgers with many entries stacked up on one side. The old man spends the whole day shuffling a dirty file in front of a small wooden desk. It's so dark in the room that even during the day, a small kerosene lamp is lit from time to time. Girish Gomasta sits in the storage room. On a low table, a dirty sheet is spread out, with piles of office documents tied up in cloth in all four corners. The room isn't as dark as the accountant's, there are two or three large windows, but under the table are piles of tobacco, torn papers, and cobwebs and corrosion in the corners. When Veeru rings the bell and says, "Hey Ramdayal, look at how much is written in the musical account ledger...", Apu feels a great sense of disgust. Apu goes to a small school after telling his mother. The school is a one-story building in a small lane on the left, a little further from their house on the main road. Five or six masters, broken benches, broken-handled chairs, a blackboard covered in oil and soot, old maps – these are the school's furnishings. Right in front of the school is an open drain. If you look out of Apu's class window, you can see the whitewashing work of the house next door - bare brick walls. He sees them hurrying to clean the drain on his way to school, piling up garbage in places. There's a stuffy smell inside the school all day. A Hindustani baker next door lights a coal stove after noon, and the sweet smell of raw coal smoke comes out. It's as if Apu's head can't get rid of it even after coming out of school. The stuffiness is even worse when he gets home. Here, everything is built with bricks, cement, and marble, even the courtyard.

Apu cannot stand not seeing the soil; the soil here is different, as if it's not the soil he knows. Besides, how can they have the freedom to roam in and out of their house? They have to live in fear, like thieves! Who can say anything; you can't speak loudly, you're afraid. He doesn't like it, not at all. He's suffocated by all this brick and cement, this industrial landscape of the city. He can't understand what's missing, but his soul feels restless, yearning. It's morning. Apu comes near the veranda and sees the children of the house pushing a chair-carriage. The carriage has just been made, a wooden chair on wheels, with a leather seat on top, and big, clattering wheels. He stands and watches. Ramesh says, "Hey, come and push it once." Leela laughs and says, "My elder cousin has a pehlwan who teaches him wrestling; he learned it from him—quite well, isn't it? Really good?" A few days later, the Sheelars left for Kolkata again. Whether it was because of the insult Tebu, who was younger than Apu in age, had suffered at the hands of the Pathar 170, or because of everyone's ridicule and mockery—Apu's head felt dizzy. He shook his head, raised his neck, and gave Tebu a push. Tebu spun around and fell against the wall. His forehead hit the wall, causing a bit of bleeding, and he cried out in a strange, piercing scream. Girish Sarkar stepped forward and said, "Naughty boys!" And then, as if remembering something, he said, "Oh, if only Jyestha Thakur had heard you that day at the theater, when he called you 'babus' in front of everyone in that slum—what an argument! And then, that day, I saw him eating a bird's

"Jolpoti, Haan - Haan, Kandaramen Kando Kando," he said, "Oh, it's our playtime now, why would we go? Ask Santu instead - he wants to see the pictures in your English magazines - then go into the big drawing-room and look at them all scattered around." The elder brother, Ramen, said, "Didn't your master come this morning? Wasn't there any studying? Hey, someone get me my cane! Who told you all to play with it?" Ramen said, "Well, whatever won't break now, if you keep climbing, it will break again later - you'll see." In the heat of the moment, tears welled up in Apu's eyes. He had been pushing them all so hard with so much hope for so long. Just then, suddenly, the elder brother's son, Tebu, came and, pushing him, said, "Whatever - we won't play, we're happy - go to your own room - why come here to play?" After a long pause, Ramen suddenly said, "Well, that's enough now."

Seeing everyone leaving in the car, Apu said, "Won't I ride?" He had been secretly longing for this car ride, and happily said, "Please, will you let me ride once?" As the commotion subsided, the elder brother said, "Hey, who hit him? Ramnihora Singh, the watchman."

But in front of the curious eyes of the courtyard full of people, his tongue stuck to his palate, especially when talking to the elder brother - he only said to Tebu, "Just - just - come to me - not everything reaches my mother's ears." But Sarbajaya had heard everything about Apu's beating. She had heard it quite clearly. The housewife said, "If he's such a naughty boy, then he's lucky." Coming from Buti's room, she saw that Apu had gone to school without telling his mother, and he never tells his mother these things. Sarbajaya's body trembled with anger, sorrow, and frustration; it was as if fire was coming out of every pore of her body. Unable to stay inside, she came out to the veranda.

The old man, panting heavily, said, "Where's this old, bearded boy from? I'm warning you today, if I hear you mixing with any of the boys in this house, I'll immediately throw you out. Later, he glanced at someone and said, "See, Dhiren Babu, the widow's mother, Satish Babu, the manager, brought her from Kashi. I thought she'd be a good match. Look at her! The mother cooks the rice, and she smokes cigarettes in a Punjabi dress. Now it's your turn," the old man said. "Come here. Why did you hit Tebu? Apu's soul had already flown away in fear. He had pushed him in anger, but he wasn't prepared for all this. With great difficulty, he uttered, "Tebu, he threatened me first, he—" Apu's voice trembled. He still says, 'When you come from the kitchen through the mother's room at night, I'll show you something scary one day...' Does that make any sense? How much did it cost? Who understood him there? Who listened to his cries?" Dhiren Babu said, "That's how it always is. Then he'll take cocaine, break the mother's box, that's his way. And then, the boy from Kashi..." The old man didn't let him finish. "Do you know how old Tebu is and how old you are?" The old man roared, "Stupid, wretched boy, who told you to come here and mix with them? Here, take this stick—come forward—come—dark night... a few stars twinkle in the sky—the wind rustles in the branches of the amla tree on the roof of the veranda, sit by the iron grating in the corner of the veranda and keep all the secrets... As you walk down the middle of the road, Apu remembers the morning! He has been thinking about it all day. It's true that he fell in front of Girish Sarkar that day while eating biryani, but does he eat biryani every day? That day, on his way back from school wearing the red Punjabi dress given by the English mistress, he suddenly felt like eating biryani, like the old men who eat biryani wearing such Punjabi dresses. So, he bought biryani with his food money and ate it there, but even hiding in Nishchindipur that day to eat didn't feel good, nor did it feel good that day. He thought, 'Oh no! I should have bought fried gram instead of this!'

Why do people buy and eat it? But Girish Sarkar, without knowing, upon hearing it, why did he say what he did? His mind, carried away by the melody, wanders off somewhere on its own—it's been days since he went to bathe on the banks of the river in Nishchindipur, the small red-flowering acacia field in the upper fields, so far away, like a painted backdrop of blue sky, the red-flowering acacia field like a painting, even the birds sitting on the dry branches, all like a painting. Behind them all, that country, that distant, far-off country—he doesn't know which country it is, he just holds onto it in the joy of his heart. Returning home, as he approaches the veranda, he hears the phone singing in the upper sitting room. As soon as the sound reaches his ears, he lifts his face with happy, eager eyes and stands on the street below the second-floor window. He can't understand the words of the song from the street. But the melody is very beautiful, listening to it, all the memories of school, playing, being a referee, scoldings at noon, everything vanishes from his mind. It's morning, and Apu's school vacation has just started. The boys in his class have chosen Apu to be the referee for their football game. Apu is very happy, he has never seen football played in this city, he doesn't even know how to play very well, yet the boys in his class prefer him over everyone else, he is often called to be the referee in their games. —"Thakur, Thakur, and my dearest treasure, you know." He can't stand it when he removes that one, single, veiled eye, whatever punishment he wants to give me, Thakur, tell him something, Thakur, my heart will burst, Thakur, I can't bear it— fortunately, Leela isn't here. If she were, it would be very embarrassing. His mother probably doesn't realize it. Later, his mother realizes this, that's why she hurried to school that day, she said—"I'll bring that big whistle from home, brother, it's lying in the box, I'll go to the field around four o'clock now—Leela hasn't been here for so long!" It's been a year and she still hasn't come. Now that she has come, will they even let her talk to him? Someone is calling, an excited, familiar melody calls from far away—*anu-u-u-u-u*, his whole body fills with joy and responds—*ja-a-a-i-i-i*—thinking and thinking, his whole body trembles with the speed of a Kayastha.

Snaan Saria went back to the kitchen. Apur had a thought. His sister said he had a good voice, and the friends in the Yatradal also said so. If he joined a Yatradal, wouldn't they take him? His mother was in great distress here. From here, he would take his mother and leave. There was a quarrel between two companions in the Astable. A flock of crows was gathering on the kitchen roof, greedy for food. A little later, he felt like he had been thinking about the same thing for a long time, the same thing. The sound of horses' hooves in the Astable never stopped. It was as if he was sinking deep into the earth, deeper and deeper. It felt like someone was pulling him down, so comfortable. His head wasn't heavy, so comfortable. But today, especially in his mother's and elder brother's words, the aspect of their homelessness and lack of home became very clear to him. Would he ever be able to return to their village? Never? Never? He looked at his mother's face in surprise. Then, suddenly happy, he exclaimed, "Where, Ma, in Nischindipur? That's great! Come, I will perform puja there, offer paan. It's done now - our own country, it will be fine - I won't stay here anymore. This foreign land, this Girish Sarkar, this being like a thief - or mother and son holding hands and wandering forever on the open road. Have they come to stay permanently? Oh, what a scorching sun! What a scorching sun! Didi is suffering from a sunstroke! She's saying, 'Didi, lie down, you have a sunstroke!' Ranudi is sitting near Ranu and talking, talking endlessly." Ranudi's deceitful eyes are full of offense. What can he do? In Nischindinpur, their...

It was six o'clock, ringing in the bell tower of their gate. Perhaps Rajukaka had already gone down to bathe at his usual time in the village ghat, near the bushes. He had cast his net to catch fish in the middle of the Akrur fish in the new Kasar forest by the bend of the Chaltepotar. Today, the market there, behind the banyan tree of the Thakur Jhi-Pukur, the sun was setting like a red foam of fire on the horizon. And along the path leading to his compound, the village boys, Patu, Nilu, Tinu, Bhola, were returning after shopping. He hurriedly got up on the bed at his mother's call and looked around - "Oh, what time it has become! The sun has completely set! Where has it gone?"

"Where will you go to play, tell me?" her mother said. "You went to the riverbank in the afternoon and fell into the water, didn't you? I'll take out that bamboo stick of yours. The path to Nischindipur seems to have disappeared..." She's gone... She's gone... She's gone... She and her mother... She's never come alone on this path before, she doesn't recognize the way... Oh, uncle, listen, don't call the path to Nischindipur so harshly, will you? Beyond the betel grove, Nischindipur? All this time, the monsoon has been pouring down on them there at Ishamati. The water has risen under the sheimal trees on the ghat road. Thorns and brambles are blooming in the thickets, the forest is covered with the blue flowers of the forest pineapple. The forest of the unconquered is showering blue flowers on the eastern horizon of their midlands. On the large wooden plank, it is written, "Mother's feet are sore." She walks ahead with a heavy bundle on her back, her mother follows behind. She's wearing a red petticoat. What a shadow on the path. The evening stars have risen in the sky. The air is filled with the fragrance of ripe jackfruit. She knows that Nischindipur calls her day and night, the pond of the conch shell calls, the bamboo grove calls, the golden field calls, the ghat of the kadam trees calls, the goddess Bishalakshi calls. When will she wander again in the shade of the sajane trees, in the fragrance of the sweet lemon flowers in the inner courtyard? When will she hear the call of the birds in the sirish tree grove near their house again? Her father lovingly strokes her big hair and says, "Your story is quite good, if it's printed, let me see it, son." The sky above the courtyard, beyond it, far to the east, is their Nischindipur. Her mother entered the room and said, "Come on, get up, Opu, there's no time left, tell me, where will you go to play?" "Get up—get up." Haran uncle is playing the bamboo flute to sell it... He plays very beautifully! She said to her father, "I'll buy a one-paisa bamboo flute, father, will you give me one paisa? Won't you?" "Babu, won't you?" "It's been so long since I saw Nischindipur—three years! For so long, I've been saying—will I eat and drink it, father?" Girish Sarkar said, "Will I eat and drink the garland of lotus seeds from the throat of the Ganges?" Like that storyteller. The goddess of the path, Prasanna Hasiya, said, "Foolish boy, the path doesn't end in the bamboo forest of your village, does it end at the boundary of the flood's feeding ground in the stout, broad-bodied banyan tree?"

Leaving your golden fields, crossing the Ichhamati, passing by the Madhukhali lake filled with lotus flowers, stepping over the embankment of the Betrabati, my path goes on and on, only forward... leaving the country for a foreign land, leaving the sunrise for the sunset, avoiding the known and heading towards the unknown... After some time, darkness will fall in that lane, but no one will light a lamp there in the evening, no one will show a light, no one will tell fairy tales. In the deserted courtyard filled with dark clouds, crickets will call, and in the dense forest behind, the call of the nightjars will be heard in the deep night... No one will ever turn that way, no one will ever know the whereabouts of that lemon tree of the mother, buried in the deep forest, the flowers of the wild mango will bloom and fall on their own, the unripe mangoes will ripen with salt, and the yellow-winged pheasant will return crying. At that time, even if someone were to beat a person in the courtyard without reason and not a single tear would come from his eyes, but now, standing alone at the window of the deserted house, he suddenly cried out, tears streaming down his face, and as he wiped his beautiful forehead, he said to himself in a tearful voice—it's as if we are returning to Nischintipur—God, you do this, it's as if we are going to Nischintipur—without it, I cannot live—fall at your feet—by now, the courtyard of their forest-surrounded house has become densely shaded, birds are calling here and there, in that sweet, silent evening—like that yellow bird still comes and sits on the top branch of the jackfruit tree, perhaps the lemon tree that the mother planted is still bearing lemons... Day and night pass, birth and death pass, months, years, epochs, and ages pass...

... Your murmuring life-dreams are filled in the waves of the sea, my path is still visible.

No... go... go... go... move forward... I have brought you, making you timeless! ... come, let's move forward. Those wonderful, magical evenings by the forest will forever descend and remain. Eternal in its slow pace, only with impeccable ears and an impeccable sky.